Chapter Eight

Clive Welter-Manes sat perfectly composed at a grand piano, facing away from Devin, a candelabra with four burning candles on a mantel above him, playing the most high-pitched and chilling series of notes Devin had ever heard.  They sounded every bit as perverse and extreme as the noises that had been echoing all through the house and he immediately realized that every one of the sounds had been created by the utterly engrossed Clive. 

The chamber was a small music room, with carved oaken shelves covering most of the walls.  The shelves were filled with scores and music books interspersed with plaster busts of composers.  A large portrait of a formally dressed violinist dominated one wall – he stood in a confident pose, with heavily browed, dark eyes glaring d...

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