A Question of Inheritance (22 page)

‘Library?’ Leo said as they waited for Hugo to lock the attic door.

‘Isn’t Gus still there?’

‘No,’ Babs said. ‘He’s gone off to talk to those people in the estate office.’

Once in the library, Leo said to Barbara, ‘I think you better tell us about how well you knew Oliver.’

She said, ‘You guessed early on, didn’t you?’

Leo said, ‘I could tell that you and he weren’t strangers.’

‘I met him in Paris,’ Babs said.

Hugo broke in, ‘Why did you pretend not to know one another?’

Babs looked at her fingernails. ‘He was good about it. He realised pretty quickly that I didn’t want Pops to know that I’d met him in Paris. Not that there was anything wrong, I didn’t have an affair with him or anything like that. It was just that the life I was leading in Paris wasn’t quite what Pops thought it was. I was supposed to be there learning French and doing some cookery classes. What I mostly wanted to do was art. And philosophy, the whole Left Bank thing. I want to be an artist, and that’s not what Pops wants. I liked spending time with students from the Sorbonne and so on. Everybody went to these cafés: artists, writers, philosophers. It was so exciting and different from America.’

‘And you met Oliver.’

‘Yes, I was at a café one evening and so was he, and we got talking. I liked him. He was a good listener. Sympathetic. He said he wished he had had some artistic talent, but he’d never be good enough to do it seriously, which is why he had gone into the business end of art. I asked him why he was in Paris. I thought it was possibly to do with the auction house that he told me he worked for. I don’t really know much about that side of art. And then, one evening, when I suppose we’d drunk too much, out it all came out. How he was in Paris to try and trace this painting that had belonged to his aunt. He had grown up in France, and in fact had spent part of the war in France. His father was an Englishman, but his mother was French. And Jewish. As was her sister, his aunt who owned the Picasso.’

‘Yes,’ Emerson said.

Leo nodded. ‘I thought as much.’

‘His mother and his aunt were taken off during the occupation and he never saw them again. But he was determined to find out what had happened to this particular painting; it had become a sort of obsession with him. He’d found out that it had been taken when his aunt was arrested, but he felt sure for some reason it hadn’t been destroyed. He told me about a man in England, Victor Emerson, who was tracing missing pictures so that they could be restored to any of the owners or their families who were still alive. I suppose that’s you, Mr Emerson.’

Emerson said, ‘How can you be so sure that this is the Picasso he was talking about?’

‘He described it to me. I love Picasso’s work. Oliver had a vivid memory and he described it to me as though it was there in front of him. And I drew it.’ She held up her sketchbook. ‘Look.’ She flicked through the pages and pointed to one, a quick sketch of Oliver sitting at a table in a café She shook her head. ‘He was quite happy that day. It’s terrible to think of him . . .’ She turned over a few more pages, took a deep breath and said, ‘There. That’s what I drew for Oliver. You can see it’s the one upstairs in the attic.’

‘Emerson,’ Hugo said, ‘you think this painting, among others, ended up in Germany and then after the war came on to the market?’

‘You’re missing a step, Hugo. I’m sure these paintings after the war were still in the possession of some of the people who’d taken them and who then used them as payment to clear their names, get passports or whatever it was they needed to make a new life. Which is what we were talking about; it brings us back to Orlov.’

Hugo was thinking hard. ‘If Oliver saw his Picasso up there, wouldn’t his first thought be to telephone you, Emerson?’

‘When did he see the paintings?’

‘Christmas morning,’ Leo said.

Emerson shook his head. ‘He didn’t have my private number. He would have got through to my assistant; all calls were switched through to her over the holiday when we were closed. She wouldn’t have given him my number; she’d have taken a message. He obviously didn’t leave one, or I’d have known about it. I expect he didn’t want to say anything about his painting to anyone except me.’

Chapter Sixteen

Scene 1

Hugo said. ‘Georgia, did you see where I left my briefcase?’

‘You dumped it at the bottom of the stairs.’

Hugo gave her a quick wink and she got up from the pouffe. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

Outside the library door, Georgia said, ‘Why the wink? Do you really want your briefcase?’

‘Not at the moment, no. I want you to watch my back. I need to make a phone call, and I want to make sure no one’s listening.’

‘I will be,’ Georgia pointed out.

‘Yes, but I can trust you.’

Georgia was pleased, but said, ‘You could trust Uncle Leo. Or Freya.’

‘I could, but they’re still in the kitchen with Emerson, and this is urgent.’

‘You carry on. I can’t promise I won’t hear, because if I put my fingers in my ears, then I wouldn’t hear any lurking footsteps. But my lips are sealed.’

Hugo gave the operator a London number. Thank goodness it was June on duty; he wouldn’t have to talk opaquely to his friend Henry Surcoat.

Henry and Hugo went back a long way. Like Hugo, Henry had had to leave the field and now worked at the London headquarters of the Service.

‘Henry, Hugo here. Red box, please.’

He put the phone down and grinned at Georgia, who was looking enquiringly at him. ‘That’s not much of a phone call,’ she said.

‘Wait.’ After a few minutes, the telephone rang and Hugo answered.

‘Why am I playing phone boxes? Don’t tell me, you’re up to some unauthorised skulduggery and you want me to help you.’

‘Got it in one. There are a couple of things. I have to arrange a meeting with a Gregor Zherdev.’

Henry made disapproving noises. ‘Presently Cultural Attaché at the Russian Embassy. Supposedly a career diplomat. Is this wise, Hugo?’

‘Sir Bernard has asked me to look into his pre-war career, as it happens, last part of his clearance, but that’s not why I need to see him. Of course, he’s no more a career diplomat than you are, but that’s not the point. He has information I need, and need urgently. You can set up a meeting for me without anyone knowing about it; I can’t. Say Montagu wants to see him, about some bronzes.’ Montagu was the cover name he’d used in Berlin. ‘He’ll know.’

‘Hugo, you’re getting into murky waters. Where, when?’

Hugo thought for a moment. ‘The Holly Bush in Hampstead.’

‘That’s a bit off the beaten spy track.’

‘Exactly. I hardly want to meet him in the Brompton Oratory, do I, under a dozen watchful eyes and doubtful types dodging behind saintly statues.’ Hugo looked at his watch. He’d missed the ten o’clock train and there wasn’t another express until the early afternoon. ‘I’ll drive up to town. Tell him, four o’clock.’

Again he put the phone down. Georgia sauntered over. ‘All clear so far,’ she said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Is this to do with Emerson and Oliver and the paintings?’

‘Yes.’

‘Should you be meeting Russian diplomats? Aren’t they the enemy?’

Her voice was flippant, but Hugo saw the anxiety in her eyes. ‘I trust you and you can trust me. I’m not about to pass over valuable information to the Soviets.’

‘They’re so interested in statistics, of course I do realise that.’

‘Statistics?’ For a moment Hugo was lost. ‘Ah, because I work at the Hall in the Office of Government Statistics.’

‘Exactly. Everyone in Selchester knows what that’s about. Pretty poor cover; isn’t that what it’s called? The phone’s about to ring.’

He looked at the silent telephone.

‘How do you know?’ At that moment, it rang and he lifted the receiver.

‘It makes a little click just before it rings,’ Georgia said, sliding back to her watch post.

This conversation was even briefer. A few words from Henry, a thank you from Hugo and then he cut the connection.

‘Are you really going to London?’ Georgia said. ‘In the car? Because I will point out that the last time you did that drive your leg nearly dropped off, and you were virtually hopping for a week.’

Hugo knew that was true.

‘Ask Uncle Leo to take you. He’ll speed all the way and get you there in record time.’

Scene 2

Leo asked no questions, but merely went upstairs to get an overnight bag. ‘I assume we won’t be driving back this evening, or at least not all the way.’

Since it was a four-hour drive, he was probably right. Although Hugo would prefer to come back tonight – there was, after all, a murderer on the loose, or in the vicinity, even if not at the Castle. But Gus would be there, and Freya and Mrs Partridge.

Emerson came out as Hugo was putting on his coat. ‘I can guess where you’re off to. Remember me to Orlov.’ He was jingling his car keys as he spoke. ‘No, I’m not going back to London yet, I’ve a call I want to make in the town.’

Georgia and Polly waved Hugo and Leo off and watched the Talbot Lago disappear out of sight. Polly said, ‘He drives awfully fast for a priest.’

Rupert and Sonia came out on to the steps as Emerson revved the engine of his Morgan and then drove off in a roar of exhaust.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ Sonia said. ‘It sounds like Brands Hatch.’

‘Who was that in the Morgan?’ Rupert asked.

‘A man called Emerson,’ Polly said.

‘What was he doing here?’

‘He came for breakfast,’ Polly said.

‘And where are Hugo and Leo dashing off to?’ Sonia said.

‘London,’ Georgia said.

‘London? Why on earth are they going to London?’

‘To see a man called Orlov,’ Polly said, the words out of her mouth before Georgia could stop her.

‘I wish to God I could go to London,’ Sonia said. ‘How come the police haven’t told them they have to stay in Selchester? It’s too bad. Rupert, I want you to drive me into Selchester.’

‘In a minute,’ Rupert said. ‘I have to make a phone call.’

Scene 3

Zherdev? Rupert had seen the man at a reception in the House of Commons, but he’d taken care to keep away from him. Reason told him that Zherdev no more wanted to be identified as Orlov from Berlin than Rupert wanted that old stuff to be dragged up.

Rupert picked up the receiver and told the operator to put him through to the Hall. Then he asked to speak to Roger Bailey.

‘Mr Bailey? Rupert Dauntsey here. Yes, the MP. We met in London, you remember? Good. Listen, one of your chaps seems to be up to a spot of mischief, and I feel you ought to know about it.’

At the other end, Roger Bailey seized a pad and wrote down the details. ‘A Talbot Lago? That should be easy to trace. And meeting a Russian called Zherdev, from the Embassy? I’ll have to inform Sir Bernard. Of course, it may all be above board.’

‘Not in my book, it isn’t,’ Rupert said. ‘If your lot don’t do something about it, then I’ll get on to the appropriate authorities in London.’

‘No need to do that. Any contact with a Russian would have to be cleared this end, and it hasn’t been. And if he’s gone to London, he’s AWOL. He hasn’t asked for time off nor called in sick. It doesn’t look too good for him. Always the same with these chaps who think they know it all. Don’t worry, we’ll be on to this right away.’

Was there a note of satisfaction in the man’s voice? Rupert wondered, as he replaced the receiver and went to find Sonia.

Scene 4

It was when they were on the outskirts of London that Hugo, who’d had his eye on the rear-view mirror, became certain they were being followed.

He said to Leo, ‘I’m going to leave you. Pull up at those traffic lights, if you can. Where that van’s parked. It’ll shield me. Then you drive on. Are you planning to stay at your club?’

‘I am.’ He slowed down. ‘Take care. God bless.’

The van driver had come out of the shop where he was making a delivery and came round to the driver’s side of his van. Perfect.

The Talbot Lago came to a halt, two cars in front of it at the lights. Hugo, cursing his stick and leg, slid out as best he could, then ducked down on the other side of the van. The discreet black car, which had been behind them for several miles, stopped a few cars back from Leo. The lights changed, and the Talbot Lago moved smoothly away.

Followed by the black car.

Good. Now Hugo had to find out if, despite the limp, he still had all his old tradecraft. He had three quarters of hour to get to Hampstead. Provided he wasn’t being tailed, he could make the rendezvous.

Half an hour later, the Talbot Lago drew up in a street off Piccadilly. The black car moved into position behind it and two men leapt out as Leo locked the car door and began to walk up the steps of a large and imposing building.

The two men waited for a moment and then one of them darted over to Hugo’s car. He was back in a flash. ‘No one there. He must have got away. We need to get hold of that clerical gent and ask him a few questions.’

His colleague put out a restraining hand. ‘We do not. Do you know where we are?’

‘Pall Mall.’

‘Outside the Athenaeum, that’s all. One of those clubs where the great and the good get together. I expect he’s a member.’

‘So what?’

‘We don’t have a warrant. We can’t take him in. And for God’s sake, use your wits. Don’t you recognise the person he’s speaking to, at the top of the steps?’

‘No. Who is he, some other religious geezer?’

‘You could say so, since it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

They looked at one another. ‘Let’s find a telephone and report back,’ the first man said. ‘We’ve lost our chap, and that’s all there is to it.’

Scene 5

Hugo was already seated at a table in the Holly Bush pub in Hampstead when Gregor Orlov came through the door. He was wrapped in a vast coat and had a furry cossack hat on his head. It was some seven years since Hugo had last seen him, and he looked much the same as he had in Berlin. He had a lean face, with amused eyes and a mouth which broke into a familiar triangular smile when he saw Hugo. He lifted a hand in greeting. Hugo bought him a pint of bitter, and Orlov said, ‘I’ve not quite got accustomed to English beer yet, but I dare say I will in time.’

Hugo glanced at the door. ‘No minders coming along behind you? Nobody knows you’re meeting me?’ When Henry had contacted Orlov, he’d made it clear this was to be a private rendezvous.

Orlov’s look was mocking. ‘Why should I not meet an old friend from the past? I am Colonel Zherdev, Cultural Attaché at the Russian Embassy. I organise for fine musicians from the Soviet Union to come here, and also the ballet, as they are now allowed to perform abroad and I arrange all kinds of what they call cultural exchanges. Writers from here go to give lectures in Moscow and see the wonderful artistic life in the Soviet Union, and we send poets back in return. I’m kept busy; no time for mischief.’

Hugo didn’t believe a word of it. Orlov was still MGB, no question about it. It wasn’t as bad an appointment as the MGB might have made, for Orlov had a genuine interest in theatre, not surprising given his background, and also a passionate love of music.

‘I have come to talk to a citizen of a town called Selchester about a theatrical event you are staging later this year.
Murder in the Cathedral
, with Sir Desmond Winthrop in the leading role. And then, perhaps, it may be presented also in Leningrad, as part of the fine cultural exchanges we foster between our nations.’

How did he know about that? ‘I wouldn’t have thought Selchester would interest you. It’s a small provincial town quite a way from London.’

‘On the contrary, Selchester interests me very much. A fine cathedral, as well as other places of interest.’

Such as the Hall, and, no doubt, the Atomic.

‘Cultural Attaché, nothing. You’re not the kind of leopard to change your spots, Gregor.’

Orlov’s eyes widened in a look of perfect innocence. Then he laughed; that familiar, bass laugh. ‘No, it is better we aren’t seen together but I am perfectly able to get about without my people following me. As for your side, I believe they decided a while ago that I am not up to any what they would call mischief. They tailed me when I first arrived but now they merely check up on me from time to time. At the moment we are in the clear.’

All the same, Hugo looked around. There were a couple of men standing at the bar, but they weren’t paying any attention to the two men in the corner. He recognised one of them, an actor, as was his companion, judging by their delightfully spiteful conversation about a fellow thespian who had landed a role at Stratford.

Satisfied, he took a drink of his beer. ‘So you’re at the embassy now, and all above board as far as we’re concerned?’

Orlov drank some of his beer and then flicked the froth at the top with his finger. ‘I don’t understand the liking the English have for this layer at the top of their beer.’

Hugo said, ‘It’s called a head.’

Orlov said, ‘I pride myself on my English, but why this should be called a head is beyond me. So, my old friend I receive an urgent message for from you by various roundabout means. And you say you must see me at once, and so here I am. What is it about?’

Hugo said, ‘It’s about something that happened back in 1946 in Berlin. Do you remember when you got hold of those bronzes—’

Orlov put a warning finger on his lips. ‘I know nothing about any bronzes.’

‘Okay, we’ll skip the bronzes. You tipped me off that there was an Army officer who was accepting bribes in kind rather than in money for giving clearance to rich former Nazis.’

Orlov looked into his beer and a sadness seemed to fall over him. He shook his head. ‘Nothing happened, nothing came of my warning. You let me down badly there my friend.’

Hugo said, ‘I did what I could. But I got slapped down very firmly. The minute they knew that the source of my information was one of your lot, that was it. It was all nonsense, nobody was going to take what I said seriously and a few hours later I was on a plane back to England.’

Orlov nodded. ‘I heard that you left Berlin very abruptly. And a little later I heard that you were in Peru. Such a long way from Berlin. So why, after this time do you come to find me? To reminisce about the old days? I don’t think so.’

‘You wouldn’t give me the name of the officer back then, and that’s why no one paid attention or did anything about it. If I’d stayed in Berlin, I might have been able to find out who it was.’ He went on in a burst of impatience, ‘If only I’d had a name, even if they still hadn’t believed me, they might have investigated the man.’