What Gerald Markham, the orchestra’s conductor was telling me was setting off numerous lines of speculation, but now was not the time to speculate, what I needed was facts. I remembered the latchkey in the evidence bag.

“Do you have an address for George, I would like to check that he’s ok.”

Gerald looked down his lengthy elegant nose at me, he did not concern himself with the dirty details of his players private lives.

“Annabel Graves, the leader of the orchestra, first violin, keeps the contact details of the members. She is the lady in the blue dress over there.” He pointed and turned away.

Annabel Greaves was a tall thin woman draped head to toe in an electric blue gown that hugged her figure, accentuating the few curves that she had and flaring out at the floor, so that as she progressed around the room, talking briefly to each of the orchestra members, she seemed to glide, Ginger Rogers in one of her better movies came to mind. She cut an imposing figure, tall and elegant, brandishing a violin in one hand and bow in the other, she ended up in conversation with a shorter more thick-set woman supporting a cello in one hand and holding a music score in the other, they were bent over the score, Annabel gesticulating, indicating sections with her bow point. This was presumably the promoted cellist.

“Excuse me, Annabel is it? Could I have a brief word with you please, it won’t take a minute.” She looked up with an expression of annoyance, she had an oval face surrounded by a neat hood of short auburn hair, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, clear olive skin. She blinked in slow motion, huge shadowed eyelids gently closed then opened revealing sumptuous glowing chestnut irises which blended into bottomless black centres. Those eyes locked with mine, my stomach convulsed and my knees dissolved, I grabbed the cello briefly for support and broke one of the strings. I had to wrench my head aside to unlock from those eyes and stumbled a few steps to the nearest pew, collapsing onto the seat. The love-god had struck.

“Sorry, so sorry.” I said. I looked haplessly at the cellist, her face reddening with anger. “Mary, is it? Your string, I broke it, I do apologise, please forgive me.” It wasn’t only Mary who I was asking forgiveness from, the gods knew my thoughts, I was impure and undeserving.

“Um.” I looked up plaintively. I had forgotten her name.

“Annabel?” She made it a question – you want me? Annabel?

“Annabel, yes … Sorry. Yes. … Excuse me. A little … winded. Don’t know what came over me.”

She smiled down from above me, her head now at a slight angle and silhouetted by the stained-glass altar window.

“Could you possibly, is there any way that you could. Could possibly” I had forgotten what I was supposed to be asking her. “Um … look up George’s address for me? It’s in connection with an ongoing investigation” I was in uniform so my credentials weren’t questioned.

“I think I could manage to look it up” She walked over to the mass of coats and musical instrument cases piled on one side of the main aisle. I padded after her like a newly purchased puppy. She opened a violin case and took out a mobile phone, I noticed that each case had a compartment for storing spare strings and other bits and pieces. Could the murder weapon be coiled discreetly in one of these cases? My mind was clicking back into action, if only I could avoid those eyes.

His name was George Austin and she gave me an address near Clapham North tube station. It was getting late but I couldn’t stop now. I re-traced my steps to the Crystal Palace bus depot and boarded the 417 to Clapham.

George Austin lived in a turret, 172 Kennedy Street was a large Victorian brick building, now divided into flats and bed-sits and neglected by the landlord. Soiled net curtains or old blankets and layers of grime blocked the decaying windows. An octagonal turret with a pointed slate roof formed one back corner of the building. The windows here had been cleaned, unlike the others, the curtains were closed, but they appeared clean and neat. It had a separate door and I tried the key from the evidence bag, in I went.

The place was in darkness on this late evening so I was fairly sure that it was deserted but I called out just in case. My words echoed back to me through the shadowed rooms but there was no other reply. I found a light switch; the octagonal room was a mixture of kitchen and laboratory. There was an electric stove, a fridge, a cupboard with kitchen utensils, a bunch of fresh daffodils blooming in a milk-jug on the table, but three walls of the room supported a wide wooden laboratory bench with an enamel sink and a large array of glassware, measuring cylinders, flasks, even a Bunsen burner. A large microscope with a camera attachment. A shelf above held chemicals, clearly labelled, Hydrochloric Acid, Nitric Acid, Acetone, Alcohol … many others. An open-plan stair led to the first floor.

Here, octagonal as below, was set up as a study and music room, there was a small electric keyboard on a stand, folders of sheet music piled tidily on shelves, books about musicians and musical instruments, especially violins and cellos, a cello in a large case propped against one of the plain walls and an empty violin case made of red leather hung on another wall. In the centre of the room a music stand and a metal chair with its back legs raised a couple of inches above the floor by wooden blocks, obviously his practise room. Two more violin cases and a cello case were on the floor under one window, each contained an instrument and the tell-tale compartment with spare strings, some of gut and others metal, none bloodstained.

There was plenty to look at here but I needed to check the place for occupants so I went up to the top floor, once again I turned-on the lights, knowing now where the switches were. The bedroom was empty, I closed the curtains and started a more thorough search. There was a Russian icon hung on one wall, the sallow olive skin and almond eyes surrounded in a halo of gold leaf, the similarity to Annabel was striking, I forced the thought out of my mind. The wardrobe held suits and shirts, the drawers held underwear and pullovers, the bedside table held reading glasses, a cheap watch – presumably a spare, paracetamol, eye-drops, eardrops, an appointment diary, a pencil. Under the bed were shoes and slippers, a plastic box for spare bedclothes and a wooden box labelled with the promise of two bottles of vintage brandy. I flipped the catch and opened it, no brandy inside but a stash of documents. Press cuttings, printouts from websites, auction catalogues.

I settled down to read, sorting through the disorganised material took a long time but the story gradually revealed itself. Antonio Stradivari was making violins in Cremona Italy between the years 1680 and 1730. In that period he made about 1,100 violins. About 600 are thought to exist today, but only about 250 are documented. A Stradivarius can be worth millions, there are upwards of 300 out there somewhere, they are worth hunting for – and that is what George Austin was doing. He had been at it for years, operating from his lonely turret, following lead after fruitless lead, disappointment after disappointment. He gained strength and solace, as was apparent from his notes, by playing his humble modern cello. But eventually, he was on to something.

A Russian count with an excessively long name, but Vassily Petrov for short, had, in 1816 received two Stradivari as a gift from Tsar Alexander 1, in recognition of his part in the war against Napoleon. There is a record of one of these being sold by his son later in the century, but the other appears to have remained with the family, which decamped to London soon after the 1917 revolution. George Austin believed that he had found the missing Petrov Strad.

I read long into the night, eventually falling asleep curled up on George’s bed. The bin men, scourge of the late sleeper and conscience of the under-employed, woke me next morning, it was nearly 9:30. I was unshaven and starving hungry, also giving off a ripe smell after 24 hours in my uniform. In the kitchen I found some bread and butter and made an instant coffee, I was beginning to feel affection for George and knew he would spare me the refreshments. I wandered upstairs with my coffee and looked out from the upper windows, there was a view between housetops to Clapham High road and the tube station. Two familiar figures sauntered out of the station entrance, detectives Moore and Michaels of the homicide squad. They must have found out George’s identity and address, if they were heading here then they had a search warrant. I had to get out quickly. I stuffed the remaining bread into my mouth and as much coffee as I could manage, grabbed as many papers as I could from the brandy box, pushing them willy-nilly into pockets, likewise the appointment diary, and made my escape.

I had to get home and change and wash, also call in sick, my fingerprints would be all over George’s rooms and it was only a matter of time before the bureaucrats came after me for breaking the rules. My only way out was to crack the case before they did, it was me against the Metropolitan Police.

The bus system in London is wonderful, but things were urgent now, I dialled-up an Uber. In the back seat on the way back to Crystal Palace I took out the diary, there was an entry for today –

“Annabel-Bach St, Peters, 10 a.m.”

Annabel. The familiar lurch came to my stomach, luckily I was sitting down so my knees gave no trouble. “Annabel Bach” what did it mean. I googled it on my phone. “Bach, a welsh term of endearment.” George had been in love with Annabel! We were brother souls. So, he was Welsh, given the evidence of occult involvement a Druid link seemed certain. St. Peters must be the church on Streatham Hill, I was already late, there was no time to go home, I amended my route with the driver.

St. Peter’s is a huge brick church with a spire, built on the slope of a steep hill and surrounded by row after row of terraced houses. Inside all was quiet, I saw nobody and stood in near the entrance, cowed into silence by the hushed atmosphere. Starting quietly, a thin wavering tone filled the silence, at first I could hear the bow scraping the strings then the sound filled into a full rounded note soaring through space, followed by a smooth descending scale and a lush melody, the melody was interrupted for a brief kind of dancing jig then started again, lush and full. Annabel was standing dead centre beneath the spire swaying gently as she played. I took a step nearer and she noticed me and stopped playing.

“Sergeant Hudson” she said, “Are you still looking for George? I was due to meet him here.”

“Yes, I know. What were you playing?”

“Mozart, did you like it?”

“I thought I had died and gone to heaven”

“Ah, you are too kind, Mr. Hudson.”

“Robert, Rob, call me Rob”

“Rob” she rolled the R and elongated the o.

“Robbie, my friends call me Robbie”

“Rooobbie” She rolled the “R” elongated the “O” and emphasised the “B”

“Roobbie”

“Perfect, like the playing” I said.

“Like the music perhaps, that is a beautiful piece and this church has a wonderful acoustic for a solo instrument, I generally meet George here and we practise our Bach, he does the cello suites and I do the sonatas.”

Bach, not welsh then.

“Sonatas” I repeated the word to see what it sounded like from a normal person, as opposed to an Angel.

She put the violin up to her chin and slammed the bow down onto it, a screeching wail ascended to the top of the spire, I winced. Being close now I noticed that she was playing two strings at once, then she lifted the bow and drew it across a single string, a pure note enveloped us like a warm bath, the tune now moved up and down scales, never exactly repeating yet seeming to fit a pattern, the notes echoed back from the spire and the far corners of the old building so that they combined in one long ululating cry. Time froze, past present and future rolled into one cascading vibration, the three of us, Annabel, the church and I were one pulsating breathing thing, broken into molecules and re-combined as the ghost of heaven.

Annabel’s head, tilted to hold the violin, was the golden icon from George’s bedroom, the cowl of her neat hair was the blue hood covering the Virgin Mary in the stained-glass window, my eyes closed and I fell through an endless night sky starred with spangled fragments of glass, each imprinted with the tilted beauty of Annabel’s poised features, thought ceased, existence became one endless sinking layered vibration. The conscious world deserted me.

I heard my voice from a long distance away, I was saying “Daffodils, druids, butter, Napoleon”

I was fighting my way through a fog, stumbling back to consciousness. As my eyes began to function, I stared straight up into the spire of St. Peter’s church. My God, was I on the altar, was the sacrifice about to begin? I sat up quickly and looked around, I was on the floor, I must have simply fainted, lack of food and proper sleep had knocked me out. The church was now empty save for me. I looked at my watch, 11:00 a.m. I had been out for perhaps ten minutes. The place was quite silent now, Annabel was gone, …..  the papers retrieved from George’s bedroom were gone from my jacket pockets, my phone and wallet were gone, I had a raging headache and I smelled to high heaven.