The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “We’ll sort it out, Mel, don’t worry.”

  Twisting a cigar through his fingers, he sat down on one of the chairs, deep in thought, whilst Melvyn absentmindedly tidied some tools.

  “Right,” he said at last, “we’re going to have to include him. He’s much better connected in the underworld than me or you, and we’re going to get hurt otherwise. Of course, he won’t get half … or anything like half, but he’ll have to be paid off somehow. His father, as you may remember, is not to be crossed. Sorry to break such bad news, Mel … but keep going as though this never happened. Either way we’re going to make a shed load of money and put the antiques trade on the front pages!”

  “Bastard!” Melvyn said in exasperation.

  “But what I can do is play dumb for the moment and wait and see how serious he is. Where are we … four or five weeks from completion, and then our baby goes into incubation in France. Let’s hold tight for the moment and see if he contacts me again. For all we know he may be bluffing.”

  “I don’t think so,” Melvyn sighed. “That guy means business, Oliver, and once his jaws are locked, there’s no getting rid of him.”

  “You’re probably right, and anyway, we can’t stop now, Fabien’s whole life depends on this. I think he’d throw himself off a cliff if we called it off.”

  “Guess so,” Melvyn agreed.

  Oliver deliberated for a few moments, looking out on to the garden.

  “Good God,” he said suddenly, “do you realize it’s well over three years now?”

  “What is?”

  “My meeting with Fabien. Remember? In Piccadilly … when I broached the whole idea of copying the cabinet—everything was gearing up for the millennium.”

  “Oh yeah, I do. It was a bit touch and go, if I remember right,” Melvyn said with a small chuckle.

  “It was, Mel. It certainly was. In the end, he just couldn’t let Cecile go.”

  Chapter 5

  London was pulsating with energy. Building sites with cranes and ground-shuddering trucks had erupted like open sores across the capital, as contractors struggled to meet the demands of the impending millennium celebrations. There were the iconic structures like the Dome, the Wheel, and of course the Millennium Footbridge, but also a plethora of other nail-biting projects, all of which had to be completed on time. And this excitement was reflected within Oliver. He also was about to engage in a new and dangerous enterprise—one which depended wholly on the compliance of the young man he was about to meet.

  Turning into Prince Street, Piccadilly, he found a parking bay some fifty yards from the entrance to that hallowed auction house, Hardy’s. He glanced at his watch and pressed a speed dial on his mobile; it was six forty-five pm.

  “Fabien, it’s Oliver,” he said. “I’m parked up the street on the left; I know I’m a bit early, so come out when you’re ready.”

  “Oh … okay, Oliver, just give me ten minutes,” Fabien said from his office which was no more than a tatty cubicle, filled to bursting point with all manner of chunky books.

  A young Frenchman in his late twenties, Fabien was being groomed to take over from the resident expert on the Dutch Masters. This was his area of primary expertise, but he also had an abiding love of eighteenth century French furniture, and this was where Oliver’s interest in him was seated.

  From a distinguished family in Paris, he had started out running an art gallery in the Rue de Fourcy, but this had proved to be a cul-de-sac and the chances of promotion extremely limited. So he had made a career move to London to join an institution with scope for upward mobility. Hardy’s was now his kingdom, and though his salary was still modest, he adored his job with a passion.

  Idly scanning the buildings around him, Oliver rehearsed the conversation he was shortly to have with the young Frenchman for the final time. He was about to take a very risky gamble and needed to tread a delicate and carefully planned path. He jumped involuntarily as Fabien gave a light tap on the car roof. Slim, with an open, friendly face, he had a dark cotton jacket slung over his shoulder with a pretty floral tie tucked into a pale blue shirt. The beige trousers seemed a size too big, Oliver thought, as he climbed out and shook the young man’s hand warmly.

  “Bonsoir, Fabien!”

  “Salut, Oliver, comment vas-tu?”

  “Je vais bien, merci.” Oliver replied in his wooden French.

  “It has been some time since you’ve needed to pick my brain … Christmas, was it not?”

  “Yes … don’t you remember … that chiffonier.”

  “Yes, I do. So you have nothing with you this time?” Fabien said, stooping down to peer into the back of the Volvo.

  “No, not this time. I … er … wanted to discuss a project with you this time, Fabien. Ideas are easier to carry than furniture!”

  “Well, of course,” the Frenchman replied with a friendly smile.

  “Right,” Oliver said with authority, “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve booked a table for seven thirty at Stafford’s, so we’ve got time for a couple of sharpeners first. They’ve got a rather appealing bar and some pretty Russian waitresses to give you a good appetite.”

  “You are splashing out!” Fabien exclaimed. “I went there once only, for a drink, three years ago when I joined Hardy’s. It is too expensive for me.”

  “Well relax, this is my call,” Oliver beamed.

  “I am curious as to what this is about, Oliver … you have a slightly mysterious way about you this evening.”

  “I do?” Oliver said, surprised. “Are you still with that gorgeous Cecile?”

  “Why, of course!” Fabien said passionately. “I love that girl, and I have to see her every other weekend. She keeps me sane!”

  “Good, very good. True love is a rare thing these days,” Oliver said, with a skip in his voice.

  They turned into Old Bond Street and entered the grand marble porch of the restaurant which in its earlier life had been a bank. Hugely spacious, it suited Oliver’s temperament and allowed a degree of seclusion from fellow diners.

  “On second thought, we’ll give the bar a miss,” Oliver said distractedly. “It looks a bit busy, and I see our table is free.”

  They sat down and ordered their drinks. Oliver casually scanned his nearest neighbours, satisfying himself that their conversation could be private.

  “Now Fabien,” he began, whilst pulling a cigar from a silver case. “I’m going to get straight to the point. I had an idea some months ago, or should I say, you created an idea in my mind that evening we went to the Festival Hall with your delightful Cecile … by telling me the story of your ancestor at the time of the French Revolution.”

  “You mean my aristocratic origins!” Fabien said with a shy chuckle. “My ancestor the Comte de Zaragon, who had the estate near Troyes.”

  “Yes, him. But perhaps more importantly, his wife, or should we say concubine?” he said, drawing the flame into the tobacco. “You told us a lot that evening, no doubt the result of my endless questions. Do you mind if we delve into that a little more tonight?”

  “What is this, a history class?” Fabien chortled. “Of course not, go ahead. It will take some of the today’s annoying problems from my mind.”

  Oliver resumed eagerly in a cloud of smoke.

  “Ok, so going back to those times. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember the Comte’s wife Amalie died around 1787, and he took up with a maid in the house—a very beautiful girl.”

  “Well I didn’t see her but yes, that’s right. His own wife died in childbirth leaving him childless. So after a short period he formed a relationship with this maid … and she became pregnant. I believe she was called Madelaine. But she was no ordinary maid—she herself was the illegitimate daughter of an unscrupulous aristocrat and another man’s wife and had been virtually thrown out.”

  “Oh I see; quite a tangled web,” Oliver said hesitantly. “But the Comte acted honourably, if I remember correctly; he refused to push the whole matter under th
e carpet and took her in as his adopted wife, though they never actually married. You said that he made it his business to look after her.”

  “Absolutely … and especially in view of the fact that he no longer had a wife. They had a child … a son called … er … Bastien, I think, and then a daughter as well who was not born when he died. Where is this heading, I’m a little confused?”

  “You probably will be for the moment,” Oliver said with a chuckle, “but there is a purpose to all this! So, the revolution came in seventeen eighty-nine, and at some point that year the Comte was murdered.”

  “Right again, Oliver! I am impressed. Yes, he was murdered by the gangs of looters that were going to all the big houses around that time demanding food and so on. You must remember the French aristocracy were driving the ordinary people into the ground at that time.”

  “Yuh, I know.”

  “At the death of Jean-Baptiste, his brother Jacques-Jerome took over the estate. He, being unmarried, took on the two children, although the girl was not yet born, and he and Madelaine ran the place together. But within two years, Jacques-Jerome also met his end when his coach lost a wheel and careered into a ditch near Aperts.”

  “My God, it goes from bad to worse!”

  “He wasn’t killed outright—sustained a terrible injury and died a few months later. But not before he recognized her as the natural heir and signed everything over to her. Or perhaps, to be accurate, he signed it over to Bastien, being male, with her in control until he came to the right age. But the title was lost, partly because the children were born out of wedlock, but also because the new constitution swept titles away. Otherwise, I might be the Comte de Zaragon!” Fabien said laughing.

  “What a shame. And it has remained in the family ever since, has it not?” Oliver pressed eagerly.

  “Yes it has … and it now belongs to my grandmother who is living there today; that is, when she is not in ‘ospital in Troyes. She has terrible arthritis, poor Agnes.”

  “And am I right in saying that she is leaving this property to you?” Oliver said leaning back as a waitress appeared at the table with a tray of drinks.

  “Wow…you were paying attention that night!” Fabien said good-heartedly. “Yes, I will inherit it. But Oliver, this is no place to live! Once it was a grand chateau, but now … phu… it is in a terrible state. The roof is not great, the whole place needs a total overhaul; in fact, that is one of the reasons my father has not the slightest interest in the chateau.

  Anyway, he made money of his own in the wine trade and has a big apartment in Paris. He suggested it be made directly over to me. My aunt was similarly uninspired by the place, and although there are a few bits and pieces on her sentimental list, she is married to a rich American and is not interested. So it is all mine as they say over here, lock, stock, and barrel!”

  “Completely yours?” Oliver said, giving Fabien a beady look and taking a gulp of gin. “Or are there strings attached?”

  “Non! The house and all its contents … well, apart from a few odd pieces. There are no strings. I am the sole beneficiary. But why does this concern you? The chateau in its present state is not worth a huge amount, and the contents don’t add up to much,” Fabien said, puzzled.

  “But there is something else which intrigues me, Fabien … the furniture which was left to Madelaine and which presumably was handed down through the generations involved one particular item of great value, did it not?”

  Oliver wiped his brow with his napkin and took another sip from his glass.

  Fabien looked at him quizzically for a few moments.

  “Ahh … I am with you!” he exclaimed. “You’re thinking of the Freiburg Cabinet Twin; it would be valuable by today’s standards, all right, but it wasn’t then. Well, not to the same degree.”

  “Exactly,” Oliver said with a glint in his eye. “That is exactly what I am referring to.”

  “But Oliver, as you know, that cabinet was lost long ago. It was burned by the looters. That cabinet does not exist now—phew … if it did I would be sitting on a fortune! It had quite a history, mind you. I’m quite sure you will have seen its twin piece at the Wallace Collection.”

  “Yes, I remember you telling me. I do know the piece,” Oliver said emphatically. “I just wanted you to remind me of how it was lost.”

  “Well as I said, in the year the revolution broke, violence spread out of Paris and into the countryside. People were being killed all over the place, especially people of wealth and position. Gangs of looters were going from one grand house to another, accusing them of hording grain, money, of being against the revolution and in favour of retaining the monarchy. The servants were no match for these people. They broke in and ransacked these places, throwing furniture out of windows—beautiful exquisite pieces, made by master craftsmen, thrown and broken to pieces. They were animals, hunting in packs … bent on destruction; what did they know or care about art, culture? They wanted blood!”

  Fabien took a deep draught from his glass.

  “And Jean-Baptiste … what was his fate?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh … he was killed at the outset. He heard the commotion and went straight out to confront the mob. He tried to reason with them, but they weren’t having it; they didn’t want to listen. I believe he was stabbed and then beaten in front of his household. She was spared—Madelaine—a few of the mob knew her circumstances of being a servant and let her be. Which was lucky for me, really,” he said smiling, “or there would be no me!”

  “And the Twin was burned! God, what a horrible thought. … along with other beautiful pieces, no doubt, paintings included.”

  “That’s what I have read,” Fabien said with a sigh. “But don’t forget we’re talking about events over two ‘undred years ago. The facts have probably been distorted over time.”

  “But let’s assume a mob did assault the house, Fabien. That seems quite likely at that time, no?”

  “Oh yes, it was definitely ransacked, without a doubt, but the exact details of events are probably a bit cloudy now.”

  “Sure, but I can’t help feeling that people, important people with substantial houses, estates, like the Comte would have been warned of this beforehand,” Oliver said, taking a drag on his cigar and letting his eyes settle idly on the bottom of one of the waitresses clearing a nearby table. “They would have taken counter measures … like hiding money, silver, valuable paintings and furniture, before they were taken.”

  “I am quite sure they tried to,” Fabien said, “and probably succeeded … who knows.”

  “Things must have survived … surely. The house is big, going by those photos,” Oliver continued.

  “Sure … some things, smaller items, would have been hidden, I suppose, and been overlooked. I really don’t know enough about the exact circumstances, but you should remember peoples’ loyalties changed with the wind at that time and, for all we know, the servants could have turned on their employers too. They may have had no choice.”

  “Such a pity,” Oliver said, gazing across the restaurant.

  “The revolution?”

  “No! Well … er … yes, the revolution was a monster … I was meaning more, the Freiburg Twin being burned. But I guess the story is true; it’s never surfaced anywhere else.”

  “Oui. I believe it myself, but, just think if that thing still existed. I would potentially be very wealthy man!” Fabien said with a smile. “Except it would most probably have been sold by now.”

  “Yes, of course, and you would have your father and aunt to deal with. But just imagine if, when you take possession of the house, you were to discover an item of … er … great value which had been overlooked—something which had been locked away in a safe place and been forgotten about! It’s not inconceivable, is it? I’ve seen the photographs and it looks enormous and … well … solid, shall we say. The place is intact … it’s just been a bit unloved, neglected over the decades with probably only the most urgent structural repairs being a
ttended to.”

  “Well, I would certainly agree with you on that!” Fabien snorted. “That’s why Cecile views it with such horror. She sees the amount of money needed to just make it habitable again, and then there’s the annual maintenance costs. It is out of my reach, Oliver … it is as simple as that.”

  Oliver gave him a long glance.

  “Yesss …,” he said slowly, lingering on the word for a moment. “I understand your predicament perfectly. But look on the bright side, Fabien, you’re coming into a magnificent chateau with fantastic potential … now you just have to make a fortune.”

  “With a lifetime of repair bills and running costs to keep the place together. I simply don’t have the capital to take it on, Oliver, this is the sad truth. You should see it; it needs so much doing to it. My grandmother’s arthritis has probably been caused by the dampness of the place. Lately I’ve been ‘aving terrible rows with Cecile over our future, and the Chateau always seems to cause them.”

  “Oh … that’s a pity.”

  “She keeps asking me to go back to Paris and get a job that pays better. She’s fed up with this half relationship, as she calls it, and even when she does see me, we seem to quarrel. I see trouble ahead unless I can convince the chairman to raise my salary. God knows, Hardy’s is such a successful company.”

  “And what about your father, can he help you?” Oliver probed.

  “Papa is on his third wife! He doesn’t have so much money himself these days. Non, that will never happen.”

  “So my payments to you are useful then?” Oliver said, playing one of his cards.

  He gave Fabien a meaningful look.

  “Yes, certainly, Oliver, I’m very grateful,” the young man replied, shifting on his chair slightly. “But we must be careful; it would be bad for my … er … prospects, as it were. I’m not sure how Hardy’s would view this situation, not to mention the tax man.”

  “True, we must be careful.”

  A waiter appeared at the table and took their orders. A few minutes later a waitress brought a bottle of Chianti, and they clinked glasses.