An Incomplete Revenge

“Thank you.” She held Maisie’s hands in both her own. “Thank you. For all that you were to him.”

HAVING DEPOSITED PRISCILLA at the Dorchester once more, Maisie pulled her watch from the black document case and checked the time: two o’clock. She had to be at the repository at half past three; in the interim, she would go straight to Denmark Street, a mecca for London’s musicians.

Andersen & Sons, Luthiers, was halfway along the narrow street, just off Charing Cross Road. A brown awning kept the sun’s rays from the window, in which a gentleman mannequin, garbed in evening dress, was seated on a chair with a cello positioned ready to play. The bow had been tied to his hand to hold it in place, and it looked as if he might come alive and draw it across the strings at any moment.

A bell rang above the door as Maisie entered the shop. All manner of stringed instruments were positioned around the four walls. Guitars were hung from hooks, as were lutes, balalaikas, ukuleles, violas and violins. Two harps were set on the floor, along with a cello and a double bass. Mahogany counters flanked either side of the shop, displaying strings, clamps, an assortment of plectra, and other tools of the string musician’s trade. Just inside the door, a stand held a selection of sheet music that had become dusty and curled. And at the back of the shop, through a velvet curtain tied to one side, she saw two men working at facing benches. Each surface was illuminated by two electric desk lamps, though the shop itself was dimly lit, probably to save money and to protect the instruments. The older of the two men also used a substantial magnifying glass, which had been bolted to his workbench.

As the door closed, the younger man rubbed his hands with a cloth and came out to greet Maisie.

“Can I help you, madam?” He executed a shallow bow as he spoke.

“I wanted to speak to Mr. Andersen, if I may?”

“Which one? There are three, with only two of us here today.”

“Then it would be Mr. Andersen, Senior.”

The man, who was about thirty, went back to the workshop, calling “Dad, lady to see you,” and pushing the curtain aside as he returned to his work. The older gentleman, his shoulders hunched from years of leaning across the workbench, came to greet her.

“May I help you?” He spoke with an accent, which Maisie identified as being Danish or Swedish.

“I have come to see you about a violin you repaired, some years ago.”

The man smiled, his gray-blue eyes kind, while the white woolly curls on his head made him seem endearing, like a favorite uncle in a child’s fairy tale. “I keep perfect records, and I remember my customers, though I am more likely to remember their instruments.”

“The violin belonged to a man named Jacob Martin, but seeing as he was Dutch, it may have been Maarten.” Maisie emphasized ten, her tongue touching her teeth as she spoke.

Andersen frowned. “I remember Jacob well. His surname was originally van Maarten.”

“Van Maarten?”

“Yes. He changed it when his daughter, Anna, was born. Jacob was born and bred here, and he wanted his family to be assimilated.” His pronunciation of the word was deliberate, syllable by syllable. “He came into the shop often, as his bakery was close to Covent Garden, so he would stroll up after the market folk had come for their pastries in the morning, the traders for their coffee and sausage rolls. We had a shared love, you see, of the instruments.” He paused. “But why do you ask of him?”

“Before he died, Mr. van Maarten brought a violin to you for repair, and it was collected by the vicar of the parish, I believe, on the day he was killed, in a Zeppelin raid.”

Andersen frowned. “Let me get my order book, and I will be able to tell you exactly.”

Maisie waited while the man went back into the workshop. Standing alongside a harp, she stretched out her hand and ran her fingers across the strings, the tumble of notes reminding her of a shower on a bright day, of primrose petals bending to the weight of raindrops. She regretted never having learned to play an instrument.

“Yes,” said Andersen, as he came back through the curtained doorway and into the shop. “He brought the violin to me in August. He liked to bring it in once a year. It was like a child to him.”

“What can you tell me about it? I know very little about musical instruments.”

Andersen looked up at Maisie, smiling as if remembering the features of a much-loved friend. “It was an exceptional violin, a Cuypers—Johannes Cuypers, the father, not one of the sons, who were also luthiers. It was an earlier model with the most exquisite reddish-golden finish, as if candlelight were reflected in the wood. The violin was almost one hundred and fifty years old, and Jacob—” he pronounced the name Yaycob—“inherited it from his father, and his father before him.”

Maisie took a deep breath. “Was he a proficient player?”

The man took off the spectacles he had donned to better read the ledger and pointed a bony finger toward the shop’s entrance. “Let me tell you, when Jacob picked up his violin, people would stand at that door to listen. He was an artist. It was a great loss.” He shook his head and looked down at the ledger once again, then turned it to face Maisie. “It may be my own writing, but my vision has worn with the years, and of course with my work. Your eyes are younger than mine. Look there and you will see when it was collected. I confess, I do not recall the man who collected the violin speaking of the Zeppelin, so it must have been before the tragedy, as you said. I myself received word of it some weeks later, when a mutual friend came in to tell me that he had perished, along with his family. It is best, I believe, that the boy was killed in the war. He was close to his father. It would have destroyed him.”

Maisie nodded and, squinting in the diminished light, made a note of the date of collection on an index card. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen.”

As she made a final note before placing the card in her bag, Andersen continued speaking, his affection for the van Maartens evident in memories shared. “They were a musical family, their own little orchestra. The boy was his father’s son, though given that he was but a child, his violin was a lesser model. I would not be wrong if I said that he would have become the better player, which would have pleased Jacob; mind you, the boy was troubled as he came to the edge of manhood, there were difficulties at school, so Jacob told me. It concerned him, as he had tried to avoid such problems.” He shook his head. “I often wonder what happened to the Cuypers. It was a delight to hold, such balance, such workmanship. And such beauty.”

Maisie held out her hand to Andersen. “And you never changed your name, Mr. Andersen? It seems something