“Yes, that’s right. He’s had plenty of warning,” Zoltan said. “I’ll tell them to start sweeping by tomorrow and to watch in the evenings. When we’ve got him, how do you want to proceed? Give him the usual treatment?”
“No!” Viktor said emphatically. “We need to be careful with him. We need to frighten him, yes, but no serious physical damage yet. We need to find out what he’s doing, what he’s got up his sleeve. If you’re right, and he actually is making one of those cabinets or has already made one, then we need to know if he’s sold it yet, and if not, where it is now. He’s no good to us in hospital with the police involved.
“We want his money, Zoltan. Keep focused. Our game is blackmail, not revenge, and for that to work we need to let his bird come home to roost … if it hasn’t already.”
“I think the bird is coming back to roost now, Papa. He will return from his French trip with heavy pockets,” Zoltan said.
“Hang on, Zoltan. I’ve got Vladimir on the other line,” Viktor said suddenly.
There was a pause as he gave the other man a quick instruction.
“Right,” Viktor resumed twenty seconds later.
“It’s busy over there!” his son said tentatively. “You seem … er … less stressed, Father.”
“It’s moving in the right direction at last, shall we say.”
“So, as I was saying, Oliver will return with heavy pockets,” Zoltan offered.
“Yes, exactly. In which case we will find this out, won’t we, when we tie him to his favourite chair and present him with various scenarios,” Viktor said with a rasping chuckle. “We will suggest to him politely that it might be good idea if he shares his money with us, fifty-fifty, to save himself from imprisonment or castration!”
“Mmm … that sounds good,” Zoltan agreed with a sadistic smirk.
“But don’t presume too much … yet. We simply do not know the full picture. We could be wrong. We can’t let the son of Stalin wriggle free and bring the heat on ourselves!” Viktor said emphatically.
“That won’t happen, Father, I assure you,” Zoltan said. “I will be there.”
“Good, keep me in the loop, boy,” Viktor said, closing off.
* * *
Oliver arrived at the top of the stairs behind the other two, panting heavily.
“Okay,” Melvyn said, putting on a pair of gloves and handing a pair to each of the others. “This is going to be heavy, so go easy. We’ll take it through the gap here and then on into the other section. The difficult part is lifting it off the deck and putting it down again, so the more we can do in one stretch the better.
“Okay, Mel, we’ll do our best to keep going,” Oliver said, still slightly breathlessly. “But we’ll need a couple of breaks, I think.”
“No problem, Oliver,” Fabien said politely.
They all bent down and Melvyn counted, “One … two … three … up she goes!”
They wavered and then steadied.
“Christ, this is heavy!” Oliver hissed through a tight windpipe. “Let’s go!”
The trio moved like an ungainly six-legged animal, its feet shuffling drunkenly, from the small landing into the deepening shadows of the garret. Fabien and Oliver took the front and Melvyn took up the rear, so he could instruct them where to go.
“Keep going … keep going!” Melvyn said to the increasingly loud moans and expletives coming from Oliver. “All right, let her down!”
“Good God!” Oliver said, straightening up. “That was hellish!”
“You did well, Oliver. We’re halfway there!” Fabien said, smiling.
They stood around for a few minutes, during which Oliver took the opportunity to gaze down on the landscape below.
“We’re so close now,” he said, wiping a handkerchief across the back of his neck. “Our baby will soon be put to bed! Then we can sit back and relax for a year …”
A minute or two passed.
“Right!” Melvyn said, squatting down once again. “One … two … three … up!”
Once again they staggered briefly and then moved forward and into the gloom at the back of the garret. On reaching their destination, Melvyn began barking orders.
“Steady now … steady!” he said, peering ahead. “Okay, move sideways a bit … a bit more. Let her down gently … there! Well done!”
He straightened up and pulled a torch from his pocket which he perched on one of the rickety steps to the platform. It shone a beam into the recess where the chest had to be gently shuffled.
“Jeepers! Thank God that’s over with!” Oliver said with a hysterical laugh. “Almost killed me!”
“Don’t have a heart attack, Oliver!” Fabien said, chuckling.
“Okay, we just have to manoeuvre it back into the recess now,” Melvyn said, kneeling down. “Just need to put these strips down first so the chest feet don’t scuff the floorboards. Can you guys lift each end in turn so I can slip them under?”
“Sure,” Fabien said, getting a grip with Oliver. They lifted the ends and Melvyn put the strips in. They then slid the cabinet back into place, and Melvyn removed them.
“All done! Thanks, everyone,” Melvyn said triumphantly.
Suddenly Oliver’s voice changed cadence and boomed out solemnly.
“We are now observing a chest which was placed in the garret of this magnificent chateau in the year seventeen hundred eighty-nine,” he said, patting it gently with his gloved hand, “at the outset of the French Revolution. May it rest in peace!”
“And grow many a cobweb!” Fabien added with a grin.
“Phew … we’ve made it!” Melvyn said quietly, almost to himself.
Oliver shook Melvyn’s hand and then Fabien’s.
“Well done, fellows. This is a hell of an achievement. What do you say to a celebratory glass of champagne?”
“Not just yet, Oliver,” Melvyn said, standing in the torch beam. “I’ve still got about an hour’s work up here to get it all right. Need to remove all our footprints and make the floor look untouched again. Besides, it’s only four thirty!”
“Oh, okay, Mel. No hurry. We’ll wait for you downstairs,” Oliver said, making his way towards the staircase. “We’ll go and check on the fire.”
As the sound of their footsteps receded, Melvyn stood motionless for a few minutes and allowed the true nature of that space to descend on him again. Apart from the erratic murmour of the summer breeze over the roof tiles, there was only dust, oak beams, crumbling masonry, and silence.
Chapter 34
Oliver stepped stiffly from the van onto the gravel at Strupe Hall, and was nearly bowled over by the ecstatic attentions of Titus. Against all previous instruction, he jumped up at his master repeatedly in paroxysms of excitement. The trip back from France had been uneventful. Leaving the chateau at around one o’clock on Monday afternoon, they had made a straight run to St Malo in time for the overnight ferry to Portsmouth.
“Down, boy!” Oliver said gruffly, turning sideways to protect himself from the onslaught. “Down will you …!”
“He’s been waiting for you for hours, Oliver,” Mary said. “They always know, do dogs … they’ve got a sixth sense.”
“How are you, Mary?” Oliver said formally, as she went to the driver’s side to give Melvyn a simple squeeze of his shoulder. He was rooted to the driving seat and made no attempt to get out.
“Very well, as it happens,” she continued. “Everything’s been fine … no problems. Well, apart from Friday evening when me mum locked herself in her bedroom and needed me to get her out! Cor blimey, what a carry on. Door handle came off. Luckily I met one of your lady friends in the village shop … Lily … and she was happy to take Titus out for his evening walk, which was very fortunate. Nice lady.”
“Lily?” Oliver said, startled. “She came over and took Titus out for a walk?”
“Yes,” Mary said, looking embarrassed, “I’m sorry if …”
“Oh no... no! I couldn’t care less about her coming over.
I … er … just was surprised that you two should have bumped into each other, that’s all,” Oliver said, peddling backwards.
“Well, it was damn handy,” Mary continued. “He likes his evening walk, and I would have felt terrible to keep him in all that time; dog would ’ave gone crazy!”
“No, absolutely, Mary, that was a perfect solution. I must ring her and thank her. You said that was on Friday?”
“Yeah. Friday evening. Shop was about to close and I needed some milk, so …”
“Well, thank God for serendipity,” Oliver interrupted.
“Whatever that should mean,” Mary said with a chuckle. “It would seem my husband ’as lost his voice,” she said, casting a matronly glance at Melvyn who was still stuck in the driving seat. “What’s ’appened … forgotten how to speak English, Mel?”
“No. Just waiting. My right leg feels a bit stiff so I’ll wait till we get back, if you don’t mind,” he said, looking drawn.
“Look, you better be going,” Oliver said, opening the sliding door and grabbing his suitcase and briefcase. “Poor old Mel has been driving all the way from Portsmouth, and he needs a soak in a hot bath.”
“That’s about the gist of it,” Melvyn said with a good-humoured chuckle as he started the engine. “I did volunteer.”
“Thanks again, Mary, and we’ll get you sorted out tomorrow, if that’s all right. You’ve been a saviour,” he said, helping her into the cab.
“I’ll call you in the morning, Mel … not too early!” Oliver said, bending down to get a final glimpse of his companion. “Have a good couple of days’ rest … you deserve it!”
“Cheers, mate,” Melvyn said quietly.
“Oh, Titus has had dinner, by the way,” Mary shouted through her open window, “but he’ll pretend he hasn’t!”
“Don’t I know it!” Oliver shouted as the van pulled away.
The Toyota did an arc on the gravel and then disappeared off down the drive.
Oliver turned to see Titus, his body low to the ground, eyes bulging, tearing around the flower beds in a mad display of energy and excitement, to a chorus of noisy blackbirds.
* * *
Tarquin, Constanta, and Petru sat in the departure lounge at Charles de Gaulle Airport waiting for Petru’s flight to Bucharest.
“Spending the night in Paris … isn’t that cool!” Constanta said with a small giggle. “I would have killed you, Tarquin, if you’d refused to come. We got a busy day tomorrow!”
“We’re going to miss you, Petru,” Tarquin said in a voice tinged with sadness. “You’ve been an invaluable asset to our little expedition. In actual fact, without you we would never have got this far.”
“Well, thank you for paying for my flight, Mr Tarquin … this was very kind,” Petru said with sincerity.
“Not at all, Petru … it’s the very least I can do for all the hard work you’ve done.”
“It’s true, darling,” Constanta said, curling her hand round Petru’s neck. “You been ace … an honour to Romania!”
“When we get back to the UK, we’ll sort you out with more,” Tarquin added. “I’ve got limited reserves out here.”
“I understand. It’s not problem, Mr Tarquin,” Petru said, smiling. “Please don’t lose the memory stick … you’ve got all the information you need on that. I have a copy, though, like I said, if something happens.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Did you make that at the hotel in Troyes?”
“Yes, Andre the barman let me use his laptop for a bit.”
“All this technology,” Tarquin muttered. “It’s quite beyond me.”
“And be very careful, Mr Tarquin … when you get home, they’ll be waiting. In my opinion, this is the most dangerous time for you. I feel bad not to be around to help, but—”
“Petru, you’re needed at home. I’ll be okay,” Tarquin interjected quickly.
“No, you won’t, Tarquin,” Constanta said forcefully. “I need to keep a sharp eye on you, or you’ll end up at the bottom of River Thames.”
Tarquin made a grimace which was mirrored by Petru.
“She’s right to be concerned,” he said. “The problem is, you have no way of contacting those people except through those guys … and they want to kill you!”
“No, not kill, darling, scare shitless,” Constanta said firmly. “They want to know about the cabinet, that’s all, because they want the money.”
“We’ll find a way, Petru,” Tarquin said with a thin smile. “Just need to get at the people in charge. It won’t be easy, but there must be a way.”
“Okay, they’re on time for once,” Constanta said, looking up. “You got to go to your gate now, darling.”
Petru glanced at the screen and then stood up, shouldering his rucksack.
“Well, thank you again, Mr Tarquin,” he said, extending his hand shyly.
“No! Thank you, Petru!” Tarquin said, standing over him like a benevolent school master. “Let’s hope you can turn things around at home … happy flight.”
Constanta embraced Petru and stroked his back affectionately.
“Take care, darling … we’ll talk soon. Give my kisses to Natalia.”
Then he turned and disappeared into the marching lines of people.
* * *
Fabien stood on the second landing, looking at the hefty partition which now blocked the entrance to the garret. He’d instructed the carpenters to be careful not to damage the woodwork and to make the fixings as discreet as possible. This wasn’t meant as a permanent barrier. Ostensibly, it was just to stop inquisitive children. They’d done a good job; the garret was now sealed from prying eyes, and the cabinet in its protective chest could now incubate for the next year. Gradually, the spiderwebs and dust would soften its contours and allow it to melt into temporary obscurity.
In the gathering dusk, the chateau seemed empty without the other two men, and now that the carpenters had gone, he felt increasingly isolated. It had been fine the previous day after Oliver had left. He’d busied himself studying plans of the garden and trying to work out the best way forward for Cecile’s big surprise. But he now felt an increasing sense of pressure. When he got back to Paris, she would be assailing him with countless questions about what the architect had said, what his suggestions were, what he thought about a water garden, and so on. And there had been no architect; it had just been a ruse to keep her away. He would have to be on his toes. He decided to take a wander round the floor before it got too dark, in order to see the garden from some different perspectives and possibly get some new ideas.
He headed to the once grand north-south landing which he hadn’t visited in months. Avoiding odd chunks of furniture, rolls of old carpet, and broken floorboards, he gingerly picked his way towards a huge arched window at the far end. It was in a terrible state, and he felt a surge of despondency at the enormity of the task before him. Once the cabinet was found, he’d bring an army of artisans into this place and return the chateau to its former glory, but in the meantime he had to wait.
He stopped suddenly and gazed at the floor, perplexed. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. There were footprints … unmistakable footprints in the dust, which had the sharp definition of having been planted recently. He stared at them and felt the presence of an unseen stranger; they exuded energy and purpose … a hidden agenda. Whose were they? The prints were bold with harsh ridges … certainly not from the shoes of Oliver or Melvyn, both of whom wore old-fashioned country shoes. No, these were from those running shoes … trainers … that so many people wore these days, including arthritic old women.
Suddenly his furrowed face softened. Of course! They must be from the carpenter’s son! He probably wore trainers. He wondered what prick of curiosity had lured the boy along here … but there again, it wasn’t so odd. The chateau was a wonder to see despite its state, and perhaps the carpenters thought that the restoration work would land at their table; which it probably would.
Henri had probably to
ld his son to go and take a peek at the rest of the floor, once the partition had been finished, and leave him to finish off. Fabien wouldn’t challenge them. They’d done a good job; what would be the point? But he was thankful that he’d stayed with them until the staircase to the garret was blocked; those curious feet might have taken that boy on a tour up there, and possibly even to the chest.
After studying the garden from a variety of viewpoints on the second floor and having an imaginary conversation with Cecile, Fabien made his way downstairs. He poured himself a cold glass of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and then strolled out into the scented evening air.
Bernard and his wife were arriving the following afternoon with their dogs, so this was his last evening of solitude. He slumped down on one of the stone benches under the columns and watched the undulating meadows turn from pink to a deep violet, all the while aware of the priceless guest which sat quietly in the shadows of the garrett.
Chapter 35
Tarquin had been back two days. He and Constanta had arrived at number nine Warriner Gardens in the midafternoon of Thursday, and it was now Saturday. Because of the situation, she’d agreed to stay with him for the time being in case of trouble, and to try and bring things to a head. They were lovers, but not in any format that Tarquin understood; their relationship was tacit, discreet, barely recognizable in the daylight hours. It seemed that tenderness was not an emotion which chimed with Constanta … she refused to be tethered in mind or body.
“You okay, darling?” she said breezily as she came down the stairs with Percy.
“Yes, thanks, fine. Just trying to catch up on some news,” Tarquin said, lowering his newspaper.
“Good. Okay. I’m going up to the Clapham Junction to get those medicines Petru wanted. Do not answer the door, Tarquin, unless you’re absolutely sure who it is, okay. The last thing we want is for those guys to corner us in here; it must be on the street, where they will be forced to control their violence. Then we have a chance to talk to them; you know, make them realize their mistake, before they get us.”
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 28
