by Karen Swan
A secret love.
She watched as he opened the twelfth drawer and pulled out the tiny flat metal hoop – also tin, also engraved with hearts. And as she realized what it was, she suddenly understood why the secret could never have been kept. Because as Timo held out the baby bangle and met her gaze, she saw that the eyes looking back at her were her own.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A murmur rose from the congregation at the sight of Allegra, Valentina’s ghost, as she walked to join Lars in the front pew. He was sitting alone – no sign of Bettina – a wheelchair folded and propped against one of the white pillars, his blue eyes watery as he watched her advance like a bride.
‘I thought something had happened,’ he said with relief as she followed after Isobel, who hopped into the pew, and she knew that he was referring as much to her absence yesterday afternoon as to here. He could have no idea it was a minor miracle she and Isobel weren’t more than ten minutes late. What Timo had told her, upstairs in the little flat above the workshop, she could have stayed there for days, just listening to his stories.
‘Isobel can’t move very quickly, that’s all,’ Allegra replied, her eyes averted as she pretended to fuss with Isobel’s crutches.
Lars shot her a quizzical look – they had taken to greeting each other with squeezed hands and a kiss on each cheek – but the organist had started playing now that the sisters had arrived, and everyone stood, launching into the first hymn.
Being in Swiss German, neither Allegra nor Isobel could read it – the tune was unfamiliar too – and Allegra subtly looked around the congregation instead. She had been taken aback by the sheer numbers as she’d come through the door; she had expected it would be simply her, Isobel and Lars here today, but every seat had been taken, to the point that the chaplains had had to take some chairs from the nearby cafes to accommodate extras.
She could see the little group huddled together at the back: Timo, Nikolai, Leysa and Noemie. They would not join her and Isobel at the front in the family pews.
Allegra glanced over at Lars. He wasn’t singing either, staring instead at the lavish portrait he’d had removed from his own hall and placed on an easel.
Allegra looked back at it too, taking in her grandmother’s narrow face, high forehead and planed jaw, the strong eyebrows that were currently enjoying a fashion moment (and had seen Allegra herself stopped several times at parties as women asked after her regime), the dark hair swept back from her beautifully boned face with the band of flowers, and her lips which, though not fleshy, were sensuously dark as if just kissed. This was the woman who had refused to remain just a name, just a correction on a family tree whose only buds were women. She would not be forgotten or overlooked. More than sixty years dead and she still drew a crowd.
As everybody sat down again and Father Merete began speaking, she remembered how Lars had cast the finger of suspicion on Timo when she had asked him what had happened the night of Valentina’s disappearance. He had been testing her, she saw that now, seeing whether the name registered and how much she knew about her grandmother’s past. Well . . . She glanced over again, catching sight of his wet eyes and trembling lips, but she didn’t mistake it for lost love this time. She was on to him now and she knew fear when she saw it.
The chalet swarmed with life. Laughter filled the rooms; conversation soaked into the walls as people jostled and circulated and shared memories of a woman who had been dead three times as long as she had lived. The flowers and the art, the rugs and the antiques faded into mere backdrop against the stories of her beauty, the tales of her temper, and Lars sat in his chair in the drawing room with a fierce pride that she had been his. Beside him, newly positioned, was a sepia-tinted photograph taken on their wedding day, showing them both standing stiffly in the style of the day, Valentina in clotted-cream lace and Lars in a narrow black suit, tie and hat.
Isobel was sitting on the sofa to his left. She had wanted to stand, preferring to stay with Allegra greeting guests in the hallway, but her knee was throbbing too much, and after forty minutes, she had had to admit defeat, sitting on the sofa with a rigid smile as Lars paraded her in front of his friends like a show pony. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by her, the tone of disapproval that greeted Anya’s name as their likeness was compared and agreed, and Allegra hadn’t had a chance yet to tell her sister about the morning’s developments. By the time she’d got back, Isobel was already waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel, and they were too late for her to delay the memorial service even a minute further. What she had to tell her couldn’t be compressed into one sentence or even one day.
Allegra kept on passing the visitors through to Lars, but only after they’d obliged her small request. She scanned the visitors’ book that the Mont Cervin concierge had speedily bought and delivered to Lars’s chalet before the service had ended, with the result that it was already three-quarters full. All the townsfolk who’d wanted to pay their respects in church and back here had happily obliged her request of sharing anecdotes and memories of Valentina for Julia, her little girl, who’d left here when she was barely more than four years old. The pages were filled with black script, and one or two people had even slipped grainy black-and-white photographs of Valentina in the pages, she saw, which would need to be secured later. Allegra smiled a little as she saw, too, the local spelling of her mother’s name – Giulia – and remembered the ‘G’ dotted out on the leather strap of the baby cowbell. The significance of it had passed her by when she’d first seen it, but now it was obvious what the ‘G’ stood for. The cowbell was a father’s gift to his secret baby daughter.
A finger tapped her shoulder and she looked up to find the lean, bristly face of Connor Mayhew staring down at her.
‘Mr Mayhew,’ she said in surprise. ‘Goodness, thank you so much for coming.’
He nodded awkwardly. ‘It seemed right to pay my respects.’
Allegra stared up at the man who’d found her grandmother, the man who’d set this entire sequence of events into motion. She thought it seemed right he was here too.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, thank you. I . . .’ He glanced around the lavish chalet, as though looking for someone. ‘I should go now.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame. Well, I’ll tell my grandfather you were here.’
‘No—’ he said, too quickly. He gave a tight smile. ‘Please don’t.’
She paused. ‘Why not?’
‘He would not appreciate my presence here.’
‘Why not? He’d be so grateful that you’ve taken the ti—’
Connor gave a wry look that suggested he thought she was being deliberately ironic.
‘You must be aware that the history between your grandfather and the SLF is difficult.’
‘No. Why does my grandfather even have a history with the SLF?’ she asked, her eyes probing his face for answers.
‘Miss Fisher, I don’t think now is the—’
‘On the contrary, now is exactly the time, Mr Mayhew.’ She took him by the elbow and, glancing into the sitting room and seeing Lars in full flow from his fireside chair, she lowered her voice. ‘He’s not my grandfather.’ She stopped him from saying anything with a brief shake of her head. ‘I only found out today.’
‘So then all this—’ He indicated to her dutiful-granddaughter routine, meeting and greeting guests.
‘Is for appearance’s sake only.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Everyone in the town who knew her has come and I’ve been trying to speak to as many of them as possible. From what I’ve learned today, I think that he may well have played a role in my grandmother’s disappearance, so if there’s anything relevant you know that could help me shed light on what happened . . . anything at all . . .’
Connor stared back with those clear blue eyes that hid nothing and kept no lies.
‘The SLF believes – but cannot prove – that your grandfather was complicit in an agreement between local landowners to sell the local pastures to de
velopers before the zoning maps could be drawn up.’
She shook her head. ‘What’s a zoning map?’
‘It is a map that identifies low-, medium- and high-risk avalanche areas. Low-risk areas are zoned yellow, medium are blue, and high risk are red. Much of Zermatt would have been classified as a red zone, meaning no development would be permitted there. But your family’s farm and several others were sold off to developers before the classifications could be enforced.’
‘Because they would have been in the red zones – and therefore worthless?’ she asked.
‘Fischer says he was just being a businessman. The government and SLF had been talking about bringing in the maps for years, but there were many delays and legal wranglings. It was only when the winter of 1951 hit that they were rushed through, but by then it was too late: development had begun and fortunes had been made.’
‘So you’re saying even though Zermatt is developed in a red zone, Lars knowingly went ahead and put hundreds of thousands of people’s lives at risk, just to build his fortune?’
He nodded. ‘Fischer calculated the risk – he knew if the SLF could not prevent, we would have to cure. And so we have. We have invested hundreds of millions of francs in creating anti-avalanche defences: building reservoirs, planting forests, as well as hard structures. Advances in understanding and predicting avalanches have taken giant steps forward since the 1950s and Zermatt is now safe. But it is the ordinary taxpayer who has had to foot the bill for his greed.’
Lars had traded other people’s safety for his own profit? Allegra looked away, ashamed to have ever thought she was like him, ashamed to have ever shown the old man a moment’s kindness. ‘How many people know about this?’
‘Barely any. Some of the old locals here have their suspicions, of course, but we could never confirm them. It would not have been politic for this to come out. If it had become public knowledge that some of the country’s most famous ski resorts had been knowingly developed in red zones, the scandal would have been devastating. Fifty per cent of all Swiss live in avalanche terrain, and too many livelihoods are at stake to undermine the tourism industry here.’ He looked at her closely, watching as her eyes darted side to side, digesting the revelation. ‘I trust I can depend on your discretion with this information.’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Good. I don’t know if that is any help . . .’
She shrugged. ‘It gives me a more accurate sense of his character, if nothing else.’
He took a step back and held out his hand, a signal that their private conference was at an end. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Fisher,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘If ever I can be of assistance . . .’
She gave a weak smile as he walked into the lift, his eyes – she saw – moving between her and the portrait back hanging on the wall behind her, as the doors closed.
She turned to look at the painting herself. Valentina stared back: strong, independent, passionate, young. Only twenty-one and a mother. What had made a woman like that run into the mountains during a hundred-year storm? What had made her own sister flee just two years later with her child? Until she knew the answers to those questions, secrets would hang in the air like smoke over water.
The party was nearly over. Guests were taking their cue from one another and leaving in polite groups, bundling into the lifts with their coats still not on, their cheek muscles tired from the laughter of the afternoon as they regretfully departed the grand chalet for their own more modest homes.
But there was still one person who hadn’t come to say hello. Allegra gave the cue they’d agreed on and walked back through the hall. It was empty, with just a few wine glasses on the windowsills to indicate the merriment that had blown through the house. She could hear only the sound of voices in the sitting room and she stopped at the sight that greeted her. Isobel was laughing with Lars, her leg propped up, explaining something with bright eyes and excited hand movements.
Allegra felt her stomach tighten. She had left them alone too long. She should have told Isobel this morning; she should have said something before Lars had had a chance to get his hooks into her, because now . . . now the betrayal would be so much worse.
She watched Lars clap his hands in delight at Isobel’s punchline and she wondered whether he’d suspected her doubts in the church. Maybe he had seen something in her face – a face he already knew so well, of course – and known he had to switch teams.
‘Legs!’ Isobel beamed, noticing her standing by the door. ‘Come and take a seat. You must be shattered! Have you got face-ache?’
Allegra smiled as she walked across, sitting protectively next to her sister and handing her the cream leather-bound visitors’ book that was now all but full of memories. ‘For Mum’s good days.’
Isobel looked down at in her surprise, but her nose soon began to wrinkle as she flicked through the pages. ‘Uh, sis – it’s all in German. And I hate to say this, but I don’t reckon Barry’s German is going to be all that, do you?’ she chuckled.
‘It’s OK. Timo’s going to translate it for us.’
‘Who’s Timo?’ Isobel asked, without looking up. She had found one of the photographs and was squinting at it.
‘Our grandfather.’
Isobel’s head snapped up and all Allegra could do was let her see the truth in her eyes. If she could have told Isobel another way, she would have done, but this needed to be done overtly and swiftly. Lars couldn’t be given anywhere to hide.
The sound of the walking cane on the floor told her Timo was coming through, Nikolai by his elbow, and she watched as Lars’s face set hard and fast.
‘Legs? What’s going on?’ Isobel asked in a nervous voice as the two men came in, Nikolai helping his father into the armchair opposite Lars and going to stand behind him. The two old men stared at each other coldly, their bodies too old for fighting, but there was war in their eyes.
After a moment, Timo turned, his gaze falling to Isobel, and a look of unbidden affection softened his face at the sight of her.
Isobel looked at her sister. ‘Legs, tell me what’s going on. Now. I mean it.’
‘Lars was Valentina’s husband, but he wasn’t Mum’s dad.’
‘Are you saying Valentina had an affair?’ Isobel’s face took on an incredulous expression and Allegra knew her sister was thinking, Did people do stuff like that back then?
Isobel turned back to Lars sympathetically. ‘Did you know?’
‘No.’ Lars’s response was lightning-quick, but his eyes were on Timo, his lips curled in a sneer. ‘I knew he was in love with her, just like everyone else. There was nothing more to it. He wanted what he couldn’t have.’
‘So did you, old man,’ Timo replied calmly.
‘I married her.’
‘I’m not talking about Valentina.’
Another silence fell as they waited – waited for Timo to elaborate his accusation, for Lars to defend, but they were like boxers in the ring, circling each other, gloves up, each waiting for the other to throw the first punch.
‘It has been a great party here today. You must be in no doubt now about his great love for his first wife.’ Timo was looking at Isobel again.
She shook her head uncertainly.
‘No. How could you? His love for her is famed. You can imagine how hard it must have been for Anya to follow in her footsteps. And as for poor Bettina, well, is it any wonder she carries a face like a storm?’ he shrugged.
‘What are you doing here in my house?’ Lars said in an ominously low voice. ‘I want you out of here.’
Timo’s expression changed, looking almost pleased, as he addressed Lars directly now. ‘I know you do, just like you wanted Valentina out of the house that night. You knew what you were doing when you told her I was waiting for her at the hut. You knew you were sending her out to her death.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘No. It is the truth. You know it and I know it, but what does it really m
atter when we both know I cannot prove it?’ he shrugged. ‘Proof has always been our problem, Fischer, has it not? For when Valentina died, I had no proof that Giulia was mine. In the eyes of the law, you were her father. But we could all see in her eyes that I was; every time you looked at her, you saw the truth. You knew it, but you could not prove it either. A checkmate.’
Lars didn’t respond, but his hands were clawed into the armrests, his complexion turning steadily redder.
‘Just tell me what you told her,’ Timo said, leaning forwards in his chair. ‘Even if I had proof, there’s a statute of limitations, is there not, on how long a manslaughter charge can be pressed?’
‘You are a fool,’ Lars hissed.
‘I am a fool who has had sixty years to think about this, and my guess is that you told her she’d be waiting for me there. What is . . . ?’ He said something in German to Nikolai, who thought for a moment.
‘A double bluff?’
‘Yes. Double bluff.’ Timo looked back at Lars. ‘It’s the only possible reason she would have gone up there.’
‘Why would I have done that? I loved her.’
‘But she didn’t love you. She despised you. You tricked her into marrying you with promises of seeing the world beyond these mountains, of living like a lady, but she quickly found out you had overstated your wealth. And when you started your campaign to get her to sell, she realized exactly why you had married her.’ A shadow passed over Timo’s face. ‘But I think perhaps she couldn’t hide the sickness from you. Three days trapped in the house with you during the storms and even you guessed her condition? And that was when you realized you were out of time. One child that looked like me . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe you could pass it off. But two? Everyone would know. You knew she was going to leave you – and take the farm with her.’
‘You lie!’ Lars roared, so loudly that Isobel jumped, his eyes bulging like a gargoyle’s as spittle collected on his chin.
