governmental authorities. It was stored in a museum near Hamburg, which ended up being looted by the Russian Army.
The next time a record of the violin appears was in more peaceful times in the 1950s, where it was owned by the Christiansens, a well-to-do Hannover family, none of whom died an unnatural death over the course of three generations. The violin was passed from child to child, until it came into possession of Edwina Christiansen.
The name of the last proprietor of the violin, according to its certificate of provenance, Dominik remembered.
Edwina was the wild child of her bourgeois family, and by all accounts an outstanding beauty. During the 1960s she had come under the influence of an older man, an American, whom she had met in San Francisco. But their relationship was unconventional and very far from respectable. To cut a long story short – ‘Maybe you could write it all into your novel,’ LaValle had suggested – Edwina had been turned into his whore.
‘What about the violin?’ Dominik asked.
‘It remained in Germany, while Edwina was in America. She just happened to own it; it had been passed on to her by her father. She actually never played it, or any instruments, at that.’
‘What happened to Edwina?’
She’d ended up killing her American lover. The circumstances were murky and Edwina, at her trial, had been steadfast in refusing to answer any questions, and was sentenced to life imprisonment. The case had made newspaper headlines for a few weeks, if only because of the sordid backstory that was unveiled by the prosecution as much as the accused’s spectacular beauty and sadness.
Disowned by her prudish family and alone in a foreign country, Edwina had not stood a chance.
She died in prison a decade or so later. Back in Germany, her relatives, embarrassed by the whole farrago, drew a lid over the episode and Edwina’s belongings went into storage, with no attention to the Bailly violin. It was only when the building in which her affairs were kept was threatened by demolition a few decades after her death – the area it was sited in was pinpointed for regeneration – that distant relatives arranged for a lawyer to dispose of everything as he felt best.
‘That was how I came into possession of the violin,’ LaValle said. ‘It was listed in the estate disposal catalogue as a Bailly, with no indication of its particulars, as the lawyer involved had no idea of either its history or its value.’
‘And when you first saw it, did you realise it was the Angelique?’ Dominik asked.
‘Not initially. I’d acquired a lot of other instruments as part of the transaction and I knew I already had buyers for most of them, so I didn’t give the Bailly too much thought initially. But when I did, I realised it was the instrument so many had talked about in the trade because of its uncommon history. Now I don’t believe in curses and all that, but I was thinking that I might actually keep it for myself, and not put it on sale, but before I had a chance to do so, that fool of an assistant who thought he was being clever, sold it. To you.’
‘The Angelique.’
‘Yes.’ LaValle grinned. ‘So, might I ask if the instrument has brought Miss Zahova any bad luck?’
Dominik considered his words carefully.
‘Well, she’s become quite famous since. Maybe others have been affected, though …’
LaValle looked him in the eyes.
‘I hope you’re not superstitious. It’s just coincidences, you know. Although all these silly stories certainly give the instrument an interesting reputation. And beautiful objects do attract thieves, these days. If she were willing to sell, I’m sure it would manage at least five or six times what you paid for it.’
‘I don’t believe it’s a question of money, Mr LaValle,’ Dominik said, standing. ‘But it’s been a most interesting story. Thank you for your time.’
‘I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity,’ the dealer said.
‘Absolutely. You’ve given me much to
The next time a record of the violin appears was in more peaceful times in the 1950s, where it was owned by the Christiansens, a well-to-do Hannover family, none of whom died an unnatural death over the course of three generations. The violin was passed from child to child, until it came into possession of Edwina Christiansen.
The name of the last proprietor of the violin, according to its certificate of provenance, Dominik remembered.
Edwina was the wild child of her bourgeois family, and by all accounts an outstanding beauty. During the 1960s she had come under the influence of an older man, an American, whom she had met in San Francisco. But their relationship was unconventional and very far from respectable. To cut a long story short – ‘Maybe you could write it all into your novel,’ LaValle had suggested – Edwina had been turned into his whore.
‘What about the violin?’ Dominik asked.
‘It remained in Germany, while Edwina was in America. She just happened to own it; it had been passed on to her by her father. She actually never played it, or any instruments, at that.’
‘What happened to Edwina?’
She’d ended up killing her American lover. The circumstances were murky and Edwina, at her trial, had been steadfast in refusing to answer any questions, and was sentenced to life imprisonment. The case had made newspaper headlines for a few weeks, if only because of the sordid backstory that was unveiled by the prosecution as much as the accused’s spectacular beauty and sadness.
Disowned by her prudish family and alone in a foreign country, Edwina had not stood a chance.
She died in prison a decade or so later. Back in Germany, her relatives, embarrassed by the whole farrago, drew a lid over the episode and Edwina’s belongings went into storage, with no attention to the Bailly violin. It was only when the building in which her affairs were kept was threatened by demolition a few decades after her death – the area it was sited in was pinpointed for regeneration – that distant relatives arranged for a lawyer to dispose of everything as he felt best.
‘That was how I came into possession of the violin,’ LaValle said. ‘It was listed in the estate disposal catalogue as a Bailly, with no indication of its particulars, as the lawyer involved had no idea of either its history or its value.’
‘And when you first saw it, did you realise it was the Angelique?’ Dominik asked.
‘Not initially. I’d acquired a lot of other instruments as part of the transaction and I knew I already had buyers for most of them, so I didn’t give the Bailly too much thought initially. But when I did, I realised it was the instrument so many had talked about in the trade because of its uncommon history. Now I don’t believe in curses and all that, but I was thinking that I might actually keep it for myself, and not put it on sale, but before I had a chance to do so, that fool of an assistant who thought he was being clever, sold it. To you.’
‘The Angelique.’
‘Yes.’ LaValle grinned. ‘So, might I ask if the instrument has brought Miss Zahova any bad luck?’
Dominik considered his words carefully.
‘Well, she’s become quite famous since. Maybe others have been affected, though …’
LaValle looked him in the eyes.
‘I hope you’re not superstitious. It’s just coincidences, you know. Although all these silly stories certainly give the instrument an interesting reputation. And beautiful objects do attract thieves, these days. If she were willing to sell, I’m sure it would manage at least five or six times what you paid for it.’
‘I don’t believe it’s a question of money, Mr LaValle,’ Dominik said, standing. ‘But it’s been a most interesting story. Thank you for your time.’
‘I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity,’ the dealer said.
‘Absolutely. You’ve given me much to
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