“Just think how much sweeter it’ll be when we haul it up those final steps onto the top floor! Our bird will soon be in its roost!” Oliver said poetically.
* * *
Down on the ground floor, Petru had slithered from the window ledge onto the old Persian carpet and stopped dead. He listened intently and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Nothing, just a strong smell he couldn’t pinpoint. Slowly he stood up, steadying his small rucksack. The room was like a museum—old looking with walls covered in wooden panels and countless pictures. Pieces of furniture, old used furniture, stood around in a haphazard way, including a writing desk with a chair pushed under it, held together with string.
He stood gazing around him for a minute or two and then padded his way carefully towards the half-open door. This was a huge six-panelled affair which reminded him of a computer game called “Castle of Gems.” He stopped again and listened.
This time he picked up the sounds of male voices, far away. They came and went intermittently and created an overwhelming sense of dimension in his mind. He moved out of the room silently, following his shadow for a few moments before he found himself in an even darker passage with a worn stone floor. With blood pumping through his system, he edged slowly along, passing another room on his left and a small staircase adjacent to it.
A cool breeze poured through the doorway and coiled around him, urging him forwards and deeper into the house. All the time his muscles were primed to turn him in a split second and hurtle him back down the passageway, across the room, and out through the window. He crept slowly along towards another open door off the passage. A green glow emanated from it and flickered restlessly on the wood panels opposite.
As he came to it, he saw it was a lavatory with a massive sink and worn brass taps; sunlight was blinking through some thick fleshy leaves directly outside the window, and their movement was projecting onto the opposite wall. It was like a crazy dream.
Moving on, he could now see the end of the passage quite clearly—a rectangle of brightness into another space. He reached it and stopped, awestruck. He was standing looking into a cavernous hall. He listened, whilst his eyes scanned methodically around. The space unnerved him; he would be so exposed. Was there someone in that space sitting quietly, unobserved, ready to sound the alarm? Towards the far end, an imposing stone staircase with intricately sculpted wrought iron balustrades swept upwards in a great curve out of sight. A light brown piano stood cradled at its base, whilst behind this he could see farther doorways to rooms ablaze with sunshine.
In the centre, beneath the spreading arms of a brass chandelier stood an octagonal oak table badly disfigured by age. He could hear the voices now much louder and clearer. They were coming from above and seemed to alter dramatically in volume and pitch.
Plucking his rucksack off his shoulder, he pulled out his camera and, checking the flash was off, took some photographs. He cursed at his trembling fingers. He was more frightened than he realized. Before heading forwards and upwards towards the voices, he took a careful tour of the rooms off the hall.
The first was the kitchen. Spacious and light, he could see it had been used very recently. Dirty plates with cheese rinds and apple peelings sat on the rough oak table with chairs shoved dismissively away. He shuddered. It was like visiting the den of some wild beast, about to return at any moment. He took a couple of shots and then moved into the room next door, all the while keeping his ears pricked for approaching noise.
This was a small room and much darker. With a jolt, he spotted a chest on the bare floorboards and some tools scattered around it. Shit! Was this it? The cabinet they’d been searching for? He tiptoed nimbly over and scrutinized it. It was old—rough looking—and seemed to be in the process of being repaired.
This wasn’t what he was expecting, but there was no time for deliberation. He hurriedly took shots from all angles, waiting for a hand to close on his shoulder at any moment. He then edged back out into the hall and listened. Nothing. What were they doing?
He scanned the rooms around him, assessing his best escape route if he became trapped. Or a temporary hiding place? Somewhere to go at a moment’s notice. Suddenly he heard them again; low conversation a long way above. Underneath the staircase, a door set into the paneling caught his eye. Keeping to the perimeter of the hall and erstwhile looking upwards towards the upper landing, he crept quietly around. Reaching the door, he lifted a small circular ring handle and pulled it fractionally. There was a loud creak and something shifted inside.
He held the door hard and listened. Yes, the voices were still there, but more distant now. Opening the door more fully, he glimpsed a large table leg swinging viciously towards him. He lunged at it, stopping its fall, a hot wave rushing through him. He stayed motionless for a moment or two, his heart pounding. Then he pushed it back and adjusted its position carefully so it balanced.
Closing the door, he glanced around. He had to get on with the job. There wasn’t time for this. If he ran into trouble down here, it would be a straight rush outside, simple as that. He moved round to the front of the staircase and looked up listening. After a moment or two, he heard the muffled voices some way above him. Moving quickly, his muscles supercharged with adrenaline, he sprang up the stone stairs hugging the wall. Slowing towards the top, he crept carefully onto the first floor landing. Again he marveled at the space around him. What a house!
The main landing had a number of rooms sprouting from it with peeling paint on their faded cream panels. Some of the doors were open, and he could see at least two brightly lit bedrooms. Passageways in two directions were completely sealed off and afforded no escape route. He figured these were too dilapidated parts of the building and had been sealed to protect the better parts.
Returning to the stairs, he again inched his way upwards, aware he was closing in. The men were seemingly on the third floor.
“Thank God, we’re nearly there!” a voice above him suddenly said, causing him to freeze.
“One more flight, Oliver, and the heavy lifting is over!” another voice said.
“Look … let’s get it to the top and have a break before we take it into the garret. A nice ‘cup of English tea,’ non?” a third voice said.
“Fabien, we were always going to stop at the top,” the second voice said with a snort. “We’ve got to fetch the chest from downstairs yet!”
“Mon Dieu! Of course we have! I was thinking we were going to deposit this in there!” the third voice said.
“Now, Fabien, I think this would be a bad idea!” the first voice said with a loud guffaw. “The softwood that made this up is probably three months old at the most, and the plywood … well, that was probably not around in the eighteenth century!!”
There was a loud ripple of laughter from all three men, and Petru wondered what the significance was.
“Okay then, last push,” the second voice said. “One … two … three!!”
Taking his chance, Petru went nimbly up the steps, hugging the walls to keep out of view. He knew that their angle of sight might reveal his feet, even if he couldn’t see them. He stopped at the second floor.
Here the full derelict state of the house became apparent. Nothing seemed to be restored, and it had the appearance of a building site. Old doors were propped against the walls, paper hung in great swathes from the ceilings, and the floors were bare. It looked like there were no habitable parts here.
The voices were suddenly louder now, and he looked nervously around. He had to be careful. Quickly deciding that the disused section would be his best escape in an emergency, he decided to check it out. Gingerly making his way down the landing, he entered the chaos that time wreaks on neglected spaces.
The first room that branched off this passage proved to be symptomatic of all the rest. The window frames were rotten, the shutters were hanging on rusted hinges, and the trees and shrubs outside were piling in through the openings where the windows were broken. Nature was doing her best to return
the chateau to the wild, and here she seemed to be getting the upper hand. In the second room on the right there was a ponderous wardrobe on one side of an open sash window; its once exquisitely carved cornice now had a tangle of climbing shoots and foliage bunched on one side. To Petru it looked like a lopsided shock of hair, cheekily added to undermine the grandeur of the design.
He pushed the sash upwards; it slid reluctantly up a few inches and then jammed. He pushed his chest through and leaned out. He was high, somewhere around fourteen meters. Beyond the window, the branches of a yew tree were forcing themselves against the masonry and twisting into weird shapes. At this level, they were relatively thin, but a bit farther down, a heavy branch offered a bridge from the house to the garden.
He figured that in an emergency he could slide out of the window feet first and put his weight on the slim masonry ledge which ran along four feet below. Then he’d have to overcome his fear, let go of the cill, and somehow leap onto the branch below, hoping it would take his weight. Moving farther along the corridor, he came to a lavatory. He could barely enter this room, it was so full of greenery. Climbing plants clung to the walls, to the ornate cornice around the ceiling, to the picture rail, the light fittings, and wound their way around every pipe to be seen. Plump cushions of moss coated the backs of the basin and taps whilst fernlike plants were growing rampantly out of the plugholes. The whole room had the atmosphere of a greenhouse.
He returned quietly to the staircase and to the reassuring sounds above. They were moving from the third floor upwards now. He knew he could hide now, but he would have to be quick. Someone coming down the stairs would provide little time. Putting a foot gingerly on the first step, he inched his way upwards. Suddenly he felt his mobile shivering in his breast pocket. It was a message from Constanta.
“What the fuck’s happening?”
He quickly tapped out a reply. “Very close to them. Give me 30 mins.”
The sounds of heavy exertion from above carried on as he moved ever closer, now using his hands as well as his feet in order to keep his head and eyes low. Then he saw one of them about twenty feet above him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were straining as he heaved a large object in front of him.
“Nearly … nearly … one last push!” a voice encouraged. There was a heavy thud. “There, we’ve done it!”
“Phew. Well done, everyone, what an achievement!!” another voice said, gasping for breath. “Let’s go down for a cuppa!”
“Bloody good idea, Oliver!” another voice said, equally breathlessly. “At last we can relax a little!”
Petru, from his position towards the third floor, quickly began to retreat. The footsteps above him, released of their load, were at once lighter, more agile and dangerous. Back on the second floor, he now glided silently back down the landing and disappeared into his self-appointed refuge in the room with the wardrobe. He could hear his heart thumping as he stood just inside the door peering along the landing towards the stairs.
They ambled down chatting, at first out of sight and then turning the corner and coming fully into view. They were dabbing their sweaty faces with shirt sleeves and hankies; the crate must have been heavy, Petru figured. He recognized them … the same three guys from the car park—two older men and the young one who came on the train.
The car park rendez-vous seemed like years ago, not just yesterday, as he felt a surge of tiredness go through his body. Suddenly one of the older men stopped and pointed towards him. He pulled his head back, panicking.
“What sort of state is it in down there, Fabien?” Oliver said, looking quizzically down the landing. “Terrible, Oliver! That is where we really need to start when we bring the workmen in. We must get the windows sorted out and then completely gut the rooms. The rain just comes straight in!”
“Hmm … mind if I take a look?” Oliver said, taking a few steps in that direction.
Petru froze. He heard Oliver very clearly. He scanned the room for a hiding place. There wasn’t much. A chest of drawers on its side with the drawers scattered around the room. The wardrobe … a door propped against the wall. The wardrobe would be dangerous, a trap.
“Sure, if you want … but don’t you want a rest first?” Fabien said.
There was a pause during which Petru had grabbed the door and was carrying it towards the shadow side of the wardrobe to be propped up so he could get behind it and be hidden.
Oliver was looking around him with interest.
“Yuh … guess you’re right,” he said at last. “I am feeling a bit buggered. I’ll take a look tomorrow.”
Petru let the air hiss between his lips as he crouched behind the door. He looked at his watch; it was three forty-five. Moving back to the door of the room, he listened. The three men were on the steps nearly at the ground floor. Whilst keeping a sharp eye on the stairs, he now called Constanta.
“What the fuck’s going on?” she said before he could utter a word.
“I haven’t seen the cabinet yet!” he whispered. “I’m about to go and look now. The men have gone down to the kitchen, and I’m on the second floor. I’ve taken some pictures and gonna take some more now. The cabinet is still in its casing at the top of the stairs, I think. They’ve been carrying it up for the last hours.”
“You haven’t seen it yet? You’ve been in there for an hour and half, Petru!” she said irritably.
“Look, I don’t know any more than you what the fuck is happening … be patient! I saw another chest thing downstairs which looked like it was being repaired but … but it is not clear what it is. Call you in a bit later when I’ve looked at big box at the top of stairs.” He closed off.
Moving along the landing to the stairwell, he listened. He could just about hear voices far away. He sprinted up the stairs past the third floor and on up to the garret. There was the crate. It was big, not far short of his outstretched arms and nearly up to his midriff. He gave it a nudge, but it resisted him.
Taking out his camera, he took several shots and put it away again. He then turned his attention to his surroundings. This really was a very different floor. There were no rooms up here, at least not like below.
The landing section up here looked very different, like it had been decorated long ago, but now … well, it was like a farm building. Huge structural timbers and no attempt at disguising them. This floor displayed the real bones of the house, the raw architecture. He looked around for an appropriate hiding place should he get caught up here. There looked to be plenty. But he must be able to see the crate … see what was going to happen to this mysterious thing. He scanned for a good viewpoint.
Then he noticed the three dormer windows. Light flooded in from these and lit up the space, but beyond, at the other side of the floor, it was dark. He could disappear in there, but he would not get a view of the crate. There was a wall blocking his view. He had to hide towards the windows. Listening down the stairs again, he satisfied himself they were still on the ground floor. He quickly pulled his camera out and took more shots of the garret showing the dormer windows, the roof with its rough timbers and the staircase. He then switched to flash and took some more of the dark interior of the floor away from the windows. He needed a record of these, he figured.
Moving quickly, he went to the first of the windows and crouched down to allow his eyes to accustom to the gloom below. There was a boarded section which formed a low vertical wall just beneath the windows. This formed the edge of the floor, as the pitch of the roof made the space behind unusable.
But just to the right of the first window there had been a leak; the vertical wall and the floor were stained. Several of the vertical boards had been removed and replaced with new wood. But the timber to the right of these was now rotten. Rummaging in his rucksack, Petru pulled out an ancient-looking cold chisel wrapped in a cloth. Carefully, he pushed it between the first two boards. They almost fell off. The next ones proved more stubborn and creaked alarmingly as he pried them free.
&
nbsp; He stopped and listened intently again, like a rummaging rodent on the forest floor. He stuck his head inside the space. Light came through various cracks in the roof tiles giving him an impression of size. It was tight, but it would afford him a hiding place and hopefully a chance to view the crate. But he would have to crawl behind this wainscoting under the window boxing and farther towards the staircase if he was to get photos of the crate. But were there enough cracks or holes for this?
His ears pricked. He moved past the window to the point where he would be when inside. There were definitely no apertures big enough; he would be hidden inside, blind to what was happening. Without hesitation, he glanced over his shoulder at the crate, made a snap judgment, and chose a spot. Pressing his hand against the lower part of the thin board to stop it splintering the whole way down, he levered off a section with a loud crack. He stopped dead and listened. Nothing. But the splintered edge looked somehow too fresh for comfort. Moving back to the opening he’d made, he reached inside and took a handful of dark sooty dust and smeared it onto the jagged edge, blowing away the excess. It helped, but not enough to disguise it. He spat onto his hand, took some more dust and thoroughly smeared it into the sharp fibres. Perfect.
Standing up and wiping his hands on his trousers, he again listened. All was quiet. Moving back to the staircase, he took a last look down. It was now or never. Taking out a bottle of water, he took several long gulps and smacked his lips. What had he got himself into, he thought as he stretched his back and arms with a loud sigh. Moving back into the main space, he noticed his footmarks showing prominently in the dust where he’d been prying the boards off. He picked up an old cloth and flapped it randomly across the dusty boards, as he backed towards the opening. Then with reptilian agility, he slid in sideways, his head cocked to one side to avoid the beam above.
Once inside he pulled his rucksack in and then started placing the tongue and groove boards back into place as far as possible. The final one was half wedged and half propped. He was inside now, completely hidden … but he still had to crawl underneath the window boxing to get to the right position to view the crate.
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 23
