The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “To you and Cecile,” Oliver said with a smile. “Take my advice, never let a good girl go.”

  “I know,” Fabien said, flexing his jaw.

  “I do love this place,” Oliver said, changing tack. “Such pretty waitresses and their food is always perfect. When I come into this part of town, I make it my business to eat well, and being a Frenchman, I know you appreciate good food!”

  “Well, this is very true,” Fabien said, taking a large gulp of wine. “But since I have lived in London I have become lazy. Buying ready made meals and pushing them into the microwave.”

  “Don’t worry, we men are pretty much the same when there’s no woman around keeping an eye.”

  Twenty minutes later their respective orders were wafted onto the table in a whirlwind of garlic. A gently crisped entrecote steak for Oliver with a clutch of French fries, and for Fabien, it was a pair of plump poussin in a brandy and cream sauce. The dishes steamed enticingly as the two men picked up their cutlery.

  “Wow, I’m suddenly feeling very ‘ungry!” Fabien said with a chuckle.

  “Bon appetite!” Oliver said, slicing into the pink meat.

  They chatted amiably for the next half hour, and Oliver was happy to listen to Fabien’s take on the inner workings of Hardy’s. The petty squabbles between the various experts, the flirtations between certain high-profile directors and their personal assistants and the gossip this generated; it was a story Oliver knew only too well, and the same pattern was probably replicated in every large institution in the land.

  Having finished, he wiped his mouth, pushed his chair back from the table, and pulled another cigar from its case. He lit it with his old-fashioned lighter and disappeared momentarily in a cloud of smoke.

  Oliver now ran a finger inside his shirt collar and checked his mobile (which was off); his face looked calm, but underneath the tablecloth his ankle was flexed awkwardly to one side. He looked at Fabien for a few seconds as the young man finished the last few morsels on his plate, as though deciding how to proceed. He then drew a deep breath.

  “Fabien,” he said uneasily, “forgive me for being … erm … a sort of social observer, but I think I understand your position very clearly. You’re quite obviously from a family with an illustrious history, what one could call an enviable pedigree; you’re part of an elite though rather old social network, and I would imagine you’ve rubbed shoulders with some important people over the years.”

  Fabien listened with concerned interest.

  “Your family has had money and prestige over the generations, but now … and please don’t think I’m being rude … in your generation, through no fault of theirs, or of yours, for that matter, because of natural events, taxes, a few bad marriages possibly, and an altering world, the wealth seems to have dried up. And here you are, cultured, urbane, well connected in an old-fashioned sense but … bluntly speaking, broke.”

  Fabien looked across at him uneasily.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Fabien,” Oliver said, lifting his palm to silence a reply. “I’m not criticising. There are others like you. You haven’t been brought up with that hungry cutting edge which so often defines the wealthy of today, but you have immense charm and style. You put personal fulfillment above financial status. Foremost, you’re a decent … honest … polite young man, Fabien; a quite appalling handicap in today’s world!”

  Oliver’s face cracked into an immense grin at this point, and he chuckled whilst filling Fabien’s glass. It broke through the young man’s sudden surge of despondency, so he too laughed, in spite of himself.

  “Wow, Oliver, you painted a sad picture of me,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “But to be honest, you have a point.”

  “It hurts, doesn’t it,” Oliver said, clasping Fabien’s forearm briefly. “But sometimes you need to take a good look at yourself and take stock. You have a girl who loves you, Fabien, a girl who’s going to depend on you. Are you going to let her slip away?”

  “Slip away? What do you mean? Do I seem defeated?” Fabien said, frowning. “I most certainly will not let her go. I intend to marry Cecile; she’s perfect for me and I will do everything possible to make this ‘appen.”

  He picked up a cocktail stick and twisted it through his fingers, driving the pointed ends deeply into his flesh, as though chastising himself for his impotence. Flushed, he avoided Oliver’s eyes.

  “Perhaps I should be more financially ambitious,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

  “Yes you should Fabien!” Oliver said, driving his point home. “You need to start living, breathing, thinking money, when you’re awake … and asleep. You need brashness, my friend; the brashness of the east end barrow boys who migrated to the stock exchange and the property market. Yes, who used their ‘go get’ attitude and are now driving the latest Bmw’s and Aston Martins. Do you know why they’re rich? Well I’ll tell you. Because they really wanted it! They craved it above everything! They wanted to leave their old life in the dust behind their tail lights.”

  “But I am not a stockbroker, Oliver, I don’t see how brashness is going to ‘elp me,” Fabien said, genuinely confused.

  “It’s a mindset … a mindset which will help you to look at possibilities within your own business. Brush away the good, patient, well-mannered Fabien; you don’t have time to be patient. You need money and you need it now! How long will Cecile wait?”

  Oliver sat back and sucked deeply on his cigar as a waitress removed their plates and dishes. Coffee was ordered.

  “I now get to the crux of our conversation,” he continued. “Everything we’ve discussed to this point has been leading to this. Tonight, Fabien, I’m offering you the chance to sweep away your money troubles in a relatively short amount of time.”

  He held up his hand again to stop interruption. “Please wait until I’ve finished.”

  Fabien looked at him with surprise and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

  “Ever since that evening at the Festival Hall when you introduced me to Cecile and told me your wonderful story, I’ve been thinking about a possibility. You didn’t realize it at the time, but when you informed me that the twin of the Freiburg Cabinet once belonged to your family, I very nearly fell off my chair! I simply couldn’t believe it!”

  “You did? Is this so fantastic?” Fabien said, perplexed.

  “Let me explain. As you know, I’m an ‘antique dealer’—someone who buys and sells antiques and hopefully makes some money along the way. My knowledge of antique furniture is my power; my skill is using that knowledge cleverly. I may not have all the information I need in my head, but I sure as hell know where I can find it … and pretty darn quickly! You’re one source, and there are others as well, plus a substantial library of books I’ve collected over the years. But there’s a problem. Antique furniture is running out. It’s been disappearing abroad in alarming quantities, leaving a scarcity here. There simply isn’t enough to go round. So I’ve had to keep my wits about me and improvise.”

  Oliver leant forwards to make his point.

  “Fabien, have you ever stopped to consider how many so called ‘antiques’ are actually fakes?”

  Fabien raised his eyebrows and fiddled with the cocktail stick without speaking.

  “Well, let me assure you, there are a lot of fake antiques around—an awful lot. Some are detected, and others … well, let’s just say they are just too good. Or they are good enough to convince certain ‘officials’ that they can accept them. Now, my intention tonight is to run a simple idea past you. We’ve been through your family history around the time of the French Revolution; it’s been a sad little sortie into a time of desperation for your forbears, a time when their world was suddenly shattered. Your family lost things at that time, Fabien, things they should rightfully still possess now. Particularly poignant for me is the loss of the Freiburg Twin, a piece very close to the heart of your dear forebear Madelaine and made by a quite brilliant cabinetmaker. Now we come to a point in our convers
ation where you will need to rein in your natural reaction and hear me out before passing judgment.”

  Oliver took a long pull on his cigar and exhaled in a masterful display of nonchalance.

  “Are you prepared to enable me,” he hesitated for a few seconds, “to bring the lost twin of the Freiburg Cabinet back to life…. yes, to make a copy … and … in so doing, secure a very bright future for you and your beautiful Cecile?”

  Fabien sat dumbstruck for at least five seconds.

  “Did you say make a … make a copy … a fake, that is pretending to be the lost cabinet?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Oliver said, staring at him.

  “Putain! Are you crazy? M … make a copy of the Freiburg Cabinet? Are you out of your mind, Oliver? Me, help a forger, a criminal?” he whispered incredulously, fixing Oliver with a hot gaze. “I would lose my career, my credibility at a stroke … I couldn‘t do this in a million years! Please, Oliver, you misunderstand me … or is this an English joke?”

  “Fabien, calm down, we’re discussing an idea,” Oliver said firmly. “The most difficult aspect of any forgery of this magnitude is trying to slot it authentically into a historical context. Cabinets like this don’t just ‘pitch up’ out of the blue. If they did, they may as well have a flashing neon sign attached to them saying, “Fake”!

  “Exactly, exactly!” Fabien said in outraged tones.

  “But Fabien, the beauty of this situation is that there is a perfect historical pocket to place our cabinet into. A pocket which has been opened up, as it were, by the weird circumstances surrounding the original’s demise!”

  “Demise?”

  “I mean disappearance, loss. Don’t you see, this almost insurmountable hurdle is already overcome. Documents prove that two Freiburg Cabinets left the workshops of Schafer in 1784 and 1786; that they were both commissioned by the Royal Household. That one was retained for the royal apartments and found its way to the Wallace Collection … that the other was given as a wedding gift to the Comtesse de Zaragon. It disappeared from the historical record in about 1791 when Jean-Jacques had his will drawn up shortly before his death. The cabinet was burned, so of course it has been deleted. I don’t doubt the real story. But I have an alternative history for this cabinet.”

  “An alternative history? Please, Oliver, this scares me … I couldn’t contemplate such a thing,” Fabien said, glancing nervously around the restaurant.

  “As I was saying, I have an alternative history,” Oliver persisted. “As a previous member of the staff, Madelaine was in touch with ordinary people. She was able to talk to the locals on a level which was denied the aristocrats she mixed with. She knew what was happening in the local villages and was given ample warning that bad things were heading their way. She knew an attack on the house was very possible, since such events were spreading out from Paris like wildfire. She decided to take evasive action.

  To begin with she implored Jean-Baptiste to leave whilst there was still time. To make his way to Austria and wait for the turbulence to subside. Yes, to join the already large numbers of émigrés escaping the country. But he refused … and his fate, sadly, is history. But she took action of her own behind his back, prior to his death. She told the estate carpenter, a man of great loyalty, to make up a chest in a rough but thorough way, which could house the Twin. This chest was then taken into the roof space and hidden amongst the rafters in as discreet a manner as possible until some time in the future.”

  “Oliver! What are you saying? I don’t feel you are the person I know any more!” the young Frenchman said, staring aghast at Oliver.

  “Just listen, Fabien, don’t pass judgement,” Oliver said firmly before resuming. “She told no one. She was falling into the hands of her brother-in-law, Jacques-Jerome. She wasn’t sure how things would turn out for her, so she kept the secret of the cabinet to herself in case her life took a plunge. Then Jacques-Jerome had his accident in the coach and later died. This might have been the time to reveal it to her children … but why? It wasn’t gold. Its value then would have been negligible; a piece of furniture made by a discredited cabinetmaker, a slave of the royalists. So it remained hidden and only she, the old carpenter, and a couple of his loyal friends knew. Eventually they passed on, and then in 1836 so did she. The cabinet was alone, and it stayed that way in the garret of Chateau Clery for the next 160 years. Agnes never discovered it in the roof space, and it wasn’t until you and Cecile moved in to assess the work needed to repair the roof that it was discovered.”

  “Oliver, this is madness! You really are giving this serious thought! It would mean prison. Mon dieu! How could you make another Freiburg Cabinet … and get away with it!”

  “This may come as a shock to you, but I have someone who is very capable of making a copy—exquisitely.”

  “This is not possible, Oliver! You don’t understand the … the difficulties are huge. We would be discovered and thrown behind bars. I hardly believe we are having this conversation. The wine, this restaurant … I feel I am losing my mind!”

  “You need courage, Fabien; you live only once. When you inherit the house—which with great respect to your grandmother may not be so long—you’re standing on the threshold of a momentous opportunity in your life. You have the key; you just have to turn it.”

  “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” Fabien whispered to himself.

  “Do you believe Madelaine would hate you for such a thing?” Oliver continued. “On the contrary, I think she would look down with pride that you were sanctioning the rebuilding of a cabinet she adored, and at the same time financing the restoration of the house, and more importantly than anything, securing a future for you and Cecile. She was a maid, Fabien, she knew the hardships of life and what it is to struggle; she had no airs or graces. She wasn’t bourgeois; if she saw a chance, she grabbed it with both hands!”

  “But how could you possibly make such a thing, Oliver, and fool the experts? I don’t believe it can be done. They would find a flaw; it only takes one tiny oversight.”

  “Fabien,” Oliver said with deadly assurance, “the Freiburg Cabinet can be made flawlessly, believe me. I’ve made … well, one or two other pieces, and I’ll show you. Understandably you doubt the ability of someone to make such a piece; you are becoming an expert yourself and therefore it lies with me to prove you wrong, before you commit to anything. I understand that. But what I’m asking you now, is whether you will agree to the idea; that takes courage. Crossing that boundary is not easy … but the rewards for those who have the guts are stupendous!”

  “Oliver … this is madness!” Fabien muttered, gazing at him hotly across the table.

  “The most dangerous part of this operation, or should I say one of the most dangerous,” Oliver continued undeterred, “is getting the cabinet across the channel. Customs are not focused on furniture in the same way as drugs, firearms, etcetera, so I’m prepared to take the risk. My biggest problem is if they suspect me of carrying cash; it’s highly unlikely, but if they did, they might do a search, which would not be a good thing.

  Of course, I’ll have a couple of tricks up my sleeve, but the risk is there if they went to town on me. The other thing, of course, and one that you’re very familiar with, is that once the cabinet is revealed in France, it will shortly become a Monument Historique. This will prohibit it from export and therefore deter wealthy foreign buyers. This depresses its value comparatively speaking. But Fabien,” Oliver said, leaning forward and looking at him intensely, “let’s make no mistake … the cabinet will still sell for a phenomenal amount of money. Its discovery in France makes its authenticity that much more believable! Also, there are a few extremely wealthy individuals over there who keep a sharp eye on the top auctions. The artifacts of Marie Antoinette are very sought after amongst the French elite.”

  He stopped for a moment, letting his words sink in.

  “Mon Dieu … mon Dieu!” Fabien muttered again to himself, whilst staring at the ceiling. “Mer
de … you are crazy, Oliver!”

  “Listen, Fabien, I know it’s come as a complete surprise to you … this whole concept; of course your immediate reaction is negative. You’ve probably never done anything wrong in your whole life, apart from ignoring some parking tickets in the Rue de Lion; you’ve been a good citizen. But I implore you to think hard, think about Cecile and your future; good honest people, Fabien, get left behind in the world of today, and lord forbid Cecile should leave you for someone … well … with a bit more to offer.”

  With the final card played, Oliver stubbed out his cigar very thoroughly in the porcelain ashtray and stood up. He took a last gulp of coffee and then gestured for the bill. Cigar smoke eddied around him, giving him the aspect of a magician who had emerged miraculously from beneath the stage. Flexing his elbows backwards, he stretched briefly, and then placed his hand heavily on the young man’s shoulder.

  “Fabien, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our evening, but there’s nothing further to say on this particular matter. You need to think. We’ll carry on our other business as per normal, of course, but this subject won’t come up again unless you instigate it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked towards the bar.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Sometimes, the treacherous wind of Fate, can blow the arrow of suspicion into the flesh of an innocent man’

  It was early evening in Battersea, and July was well underway. A black Mercedes Sprinter was taking up position in a quiet nook of Wandsworth called Warriner Avenue, which lies in that network of streets just south of the park. When the engine stopped, the two burly occupants remained seated in the vehicle, listening to the radio and casting furtive glances towards the door of number nine.

  This was the home of Tarquin Stanhope—a man in his late forties of good honest character, but perhaps one, who through a blessing or curse of birth, was given to a life of little unnecessary effort and a good deal of leisure. Standing six foot two inches tall, broad shouldered, and with a shock of sandy hair, his facial features might well have been equally pronounced.