The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “What are you talking about?” Oliver challenged, but with a growing sense of dread.

  “I wonder,” Zoltan said sarcastically, “now who could I be referring to … oh yes, it’s just come back to me! Melvyn is who I saw, Oliver, now stop playing games!”

  “You saw Melvyn?” Oliver croaked through a dry throat.

  “That’s right, I saw Melvyn … by particular cabinet … taking notes, making little sketches, sniffing for all the detailing he could, without causing suspicion, of course.”

  “Now … now look, Zoltan, we split up twelve years ago—twelve bloody years—and you’re trying to muscle in on my affairs now?

  “You don’t get it, do you? I’m at the end of my tether, Oliver, really, really close to going completely nutty, and I find that you’re going for big one, behind my back! It was my bloody idea! I developed it … and you just stole it. Do you think I would just sit on sidelines whilst you make cool eight million? I even found the guy to make it, and guess what … you stole him first!”

  “What … what the hell are you talking about?” Oliver said forcefully. “Let’s look at the bloody facts, Zoltan; Melvyn had the choice to go either way when we ended the partnership, and he came with me … that’s all! He found you difficult. And you know damn well the impossibility of copying furniture of that era … you couldn’t justify its existence, let alone the technical problems; it’s out of the question and you bloody well know it!”

  “Well, you’ve found way, Oliver … I can smell it on your breath … and I will have my cut!” he said, almost spitting down the phone line.

  “Cool down, Zoltan, just … just cool down,” Oliver stuttered, desperately trying to hide the fear in his voice. “We can meet and discuss your problems when we’re both in a better frame of mind; this is not the time.”

  “Oh, but it is the time,” the Russian said venomously. “It is exactly the time … and I want fifty percent or you’re off to Belmarsh for holiday!”

  “Have you been drinking?” Oliver said angrily, “because it certainly seems like it! What the hell business have you got coming back into my life making crazy demands out of the blue; are you out of your mind? Do what you bloody well want … as you always have!”

  He slammed the phone down, his face contorted with fury. Slumping down heavily on an elegantly carved side chair, he gazed through the open sash pondering his situation. The garden had suddenly lost its beauty, or perhaps its beauty had turned sour; a malevolent quality had descended on his day, and he felt deeply worried.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Lily, it’s Oliver,” he said flatly.

  “Ooh … you do sound different, darling. Quite different and rather tense!

  “Well, I am … a bit. I’ve just had a rather difficult business call and—”

  “You need a soothing neck rub, Olly,” she said happily. “Just come on over—not forgetting the clippers—and I’ll make sure you relax. C’mon!” she beckoned.

  “Look, I need to …”

  “Olly, you’re going to feel a different man afterwards. You need it. Stress is a killer.”

  “Okay, see you later,” he said charmlessly, putting the phone down.

  * * *

  Melvyn sat on an old stained chair in his workshop, gazing intently at a photograph and then at the cabinet in front of him. He drew deeply on his pipe and let the smoke coil in soothing wreathes around him. The magnificent piece in front of him was a copy of the famous Freiburg Cabinet, which stood alone, bereft of its younger twin, in the sumptuous surroundings of the Wallace Collection in Manchester Square, London.

  Made by the little-known eighteenth century cabinetmaker Johann Schafer, it stood as one of only two pieces he contributed to the court of Louis XVI of France. This most gifted of designers—a colleague of the great David Roentgen, the then “Ebeniste-Mecanicien du Roi”—was one of the highly prized German cabinetmakers whose furniture at that time was considered the most sophisticated in Europe.

  Unfortunately for him, however, his entrée into the Royal Household was a little too late. The revolution was sniffing at the heals of the ruling classes by the time Schafer’s moment came in 1784, and unlike the nimble-footed Roentgen, who sensed approaching mayhem and crossed the border back to Germany, Schafer lingered too long in Paris … enjoyed the fruits of royal favour just a little too much, and was murdered in a street brawl in 1788. But not before he had made the two defining pieces of his short life.

  The pair of cabinets, of which the remaining one came to be known as the “Freiburg Cabinet” due to the location of Schafer’s workshop in that German town, were structures of startling artistry. In fact, so thrilled was the French queen with her new piece, that she had it placed in the antechamber of her bedroom, in the Palace of Versailles. She then demanded a second be made for her Austrian childhood friend, Princesse Amalie, as a wedding present on her marriage to the Compte de Zaragon in 1786. Sadly, however, Amalie was to die in childbirth a year later. In 1789 her husband, the Compte, followed suit, murdered by thugs at the family chateau near Troyes, as France descended into political chaos. That same night, the second Schafer cabinet, the twin, also met its fate in a great fire outside the house, with other priceless artifacts.

  But two hundred years later, the twin was about to be reborn … was about to rise like the Phoenix in a small workshop in southern England. Standing eighty-five centimeters high and one hundred and twenty centimeters wide, its ponderous size and weight were deflected by an impeccable lightness and delicacy of design.

  Underneath the lattice work marquetry of sycamore and holly, lay a solid oak carcase, the iron hard skeleton of the piece. Onto this was laid an ormolu plumage of delicately entwined roses, narcissi, dahlias, and lilies-of-the-valley, forming an exquisite frieze across the front. Nestled delicately into the centre of this was Marie Antoinette’s personal cipher of the superimposed letters “M” and ”A.”

  Above sat a piece of cool verde alpi marble with white spiderweb veins, mirroring the sweeping curves of the structure beneath. Lower down, three doors again with lattice work marquetry panels and ormolu borders, formed the face of the cabinet and opened onto a series of sycamore-lined drawers and trays. And of course, tucked discreetly into a shadowy back panel, there was the secret compartment—the one designed by Schafer’s masterful ally, David Roentgen.

  Melvyn sat silently in front of his cabinet, as though eking out time with a daughter who’s soon to depart. She had been part of his life for over three years now, the very focus of his existence. Sometimes he would close the workshop door behind him and just stare at her with an overwhelming pride. All his expertise, his very essence, had been lavished on her creation, and she had not been easy. Oh no … she had had her moods, her little sulks … and her big sulks. Sometimes she had been a stubborn little bitch and caused him late nights, sleepless nights even. But all the while, an empathetic energy crackled between them. Despite her petulant, teenage nonchalance to his attentiveness, there was always that certainty that he would groom and caress her until she was perfect. And now she was perfect, or very nearly perfect. Just a few more brushstrokes and he’d have to release her from his domain—his garden workshop—and take her to her resting place in France.

  Melvyn let his eyes glide idly over the fine contours of his masterpiece for a time longer in the quietness of his workshop, and then as the bowl of his pipe offered up the last few puffs of smoke, he reluctantly got to his feet and wandered out into the sunshine.

  Chapter 2

  Oliver grunted as he hauled himself out of his large Volvo estate and stepped onto the crunching gravel. He watched Lily come skipping through a gate from the garden, her sunny blond tresses damp from swimming, a bright kaftan flowing behind her. Everything seemed brighter when he looked into those glowing hazel eyes, and as usual when he hadn’t seen her for a time, he felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

  “Oliver, darling, how lovely to see you,” she said happily, thr
owing her arms around his neck and kissing him affectionately. “You’ve been bloody ages! What took you so long?”

  “Oh, just this and that,” he said, gazing awkwardly into her lightly tanned oval face with its peppering of tiny freckles.

  “Just this and that? You call that an answer?” she said with a giggle. “I’ve been all of a dither for the past couple of hours!”

  “I’m sorry, Lil.”

  “Now before you tell me about this horrible telephone call, I want you to come through to the garden, jump into your bathers, and go for a deliciously cool dip. Nothing’s better to change your mood than a bit of old-fashioned exercise. You did bring your kit with you, Olly, didn’t you?” she said, noticing his reticence.

  “Well, actually … I didn’t really feel like a swim, so I just brought the—”

  “The clippers!” she interrupted. “Well, that’s something at least, but I absolutely insist you take the bull by the horns and get into the pool; it’s heavenly, about seventy-four degrees, and you’ll feel a different man afterwards. Don’t worry, Giles has about six pairs hanging around and you’re pretty similar sizes, I’d say.”

  “Okay, matron!” Oliver said, trying to sound lighthearted. “Whatever you say.”

  They walked around the corner of the house, a typical Elizabethan manor with tall sculpted windows and an orgy of exotic plants wrestling for light around its walls. The lawns dropped down in a series of terraces to a tennis court at the bottom, and a glittering swimming pool, surrounded by a low privet hedge. A weeping willow stood at the northern end of the pool, its long fronds swaying languorously in the warm southerly breeze. Beyond these, cornfields stretched out like rippling green carpets to a dense wood in the background. They chatted as they made their way down, and then she stopped and pointed to the miniature romanesque building by the pool.

  “There … you know the routine. Towels are in the cupboard and loads of trunks … but best avoid the red paisleys, they’re his favourite.”

  “Thanks. See you in a moment,” he said, wandering over.

  Stepping inside he felt a fierce heat. There was a strong smell of cedarwood, cleaning chemicals, and the hysterical buzzing of countless flies. Along a rack he saw an array of variously coloured swimming trunks. “Christ, Giles, you’re a dapper fellow,” he muttered loudly, as though his friend was standing next to him.

  “Are you all right?” Lily shouted from the bar, whilst popping some mint into a large jug of Pimm’s.

  “Oh … fine, Lil, won’t be long.”

  “Sounded like you’d met a friend in there,” Lily said, laying her slim brown body onto a deck chair as Oliver self-consciously wandered over a few minutes later. He felt the oppressive presence of her sexuality—the suggestive mound beneath her cherry bikini briefs, her small freckled cleavage. She smiled mischievously in the shadow of her wide brimmed sun hat and took a long cool sip from her glass. “Go on … in you go. No drink until you’ve done four lengths.”

  “Okay, Sergeant Major … whatever you say,” he shouted, doing a flabby flop into the sparkling water and creating a mountainous wash. A few moments later he surfaced.

  “God …this is superb!”

  “Thought you’d like it! Now four lengths, please, and then you can join me.”

  “You’re so harsh!” he said, as he launched up the pool doing a noisy breaststroke.

  “So you did six lengths just to impress me!” Lily said, handing him a large towel a short time later. “And impressed I was. Giles hardly uses the pool. Says it gives him earache. But you know, I think he simply prefers to meet his friends up at the clubhouse and play bloody golf all day.”

  “I know, it’s amazing how that game sucks them in. So why all the swimming trunks?”

  “Giles doesn’t know what frugal is. He just has to double up, treble up and on it goes.”

  “A bit like his salary, eh?” Oliver said with a wry smile.

  “Probably,” Lily said in a lacklustre way. “He’s always telling me to go up and join them, but why? Why would I want to go and sit in a clubhouse with a heap of boring people when I’ve got this?”

  She poured him a glass.

  “Listen, I completely agree with you, Lil, but some people love the buzz of club rooms, the gossip, the cut and thrust of political debate and that other tempting little morsel.”

  “What, the chance of an affair?”

  “No! I was going to say the possibility of ‘that’ business deal. Isn’t that what golf’s all about?” Oliver said, sweeping his wet hair back and giving himself a rather sinister appearance.

  “Oh I suppose so, but you know, he’s never mentioned clinching a deal in the clubhouse. I think he’s got a girlfriend up there.”

  “Lily, don’t be silly,” Oliver said, touching her arm lightly. “I can’t imagine he’s the type.”

  “Perhaps I should use you as a weapon, Olly; make him think a bit. He’s quite complacent, you know; he won’t question why there are some plates and glasses on the draining board when he gets back. He’ll presume in a sort of vague way that I gave Jim lunch or had a girlfriend over.”

  “Jim?”

  “The gardener … my dear gardener … with four children and a lovely wife.”

  “Oh … I see.” Oliver hesitated for a moment. “Any luck with …”

  “Olly, let’s not go there, I just don’t think we work in that department, or so I’ve come to believe. All the tests show that we’re both capable, but it just never seems to happen. I know that things can suddenly change, but when?”

  Oliver took a long gulp of Pimm’s and fixed his gaze on a collared dove, rinsing its head in a stone birdbath.

  “It’s difficult, Lil,” he said awkwardly. “For some people it happens so easily; people with dreadful diets, who drink like fish and take no exercise to speak of, seem to produce children so … well, easily.”

  “I know … I know,” Lillie said quietly. “Now tell me about this ‘business call,’ which put you in such a horrible mood,” she said, trying to shake off a growing melancholia.

  “Oh, it was nothing that important, just someone calling me out of the blue; someone I used to be in business with some twelve years ago, who’s going through a very rough patch and thinks that I can pull him through it.”

  “And can you?”

  “Err … well … not really in the way that he intends me to,” Oliver said, shifting slightly.

  “Riiight. That sounded a bit cryptic, darling,” Lily said, sensing tension. “Can I be very blunt and ask you what he’s after?”

  “Well, in a nutshell, Lil … money.”

  “Okay. Do you owe him this money or is he after a loan?”

  “Good heavens! You’re very to the point, sweetie,” Oliver said with false jollity. “No! I do not owe him anything.”

  “Well, you have nothing to worry about—game, set, and match.”

  “If only it were that simple, Lil. But we both know life is not black and white. There are shades … and shades of shades.”

  “And shady shades!” Lily said, getting up and strolling towards the bar. “Another drink, you Caesar you?”

  “You’ve got to understand, he’s a—”

  “I said, another Pimm’s?”

  “Oh, er sure, that sounds lovely ... as I was saying, he’s a pushy sod and thinks he can squeeze me.”

  “Oliver, it all sounds a bit … shady!” Lily said, bursting into laughter as she refilled his glass. “All a bit shady and underhand!”

  Oliver suddenly felt a cold shiver of criminality slide down his back. He’d always felt sort of innocently criminal or harmlessly criminal, but somehow Lily using the word “shady” brought the truth home to him. He was a criminal … or a fraudster. Perhaps, like himself, all criminals justified their crimes by a weird process of personalization—it’s my dear little homely crime … my happy little pastime … not like those wicked deeds out there which are proper nasty crimes committed by horrible people.

/>   “I’m going to pop up to the house and make us up a salad, darling … not that you’d notice,” she remarked, finishing the sentence quietly.

  Oliver snapped from his reverie.

  “I certainly will notice, Lil. I was, er, just watching the birdbath.”

  “Can I be awfully rude?” she said.

  “Shoot!” he said with passion.

  “It’s time your equipment was put to good use.”

  Oliver gulped. “I'm sorry?” he said in astonishment, swivelling round to look at her.

  “Clippers, Olly, you brought some clippers. Could you … please? You can see which branches need the chop.”

  “Oh … er … of course I can, darling,” he said loudly, standing up. “Was away for a moment … I’ll get them. They’re in the pool house.”

  “Really, Oliver!” she said, throwing him a naughty smile as she disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

  He stood motionless for a few seconds, gazing out over the Gloucestershire fields. The wind was racing through the young green corn in great waves, creating a tremendous sense of purpose and festivity. But his world was the opposite of light and frivolous; behind the verdant beauty that surrounded him, he now felt the stealthy tread of approaching trouble.

  Chapter 3

  Zoltan Spirovich swung into Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, and shortly after parked by a stylish boutique. Having switched off the engine, he sat staring through the windscreen for a minute or two but without seeing a thing. Slim, Slavic featured, and armed with piercing pale blue eyes, he was a striking man, but one with a cluttered mind. His girlfriend was accusing him of disloyalty, his wife was playing mind games, and his father’s respect for him was on the wane. He sighed and glanced dull eyed in the mirror. This was going to be hard.

  Having adjusted his shirt collar and run his fingers through his blond curls, he exited his black four by four with an agile movement and strode to a nearby door. After ringing the bell, he again tweaked his collar and straightened his fawn Armani jacket—needlessly; he was already immaculate. After a few moments the door opened, and a pair of milky arms gestured passionately for a few seconds, before allowing Zoltan to step inside.