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pair of Sennheisers, the lead from which was plugged into the audio output
of the PC. Interesting, he thought, Martin must have been listening to digital
audio files when he died. Peter hadn’t touched the PC yet. Knowing Martin to be
a bit of a technophobe, he assumed it had served as little more than a
glorified typewriter, but the headphones were a surprise. He would check this
out after lunch. Placing the foam pads over his ears, he jacked the cable into
the midi system. On starting the tape, the pure, crystal clear voice of a
choirboy filled his head. It was Allegri’s Miserere, a piece once the exclusive
domain of the Vatican, and for a while, considered so special, no copy was
allowed to leave the Sistine chapel. The extract on the tape was the point at
which the solo treble rises to a top “E”, falls away, and then resolves the
chord with a drawn-out turn. Peter leant back, shutting his eyes. He could feel
goose bumps rising along his neck and spine. It was one of those magical
moments discussed with Martin during their debate about music. The sound
stopped abruptly, there was a slight pause, and then it jumped to Samuel
Barber. He couldn’t remember the name of the piece, only that it had been theme
to the film, “The Elephant Man” centred on the sadly deformed real-life
character of John Merrick. Again it was a passage which seemed to arouse
something deep inside. After about twenty seconds, this also stopped, only to
be followed by another equally evocative sample of some violin solo unknown to
Peter.
    For nearly forty minutes, the tape continued with
snippets of music from a wide and varied repertoire of classical works, some
familiar, others not, but all possessing that same goose-bump quality which
Martin had claimed was the key to the soul. He had argued that moments of such
extreme beauty, which, he added, were not limited to music, but extended to art
as well as the natural world, provide a brief window through which we glimpse
heaven itself. Peter had been characteristically dismissive of the idea, and
assumed Martin had eventually dropped it, but perhaps not. The tape finally
came to an end and Peter removed the headphones. The sound of voices could be
heard down the hall and Peter’s stomach was starting to rumble.
    In the kitchen, Isabelle was seated at the table
with a young man dressed in black shirt and dog-collar. “Peter, you remember
Roger, our curate? Roger, this is Peter, Martin’s brother.”
“Ah yes, the physicist,” said the curate with a grin, “we never got to finish
our chat. I hear you’re tackling the den.”
“Just clearing up mainly,” replied Peter. He turned to Isabelle, “There are a
few bits of correspondence we need to catch up on later.”
“You mean bills to pay,” said Isabelle, frowning. “Martin used to handle the
paperwork, but I was afraid he might have let things slip over the last few
months.”
Peter didn’t want to discuss this in front of Roger, but Isabelle looked
anxious.
“It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll write the letters and fill in all the
cheques for you to sign - it’s nothing really - just a few small bills and the
usual subscriptions for renewal.”
Isabelle placed a hand on Peter’s forearm as tears welled in her eyes. “Peter,
you’re such a strength. Thank you so much.”
Peter touched her cheek with the back of his hand, then gently rubbed her
shoulder. He wanted to wrap her in his arms - to hug her tightly, but stopped
himself. Roger, who suddenly seemed a little embarrassed at his own presence,
had developed an interest in a row of copper-bottomed pans hanging on the far
wall. Isabelle regained her composure and stepped over to the Aga.
“Well, I’d better be going,” said Roger. “You must both be very busy.”
“No, please. Why don’t you stay for lunch?” offered Isabelle. “It’s just
chicken soup and fresh bread, but there’s plenty here, and you’d be very
welcome.”
Roger turned towards Peter, obviously