The prospect of an evening in Helga’s company didn’t entice me, but I could hardly refuse.
“Yes, of course I’ll come with you, Frau Kreuder,” I said without enthusiasm.
“It will work out very conveniently,” Sigrid went on, “because Karl and Ursula will not be here. It is their free day and they are visiting a sister of hers over at Zug. Going to Helga’s this evening will save us having to manage by ourselves. We’ll set out at about seven—in Anton’s car, I expect.”
So the Schloss would be empty. The chance I’d been waiting for seemed to have come. Already a scheme was shaping in my mind.
I said reflectively, “I was thinking of going to Zurich this afternoon, so if you’ve no objection I’ll make my own way to Helga’s. Then I shan’t need to come back here first.”
Sigrid gave me a tiny frown. “As you wish, naturlich.”
“Yes, I think it would be better that way.”
My plan was that I should return to the Schloss when everyone else was safely out of the way. But I needed to give thought to a means of entry, as all the outer doors would be locked. I was considering whether I could leave some window unfastened in a way that wouldn’t be noticed, when a better answer occurred to me.
The telephone in the hall stood on a carved oak table in a small alcove, and I remembered that on the day I’d phoned the airport to book a flight to London—the booking I’d later cancelled—I had searched for something to jot down plane times and found paper and pen in a drawer. The drawer had been full of other odds and ends among which, I felt certain, had been several keys.
I chose a moment when no one was around and slipped into the alcove. There were three keys in the drawer, all of the same pattern. Crossing quickly to the studded entrance door, I opened it just a few inches and tried one of the keys. The lock turned smoothly. So I could now enter the Schloss whenever I wanted.
At lunch time Anton and Raimund were home from the silk mill as usual, and we sat down to the meal of soup and cold meats that Ursula had prepared for us before leaving. Sigrid discussed the arrangements for Helga’s dinner party that evening, and explained to the men that I would not be going with them but would meet them there.
Anton, helping himself to chicory salad, glanced at me sideways. “Do you really have to go to Zurich today?”
I was thrown off balance and gabbled nervously. There was some shopping I needed to do, I told him, and I’d still not visited a number of museums and art galleries I wanted to see.
“Leave it till Saturday, and we’ll go together,” he offered.
The thought filled me with panic. “No ... no, I’d rather not.”
Anton’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. Sigrid grasped the opportunity and interposed, “Perhaps you would prefer Raimund to accompany you, Gail?”
By now I’d had time to get hold of myself, and I was able to answer in a calmer voice.
“I really do need to shop for a few things today, since I’ve stayed in Switzerland longer than I anticipated. So if you don’t mind I’ll go to Zurich this afternoon as I’d planned.”
I escaped upstairs as soon as lunch was finished, on the excuse of wanting to get ready. Within a couple of minutes there came a soft knock and Anton called, “Gail, may I talk to you, please?”
I didn’t answer, but went to the door and opened it.
“What do you want?”
He hung back as if suddenly unsure of himself. Then, “We can’t continue like this, Gail, never mentioning those damned paintings. If only there was some way of making amends to you for their loss.”
I scanned his face for signs of deceit, but his look was guarded.
“I’d be happier if they’d never existed,” I said, with truth.
“But they do.”
“Do?”
“Did, rather—all but one of them. And I won’t be happy until that’s safely back in our hands.”
I said nothing, and the silence between us was so intense that I could hear my heart beating.
“I wish you wouldn’t always look at me like that, Gail,” he murmured.
“How do I look at you?”
He gestured helplessly. “With dislike. With accusation ... I can’t put a name to it.”
“Please go away, Anton. Please leave me alone.”
“At one time,” he said very quietly, “I even dared to hope that you and I could ...”
Yes, and so had I. Forbidden dreams. Shattered dreams. I was afraid of myself, afraid of revealing too much to him. I had to show neither fear, nor love—neither hatred, nor longing. I had to tread a careful middle path.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no point in us talking like this, Anton. I’ve got to change now.”
An unfathomable expression flitted across his face ... was it anger or disappointment? Or something dark and charged with menace? “I’ll leave you then,” he said, and walked away.
* * * *
In Zurich I parked my car near the Hauptbahnhof and found a shop in the precinct beneath the station where I was able to buy a big flash lamp. I had several hours to kill but I wasn’t in any mood to give my attention to art galleries and museums, so I strolled aimlessly. I crossed a bridge over the river and wandered into the cathedral, enjoying its Romanesque quietude. And later, seeking a place to have some coffee, I discovered that I was in the same narrow, twisted street where I had encountered Anton that first day.
I felt a throb of pain behind my eyes and I hurried blindly away. But I couldn’t escape him, the memory of him ... the longing for him.
Leaving the city at last, I took the motorway on the northern shore of Zurichsee, completing a full circuit of the lake on my return journey to Rietswil. Gathering clouds had brought an early twilight, and by the time I turned in at the entrance gates of the Schloss it was already dark.
I left my little Fiat tucked out of sight behind a bank of rhododendron bushes, then walked through the pointed archway into the courtyard. The hollow tap of my footsteps was flung back at me from the high stone walls, but when I paused to listen the Schloss and its gardens were wrapped in empty silence. No glimmer of light showed anywhere.
I braced myself and stepped into the deeper shadows of the Gothic portal. Furtively, feeling like a criminal, I fumbled the key into the lock and pushed open the heavy door. The quiet click of it closing behind me seemed to echo frighteningly around the vaulted hall before silence came again—silence underscored by the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Using the flash lamp, I made for the staircase, trying to tread softly, wishing I had thought to wear rubber-soled shoes. Yet what did it matter, since I was here alone?
From the starting point of the spiral stairs to the turret where the fire had been, I tried to retrace the route I’d taken with Raimund ... it seemed an age ago. Twisting through the maze of corridors I made only one mistake, finding myself in a cul-de-sac that brought me up against a window with triple multifoil arches. But this served to give me my bearings, and soon I found the door through to the bell tower—the door which, as I opened it, gave the drawn-out screeching sound that I remembered.
Inside the bell tower it was densely dark, and I’d have been lost without the torch. The wooden stairs led to the belfry, with landings at each level. Downwards was unknown territory, from which rose a heavy dank smell. The least likely place, I admitted reluctantly, where anyone would ever go.
The stairs creaked a protest as I descended. Cobwebs brushed my face and caught in my hair. Two flights down to the first small landing, I tried the door of the chamber there but found it locked. I was swept through with dismay. Why hadn’t I allowed for this possibility? Then I saw that in fact an outside bolt had been drawn across, and all I needed to do was ease it back. The door swung open, and the stale air inside caught my throat. My flashlight revealed the little square room—rough-boarded floor thick with powdery dust, bare stone walls, a tiny slit of window high up. It was empty and contained no possible hiding place. I descended another
two flights, and here again the door was bolted. But this time the bolt seemed to move more freely, as if it had been recently used.
The paintings were stacked neatly against the wall. There were a dozen or more large canvases, covered with pieces of clean sacking. Striking through my jubilation I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What a hollow triumph to be proved right. If I had never found these paintings I would always have been tortured by doubt. But now that I knew they did exist, I also knew that one of the Kreuders—at least one—was criminally responsible.
But which?
My hand shook as I drew aside the sacking and exposed the first of the canvases. The flash lamp gave unsatisfactory light, but even so—and though I was expecting something of the sort—I caught my breath in amazement. If I hadn’t known that this was a counterfeit, I would have sworn it was a Gainsborough landscape, a wooded pastoral scene of soft-edged mystery. The second canvas was a Suffolk idyll, as redolent of Constable’s meticulous hand as Flatford Mill itself ... the very painting, perhaps, which had prompted this whole bizarre plan of Sigrid’s. And then, much smaller than the others, a most convincing Holman Hunt, rich with the Pre-Raphaelite’s love of symbolism. I looked at every one and felt a crawling admiration for the misdirected artistry that had created such masterpieces of deception.
There was nothing to be done for the moment, I decided. If I called Helga’s number and demanded that the Kreuders return home at once, it would alert whoever was guilty. Better to wait and confront all three of them together with the damning evidence.
I realised suddenly that I’d forgotten to carry out part of my plan ... a necessary part if no suspicions were to be aroused. I had intended phoning earlier to make my apologies, saying that by chance I’d met an English friend in Zurich, and I hoped they wouldn’t mind if I spent the evening with her. I shone the torch on my wristwatch. Coming up to eight-thirty. It still wasn’t too late.
Replacing the sacking over the canvases I closed and bolted the door behind me, leaving everything exactly as I’d found it. Then I hurried back through the twisting corridors, sure of my way now, heading for the phone in the hall.
I was almost at the foot of the stairs when the grandfather clock stirred into life and sonorously chimed the half hour. Then as the resonance died I heard another sound - the scrape of a key being inserted into the entrance door.
Chapter Eighteen
I froze in alarm. It couldn’t be Karl and Ursula returning early—they would use their own door at the rear. So who?
I should have silently slipped upstairs again to avoid discovery, but I thought of that too late. I heard the door swing open, heard the snap of a switch as the pewter lantern blazed into light.
He didn’t notice me though. I watched him close the door behind him and walk across the hall to the staircase. Relief was flooding through me.
“Ernst,” I said huskily.
He stopped dead, and his head jerked up. “Mein Gott ... Gail. You gave me quite a scare.”
“Have you come looking for me because I didn’t turn up at Helga’s dinner party? I was just going to phone and make my apologies.”
“Er ... yes. We wondered what was wrong. Why are you here on your own? And in the dark?”
I had to tell him something, and why not the truth? It would be helpful to have Ernst on my side.
“I want to show you something,” I said. Then you’ll understand. Come with me, will you?”
Ernst looked mystified—as well he might, I thought—but he made no objection. As I led him to the tower, Ernst several times tried to get me to explain. But I wouldn’t. He’d probably not believe my extraordinary story unless he actually saw the evidence with his own eyes.
The arched door screeched its protest as I opened it. Ernst turned to me and demanded, “For heaven’s sake, Gail, where are you taking me?”
“Haven’t you ever been here before? It’s the bell tower, and these stairs lead up to the belfry.”
“Ach ja, I remember. But what is this all about?”
“You’ll soon see.”
We started downwards, our combined footsteps thunderous on the ancient wooden stairs. Reaching the second landing, I threw open the door and shone my torch inside, letting it play on the stack of canvases against the wall.
“Go and look under that sacking, Ernst. Those paintings were supposed to have been destroyed in the fire.”
He didn’t move, didn’t react in any way except to ask quietly, “Have you told anyone else about finding them?”
“No, I’ve only just ...” Horrified understanding came crashing down on me. “But you know what I’m talking about, you’re not in the least surprised. That must mean ...”
“It doesn’t take much intelligence to work that out, does it? Still, I award you full marks for discovering where I’d hidden them.”
Stunned, I tried to put my thoughts together, to form a new pattern in my mind.
“So it was you who started the fire that night, after first moving the paintings here. I heard someone in the corridor above my room—or rather I heard a noise that sounded like heavy thudding footsteps.”
“So, that is what set your mind working.” Ernst paused, then asked, “You didn’t tell anyone about your suspicions?”
I wished to heaven that I had, but it was too late now for wishing. I shook my head miserably.
“Why did you do it, Ernst? I suppose you hoped to make yourself some easy money by selling them as genuine?”
“Those damned paintings owe me something, Gail. If they had never existed in the first place, I wouldn’t be in the mess I am in now.”
“What mess?”
“I suppose you know about the one Raimund sold in America?”
“Yes, I’ve been told the whole story.”
“It’s hilarious, when you think about it ... not daring to admit the thing is a fake, and paying a fortune to buy it back.” He checked himself. “Incidentally, who had you decided was responsible for staging the fire?”
“I couldn’t make up my mind. I was hoping to find out by confronting the family with these paintings, and seeing how they each reacted.”
“Wie dramatisch. It’s a lucky thing for me I got here first, isn’t it? The whole success of my plan depends on none of them being aware that the paintings still exist. It was no use just stealing them because Anton would have considered it his duty to alert the art world that a collection of counterfeits was missing, and broadcast exact descriptions of them. I’d not have stood a hope in hell of unloading them, then.”
“You still don’t,” I pointed out. “You seem to be forgetting that I know.”
“I’m not forgetting anything, Gail. You see, I’ve really burned my bridges now—is that the phrase? I was planning to collect these tonight and slip silently away. Now, I’m afraid, I’ll have to take you with me.”
“You must be mad, Ernst,” I said. “I mean to give up everything—your home, your career—for what you hope to make by selling these fakes.”
“You can’t blame me for walking out on Helga, can you? You’ve seen what she’s like. Even the Kreuder connection never compensated for being married to an ill-tempered woman like her. And as for my career, I’m afraid that’s given me up.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve been rather careless about money that belongs to my clients. I admit it, I do have expensive tastes. Up until recently I’ve always managed to rob Peter to pay Paul, as you might say, but several things came to a head at once and now I’m in real trouble. Having control of Sigrid’s investments has helped me out of tight spots in the past ... she inherited money from both her husband and her father, but her income from the silk mill has always provided all she ever needed. Then suddenly she announced that she would be requiring a large sum of money, fast, and I knew I’d never be able to produce it.”
“When was this?”
“Soon after Raimund returned from America. Sigrid explained to me about his selling th
e painting, and how they needed to buy it back to pacify Benedict.”
“Only they then found that it had already been resold?”
That should have put an end to the matter, ja. Considering how prices escalate in the art world it was obvious we would have to pay a great deal more to buy it back now, so I thought they’d drop the whole idea. But your father wouldn’t listen to reason. He nearly went out of his mind, raving about the destruction of his integrity as an artist. That sort of drivel. He even threatened to appeal to Anton, and Sigrid showed signs of agreeing. I knew that once Anton came into the picture everything would come out. I would be completely finished professionally. I had to do something, Gail... there was so much at stake.”
“So what did you do?”
In the torchlight I saw Ernst tug his beard, considering his answer. “As it turned out, I was saved the need to do anything. Your father’s suicide worked out very conveniently for me.”
“You mean, because after that Sigrid and Raimund agreed to keep quiet?”
“Yes. I pointed out to them that if that painting had deceived an acknowledged expert, there was little danger of it ever being discovered to be a fake. So what was the sense of putting themselves seriously into debt to buy it back? I really thought I was safely in the clear by now, and I would have been but for Anton chancing to talk to that dealer when he was in New York. It was the foulest stroke of luck.”
Anton.
I burst out, “Tell me, Ernst... do you really believe that my father committed suicide?”
“What else?”
“I believe that he was killed.”
I heard him catch his breath. “You mean—murdered?”
“Yes.”
“What put that crazy idea into your head?” Ernst asked with an uneasy laugh.
“It was Willi. He saw it all happen and he described it to me, using some wooden figures he’d carved. There was someone else in the boat with my father and Valencienne. Another man.”
“Who was it, Gail? Was Willi able to tell you that?”
The Silver Castle Page 19
