The Strange Case of Monsieur Bertin

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Constance Greene was sitting at the harpsichord, brows furrowed in concentration, when she heard a small intake of breath from A. X. L. Pendergast. She let her hands drop from the keyboard and glanced over. Her guardian was sitting in a comfortable leather chair by the fire, a glass of sherry on a nearby table, a curious expression on his face. He’d been opening the mail that Proctor had recently carried in on a silver platter.

“Is my playing disturbing you, Aloysius?” she asked.

It took him a moment to respond. “Never, Constance. Quite the opposite.”

“I feared my mistakes were wearing on your nerves.”

“Not in the least. And quite understandable: Contrapunctus XIV is not only the trickiest section in Art of the Fugue, but probably the most difficult harpsichord piece Bach ever wrote.”

Constance prepared to continue, then paused again, curious at how very still Pendergast had become. She noticed he was holding a black-edged card he’d just removed from a thick cream envelope. Rising from the instrument, she came over and seated herself in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. It was a dark winter evening, a blizzard rattling the windows and wailing around the Riverside Drive mansion, the storm punctuated by a deep rumble of that rare phenomenon — lightning in winter. But the fire burned brightly, and the library was warm and snug.

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