The Silver Castle

by Nancy Buckingham

  I walked back long the corridor and down the one flight of stairs to my bedroom, and there I propped the unframed canvas on the bow-fronted chest of drawers. It would give me pain as well as pleasure to look at it, I knew, but I needed this constant reminder of Willi’s cruel death to urge me on to do what I had to do.

  * * * *

  I woke that night to darkness and silence. I seemed these days to sleep barely below the level of consciousness, ready to surface instantly to full alertness. As though, if I slept too deeply, I might miss something vital, something that would lead me closer to the truth I wanted to uncover.

  Why had I roused tonight? I tried to recapture the sound I’d heard but it was elusive, like a dream. Heavy footsteps on the corridor above my head. But who could be moving about up there at this hour? Nobody slept in the attics.

  I lay utterly still, breathing shallowly, my ears strained to catch the tiniest flaw in the deep nocturnal hush. What was I listening for? A bird trapped in a chimney, perhaps, a mouse scuttling behind wainscoting? No, it had been heavier than that. Definitely footsteps.

  Outside, a breath of wind fretted at a window shutter somewhere, and rustled leaves. But from inside the house there was only silence, not even the creaking of ancient woodwork. A thought flickered ... the calm before the storm.

  Then, in some distant part of the building I heard, faintly, a long screeching sound like some night bird. Minutes went by. A plane droned high overhead, and far away a train chattered over points. Normal sounds. My tension eased, and I drifted back towards sleep....

  This time the noise was loud and close at hand, a thundering of fists on my door.

  “Gail!” It was Anton’s voice. “Wake up quickly. Open the door.”

  Each night, now, I turned the key when I went to bed. Against what, against whom, wasn’t clear in my mind. While I hesitated, he rattled the handle urgently. I heard, too, the sound of other footsteps.

  I slipped out of bed and ran to the door. Anton stood there dressed in a sweater and slacks that he’d obviously pulled on hastily.

  “You’ve got to get downstairs, Gail, one of the turrets is on fire.”

  By now I could smell acrid smoke, even hear the crackle of burning wood.

  “How could it have started?” I asked him dazedly.

  “God knows ... the damned electric wiring, I expect. Thank heaven Karl noticed the flames from their bedroom downstairs and gave the alarm. Luckily, the turret is all stone so there’s only the floor to burn, and the stuff that’s stored up there.”

  Along the corridor I could see Sigrid being pushed in her wheelchair by Raimund.

  “Come, Gail, hurry,” she called.

  “Just a moment.” I dived back into my room, dragged on my seersucker robe over my pyjamas, and thrust my feet into sandals before hurrying to join Sigrid by the lift. She was wearing a quilted dressing gown fastened high up to the neck, and her face looked deathly pale against the crimson silk.

  Helping Raimund manoeuvre her chair into the lift, Anton said, “Look after Sigrid for us, Gail. The firemen will be here soon, but Raimund and I will go up to the turret and see if anything can be salvaged.”

  Sigrid caught his arm urgently. “Don’t take any risks, Anton. Nothing is worth that... nichts?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a wry shrug. “From the sound of it, I doubt if we’ll get nearer than the foot of the stairs.”

  The brothers hurried away, and I closed the lift door. As we descended, Sigrid moaned, “Oh, Gail, my dear ... this is dreadful. Quite dreadful.”

  “You mustn’t get too upset,” I soothed her. “Anton said the damage shouldn’t be too bad. I expect you’ll soon be able to have it put right.”

  When we were safely down in the hall she asked me to push her to the kitchen quarters. That part of the house was safely away from the turret that was on fire, but looking through a window we had a clear view of what was happening. Ursula soon joined us, and we watched in dismay. The windows of the turret had shattered with the heat, and smoke and flames poured out into the night. A flickering ochre light illumined the nearby trees, turning their branches into writhing tentacles.

  I heard Sigrid say to Ursula in a voice weighed down with grief, “There goes the meaning of my life. Nothing is left for me.”

  Such wild exaggeration, I thought, was due to her being dragged from her bed in the middle of the night. Sigrid always took pills to help her sleep, and probably they had reduced her spirits to this low ebb. I felt pretty low myself, but I injected a note of determined cheerfulness into my voice.

  “Honestly, Frau Kreuder, I don’t think it’s going to be too bad. Listen, isn’t that a siren? The firemen will soon have things under control.”

  Within minutes the grounds were full of uniformed men, dragging hoses and running up their high ladders As we watched, they began to direct powerful jets of lake water onto the flames. It was all handled with great efficiency, and in a very short time the fire had died until only the men’s spotlights and flash lamps pierced the darkness.

  Karl entered the kitchen by an outside door, bringing with him the sour-smoke smell of a doused fire. He told Ursula that Anton had sent him to arrange refreshments for the firemen. He gave a little formal bow to Sigrid, and muttered something about it being a sad business. At me he directed a glance full of doubt and suspicion, remembering, I suppose, that he’d seen me coming down the turret stairs yesterday afternoon. But nothing I’d done could have accidentally started a fire smouldering, and he could hardly have imagined that I’d set it off deliberately.

  Ursula had filled the percolator at the sink and was plugging it in. To give myself something to do I began to set out mugs for her.

  “Frau Kreuder is taking this very badly,” I whispered.

  Ursula’s hand jerked as she spooned coffee, so that the brown grains spilled over the gleaming white worktop.

  “Poor lady. It is so dreadful.”

  “But surely, it doesn’t look as if the structure of the turret has been seriously damaged.”

  “Ah, if that were all. It is what the turret contained.”

  “Those mementoes of Anton’s and Raimund’s childhood, you mean? I know it’s a shame to have such things destroyed, but it’s hardly the end of the world.”

  She took milk from the refrigerator and poured some into a large saucepan to heat, and I noticed that her hand still shook. “Frau Kreuder had such hopes, such dreams.”

  “What hopes and dreams?” I asked, mystified.

  She didn’t answer my question, but took some little honey cakes from a tin and opened packets of sweet biscuits, arranging them on a plate.

  She said at length, “You will return to England now? You have found the truth about your father, and that is why you came.” There was an oddness about the way she spoke, a note of pleading. “You have so many of his paintings, too. They are good paintings, no?”

  “Well yes ... they are.”

  “So you will now go home?” she persisted.

  “Perhaps, in a few days’ time. I shall have to see.”

  At that moment Anton joined us. His lean face was grimed with smoke, his slacks and sweater were dirty and wet. He looked across at me, but before I could interpret the curious expression in his grey eyes he turned quickly away to his stepmother, who was demanding of him in a tense, high-pitched voice, “Is there anything left?”

  “Nothing ... not a trace.”

  She slumped in her wheelchair, looking defeated, those expressive hands lying limply in her lap.

  “This is the end, then.”

  “The end? I hope so. I hope to God it is the end.”

  “Oh, Anton, what are we going to do?”

  “There’s only one thing we can do. But this isn’t the time or the place to talk about it. Leave it for now, Sigrid.” He looked at me again and his eyes were guarded now, shuttered. “Apart from the turret itself there’s no damage except for some water on the stairs, which the firemen are mopping u
p. It’s okay for you to go back to your room now, Gail, unless you want to stay for some coffee.”

  I went across to Sigrid, bending over her chair. Is there anything I can do for you, Frau Kreuder?”

  She seemed to draw away—almost as if in fear of me.

  “I just want to return to bed now, but Ursula will attend to my needs.” Then she added in an apologetic tone, “Thank you all the same, Gail dear.”

  When they had departed, the firemen began trooping into the kitchen, and Karl and I handed round the refreshments. When everyone had been served, I quietly slipped away.

  In the hall, I met Raimund coming downstairs. He looked as grimed and bedraggled as Anton had.

  “My God, what the devil of a mess.”

  “Have you seen your mother?” I asked him. “She seems to be terribly shocked and upset.”

  “Yes, I met her just now on her way back to bed. Poor Mama. Never mind, though, you mustn’t let it get you down.”

  “Of course I won’t. But then, it’s different for me, this isn’t my home.”

  “I wish it was.”

  My thoughts were elsewhere so that I didn’t catch on at once. “Why do you say that?”

  “Can’t you guess?” He took a step down, a step nearer, and held my gaze. “Gail, you’ve come to mean a great deal to me, surely you realise that? There’s no reason why you should think of going back to England for a long time ... if ever. Stay on here, and let’s get to know each other better.”

  If Anton had spoken these words I’d have been filled with panic ... panic at my own fierce longings, at my pitifully weak defences. And because Raimund—his brother—was so much like Anton to look at, I was swept through with a sense of outrage.

  “I suppose your mother put you up to this,” I exploded bitterly. “Do you always do whatever Mama tells you?”

  “Gail, that’s unkind.”

  “But is it true?”

  “My mother has grown very fond of you. She’s made no secret of the fact that she would dearly like you and me to ...”

  “Indeed she hasn’t. We had a cosy chat this afternoon on that very subject. But I thought I made my answer crystal clear to her.”

  “I did not realise you had talked about it,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Gail, but please forget all that. I’m asking you myself now, and it has nothing to do with her.”

  “Oh, Raimund, don’t pretend. Your mother has this odd idea in her head that it would be nice for Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter to be matched with her son, and she’s putting pressure on us both. But it won’t work, not with me. And you should be ashamed of letting her manipulate you.”

  Raimund flushed, and he spoke unsteadily. “Look, I think we’re both a bit on edge tonight. Let’s leave it for now, shall we? Tomorrow you’ll see things in a different light”

  “No, I won’t. I never will.”

  “Never is a hard word to say to a man, Gail.”

  I was behaving cruelly, I knew. But I couldn’t help it. Having to fight this two-pronged attack in addition to all my other problems had pushed me almost to the point of desperation.

  “Let’s get this straight, Raimund. The answer is no. And if you persist, then I’ll have no alternative but to leave here at once.”

  He grasped my hand with sudden urgency, cupping it in both of his.

  “Please ... forget all this. Give me another chance. Let us begin again and take things slowly. Let’s see how things develop. I swear I won’t press you, Gail.”

  A door opened suddenly and Anton came into the hall. For a moment he didn’t notice us, then I caught his look of stunned disapproval as he did. Turning swiftly, he strode out again without speaking a word.

  Too late, I dragged my hand from Raimund’s.

  Chapter Sixteen

  During the night the smell of smoke had permeated everything. After breakfast, I decided to go upstairs and look at the burnt-out turret, and I took the lift to the attic floor.

  The curving stairway was no longer in darkness. Daylight filtered down sparsely, and when I made my way up—taking care not to slip on the wet and sooty stone steps—I was confronted by a gaping hole where the floor of the turret room should have been. All the other woodwork, doors, window frames, everything combustible, had also vanished, leaving only charred remains.

  And with it had gone, if I was to believe what I’d heard last night, the meaning of Sigrid’s life, all her cherished hopes and dreams. Was it possible that losing a random collection of childhood treasures could have such a devastating effect on her?

  I heard footsteps down below and Anton’s voice called up, “Gail, are you there?”

  I kept silent, hoping that he’d give up and go away. But the footsteps came on up the stone steps.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he told me. “This was my last hope. What are you doing up here?”

  Fear churned in my stomach. Behind me was only a yawning black gap, and if Anton were to give me the tiniest push now my death would have the appearance of an accident.

  “I ... I wanted to see the extent of the damage,” I faltered.

  “For heaven’s sake come away. It’s dangerous here. We can’t be sure that the structure is safe until we’ve had it checked over by a surveyor.”

  I followed him down, thankful to be returning to a part of the Schloss where other people were around. When we reached the first floor, instead of continuing down the last flight of stairs, Anton turned along the corridor and threw open the door of his study.

  “I want to talk to you, Gail... privately.”

  My fear flared again and I jerked out, “Can’t you talk to me downstairs?”

  “If you insist,” he said, frowning, “but I’d prefer it to be here. I have something to tell you, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  It was a fairly large, square room, and comfortably furnished with a heavy oak desk and a hide-covered wing chair. There were a couple of other chairs, too, and masses of books arranged on shelves along two walls. Through the open door to a smaller room I could see a divan bed, pushed against the wall. It gave a makeshift impression, as if Anton couldn’t be bothered to fix anything more permanent. I recalled Raimund saying that Anton and Valencienne had slept apart for quite some time, and I found myself wondering where her bedroom had been. And wondering too how she had felt when her husband no longer shared it. Had she regretted driving him away, or hadn’t she cared?

  Anton pulled a chair around for me, but I shook my head. “No, I won’t sit down.”

  With a shrug, he perched himself on the edge of his desk. He gave me a strange, long look before speaking.

  “I’d hoped to do this differently, Gail, if things had worked out according to plan. But that wretched fire has changed the situation completely, and now I’m forced to make a confession.”

  “A confession?” I held my breath for what was coming.

  “I have to go back a long way, if I’m going to make you understand. You know already of the extremely high regard my stepmother had for your father as an artist. But what you don’t know is that for some years now she’s cherished the idea of holding a public exhibition of his work which would force people to recognise Benedict Sherbrooke’s true stature—as she saw it. She believed that such an exhibition would cause a sensation.”

  “What a hope.” In my nervousness the words came out flippantly.

  “Perhaps Sigrid had more justification than you realise. You see, there was another collection of your father’s work which you never saw.”

  My brain began to race, snatching at fragments and fitting them together. The locked door to the turret room, and Raimund’s odd manner when he’d found me up there one day. Karl’s suspicious attitude when he’d seen me descending the turret stair with a canvas under my arm. And I remembered the second door I’d seen up there, obviously a cupboard and securely locked. I thought of Ursula’s behaviour in the kitchen last night, talking strangely of Sigrid’s hopes and dreams
... her sudden keenness that I should return home to England. Anton had entered the kitchen at that moment, and told Sigrid that there was nothing left, not a trace. This is the end, then, she’d said with an air of tragedy.

  They had all been involved, every single one of them. Conniving together to conceal from me a substantial part of my father’s output. And the fire last night had somehow brought about a change in their tactics.

  I was convinced that I was on the right track, but I merely said to Anton, “Well ... go on.”

  “About four years ago, Gail, your father did a painting that was different from anything he’d ever done before. I myself knew nothing about this at the time. In fact, I only learned about it quite recently.”

  “In what way was it different?”

  He said, without colour to his voice, “It looked exactly like a Constable.”

  I stared at him. “You mean it was a copy?”

  “No, not a copy. An original in Constable’s style.”

  “Are you saying my father was a forger?” I burst out.

  “No, Gail, don’t jump to conclusions. Give me time to explain.”

  “I just want you to tell me the plain, simple truth.”

  “It’s not simple, it’s very complicated. But this is the starting point. Benedict had been feeling despondent about his lack of success, and he painted this picture in a fit of bitterness. It was his method of demonstrating that he was every bit as good an artist as Constable had been.”

  “But that’s crazy!”

  “Benedict didn’t think so. And neither did Sigrid, when she saw what he’d done. She dreamed up the idea of holding an exhibition of his paintings, all in the style of famous landscape artists of the past. She believed that after seeing these, the art world could no longer ignore his greatness.”

  “But my father must have known it was a nonsensical idea,” I protested.

  “I think he was ready to grasp at any straw. And he was very much under my stepmother’s influence, remember. Anyway, over the next few years he secretly produced quite a number of these imitations for her.” Anton glanced at me questioningly. “Surely, Gail, if such a painting is so well done that even an expert is fooled, it must have great merit?”