Chapter 5: The Lie Between Two Families
Vincent read the message again.
“Is that you in her arms?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Vivian took one look at the photograph and stepped back.
Falk entered behind her.
“Now you understand why Isabella protected Thomas.”
“Explain it,” Vincent said.
Falk removed his gloves one finger at a time.
“Thomas and Isabella were not merely composing music.”
My stomach tightened.
“What are you suggesting?” I asked.
“That Isabella had a second family.”
Vincent’s gaze moved from the baby to me.
“No.”
Vivian’s voice softened.
“Your mother lied to everyone, Vincent.
Perhaps even about who Elena is.”
I turned the photograph over.
“My mother’s name was Claire Marlow.”
“So Thomas told you,” Falk replied.
Vincent placed the photograph on the bench as if it had burned him.
I looked at him.
“Say something.”
He took one step away.
That hurt more than Falk’s accusation.
“You promised to stand beside me,” I said.
“I promised marriage after a performance.
I did not promise to ignore this.”
“Then you never believed in me.
You believed in the woman at the piano.”
Vivian moved beside him.
“At last, someone is thinking clearly.”
Victor blocked her path.
“You should be careful which lies you repeat.”
“They are not lies.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
Vivian hid them behind her handbag.
A cane struck the workshop floor.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway wearing a plain gray coat.
Her white hair was pinned neatly beneath a small hat.
“My name is Cora Bell,” she said.
“I was Isabella Moretti’s private nurse.”
Vincent stared at her.
“You left after my mother became ill.”
“I was dismissed after I refused to sign a false medical report.”
Falk’s jaw tightened.
“This woman was unstable.”
Cora looked directly at him.
“You said the same thing about Isabella.”
She took the photograph and touched the baby’s blanket.
“This is Elena,” Cora said.
“But Isabella was not her mother.
Claire became weak after Elena’s birth, so Thomas brought the baby to rehearsals.
Isabella held her while he repaired the piano.”
Vincent released a breath.
“Were they lovers?” I asked.
“No.
They were friends and composers.
Isabella wrote the melody.
Thomas built the variations and the final movement.”
“Why put our names together?” Vincent asked.
“Because Isabella wanted both of you to receive music scholarships from the concerto’s earnings.”
Falk laughed.
“A touching story from a dismissed employee.”
Cora opened her coat and removed a small envelope.
“Isabella gave me this the night before Edmund Ashcroft had me removed from her home.”
Inside was a bank key bearing the number 317.
“She said Thomas had placed the original score and a second cylinder in a box,” Cora continued.
“She made me swear never to give the key to a Moretti until Vincent questioned Falk himself.”
Vincent looked at Falk.
“Consider him questioned.”
At the bank, the manager led us into a private room.
Box 317 slid open with a metallic scrape.
It was empty except for one sheet of paper.
Vivian reached for it, but I caught it first.
May you like
The message had been typed, but the last line was handwritten in my father’s familiar left-leaning script.
If this box is empty, ask Vivian Ashcroft what she did with the second cylinder.
