“Richard’s books are enjoyed by a great many people,” Laura said breaking the embarrassed silence.
“I appreciate your coming to my defence, Laura, but it’s quite all right.” Richard glanced at Norrington with a look that was almost amused. “Henry’s just jealous that my books sell so much better than his.”
This sally brought a gasp of outrage from Norrington, but a spluttered “Nonsense!” was the only reply he could muster.
This was the stuff of legend and Norrington’s students were eating it up. But the undercurrent of animosity between the two men made Laura uncomfortable. She finished her glass of wine and got to her feet. Smothering a yawn, Richard said he would walk back to the residence with her. Outside the building, he paused to gaze almost reverently up at the night sky, the moon riding high among the stars. The air was so crisp and clear that the distant stars seemed almost to crackle. The eerie, high-pitched howl of a coyote floated down from somewhere higher up Tunnel Mountain.
“I love that sound,” Richard murmured. “It’s so wild and free.”
“It sends chills up and down my spine, too,” Laura agreed. “But it also reminds me of the time I put a coyote in a painting. Like everybody else I painted it sitting on its haunches and baying at the moon. A couple of months after the painting had been sold, I received a stern letter from a field naturalist saying that when coyotes howled they stood with all four feet planted on the ground.”
“Did you reply?”
“Oh, yes. I wrote him a polite note thanking him for the information, but telling him that in my paintings, coyotes were free to do whatever they liked.” She touched his arm. “Let’s walk down the path. This night is too beautiful to waste!”
Moments later as they rounded a turn in the path they saw Veronica Phillips standing in front of Marek Dabrowski’s studio.
“Oh, no,” Laura exclaimed softly.
Veronica was listening so intently to the sounds filtering through the studio walls that she started visibly as the two approached. She held a finger to her lips until the music rose to a thundering crescendo then suddenly faltered to a halt. She turned to them with shining eyes. “It’s going to be wonderful! He’s writing it in C-major. It’s the first time he’s written a concerto in that key.”
Marek began to pick out notes again and as Laura squeezed Richard’s arm and turned to walk away, her eyes caught something glinting in the moonlight on the ground just off the path. When she narrowed her eyes to focus on it, she could make out that it was a microphone, partially hidden behind a fallen branch. Somebody was taping Marek as he worked on his concerto.
She glanced at Richard. His attention was riveted on her and he hadn’t spotted the microphone. “You are very beautiful in the moonlight,” he said softly.
“Thank you.” She slipped her hand in his as they continued up the path. They walked in companionable silence to Lloyd Hall in the silver moonlight. The quizzical look was back in his eyes as they said good night at her door.
What should she do about the microphone? That question kept Laura awake and staring at the ceiling until she finally decided that in all good conscience she must tell Marek about it first thing in the morning. With that decision made, she fell into a restless sleep.
The microphone was still in place. After a quick glance around to make sure there was no one else in sight, Laura stepped off the path and tramped through the underbrush until she was standing over it. A thin black cord led her through the trees and down into the little ravine. The reel of the tape machine, hidden under a canopy of pine boughs, was revolving at a very slow rate. It contained enough tape to record for hours on end, and it would be an easy matter to change tapes without being seen since the ravine provided cover on all sides.
There was no sound coming from Marek’s studio, but the outside light was still burning. Somewhat apprehensive of what her reception might be, Laura knocked on the door. She didn’t know how she expected the composer to look after his self-imposed exile in his studio, but she certainly didn’t expect the clear-eyed, freshly shaven Marek who opened the door. The only sign of fatigue were the dark smudges under his eyes.
“I hate disturbing you like this Marek, but there’s something you should know about.”
“Is it about Isabelle?” he demanded.
“No. It has nothing to do with her. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
“You are sure this has nothing to do with Isabelle?” Marek persisted as he followed her along the path.
“See for yourself,” Laura said as she led him down the little ravine.
Marek stared down at the tape machine with its slowly revolving reel. “It’s from the music department,” he muttered. “Nobody else has a machine like that.”
“But who would do something like this?”
“I think I can guess, but we’ll know for sure soon enough. The tape is almost finished. Whoever it is will have to come back to change reels.” Marek ran his fingers through his dark tousled hair. “The andante will be on there. That’s what I was working on until just before dawn.”
“But whoever it is couldn’t use your music. Everybody would know.”
“Change a note here and a few bars there. Better still, arrange it for violin rather than piano. The important thing is to have the structure to hang the notes on, and the tape would give you that.” Marek was growing visibly angry at the thought of someone appropriating his music in this stealthy and underhanded manner.
The tape was almost down to the spindle. Even though it was broad daylight, Laura shivered. From somewhere down the ravine came the crack of a broken branch, followed by a muffled curse in German.
“It is just as I thought,” whispered Marek. “Carl Eckart—a disappointed and bitter man whose music has been ignored by the world. My concerto would have been his masterpiece.”
“What are you going to do?” Laura whispered as Eckart’s thickset figure came into view through the trees.
“Protect my music,” replied Marek. Telling her to stay hidden behind a tree, he moved off.
As she stood there, screened by the branches of a pine, Laura was immediately surrounded by a cloud of confiding chickadees looking for a handout. They had long ago learned that people in the colony could often be counted on for a treat of sunflower seeds or nuts.
Eckart was squatting over the machine, a reel of tape in either hand when Marek came silently up behind him. Both spools fell to the ground when Marek murmured, “I am flattered, Professor, but is what you are doing quite ethical?”
Eckart froze, too stunned to move. Then without lifting his eyes or turning around, he asked in a cracking voice what Marek intended to do about it.
“You are despicable. Beneath contempt. I should report you to the chair of your department.”
Still on his knees, Eckart scrunched around until he was facing Marek. Hands clasped together as if in prayer, he implored Marek not to report him, saying that it would mean instant dismissal and he had no other means of support.
“Get on your feet,” said Marek with distaste. “I should report you but I will not do so until I have thought about it. You will collect your equipment and bring it to my studio. Then you will bring me all the tapes. All of them, do you understand?” Eckart nodded, and Marek continued, “We will play them together to verify that I have them all.”
From behind the cover of the pine tree, Laura watched Eckart gather up his equipment. She held her breath as he walked within a few feet of her, winding the microphone wire in neat coils. He was cursing in German to himself, and there was a look of despair on his broad, fleshy face. But there