The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “That’s about right,” Mary agreed. “Not that I care, mind you: it’s nice to have the place to myself for a bit and not have to run around after him. Men are just children, really.”

  “Yes … he must be very good at what he does, your husband? I can imagine Oliver being quite a tough task master!” Lily said.

  “Yes, he is. But then, Mel has been in the trade for almost forty years now, so he knows what he’s doing. Started at Malletts when he was sixteen, straight out of school, and moved on from there. Hasn’t done anything else. But I stay clear of his work these days. He doesn’t like me in his workshop, that’s for sure. Every now and then he might ask for a spot of advice, but not very often.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. What a skill! I have to say, Mary, I love it that we still have some master … er … master …”

  “Cabinetmakers.”

  “Precisely. There are so many button-pushing money people in England these days, you wonder how anything gets made at all,” Lily said sadly.

  “That’s right. We’ve handed it all to China and India! And then we have the bare faced cheek to tell them they’re creating too much smoke.”

  “What … pollution?”

  “Yes, that’s right. We’ve made our fair share of smoke in the past, and now we expect them to do all the manufacturing, because we like to sit on our backsides; but woe betide them if they make any pollution. We want it all ways.”

  “Mmmm, sad,” Lily said, pausing. “Oh well, I must let you go. I’ve been holding you up far too long, Mary. Lovely speaking with you. Oh, and I put the key back under the brick.”

  “Great, nice talking to you, Lily. Don’t hesitate to pop in and see us for a cup of tea when Melvyn gets back. I reckon you and he would have a lot to say to each other about the state of the country.”

  “I would love to, Mary. Bye for now.”

  Lily slid the phone into her pocket and stood quietly by her car for a few minutes absorbing the particular atmosphere of Strupe Hall. She thought about Oliver and the faint whiff of mystery that surrounded him. There was something about him … something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Above her, the dying rays of the sun blasted the tops of the copper beeches into a blaze of gold, whilst at ground level, swallows flitted low and fast over the long shadows of the lawns.

  Presently, she climbed into her car and drove home.

  * * *

  “Is this okay?” Constanta said, looking at an exhausted Tarquin as they slumped down in the bar of the hotel.

  “It’s perfect!” he said, mustering a weak smile. “Let’s just get a drink and fast. What a day!”

  “I think it’s a beer for me, a big one!” Constanta said, gesturing to the waiter.

  “Mmm, good idea,” Tarquin agreed. “And you, Petru?”

  “Make it three beers,” the young man muttered.

  “So, here we are, in Troyes, with some time to relax and see things more clearly,” Constanta said, trying to stimulate the men into some meaningful speculation. “We know we have tomorrow morning off, and then we cruise over there in the afternoon for ‘showtime.’ We would never have got this far if it had been down to you, Tarquin, would we. This might happen … that might happen … this may not happen … blah blah blah … but because I’m a stubborn bitch, we are here, and so are those bastards who caused you all this trouble.”

  Tarquin turned his tired eyes towards her. “You’re absolutely right, Constanta. I wouldn’t be here if I was left to my own devices, and … and I wouldn’t have been nearly killed by a pair of nutcases on the way to Dover!”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it? And sure, you wouldn’t have been attacked on the roadside; you’d been attacked in your fucking house!”

  Tarquin smiled and put his large hand on her knee.

  “You’re right. They’d have caught up with me somehow. I’m pleased we’re here, I really am. You’ve done brilliantly to get us to the house.”

  “Darling, don’t look so serious!” Constanta said, removing his hand and placing it back on the chair arm. “I was just making a point … and anyway, you’re gonna pay!”

  “Well, of course you won’t be out of pocket,” Tarquin said, raising his glass and taking a gulp.

  “Not in that way, stupid. You’re gonna pay because I’m gonna make sure they—those bastards—pay you. So we’re are all going to get paid off!”

  “I wish I had your confidence, sweetie,” Tarquin said, staring at his beer glass. “But I’m not so sure that that will be the outcome.”

  “There you are again with doubts. Be positive. Things will fall into place, just you wait!”

  “Mr Tarquin,” Petru said straightening his legs under the table. “She is most definitely a stubborn woman, and she just might make it happen!”

  “Right, boys,” Constanta said, sounding like a school mistress. “Let’s see those photos and decide what we’re gonna do. There are loads of trees and bushes around the house, which is great, and they don’t have a dog, which is even better! I think we need to be over there by say … two o’clock?”

  “Mmm, that should be fine if they stick to their plan,” Tarquin agreed. “But what if they bring it in earlier? Then we miss the shots of it being unloaded. We have to remember, they’ve done nothing wrong in the eyes of the law at the present time. They’ve brought a van to France and are delivering a piece of furniture.”

  “A fake piece of furniture, Tarquin … a forgery,” Constanta retaliated.

  “Yes, but we have to prove this,” he continued.

  “In this case, we need to get pictures of the actual furniture itself, not just a crate with something inside it,” Petru said, flicking his camera on so they could look at the house again.

  “Well, duh! Of course we do. You were the one who was so keen to get in and start photographing.”

  “I know, but now I gave it more thought. How, if it comes out of the van in box … which it probably will … how are we going to photograph it?” Petru said, looking at her.

  Constanta took a gulp of beer and gazed across the bar in thought.

  “But will it be in a box?” Tarquin said.

  “Think about it, Mr Tarquin, they will not have this furniture sitting in van without at least wrapping it up in protection of some sort; and in this case we cannot photograph it.”

  “He’s right … we will need to get inside,” Constanta said firmly. “I think this will not be so hard. In the station I heard the young guy saying the house needs airing, so he wanted to open the windows and shutters.”

  “Oh, great! And I suppose it’s me who is going in first?” Petru said.

  “Well, darling … you are the best; the most experienced at this! You had no trouble in the house in Battersea.”

  “Shit! This is different!” Petru said vehemently. “You cannot get lost in a Battersea house unless you’re stupid. But this … just look at it. It’s huge!”

  “And probably haunted!” she said, throwing her head back and cackling softly.

  “No, Constanta, this is not funny,” Petru persisted. “We need to work this out carefully!”

  “Perhaps we should simply confront them when they’ve unloaded the bloody thing,” Tarquin offered. “Forget all this creeping around.”

  “What, and order them to unpack crate in front of us?” Petru said.

  “No. I don’t like the sound of that, Tarquin,” Constanta interrupted. “Perhaps there are other guys in that place. It sounds untidy and risky. We need to get a better understanding of what they’re planning to do. I mean, what are they planning to do, for fuck’s sake?”

  “I honestly don’t have a clue,” Tarquin said wearily. “They’ve brought a fake piece of furniture from England to a chateau in France, and now what?”

  “Well, it’s worth a lot of money, that’s for sure,” Petru said. “They’ve got the Russian mafia on their case!”

  “Look at the place, it’s derelict!” Constanta said, picking up the camera and sc
rutinising the shots. “It doesn’t make sense. Anyone can see this house is not being used … at least not very much; it has plants on the driveway.”

  “I agree, it’s a bloody mystery,” Tarquin mumbled.

  “And what about the car, we can’t leave it at the side of the road,” Constanta said, shifting her eyes from Tarquin to Petru. “Do we take a taxi?”

  “I was thinking there is possible place,” Petru replied. “When we were first coming to the house, there were some farm buildings off the road … just before where we stopped the first time. We can drive off the road and perhaps put the car behind those buildings … they didn’t look used.”

  Constanta leaned forward and gave Petru a high five. “All right with that, Tarquin?” she said, turning to him.

  “Yuh. Would prefer to have a vehicle nearby,” he said, yawning. ”Do you mind if we get supper now? I’m hungry.”

  “Good thinking,” she said, standing up and grabbing her jacket. “Did you feed Percy?”

  “Yuh. He’s fine. Poor dog’s bloody knackered with all this excitement!”

  “He has water?”

  “Yes … he’s fine.”

  * * *

  With the van safely tucked in an overgrown courtyard on the far side of the chateau, Oliver and Fabien decided it was time for a celebratory drink. Melvyn wasn’t ready to relax. He was enjoying some time to himself, exploring the rooms closest to the kitchen where the other two were chatting. But it was getting dark, and as the thickening gloom pervaded the house, he felt an instinctive need to hear their voices.

  Many of the lights didn’t work, had never worked, not even when the old lady lived here, and this gave his wanderings an eerie quality. At one point he ambled along a corridor a little too far and, with a jolt, felt the oppressive silence around him. Oliver and Fabien were no longer audible. Like snow on the forest floor, the wood panelling damped all sound, making the walls creep silently inwards, choking his sense of space as though to snare him. Ruffled, he hastily retraced his steps to the areas with electric light and presently returned to the kitchen to join the others.

  “There you are, Mel,” Oliver said, extending a welcoming arm in his direction. “Thought we were going to have to send out a search party!”

  He poured him a glass of wine.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty dark along there, I have to say!” Melvyn said, feeling sheepish that he had felt so scared only minutes earlier.

  “Is it as you expected, Melvyn?” Fabien said.

  “Better! To be honest, it goes well beyond my expectations, Fabien,” Melvyn replied. “It’s perfect for our needs. It has such a strong atmosphere, you know, a feeling of history.”

  “You know, Melvyn, I love to ’ear you saying this,” Fabien continued with a look of great gravity. “This place is in my blood, and yet—unbelievably—a few years ago I was planning to get rid of it. Oliver knows why. It was to do with my job, my prospects, my outlook on life, I suppose, and yes, the problems with my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that,” Melvyn mumbled shyly.

  “Don’t be sorry, Melvyn! It’s all worked out fantastically now. That is, of course, presuming our little ‘project’ goes to plan,” he said, smiling.

  “It’ll go to plan okay,” Oliver said with extreme confidence. “Just look at this place; it aches to have hidden treasure, doesn’t it?”

  “I think so, Oliver,” Fabien agreed. “It has a romance to it. An old French chateau, built before the revolution and home to the Comptes de Zaragon … buried and almost forgotten in the Foret d’Orient … has revealed an ’idden chest containing a priceless artifact—the find of the century!”

  Oliver raised his glass and they all toasted, “To the Freiburg Cabinet!”

  “Right,” Fabien said, standing up. “Let’s get the food going before it’s too late. We need to be sharp tomorrow, so I think an early night all round. Are you sure you’ll be all right down here, Melvyn? Cecile got both beds in the blue room aired and ready for you and Oliver; but as you wish.”

  “He likes his own space, does our Melvyn,” Oliver said. “Besides, he can keep an eye out for any robbers!”

  Melvyn smiled self-consciously.

  “I like my sleeping bag and camp bed. I’ve sort of got used to them,” he said. “Can never really sleep well in a proper bed if my Mary isn’t there; feel a bit lost.”

  “That’s absolutely fine, Melvyn, if you’re comfortable. I suppose you can ’ave a cup of tea in the night if you like as well!” Fabien said.

  “But no scoffing our food, Mel!” Oliver said lightheartedly.

  “Oh, have you got a spare torch, Fabien? I left mine in the van,” Melvyn asked.

  “Yes, up there on that shelf. ’Elp yourself. That’s one thing we ’ave lots of. The electrical wiring in this ’ouse is terrible, but it’s a major job, and we really want to do the whole house rather than just a little bit. Cecile and I know exactly which lights work and which don’t, but it is a bit confusing for guests.”

  “No problem,” Melvyn said. “I’ll keep to where the lights work till the morning. The air’s very heavy tonight,” he continued. “I reckon we’ve got a thunderstorm on the way.”

  “Yes, there are some storms around at the moment. I ’eard it on the radio,” Fabien agreed. “Don’t worry, there are no leaks in your bedroom, Oliver.”

  “I’m glad to hear that!” Oliver said with a chuckle.

  Half an hour later they were eating a microwave supper of lasagna and green beans with a basket full of French bread. A ripe Brie and some apples were pudding.

  “Wonderful!” Oliver said, pushing his chair away from the table after finishing. “Would you mind if I smoke, Fabien, or prefer I stand outside? I know Mel loves his pipe after supper too.”

  Melvyn grunted his approval.

  “No, go ahead, it’s no problem,” Fabien said. “The house is so big, the smells all disappear. Besides, we’re opening all the shutters tomorrow morning, or at least the ones that do open, to get some fresh air into the place. It can be a bit damp, and it’s going to be a lovely sunny day, so I ’ear.”

  “That’s good,” Oliver said, puffing hard on his cigar whilst lighting it. “Do you know much about the history of the forest, Fabien? I feel sure we should have some idea of what went on here. Isn’t that right, Mel?”

  “Yeah, it’s true, we should,” he said, pulling a tuft of tobacco from a pouch.

  “Well, I do know a bit about it,” Fabien replied. “After all, it’s a big part of my ancestry.”

  So he settled himself into a more comfortable position, and with a replenished glass of wine, took them through a short potted history from Roman times to the part the forest played in the crusades, and then on to the revolution of 1789 when his family lost its grand status.

  “Quite a sad story, Fabien,” Oliver said presently, getting to his feet and stretching. “But families come and go, I suppose. Look on the bright side though … yours is about to rise again!”

  “If only,” Fabien mumbled.

  “Right, it’s time to get some snoring in, I think,” Oliver said, looking at his watch. “Eleven o’clock. Okay, what shall we say … breakfast at eightish?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Fabien agreed.

  He and Oliver headed off chatting noisily, leaving Melvyn to assemble his bed. As the sound of their voices became fainter and then altogether unheard, a slight shiver went down his back. The silence of the house was heavy on his ears. But within half an hour he was sound asleep. In actual fact, they all fell asleep, quickly, deeply, safe within the walls of that ancient edifice, until, that is, Oliver was woken by the sound of distant voices.

  They were shouting, taunting, angry voices, at first some distance away and then gradually coming closer, causing a chill to sweep through his body. He lay there rigidly, not able to move a muscle … like a deer in the darkness sensing the approach of the leopard. Louder the sounds grew, men’s voices, harsh and challenging, until they
were outside the gates at the end of the drive.

  Then they were through, moving forward … a column of hate. They cried out angrily in the darkness, their yells like sharp blades cutting into the inky velvet cloth of the night and causing Oliver to feel an overriding terror. He saw the flicker of their torches on the black glass of his windows, heard the metallic clink of their weapons, and he knew what they wanted. It was him they sought … and he knew what he had to do.

  Fighting an overwhelming heaviness, he went out and faced the mob, and they jeered at him, rebuked him, and told him he was a liar; that he was hoarding food for himself and his family … allowing them to starve. He stood there and told them he had nothing to give them, that it was a mistake, that they were misinformed and to move away and return to their villages. But they came ever closer, spitting words of fury, thrusting their sharp blades towards him and demanding satisfaction.

  And then, quite suddenly, the mob dissolved and he found himself looking into the greenish pockmarked face of Robespierre, whose cold eyes fixed him with a steely stare. Surrounding them was a chanting crowd, now numbering in the thousands, and he realized with an electrifying jolt that he was elevated on a platform. Robespierre’s slight frame was perched arrogantly on the precious cabinet, his heals kicking the purpleheart sides with callous disregard. And Oliver could smell the fear of the people he stood with, the people destined to share his fate. The horde was below them, a sea of crazed faces gorging on the unspeakable butchery they were witnessing.

  Should he make a run for it and be hacked to pieces by the soldiers and rabble, or accept the clean, cruel surgery of the state? What would he feel? Absolutely nothing? Or would his severed head live on in the basket briefly, as his light dimmed? He was engulfed by an aching loss. The cabinet had been his main focus for years, and now, right at the last moment, the glory of its birth into the world would pass him by.

  The drums were rolling. He was getting close now; he felt the evil draft of the blade as it fell, stopping with a sickening thud to an explosion of applause. He looked down. His feet were standing in pools of sticky scarlet; then, as he was roughly manhandled and bound to the plank facedown, the walls of the world crushed in on him. It was his turn now.