Read Connected for Free Online

the desk, two sash windows looked out across
the front garden towards the gate. When Martin and Isabelle had first moved in,
the grounds had been little more than uneven lawns bordered by shrubs and
annuals. In the ensuing years, these had been transformed into a symphony of
constantly changing colour, texture and scent. The front was Peter’s favourite.
Now awash with the first colours of spring, it had a natural, almost wild feel
to it, belying the years of soil preparation, planting and cultivation he knew
to have gone before. It had been Isabelle’s idea to create a cottage garden
here, and she who had chosen most of the plants. Martin, with his natural sense
of aesthetics had concentrated on the overall design, his pride and joy being
the hardwood pergola, which, planted with several varieties of clematis and
climbing rose, extended the length of the driveway and in the summer created a
shaded, meandering, tunnel of perfume and colour. Peter thought of his own
study in Bracknell. The seven-by-ten box room on the first floor, overlooking
the neighbours’ compost bins had always seemed adequate before, but compared to
this, it was nothing short of a hovel. Martin had had it all: the successful
career, fame - at least within the world of chamber music, the beautiful house
in the country, and the stunningly attractive wife. It was a life straight from
the pages of a Sunday colour supplement, yet in spite of it all, he had sat at
this very desk and chosen death.
    Determined to make more progress before lunch,
Peter took the pile of papers and started sorting them into ‘rubbish’, ‘to file’,
and ‘action’. This worked fairly well, although choosing between ‘to file’ and ‘rubbish’
proved harder than anticipated, prompting the creation of a ‘Probably Rubbish’
group, to which he assigned an old cardboard box in the corner by the door. In
the ‘action’ pile were numerous bills, some of which, reminders of reminders,
threatened legal action, or discontinuation of service. It was clear his
brother had not attended to any paper work for several months. With Martin’s
former income and Isabelle’s family money, Peter doubted there would be any
problem paying, and a glance at the latest bank statement confirmed this. He
would later ask Isabelle for her chequebook, and write out all the cheques
ready for her to sign. He would then draft a standard letter informing of
Martin’s death and requesting all further correspondence be addressed directly
to her.
    He leant back against the leather and looked
around. He had hoped to find more of a pattern to his brother’s obsession, but
the remaining papers seemed to be pulled from the Internet almost at random.
They appeared to cover every subject from religion and philosophy, to
mathematics and astronomy. The sheer breadth was quite astounding, and judging
by the date stamps, most had been printed within the last few months. “What on
earth were you up to, little brother?” he muttered under his breath.
    Tucked into the bookshelves on the wall to the
right was a midi HI-FI system. Around this were hundreds of CDs and tapes, all
stacked neatly and sorted alphabetically by composer. Peter was surprised by
the orderliness, which seemed in stark contrast to the rest of the room.
Perhaps a little music would help him think more clearly. He started searching
for something familiar, then noticed a self-recorded cassette lying in the open
tape deck. Could this have been the music to which Martin had popped a bottle
of tranquillisers and drained half a bottle of whiskey? He powered on the
system and hit play. The tape turned silently in the machine. Peter looked
around for the speakers, but there were none. Of course! Martin had always
preferred listening through headphones, claiming the acoustics to be truer to
the original performance. Scanning the room, he caught a glimpse of yellow foam
between the desk and computer base unit, sat on the floor beneath. It was an
old