Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

‘Not hungry?’

  She had to talk about something and maybe her infertility would be Adam’s get out without being hurt clause. ‘Your daughter… did you never want more children?’

  ‘Effie didn’t want more. Gabrielle’s a good kid. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I can’t have children. It’s partly what caused Robin and me to split up.’

  ‘And you think going back to him will change how he feels about that?’ He put a hand on hers. ‘If we had hell-kittens, I’d be over the moon, but it’s you I love. It makes no difference to how I feel about you.’

  ‘I have an appointment with the clinic, in case there’s an underlying problem that needs investigating.’ She pushed away thoughts of cancer. ‘Cysts… fibroids…’

  ‘You can’t be too careful with your health.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ This conversation wasn’t going as she’d hoped. The café bustle brought back memories of ham, with figs and myrtle, and the lovemaking that had followed. She’d ruined everything.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Adam put down his empty cup. ‘Finished? Now for the moment of truth.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charlotte walked by Adam’s side, staring determinedly ahead. The case that housed the three carvings was empty. Forewarned by a phone call, Dr Chapman had removed them to what, on Monday, would be Adam’s office. She put the Flames of Hope and Death on the desk alongside the others.

  ‘Now to test my theory.’ Adam studied the Flames of Hell. ‘If I’m right about the candles forming part of a number eight, this one could be one half.’ He turned it sideways. ‘And this could be the other.’ He moved the Flames of Death to sit alongside the Flames of Hell, bitten sides together, and picked up the carved candles. He placed one in the centre of each circle and traced the crossing, looping route around and between them with his finger. ‘There, a figure of eight.’

  ‘It certainly looks more like an eight than before.’

  He pushed the carvings that formed the eight to his right-hand side to make more room. ‘That’s because we had the wrong carvings together. The other one.’ He found the Flames of Hope. ‘Is probably part of a three.’

  ‘We need the opposite side, which would be… this one.’

  Adam rotated the Duxford Wolf, the largest of the carvings, to face them and pushed it next to the Flames of Hope leaving a small gap.

  ‘The gap makes a perfect three.’ She was convinced at last. She picked up the carving shaped like a wolf’s claw that had come from Mason and Hargreaves. ‘And this fits here.’

  ‘A five… this is working.’ He moved the two groups around, swapping their positions, and made the final connection. ‘Eight, two, three, five. We’ve done it, Charlotte.’

  For the first time since they were separated the carvings could be seen as Grandpa had intended. The effect was electrifying, a perfect whole: a wolf leapt through flames of death and destruction, flames of pain and hope, hiding and revealing a hidden truth… the number, not of the beast but what?

  Adam had to be right. The only thing likely to have a key and a number was a safety-deposit box. ‘We may have the key and the number. We still have to find the box.’

  The drive back to Brockenhurst was subdued. Adam’s search of the archives for a letter, sent with the carving to Duxford, had unearthed the usual instruction in Grandpa’s hand and gave no clue to what the key opened.

  She slumped onto the sofa next to Adam. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Are you sure the solicitors don’t have any other letters?’

  ‘The letter they had said Grandpa left full instructions… They did a thorough search. Nothing.’

  ‘And none of the letters gave any indication of the existence of a box belonging to the key?’

  ‘Apart from Rabbi Cohen mentioning a promise, they only contained the same instruction. Return the carving after ninety-nine years.’

  Adam frowned. ‘But we didn’t see that letter… The rabbi mentioned the key to a truth… Do you still have his phone number?’

  ‘Yes. Would you speak to him, Adam? His English is limited and my German is non-existent.’

  She found the number in her handbag and left Adam to his call. The display case at Duxford had looked great with all five carvings in their correct order, and Adam’s boss had been delighted they’d left them there, but the coffee table was bleak without her link to Grandpa. She still had the cardboard carton from Mason and Hargreaves, and she’d never found time to read the newspaper wrapping. She went upstairs and reached under the bed. 1978… just before her fifth birthday. What had been going on in Grandpa’s life then?

  The shoe factory advertised for closers, finishers and last-makers. The house next-door-but-one was for sale for what seemed like a ridiculously low price. She turned the page and read the births, marriages and deaths. Mobbs, Toseland, Goodman, Baker, Sharman, Gotch: familiar Kettering names recalled her childhood in the backstreet terrace. She shook the page to smooth out the crease so she could read on, and an envelope dropped to the floor. Whomever it may concern, Harris, Harris and Mason. To be opened in 2077.

  Adam’s voice penetrated her daze. ‘No luck with the Rabbi, Charlotte. Sorry.’

  She ran, her feet barely touching the stairs. ‘Adam, I’ve found it… I remember now, Frank Mason wondered if the instructions were inside the cardboard carton.’ Her fingers shook too much to open the envelope. She gave it to Adam, who slit it with his pocketknife and handed it back.

  ‘This is finally it, Charlotte.’

  Her voice shook. ‘To whom it may concern. The five carvings together, arranged in the correct order, make the number of a safety-deposit box deposited at the National Provincial Bank, 24 Mosley Street, Newcastle. In order that the box is not opened before the allotted time, the five carvings must, therefore, be in your possession, and ninety-nine years should have elapsed since the instruction of July 1978. The key to open the said deposit box will be found inside the carving returned to you from the Jewish synagogue in Kaiserstrasse, Trier, Germany. The deposit box contains items that must be brought to the attention of the appropriate authorities. It is my wish and instruction that the truth be now known. Sincerely yours, William Walter Blundell.’

  ‘The deposit box is in Newcastle?’

  She pointed a finger at the writing. ‘Appropriate authorities… I don’t like the sound of that, Adam.’

  ‘You don’t have to involve anyone you don’t want to, Charlotte. For all we know the bank won’t release it anyway, even if the branch is still there.’

  She looked up quickly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Aren’t they NatWest now?’

  ‘It’s only a change of name. And I have permission from Frank Mason. They’ll take notice of that, surely?’

  ‘The only way to find out is to go and see. Did Walt have relations in Newcastle?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘We could be there tonight, stay over, and do a raid on the bank in the morning.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure Charlotte? Come on. Throw a toothbrush and a pair of knickers in a bag.’

  He took her hand and familiar excitement coursed through her. ‘Okay, but can we grab a few hours sleep and make an early start in the morning? We can be there before the banks close.’

  ‘I’ll drive this time. You can navigate.’

  She didn’t want to sleep; she wanted another night of love before she let him go forever, or their one night in Trier was all she’d ever have of him. In his arms, his lips exploring her, she clung to him struggling to hold back the sobs that wracked her body. When he finally entered her, she threw herself into their lovemaking with a reckless need born of desperation.

  ***

  Charlotte studied the map. If the Fates intended to help them they were taking their time. Lorries and cars blocked the road ahead, and a sign where the road curved mocked them with the order that they restrict their speed to forty miles per hour.


  Adam inched the car forward and stopped. ‘The chance would be a fine thing.’

  Mosley Street was across the Tyne, and Newcastle city centre looked like the web of a spider on speed. The road dropped steeply to the Tyne Bridge; they passed between massive iron stanchions and emerged among buildings on the opposite bank.

  It was nothing like the bleak northern city she’d imagined; where were the rows of blackened, terraced back-to-backs, and polluted water? Modern buildings bordered a clean river. The streets were wide, and the Georgian architecture tall and perfectly proportioned.

  ‘Which way?’

  She got to grips with the map and pointed.

  Adam signalled. He was in the wrong lane, but a man in a battered pick-up wound down his window and waved him on, grinning. The lights changed against them.

  ‘We want the third exit… should be Mosley Street.’ The lights went green. ‘There, that one… Go left at the next set of traffic lights. There’s a car park.’

  They booked a room in a nearby hotel and Adam flung their bags on the bed. ‘We have nearly two hours before the banks close.’

  She longed to sink onto the bed and sleep. She’d lain awake for hours after Adam had dozed off, watching him in the moonlight from the window, imprinting his shape, his smell, the feel of him onto her memory.

  He took her hand as they walked along Mosley Street. ‘Looks like even numbers are on the other side.’ They crossed the road and walked back the way they’d come.

  Adam stopped outside an impressive three-storey building with a classic dressed-stone facade. ‘This has to be it.’

  ‘Geordie Eats?’ Arched casements and little pointed porticos over the first-floor windows seemed incongruous. ‘A bar and restaurant…’

  ‘Where’s the bank?’

  ‘Someone will know and I’d kill for a cup of tea.’

  The waiter was Chinese, and understood little English: he pointed to an empty table. Adam ordered. ‘I guess accounts and safety deposits would have been transferred to the nearest NatWest branch.’

  ‘Wherever that is.’

  Adam finished his tea and went in search of an English speaker. He returned with a grin. ‘There’s a branch at the top of Grey Street. Come on.’

  Georgian buildings swept gently upwards; a huge four-storey edifice dominated a corner ahead of them. The door stood open in welcome.

  ‘Ready?’

  She squeezed his hand, her palm sweating. ‘Ready.’

  A woman looked up from a computer screen. ‘Can I help you, pet… madam?’

  She fingered the brass key that hung from a fine chain around her neck. ‘I’d like to speak to someone about a safety-deposit box.’

  ‘Do you have an account with us?’

  ‘No. The deposit box was my grandfather’s.’

  The woman beckoned a young man in a dark suit, and spoke to him briefly. He smiled. ‘Please, come this way.’ He showed them to a side room. ‘I’m Carl Jennings. How can I help?’

  ‘I believe my grandfather, Walter Blundell, deposited a box with your Mosley Street branch, perhaps more than thirty years ago. I wondered if you knew where it would be held today.’

  ‘It depends where it was transferred when the branch closed. Customers would have been given options.’ Mr Jennings tapped his computer screen. ‘We have nothing under Blundell in safe custody.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Do you have the number?’

  ‘Eight, two, three, five.’

  He entered the number and scrolled down, frowning. ‘There is a box with that number but the name I have isn’t Blundell.’

  She frowned. ‘But it has to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can you double check? There may a letter or an instruction of some kind.’ Her heart hovered in her throat. Surely they couldn’t hit a brick wall now.

  ‘Of course. I won’t be a moment.’

  Her heart was doing back-flips. Adam’s grip tightened on her hand.

  Mr Jennings returned carrying a large brown envelope bearing the number eight, two, three, five. He took out a smaller, opened envelope and several pieces of paper. ‘We do have an instruction but it’s pretty odd.’ He gestured at the sheets of paper, and put the envelope on the desk. ‘The box was deposited with our Mosley Street branch almost seventy years ago, in February 1945 in fact, with an instruction to break it open if it wasn’t collected after fifty years.’

  Her heart landed in a heap. ‘You mean it’s already been opened?’

  ‘No. There’s more. Another letter was sent to us in 1978 by a Mr Albert Carr, who signed the original instruction when the box was deposited.’

  Adam scratched an eyebrow. ‘Who’s Albert Carr?’

  She shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘It instructs us to allow the box to remain unopened until we are contacted by a firm of solicitors acting for Mr William Blundell, to whom Mr Carr transfers title of the box.’

  Her heart did a triple somersault. ‘That’s my grandfather, William Walter Blundell.’ She touched her throat. ‘I have the key.’

  ‘I see. There’s also a superseding instruction to break open the box on New Year’s Eve 2077, should no contact be received from Mr Blundell’s solicitors. How do you come to have the key?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Mason and Hargreaves would have received the key and the number of the box in 2077 had things gone according to Albert Carr’s original plan.’

  ‘Mason and Hargreaves?’ Mr Jennings still looked doubtful. ‘I can’t release it to you, I’m afraid. Our instructions are to give it to a representative of Harris, Harris and Mason.’

  She pulled her envelope of papers and photographs from her bag. They were dog-eared and creased. ‘This is a letter from Frank Mason, of Mason and Hargreaves, formally Harris, Harris and Mason. Grandpa bequeathed everything to Gran. This is Gran’s letter giving me permission to act for her. ’

  ‘Mr Carr’s instructions are to release it into the hands of Mr Blundell’s solicitors.’

  ‘But I have the key.’ She brought it from beneath her blouse and held it, warm, in her hand. ‘I am legally entitled to have the deposit box.’ She tried another tack. ‘Would it help if you spoke to Mr Mason? If he gave permission for us to act on his behalf?’

  ‘If Mr Mason can prove he acts for Mr Blundell and sends a written instruction to that effect.’

  She sighed. ‘But that could take days.’

  Adam leaned forward. ‘Not if it can be sent by e-mail or fax.’

  ‘Mr Mason could send a signed letter of authority by special delivery.’ Carl Jennings consulted his watch. ‘He would have to catch this afternoon’s collection and it would mean you returning tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘We weren’t planning on driving back tonight.’ She rummaged in her handbag. ‘This is Mason and Hargreaves’s card. If you would phone Frank…’

  He took the card. ‘I’ll do it now.’

  ***

  After lunch next day, they were back at the bank. Mr Mason’s letter of authority had arrived as promised. Charlotte nibbled an already short thumbnail.

  Mr Jennings pushed a form towards her. ‘I’m satisfied that Mr Carr’s instructions are being met. Would you sign here to acknowledge receipt, please?’

  Her signature was a shaky scrawl.

  ‘There’s just this.’ Mr Jennings handed her the other piece of paper from the envelope. ‘It’s not dated and it doesn’t say who wrote it.’

  She read it aloud slowly. ‘…and the protection of those I love, upholds the lie. Fiat justitia ruat caelum. It is to my shame that the truth is too long in coming. I name the beast Hans Wolfgang Schmitt, though he is not alone in those who escaped justice.’

  ‘The missing words,’ Adam said. ‘Carr and your grandfather obviously knew one another well. There is no atonement too great, eternal hell is not enough. Stripped of the veneer of civilisation and humanity, fear bought my silence and love, and the protection of those I love, up
holds the lie. I do not ask your forgiveness, there is none.’

  ‘I ask only that the truth shall be uncovered and I pray for those I love. What does the Latin mean?’

  ‘Let justice be done though the heavens should fall. Sounds a bit dramatic but he’s right about one thing. Left to Walt, whatever this truth is, it would definitely have been over-long in coming.’

  Justice, truth. ‘Why do I have the feeling that wolf is about to bite us? Have you heard of this Hans Wolfgang Schmitt?’

  The door opened and a woman entered carrying a dusty tin box big enough to hold a ream of A4 paper. She put the box on the table and rubbed a hand ineffectively across a cracked, yellowed label glued to the lid. Large black figures confirmed the number of the box.

  ‘You have the key?’

  Her fingers were clumsy and shaking. Adam brushed aside her hair and undid the clasp on her chain. She slipped the key free and put it into the lock. ‘Grandpa didn’t want us to open this.’

  ‘It’s your choice, Charlotte.’

  And all her choices were wrong. Grandpa?

  Do only what you think is right, Charlotte.

  Either the lock was stiff with age or they had the wrong key… Heart thumping, she twisted harder. Seventy years of disuse ground into action; the lock grated and the key turned.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Adam sat on the bed in the privacy of their hotel room and leaned closer. This time the key turned in the lock more easily.

  Charlotte lifted the lid and gasped. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  He put his hand into the box, filling his palm with small yellow nuggets. ‘Bloody hell… it’s gold.’

  Charlotte scooped a heaped double-handful. ‘This must be worth thousands, tens of thousands…’ She picked out a wedding ring and tried it on.

  The gold drew warmth from his hand. ‘None of this gold is hallmarked.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s legal to own gold that isn’t hallmarked.’ He closed his hand over the fistful of nuggets and delved deeper. ‘And I have a nasty feeling this gold isn’t legal.’

  ‘Grandpa wouldn’t be involved in anything illegal.’