The Ghost Sonata (30 page)

The Message

 

A glass jar bobbed on the surface of the water. It reminded Gilda of jars she had seen in her grandmother's basement that were used for canning fruit, but this jar looked more antique: the glass was elongated and tinted a cloudy blue. It looked as if something might be sealed inside, but it was difficult to see what it was.

Gilda reached into the water and pulled the jar from the well. “I guess we should try to open it.”

The two girls hesitated. They stared at the jar, sensing some great significance about this discovery.

“It
might
just be a jar, you know,” said Wendy.

“I know.” But Gilda felt certain that it
wasn't
just a jar. She felt as if she and Wendy had just intercepted a message from outer space or from another world—as if opening the jar might release something beyond their control.

Gilda took a deep breath and tried to unscrew the lid, but it wouldn't budge.

“You hold it steady,” said Wendy. “I'll twist it.” Using all the strength in her pianist's hands, Wendy twisted the lid until her face turned red. Finally, the lid came unstuck with a great release of air pressure.

“Go ahead,” Gilda whispered. “Look inside.”

“I think there's something in here.” Wendy carefully retrieved several tightly folded pieces of paper from the jar. As she unfolded the pages and flattened the creases in the papers, she had a sense of recognition, as if an object for which she had been searching had finally turned up.

The papers were a handwritten manuscript of music—a composition titled Sonata in A Minor.

“Hey, it's music! That has to be significant, right?” Then Gilda saw the change in Wendy's face: Wendy suddenly looked as if she might be close to tears. “It's that music you keep hearing, isn't it?”

Wendy nodded.

“Wendy, do you realize what this means? You heard this music before you had ever seen the score! If that isn't being clairaudient, I don't know what is. And my sleuthing skills led us exactly to the right spot! This is
very
exciting.”

Wendy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“What's wrong? You don't think this is exciting?”

“I'm not sure.” Wendy felt overwhelmed. What did this music have to do with
her
? Why couldn't she explain or control the forces that had drawn her to it?

“Wait, there's something else in there.” Gilda pulled one more folded piece of paper from the jar. This page was different—covered with words instead of notation. Gilda and Wendy sat on the steps leading down the well and began to read:

“A rather confident lad, isn't he?” Gilda couldn't help feeling that Charles Drummond's cocky tone was considerably less poignant and spooky than the white rose on his grave had led her to expect. “Maybe this explains why his ghost is so pushy.”

“Maybe he has a right to be cocky.” Wendy looked at Charles's music manuscript more closely. Now that she could see the written score, she noticed dissonant harmonies and a contrasting middle section that she hadn't previously heard in her mind. “This composition looks pretty amazing.”

Both Gilda and Wendy felt a prickly awareness that they were reading Charles's letter while standing very close to the spot where his dead body was buried. Something about the letter and the music made them feel that he was alive—standing a few feet behind them and reading over their shoulders. “That music really does look
superb
,” said Gilda loudly, for the benefit of any ghost who might be listening.

Wendy began nibbling a lock of hair, then stopped herself. “I just think it's weird that we're finding this because of something he originally hid as a project for
school
.”

“I know. Remember when we did that time capsule assignment back in sixth grade? None of us would have ever imagined something like
this
.” The time capsule Gilda had created in sixth grade had contained a math homework assignment, a half-used tube of pink lip gloss, a bag of Cheetos, a lunch token, one of her mother's phone bills, a magazine article titled “New Makeup Shades for Fall,” a poem she had written about vampires, and a photograph of herself wearing her cat's-eye sunglasses. After she had buried the container, she had been asked to retrieve both the math homework and the phone bill, but she had never again been able to find the exact spot where she had hidden everything.

Gilda made a mental note to create an updated time capsule that contained some drafts of her novels-in-progress and psychic investigation reports, in order to preserve them as historical documents. “One thing's for sure,” she said. “Charles Drummond obviously expected to be famous. He also expected to be alive for more than a few months after he wrote this.” “So what do you think happened?”

Gilda jumped to her feet with a businesslike sense of purpose. “That's what I'm going to figure out next. Wendy, I think we need to start asking Waldgrave and Maddox some tough questions—find out whether they know about this music and what really happened to this boy.”

“What makes you think they'll answer our questions?”

“You know me. I have a few interrogation techniques up my sleeve.”

Wendy stared at the tiny black notes of music, already hearing the way the complete composition would sound. “I have to learn this music,” she said.
I have a gut feeling that's what he wants
, Wendy thought.
He's desperate for this composition to be played.

41

A Tormented Soul

 

Donning her dark cat's-eye glasses, adjusting her “London Mod” wig, and doing her best to mimic the demeanor of a sleep-deprived university student, Gilda approached the heavy wooden doors leading into New College. She strolled past the porter into a spacious, grassy quadrangle. Enclosed by the high stone walls of the college and perfectly groomed trees and shrubs, the courtyard had the quiet, peaceful feeling of a cloister where the outside world was completely silenced.

Maybe people can think better in here
, Gilda thought.
If only it were warmer outside, it would be the perfect place to sit and read a whole stack of good books.

“Sophia! Sophia! Come down from there immediately!”

Gilda couldn't believe her luck. A short distance across the quadrangle, she spied a thin man who stood with his back to her, gazing up into the branches of a chestnut tree. She recognized Professor Waldgrave's hunched posture and the way he wore his corduroy pants belted a bit too high above the waist. His cat, Sophia, peered down at him from her perch in the tree.

Act like an Oxford student
, Gilda told herself, summoning the nerve to approach Waldgrave.

“Good afternoon, Professor.”

Professor Waldgrave was visibly startled at Gilda's approach. He stared at Gilda's wig as if considering an animal that had decided to nest on her head.

“I'm Gilda Joyce,” said Gilda, extending her hand. “I was the page-turner for the sight-reading competition. Remember?”

“Ah, yes; how could I forget? The flying music score. You certainly helped increase the difficulty level for some of the competitors.”

“Happy to be of service.” Gilda decided to ignore Professor Waldgrave's thinly veiled insult. “Looks like your cat's stuck in a tree,” she added.

“Brilliant observation.”

Seems like he's in an even grumpier mood than usual
, Gilda thought.

The cat yawned and stared down at the two of them with sleepy eyes. Gilda suspected that Sophia was teasing Professor Waldgrave—enjoying the spectacle of her owner's agitation.

“Please, Sophia!” Professor Waldgrave begged. “I have students waiting!”

“Have you tried tempting her with a snack?” Gilda suggested.
If I can help him retrieve his cat, maybe he'll warm up to me
, she reasoned. “I have half a scone left in my bag.”

“She doesn't like scones.”

Gilda guessed Sophia must be among the most spoiled, temperamental cats in England. “How about a basket of dead rats from the Covered Market?” she joked.

Professor Waldgrave almost smiled. “
That
might interest her. Do you also have rats in your handbag?”

“No.” Gilda desperately wished she could produce some rats.

The cat splayed her hind toes and began to lick between them with exquisite attention to detail as Professor Waldgrave paced back and forth beneath the tree. Gilda noticed that he walked with toes pointed outward, like an uncoordinated ballet dancer.

Gilda decided it was best to approach the topic of Charles Drummond gradually in order to gain Professor Waldgrave's trust.
Maybe he'd prefer to talk about his cat
, she thought.

“Tell me, Professor Waldgrave,” she said, “is it true what they say about you and your cat?”

“I have no idea.” Professor Waldgrave stopped pacing and began to scrutinize the trunk of the chestnut tree, as if he was considering climbing it. “What, pray tell, do they say?”

“You know. They say that Sophia is the one who makes the judging decisions in the piano competition.”

“Who on earth told you that?”

“Just—competitors. People in the competition.” Gilda suddenly wondered whether this was another one of Julian's stories.

“Well, you can tell them this: Sophia is a
cat
. Cats don't judge piano competitions.”

“Oh, I know that. I guess some people think you have a system, and if Sophia purrs or growls, that influences their score.”

Professor Waldgrave snorted.

“I mean, it is odd that your cat attends all the performances, isn't it?”

“It isn't the least bit odd. To be completely honest, Sophia has better taste in music than most humans, and that's a fact. If she's helping me judge the competition, perhaps she should be getting paid for her contributions.”

Gilda laughed nervously, but Professor Waldgrave only scowled.

“Well, I thought it sounded pretty silly.” Gilda now regretted beginning with this line of questioning. It wasn't at all easy to keep loitering near the chestnut tree when Waldgrave was acting so obviously unfriendly.

“So . . . I imagine you must be pretty busy with the competition judging,” Gilda ventured, hoping that a renewed attempt at small talk would lead to more important subjects.

“Quite busy.”

“They're a fine bunch of piano players.”

“Some show promise.”

“That performer number nine—Wendy Choy—is a splendid musician.”

“The rules forbid me from commenting on any performance outside the concert hall,” Professor Waldgrave snapped.