by Ellis Peters
‘There was Helmut,’ said Una eagerly. ‘The man who was waiting for you at the hay-huts. You must have told him what had happened. He could bear out the timing – and that you told the same story then.’
Lucas smiled, faintly and sadly. ‘Helmut was sixty years old when we left. He’s been dead now for nearly fourteen years.’
‘But there must be something we can do,’ she persisted fiercely. ‘Don’t you see what this means? He’s threatening your life! Lu, you’ve got to tell the police about these telephone calls.’
He shook his head very decidedly. ‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘But why not? You must! It’s your life, Lu. In the next few days, he said …’
‘It was Valentine’s life, too. This issue between us is a life.’
‘But you didn’t kill him,’ she protested helplessly. ‘What could you have done? They’d taken him. If you’d stayed you’d have died, too, and so would Helmut, but you still wouldn’t have been able to save Valentine. You couldn’t have hoped to. If he could have spoken to you then, I bet he’d have said: Go on, get out of here, quickly!’
Lucas jerked his head aside with a motion of such pain that she shrank from touching him, and drew back a step in deference to his private anguish. ‘I daresay he would. But we’re not necessarily justified in taking everything the generous hold out to us. Maybe I couldn’t have done any good, maybe it would only have been two deaths instead of one. But how do I know? I didn’t try. Surely there was some way I could have got through the cordon before eleven, and warned him off. Or at least tried! Surely at the worst I could have waited to see if I could help his wife. Oh, of course I had to get Helmut over the frontier, but did I therefore have to cross with him? I could have come back. If I’d been the man he was I might even have found a way of rescuing him. Sometimes it succeeded, once in a thousand tries. How do I know, how can I ever know now, that this might not have been the thousandth time? No, whatever I do I can never get free of it. The boy may be mistaken in thinking what he does, but all the same, he has just cause for complaint against me. The issue’s between us two. I won’t bring the law into it.’
‘But, darling, if you don’t do something to defend yourself he’ll kill you! Everything you’re saying is nonsense. There was absolutely nothing you could have done. They were already hunting for you. If you’d set foot inside the town again you’d have been pitched straight into prison with him, and you know it. It’s ridiculous and – and arrogant! – to demand miracles of yourself – not honourable. And if you don’t tell the police, I will.’
But she knew she wouldn’t, and by the pale smile that twitched at his lips, so did he. She couldn’t go against his will, not even to save his life, and that not out of any awe of him or abdication of her own personality, but because such a failure in comprehension might do him worse damage than the threat from outside. The tortuous conscience of his was too vulnerable, too subject to self-torture and self-reproach, for her to risk hurting it even for the sake of keeping his body unhurt. She closed her eyes upon starting tears of frustration and anger.
‘You’re hopeless! You don’t owe him anything at all. I suppose you’re so damned stubborn that if anybody’s going to die, this time, you’re going to make absolutely sure it’s Lucas Corinth! Just to satisfy your own impossible ideas of yourself! And what about me?’
That was hitting low, but the shock did him good. And it was surely a useful diversion to hack a morsel of guilt out of his inexhaustible supply upon a new and near pretext.
‘I’m sorry!’ he said, stung and ashamed. ‘I’m letting my judgement be distorted out of all reason. Look, we’re making far too much of this whole thing. Intense young men threaten what they never intend to do, and even if they do intend to act, they’re not always very competent in performance. Nothing has happened yet, and probably nothing will. If I could meet the boy and talk to him we might understand each other very well. But I can’t just turn the police loose after him. How much I contributed to Valentine’s death I don’t know, but I’m not going to make any mistakes with his son.’
‘There are things we could do,’ she insisted resolutely. ‘There’s this man Bruchmann at the saw-mill – even if he isn’t there any more, maybe we could trace him. If he received Valentine’s papers, that would be confirmation. He wouldn’t have forgotten, even in all this time. We could make inquiries about Mrs Gelder, and try to contact her and her son. The one thing we can’t do is sit passively waiting for someone to take a pot shot at you from a dark doorway, or toss a bomb in at the window here.’
He wanted to say: It won’t be like that. He must be his father’s son, he has nothing against you, and me he means to meet face to face. But he had the wit to hold his tongue, apart from accepting her energetic suggestions with slightly deceitful agreement, and promising everything possible to find young Gelder and bring him to reason.
‘Tomorrow – yes, we shall see our way more clearly after we’ve slept on it. Nothing will happen. If we hadn’t been tired and excited we should hardly have believed in it tonight …’
Over her head his eyes levelled into the darkness outside the window a composed and resigned stare. And what about me? An apposite question! He was glad he had left all his affairs in order. Una would be left well provided for. Tomorrow he would draft a letter to his solicitor, to clear up whatever trailing ends remained. Probably a needless precaution, of course; all that he was saying to her now about barking dogs who never bite might very well be true. Still, it was well to be ready.
CHAPTER FOUR
Crista Lohr presented herself next morning, as soon as they had breakfasted, tapping rather shyly at the door of their suite with her briefcase under her arm. She was at Mr Corinth’s disposal for the whole of his visit. If he had letters to type, business arrangements to make, engagements locally to fit in between his official appearances, or if Miss Corinth wished to make some excursions when he was otherwise engaged, Miss Lohr would be happy to take care of everything. And as he had preferred not to have a rigid programme made for him in advance, she had thought it best to come early this morning, and find out if he had any special wishes for the coming days, so that she could be sure of laying on cars and tickets as required.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lucas, drawing up a chair to the table for her, ‘we should go through the rehearsal schedule first, and then we shall know just what time we have left in between.’
She put on a pair of austere, dark-rimmed spectacles, and bent earnestly over her folio of official engagements. And Lucas sat down beside her, and gave his mind to the business for which he had come to Gries-am-See. Whatever happened, music at least deserved to be treated with respect.
‘The première is one week from tomorrow, as you know. The first orchestra rehearsal is arranged for tomorrow afternoon, and of course I shall bring a car for you. The following morning we have tentatively fixed for a full rehearsal with the soloists, but you may prefer to meet them first separately for a piano rehearsal. There is a suitable room for that, too, with a good piano. If you approve this further schedule of rehearsals, in principle, they can always be altered as the need arises. Further sessions can be added if you find it desirable.’
She laid the neatly typed list before him.
‘If all goes well,’ said Lucas remotely, half his mind distracted by a sudden conviction of the outrageous acceleration of time rushing past him and out of his grasp, ‘this will do splendidly. I am terrified of over-rehearsing. If a point needs labouring, it has not been well made in the first place. After tomorrow’s session I shall be able to tell you exactly what I require. And hopefully, these arrangements will be perfectly adequate.’
‘Good! Then there are a few functions at which we hope you will like to be present. The town has planned an al fresco lunch in the private garden of the castle for the day after the première. We hope the weather will remain reliable, but if not, there is one very beautiful old room inside which is still rainproof, it will be held the
re. And the other “must” is the final ball with which the festival ends. It will be a carnival affair, fancy dress if you would like to indulge. For Miss Corinth I can arrange a costume, perhaps traditional local dress? It can be very beautiful, especially at its most elaborate, and it would be a present from the town. They would like to think she may wear it at home for just such balls.’
Una, out on the balcony in a lounge chair of quilted floral plastic, heard half of this, but chose to remain apart from it. She needed room and time to think, for if anyone was to set the wheels of enquiry turning, she suspected it would have to be herself. Crista, however agreeable, however discreet, was an interloper here at this moment.
Yet she watched them, from the white blaze of sunshine over the lake, with wondering appreciation, seeing them cool and dim and dreamlike, there in the silvery-green shade of the room. Two slender, tall, rather beautiful people, equally earnest and devoted. Lu looking incredibly young in slacks and sports shirt, turning the pages of his diary and making notes with those nervous, immaculate movements of his long hands, as if everything he touched had life, and must be handled with delicacy; and the girl Crista very trim and prim in yellow linen, with smooth black hair drawn up into a soft coil on top of her head, and deep, rich colour ebbing and glowing in her oval face at the great man’s nearness. Oh, she was very much aware of him! Women always were, and not all of them got as close as this. Her colour was a tide respondent to his words and looks and mild, abstracted attentions, and her voice, however severely controlled, quivered with sensibility at every unconsciously flattering modulation of his. She had a low-pitched voice, self-effacing but vulnerable, and a concentrated gravity beyond her years. She couldn’t possibly be as much as thirty, quite probably no more than twenty-five or -six, but by the air of efficiency that clung about her she must have been at this job for several years. She had fine hands, too, strong, shapely, expressive, for use, not for a cosmetician’s show-case. Una thought how lucky they had been. The office linguist might so easily have been middle-aged, voluble and thrusting, everything Crista Lohr was not. It would be no hardship to be escorted about the Tyrol by this attractive contemporary. Except, of course, that she had no intention, as things had turned out, of going a step away from Lu’s side, even at rehearsals, where he would certainly think her a confounded nuisance. That didn’t matter. She couldn’t let him out of her sight now.
‘And now,’ said Crista, pleased, shuffling one batch of papers back into her briefcase and flattening a notebook before her at the ready, ‘there must be something I can arrange for you today, before the serious work begins. Also you may wish to contact certain old friends here? And Miss Corinth did mention that she would like to go to the fair one day, and perhaps the circus.’
‘It might be a very good idea,’ Lucas said, ‘for you to take her there this afternoon, if you’re free. I ought to have a long session with Herr Seligmann, myself, before we begin work in earnest. And yes, there are some people I should very much like to see again, if it’s possible. After so long without communication, one is rather hesitant – So many things could have happened in the meantime. There is a man who used to be employed at the saw-mill … It still belongs to the same company?’
‘Metzler and Schmidt. I think it has always been Metzler and Schmidt?’
‘Yes, that’s the same firm. There was a man who knew my family quite well – if he’s still with them after all this time. His name is Bruchmann – Willi Bruchmann.’
Una sat still in the sunlight, listening with relief and gratitude. He really meant to mend his defences, to begin mustering the evidences of his integrity. Even his reservation of the afternoon, which at first she had been inclined to challenge and dispute, might at this rate mean a session in the town archives rather than a musical discussion with Werner Seligmann. She had better give him his head, even if it meant trusting him to others for a few hours.
‘Would you like me to call the mill for you, and get Mr Bruchmann on the line?’
The brief pause before Lucas answered sharply pointed the difference between Crista’s simple secretarial view of such a transaction, and the headlong dive back into the past which it constituted for him. But when he spoke it was to say with composure: ‘Would you be so kind?’
Difficult to envisage from that calm tone the inward convulsion of effort it cost him, like heaving up the slabs that covered long-accustomed and long-respected graves.
Una heard the number dialled. In the interval before the distant end answered she heard the very soft, gentle lapping of the lake-water under the balcony, patting the steps of the terrace.
‘Good morning! Would it be possible for me to speak with Herr Bruchmann, please? Bruchmann, Willi. Oh! – yes, I see. Yes, it was some years ago that he was with the company. Perhaps Herr Metzler would know how we can get in touch with him now. Be so kind!’ Crista looked over the receiver at Lucas, and said doubtfully: ‘There is no one of that name employed at the mill now, or for some time back. But I spoke only with the reception clerk, the manager may be able to tell us where we can find him.’
‘He may very well be retired,’ said Lucas. ‘He must be well into his sixties by now.’
‘But they will know if he is still living in Gries.’ She turned back alertly to the telephone. ‘Herr Metzler? I was enquiring about a Willi Bruchmann, who used to work for you – for your company,’ she amended, almost palpably reckoning the years since Lucas had left, and realising that this same Metzler was barely fifty. ‘It would be more than twenty-five years ago.’
‘Twenty-eight,’ said Lucas automatically.
‘Twenty-eight years, I am told. I am enquiring for a friend who has lost contact with him since then, and would like to get in touch again if possible. If you could, go so far back in your books …’ She was silent for a moment, while the telephone clacked briskly and without pause in her ear. ‘You do remember him? Then …’ This time the pause was much longer. ‘No, I didn’t know. Yes, as you say, it’s a very long time ago. Yes, I’m sorry, too. Thank you! I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
She cradled the telephone slowly. Una had left her place on the balcony, and stood mute and uneasy between the curtains.
‘I’m sorry, it is not good news. I’m afraid it won’t be possible to put you in touch with Mr Bruchmann.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Lucas with flat certainty, and braced his shoulders under a small added weight. ‘In twenty-eight years,’ he said ruefully, ‘so many people must have died. I don’t know why I should have expected … But sixty isn’t old!’
‘It was not like that,’ said Crista. ‘Herr Metzler told me … He died very long ago. The SS took him away from his home, that night they came to the town in July of 1944. He never came back. He died somewhere in a concentration camp in Germany.’
Una saw Lucas’s long hand flatten itself into white-knuckled rigidity on the table before him. They had indeed been busy prising up the slab of a grave.
They were still facing each other with still features and shadowed eyes across the table when the telephone rang, a loud, jangling sound that made them both start. They reached for the receiver together, Lucas with a nervous vehemence that told Una plainly what he expected now of any call that was put through into this room. But Crista was nearer, and reached the instrument before him. She was there to take upon herself all his secretarial work, and she took her duty seriously.
‘You permit?’
‘Please!’ he said, and drew back and left it to her. Perhaps he was even glad to have the thing taken out of his hands. If it was the whisperer again the matter would no longer be secret, it would end with the police being called in in spite of him. But no, this was daylight and normality.
‘Herr Graf is below,’ said Crista, turning a slightly doubtful and concerned face upon Lucas, ‘and would like to come up and see you. I don’t know … He seems to be upset about something. He says it is urgent.’
‘Please ask him to come up,’ said Lucas. As far a
s he was concerned, at this moment Heinz-Otto Graf was an anti-climax, even on urgent business and in an excited state. He was positively welcome, with his minor annoyance – for what could be on his mind but some hitch in his imperial plans? – as a counter-irritant just when one was needed. The invasion of the everyday was steadying and reassuring.
The most perfunctory of taps at the door hardly preceded the entry of Herr Graf. He erupted into the room in a gust of agitated air, his broad-brimmed grey hat in one hand, a disintegrating newspaper in the other. The tough, round, cleanshaven face was russet, the big shoulders thrust through the air as though he were forcing his way irritably through a crowd. Light and formidable on his small feet, he loomed across the silver-green carpet and pulled up abruptly with his solid thighs against the edge of the table. Upset seemed a mild word for his condition. Frantic would have been nearer the mark, though his control was still absolute. Lucas, who had risen to meet him, was struck silent with astonishment at the sight of him.
‘I apologise for intruding upon your rest day like this, Corinth, but this is an emergency. If I had had the least idea that anything of this kind could possibly crop up … It is terrible … outrageous! We cannot let it go unanswered, you must see that. I demand that you take some action to counter it, immediately, otherwise the effect upon the festival – upon the town – will be disastrous. There’s not an hour to be lost. We have too much at stake …’
It was never very safe to say ‘I demand’ to Lucas, in that or any other tone. Una saw his lips and nostrils whiten with threatening resentment, and then the faint, grey shadow of uncertainty, of haunting doubt, took the icy edge from his features. In a chilly but reasonable voice he said: ‘My dear Graf, I’m afraid I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever it is, I’m sure something can be done about it. I am as concerned with the success of the festival as you are. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s on your mind? For I assure you I haven’t so far the least idea.’
