When the Music's Over by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online

Above the trees, it was possible to make out the pattern of drystone walls on the higher slopes of the opposite daleside, Tetchley Fell reaching high above Helmthorpe, close to where Banks lived, and much greener this summer after the rains.
    But it was the river that drew one’s attention with its magnetic power, its voice and its shifting, scintillating movement. The garden was just a swatch of lawn that needed mowing, edged with a few beds of colorful flowers: poppies, foxgloves, roses. Fuchsia and a bay tree hung over the drystone wall from next door. At the bottom was a low iron railing decorated with curlicues, and beyond that the riverbank itself. A white table and four matching chairs awaited them in the shade of an old beech tree, along with a jug full of ice cubes and orange juice. The French doors remained open and Banks could hear music playing quietly inside. He recognized the opening movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.
    â€œI thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,” Linda Palmer said, “but it’s up to you.”
    â€œCold is fine,” said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.
    â€œGood, then. Let’s sit down, shall we?”
    They sat. Banks noticed a book facedown on the table beside an ashtray. It was called Dart by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps poets got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed orange juice, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.
    â€œDon’t mind her,” said Linda. “That’s Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s beautiful here,” Banks said.
    â€œThank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don’t think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.”
    â€œDo you live here alone?”
    â€œI do now. Not always.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    She inclined her head. “It was two years ago. Heart attack. Charles was a good man. He was an English prof at Durham.”
    â€œDid you ever tell him and the children about what happened?”
    Linda gave a slight shake of her head, and Banks knew not to pursue the matter. Not yet, at any rate. Now that he could examineher more closely, he noticed that she had a few crow’s-feet around her eyes and crinkles at the edges of her mouth, but they only accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it in any way. Her pale complexion was smooth, lightly freckled, the lips still full, a generous mouth. She wore no makeup, but with her skin, she didn’t need it. The features of her heart-shaped face were strong, but not too sharp or angular, the Nordic cheekbones well defined, nose in proportion with everything else. But it was her dark blue eyes that really tantalized. Banks could sense warmth, humor, tenderness and curiosity under a guarded surface, and a hint of sadness, loss and pain beneath all that. They didn’t flit around in search of an object to settle on, but