The Eden Inheritance

by Janet Tanner

  Not, of course, that flying the mail from Aberdeen to Bristol five nights a week exactly consituted a dream job. To begin with it had not been so bad; the Navajo was an aeroplane Guy had been itching to get his hands on and there had been other routes to vary the monotony – to Oslo and Antwerp, St Malo and Amsterdam. But things had changed; the company he worked for on a freelance basis had arranged their schedules so that he now found himself regularly on the Aberdeen-Bristol route and he was beginning to tire of it.

  What the hell is the matter with me? he sometimes wondered when the familiar restlessness prickled beneath his skin. Why do I always have to be looking for something different, some new avenue to explore or mountain to climb? Why can’t I, for once, be satisfied and stay satisfied? But he couldn’t. He was thirty-one years old and he still felt as eager to go out and conquer the world as he had been at nineteen, with not the slightest desire to put down roots anywhere.

  Perhaps, he thought, it was because he knew he had the de Savigny inheritance hanging over him. When his grandfather died he would be the next Baron de Savigny. It was an awesome prospect and not one he relished, but it was a destiny from which it was impossible to escape.

  Then again perhaps it was because he was the product of two cultures, two countries, with both French and English blood running in his veins. Guy had been brought up in England but he had always spent a good portion of each summer at the Château de Savigny with his grandparents. Kathryn, his mother, had insisted on it. But the division of his time between England and France had unsettled him. Far from feeling as much at home in Charente as in England, as Kathryn had intended, he had actually felt at home in neither. In both countries he was something of a foreigner, he thought wryly, his English upbringing marking him out as different in Charente in spite of the respect accorded him as the future Baron, his heritage a constant pinprick of discomfort when he was amongst his English friends. As a child at public school in England he had been ragged mercilessly once his peers had ferreted out the reason for his foreign name – until he had learned to stand up for himself. Guy had learned early to use his fists; it had landed him in all kinds of trouble but the word had soon got around amongst the other boys that to jeer at Guy de Savigny was to get a bloody nose, and they had come to respect him for it. But there was still the odd remark, the odd occasion when Guy was only too well aware of his divided loyalties, and that strange sense of lack of belonging had followed him into adulthood.

  Being half French had its advantages too, of course. The fluently bilingual Guy had found French lessons so totally unnecessary that he had been able to spend them reading his favourite space-travel novels under the desk. In adult life as a pilot he had few communication problems when he flew abroad – by using one or the other language he could usually make himself understood.

  Then again his mixed blood and his French name seemed to make him attractive to women – at least, that was what Guy put his success with them down to. He was always faintly surprised by the attention they paid to him, underestimating the effect his dark good looks and slim but powerful frame could have on the most sophisticated and experienced of them. He was too used to the startlingly blue eyes that stared back at him from the shaving mirror each morning, and the aquiline nose and firm jaw did not, in his opinion, constitute conventional male beauty. He had no idea of how well the white shirt and black uniform jacket with the captain’s insignia suited him, and the easy-going confidence of his manner was totally unconscious.

  But Guy seldom took advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves to him in this direction. He liked the company of women well enough and was a good and generous lover. What he did not like was the way they invariably tried to tie him down. To Guy, freedom was the most important consideration. Perhaps, he thought – when he did think about it, which was seldom – perhaps it was knowing that the baronage, with all its inherent responsibilities and restrictions, was lying in wait for him that made him so averse to any other ties. But for whatever reason, whenever a woman began to show signs of possessiveness his instinctive reaction was to back away – fast.

  Tonight, however, the problems that involvement with a woman could cause were the last thing on his mind. The only consideration looming large was getting back to his bachelor flat on the other side of town, pouring himself a large whisky, running a bath and then falling into bed – alone.

  He parked the Navajo, watched the post office workers unload and then locked up the plane and went into the airport building.

  At this time of night, two-thirty a. m., in the middle of winter, the concourse was as deserted as the runway had been, the airline pigeonholes shuttered like sleeping eyes, the small shop and bureau de change locked up for the night. Guy’s footsteps echoed hollowly on the tiled floor. A security guard was standing in the doorway smoking and looking out at the stars. Guy said good night to him and walked across to the staff car park where a few vehicles glimmered with a light dusting of frost.

  As he neared the car park Guy heard the hollow rasp and dying whine of an engine that someone was trying, unsuccessfully, to start up. Some poor sod has got trouble, he thought – it didn’t sound good.

  His path took him close to the car in question and as he approached, the driver gave up the struggle and got out, closing the door with a slam.

  ‘Having problems?’ Guy called.

  ‘Yes – damned thing won’t start. Hey – Guy – is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guy said, faintly surprised. ‘Who’s that?’ The car park was badly lit and his tired eyes had not yet fully accustomed themselves to the dark.

  ‘Bill Walker, you dozy bugger!’

  ‘Bill!’

  They had trained together in their early flying days, racing one another for their private pilot’s licences, then both instructing with the same club as they strove to accumulate the hours they needed to progress to the next stage and the next. Their paths had diverged when they began professional commercial flying but occasionally they would bump into one another on an airport concourse, in the briefing room, or in a bar.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Guy asked. ‘The last I heard you were in exotic climes – the Caribbean, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The Windward Islands, yes.’

  ‘Beats England in the middle of January, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Yep. Especially a bloody car park at two in the morning when the car won’t start. You haven’t got jump leads by any chance, have you?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I used to have but I think I must have left my boot unlocked and somebody helped themselves. I’ve never replaced them.’

  ‘Well, with motors like you drive, I don’t suppose you have much need of them. We can’t all afford E-types, though.’

  Guy ignored the gibe.

  ‘So what’s the problem? Flat battery?’

  ‘I think so. I left the car here while I went for a session with some of the boys and I must have left my lights on. They dropped me off out on the road so they’d gone before I realised I had problems. I don’t think I’ll get her going tonight. You couldn’t give me a lift, I suppose?’

  ‘I was just going to offer. Where are you headed?’

  ‘I was intending to drive up to Gloucester – I’ve got a cottage there. But don’t worry, I’m not asking you to take me home, just into town so I can get myself a room for what’s left of the night You go through town, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes – well, the outskirts, anyway. But there’s no need for you to go booking into hotels. Why don’t you come home with me?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Bill managed to sound surprised and in the dark Guy smiled to himself – he was fairly sure a bed for the night was exactly what Bill had been angling for. He didn’t mind, though. It was good to see the old son of a bitch. He’d always liked Bill.

  ‘Come on. Lock up that heap of junk, as you call it. Let’s get going. I’ve had a long flight and I’m tired if you’re not.’

  ‘You’re a pal,’ Bill replied with
alacrity.

  ‘So – you haven’t told me what you’re doing back in this country,’ Guy said, pouring whisky into two tumblers and handing one to Bill.

  ‘I’m getting married. In a fortnight’s time, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Are you? Well, congratulations, I suppose. Diane, is it?’

  ‘Yep. I reckon it’s time I made an honest woman of her.’

  ‘But why come home?’ Guy threw himself down on the low sofa and levered his feet up on to the coffee table. ‘Why not take Diane out to the Caribbean with you?’

  ‘She won’t come. Her mother hasn’t been too well and she doesn’t want her only daughter on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Mother-in-law trouble already! Watch it, Bill!’

  ‘It’s not only that.’ Bill took a drink of his whisky, his good-natured face, tanned from the Caribbean sunshine, serious for once. ‘The Caribbean is a lovely spot, I grant you, but the pay’s not that fantastic. I was hard put to it to keep myself in the manner to which I like to be accustomed. Supporting a wife as well would stretch things to the limits.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes, but there you are. All good things come to an end, as you’ll find out one day.’

  ‘Not too soon, I hope.’

  ‘How is the lovely Wendy?’

  Guy grimaced slightly at the mention of his girlfriend in the context of marriage. He was fond of Wendy, she was attractive, she was intelligent, and he enjoyed her company. But of late she had been dropping a few too many hints that she would like to put their relationship on a more permanent basis, and her thinly veiled desire to get a ring on her finger was frankly scaring the hell out of him. At his age he should be ready to settle down, he sometimes thought, but it did not make the proposition any more attractive. He didn’t want to settle down. At least, not with Wendy. The very thought made a hand grip his insides like a steel vice.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said noncommittally. ‘ She works pretty hard – being the secretary to the managing director of an up-and-coming company like Arden Electrical makes her a fairly high-powered lady.’

  ‘I thought secretary was just a word for glorified typist.’

  ‘Not as far as Arden is concerned. And Wendy is very ambitious.’

  ‘You hope. Just so long as she doesn’t turn her ambition to hooking you. You’re a confirmed bachelor, aren’t you, Guy?’

  ‘You could say that. I like my freedom, certainly.’

  ‘And what are you doing now – workwise, that is?’

  ‘Flying the mail five nights a week. And getting a bit fed up with it.’

  ‘So why don’t you go after the job I’m jacking in – especially if you want to escape from Wendy’s clutches? It would suit you down to the ground. All the sunshine you could wish for, and the money wouldn’t bother you, would it?’ Bill was glancing enviously around the flat, noticing that whilst it was rather untidy and certainly not the height of luxury, Guy certainly managed to live in a style way above that which most freelance commercial pilots could afford. The where withal for that did not come entirely from flying the mail, he knew.

  ‘I was thinking about going to the States, I have to admit. Or maybe Australia.’

  ‘The Caribbean is better. St Lucia, St Vincent, Mustique, Union Island … need I go on? I was based on an island called Madrepora. The work is mainly island-hopping, a sort of glorified taxi service from one tiny little airstrip to another, and all surrounded by sea so blue you wouldn’t believe it. Sometimes you get to fly celebrities, too. They like their holiday homes in the sun, do the beautiful people.’

  Guy drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refuel it.

  ‘I’m not interested in celebrities, Bill. They bore me. And right now, if you don’t mind, I think I’m ready for bed.’

  Bill, however, full of the bonhomie that came not only from Guy’s whisky but from all the others he had drunk earlier in the evening, was not ready to take the hint.

  ‘There are some amazing characters out there, you know. Nobs and snobs and pop stars, all with their own little hideaways. And they’re not the only ones taking advantage of the seclusion, either. I reckon there’s a few international criminals living in luxury on their ill-gotten gains, and some still operating. It’s a haven for them.’

  ‘Sure, but … another time, eh, Bill?’ Guy stood up. His back was aching and a dull throb of tiredness had started in his temples. He hoped he was not going to have a migraine.

  ‘There was one I thought was particularly odd,’ Bill continued, unabashed. ‘A German geezer who owns Madrepora, I think. There’s nothing much there except his mansion and a hotel. I used to have to fly the guests in sometimes. They were all Germans too, and highly suspicious, if you ask me. Of a certain age, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Guy was beginning to be irritated by Bill’s persistent garrulousness and regretting his own impulse to offer him a bed for the night. ‘What are you getting at?’

  Bill stretched comfortably.

  ‘War criminals, my son. At least, that’s what I think. A lot of them escaped to South America, didn’t they, and I reckon that’s where these hotel guests come from. Even war criminals living in exile need a holiday sometimes and where better than a hotel on a remote island owned by one of their own? If some of them didn’t have a previous existence as high-ranking Nazis then I’m a Dutchman. They all have new identities now, of course, but they still like to keep a low profile. The last thing they want is to be recognised and brought back to face trial. The bastards.’

  ‘Well, if the job includes playing chauffeur to a load of Nazis I certainly don’t want it,’ Guy said shortly. ‘I’m half French, remember? A lot of my countrymen – not to mention my own family – suffered too much at their hands for me ever to be able to forgive them.’

  ‘Christ, yes. I had forgotten. Didn’t they kill your father?’

  ‘They did. My father and my uncle were both shot for resisting. And not content with that, the bastards turned my grandparents out of their home, lived there themselves, and then looted the place when they saw the war was going against them. God knows what happened to the treasures – things that had been in the family for generations just disappeared. They got them out of the country, I suppose.’

  ‘To places like South America and the Caribbean.’ Bill shifted himself to an even more comfortable position. ‘I went to this German geezer’s place once – he invited me for drinks. Just drinks, mind you. I thought I’d be getting dinner as well and didn’t bother to eat, but no, at seven-thirty sharp I was thrown out – still hungry. That’s the form over there, I’ve since learned. But at least I got a good insight into how the other half live. I’ve never forgotten that villa. Beautiful place – and stacked to the eaves with treasures I wouldn’t mind betting were looted from France. Silverware, porcelain, a bronze, a triptych …’

  ‘A triptych?’ Guy repeated, his tiredness forgotten. ‘What kind of triptych?’

  ‘Is there more than one kind? Very old, glowing colours, religious pictures highlighted with gold leaf … you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Guy said. ‘I know.’ He was experiencing a strange prickling sensation, as if an electric force field had come into action on his skin. ‘It couldn’t have been scenes from the life of the Maid of Orleans, could it?’

  ‘Could have been, I suppose. I didn’t study it that closely. But now you come to mention it, I think I do remember a bonfire.’

  Guy ignored the irreligious reference to St Joan’s burning at the stake.

  ‘What did you say this German’s name was?’

  ‘Brandt. Otto Brandt. But I don’t suppose that’s his real name.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, white hair, scar on his left cheek, a limp. Why?’

  ‘You don’t happen to have a photograph, I suppose?’

  ‘God no! I only met him two or three times – him and his wife. I did hear he had a daughter – ve
ry beddable by all accounts – but I never got to meet her at all, more’s the pity. She’s in the States, I understand, but I thought it was a bit peculiar she never came home for holidays. And there were rumours that there was something funny going on on the island.’

  ‘Funny? What do you mean – funny?’

  ‘Couldn’t really say. Just the suggestion that there was more going on there than met the eye – something not quite as above board as they’d have you believe.’

  ‘The German visitors, you mean?’

  ‘No, no, nothing to do with them. Something else entirely …’

  ‘Well it’s the Germans I’m interested in,’ Guy said. ‘And your Herr Otto Brandt, with his triptych, in particular.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  Guy drank savagely at his whisky.

  ‘I am probably going quite mad. But for one moment there I wondered if you might actually have stumbled on the Nazi who was responsible for my father’s death.’

  Bill whistled softly.