A Question of Inheritance (5 page)

Sonia said, ‘I’ll come down on the twenty-third. I’ll bring Oliver with me, as well. He wants to talk to the new Earl.’

‘Oliver?’

‘Don’t you remember anything, Freya? He works for the auctioneers, for Morville’s. He did the inventory for me at a point when I thought it was going to be necessary. He knows all about pictures and that kind of thing. Gus now has to deal with all the horrendous death duties, not me. So he needs to talk to Oliver, and Oliver wants to talk to him. And there are some paintings of mine in one of the attics, which I want him to look at.’

Paintings? In an attic? ‘Didn’t he see them when he came in the autumn to do the inventory?’

‘No, he didn’t need to; they were never going on any inventory. And, please remember, at that time I expected to inherit everything in the Castle, from top to bottom. That was before you went and dug out the lost heir.’

Freya said, ‘You haven’t invited Oliver for Christmas, have you?’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. He’ll want to be back in London the next day. It’ll just be me and my fiancé for Christmas at the Castle.’

Fiancé? There had been a distinct note of irony when Sonia said it, and it wasn’t a word she’d normally use. What was she up to?

‘Tell Mrs P she’ll have to do something about beds. Is one of those ghastly girls sleeping in my room?’

‘I’m sure we can arrange something to suit everybody,’ Freya said tactfully. Barbara was, in fact, in Sonia’s room. That would have to be sorted out.

‘Let me know if there’s anything you want me to bring down from London, darling. Until tomorrow.’

Freya put the receiver back and stood looking at the instrument. That would add to the gaiety of Christmas: a hostile Sonia, a strange Rupert and, at least for twenty-four hours, Oliver. Her mind turned to thoughts of presents and with a glare at the telephone she went to the kitchen to break the news to Mrs Partridge.

Chapter Three

Scene 1

Georgia was sitting at the table in the dining room, eating her way through a pile of toast and marmalade. They usually ate in the kitchen, but Mrs Partridge wasn’t having that now the new Earl was in residence.

Across the table, Polly was eating her toast slowly and carefully. She looked up as Freya came in. ‘I’ve not had marmalade before. It’s interesting.’

Georgia said, ‘Don’t they have marmalade in America?’

‘I usually have waffles and maple syrup for breakfast.’

Freya could see from the gleam in Georgia’s eye that she rather liked this idea, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Like in
What Katy Did
,’ she said and went on with her toast.

‘Where are the others?’ Freya asked as she helped herself to the eggs and bacon that Mrs Partridge had left in a big silver dish.

Gus came in. ‘Good morning, Freya. Thank you, I had my breakfast early.’

‘Then as soon as the rest of us have finished, would you like to take a tour of your castle?’

Like a guide at some stately home, she thought as she led the way out. ‘On your left . . . On your right . . . Please be careful on the staircase . . . This marble fireplace . . .’ And a half-crown tip at the end of the tour. An amusing fancy, but there wasn’t much of that kind of stately home about Selchester Castle. Oh, it had grandeur, but it had been built as a power base, in the days when might was right and when neither king nor neighbours could be trusted. The fine carpets, the paintings, the ornate plasterwork were all there, but they were later adornments, added when the halberds and cannonballs were no longer necessary to defend family, castle and land.

She didn’t linger in the Great Hall, less sombre in the morning light. ‘The older part dates back to the thirteenth century, although obviously over time various inhabitants have done work to the Castle.’

Georgia had decided to tag along on the tour and now she said, ‘Are you going to show them the Old Chapel?’ She went on in a clear, high voice, ‘That’s where they found Lord Selchester. Hugo was there, almost the moment they dug him up.’

Freya turned sharply on her. ‘Pipe down, Georgia. And you hardly need a tour of the Castle; surely you’ve got other things to do.’

Fortunately, Gus was rather amused. ‘Just like Polly, girls that age don’t seem to have much sensitivity about things that upset us. I think probably we should see this Old Chapel.’

Freya made an effort to keep up her tour guide voice, neutral and without the sadness she still felt whenever she went into the Old Chapel. Despite everything that they’d found out about her uncle’s death – and life – she still didn’t care to think about all the years she’d lived in the Castle with the late Lord Selchester’s body lying in its unorthodox and unknown grave under the flagstones.

The Old Chapel was a circular chamber, which dated back to much the same time as the Great Hall. There was a marble altar, but otherwise it was bare and plain with pillars, and arches that met in a point at the ceiling. As they went in, Gus stood for a moment, bowed his head and crossed himself.

Georgia said with interest, ‘Are you Catholic too? That’s what my Uncle Leo did when he came in here. But he’s a priest.’

Freya said, ‘All the Selchesters are Catholic, Georgia.’

‘No need to sound peeved, I only asked. After all, you’re a Selchester, and you aren’t RC.’

‘It looks like it’s a long time since this was used,’ Gus said.

‘There’s another chapel, a Victorian one, very ornate, and quite different from this.’

Polly edged closer to Georgia. ‘Was he buried or was he just lying here?’

Georgia said, ‘Of course not, English people aren’t so stupid that he wouldn’t have been noticed. He was buried under the flagstones. There was nothing left of him but bones and a signet ring when they found him.’

Interested despite herself, Barbara said, ‘How long had he been there?’

‘Nearly seven years.’ Georgia spoke with ghoulish enthusiasm. ‘He wasn’t murdered in here, though, was he, Freya?’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Freya said. ‘We don’t need to talk about that now.’

She saw a look come over Georgia’s face that spoke of mischief and wondered what she was plotting.

Polly asked Georgia, her voice low, ‘Do you know which flagstone it was?’

Georgia, talking out of the side of her mouth in a way she’d copied from a gangster film, said, ‘I’ll show you later.’

Scene 2

Since Sir Bernard was going to be away and couldn’t nag him about Orlov, Hugo called the Hall to say he was taking an extra day off.

Mr Dorsett, head of personnel, was unsurprised. ‘Good time to take some leave. And I note that you have an appointment with the physiotherapist tomorrow. So you won’t be in until after Christmas. I’ll put it in the book.’

Hugo wanted to speak to Victor Emerson, but he didn’t want to ring him from the Hall, even though phone calls from the Castle were just as likely to have a listener. Selchester hadn’t yet been put on to the direct dialling system, and the operator at the telephone exchange was capable of listening to every word of an interesting conversation.

It would depend who was on duty. Irene always listened in, and she remembered what she heard. And, despite all the Post Office regulations, frequently passed on juicy titbits of information.

He waited until the others had left Grace Hall and picked up the receiver. A bored voice said, ‘Number, please.’

Good. June had no interest in anything except her nails, her next perm and what her favourite film stars were up to.

He gave Emerson’s phone number and waited to be put through.

It wasn’t a private number, but the number of a firm. He spoke to first one person then another, and finally Emerson came on the line. ‘Mr Hawksworth? Could that be Hugo Hawksworth?’

Hugo said, ‘Good morning, Emerson. Yes, it’s Hugo.’

‘Good God, voice from the past. Last time I heard of you, you were doing great things in Bucharest. I suppose I can’t ask if you’re still with the Service. But I dare say you are, otherwise how did you get hold of me? I’ve been out of it for a while now, as you no doubt know.’

‘It’s no secret that you work for Guildern Associates. We have your number on file.’

Emerson gave a sound halfway between a grunt and groan. ‘On file. Yes I suppose I will for ever be on file. What can I do for you? Let me guess. You’re digging around in the past, looking at my far from impeccable record in the Service, am I right?’

Hugo laughed. ‘I have to say your career was an unusual one, but that’s not why I’m ringing. Tell me, exactly what does Guildern Associates do?’

‘We cover it up with fancy prose in our literature but basically we trace lost works of art.’

‘Lost?’ How did you lose a work of art?

‘Lost as in stolen, or looted or destroyed. And we also do some work on provenances if asked. Detective work, of a kind. I take it you haven’t lost a painting, or you’d know about Guilderns. So what can I do for you?’

‘It’s a long shot, but you’re the only person I know in the art world. Cast your mind back to Berlin nineteen forty-five, forty-six.’

Emerson was silent for so long that Hugo began to think he’d been cut off. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘I am.’

‘Why the long pause?’

‘I was pondering on the nature of coincidence. Berlin after the war has been in the forefront of my mind. I imagine for quite different reasons. What about it?’

‘A Russian bought some priceless bronzes from a German aristocrat via an intermediary—’

Emerson didn’t let him finish. ‘You’re talking about the Archangelo bronzes, which a man named Orlov acquired in dubious circumstances. I hear your jaw drop. How do I know about them? Because I’d had some dealings with friend Gregor, on quite unrelated business, and when he was instructed to get hold of some bronzes he asked my advice. He’d been offered them; were they likely to be genuine, were they special?’

‘To which you replied?’

‘Yes and yes. How did you get hold of the story? My contacts with Orlov were
sub rosa
. No, nothing sinister about it, don’t prick up your ears and smell treachery. I just found Berlin such a leaky bucket that I kept myself to myself, as it were. It didn’t make any difference; everything I had anything to do with was a disaster. Like those people who repeatedly get struck by lightning. Inexplicable but true.’

A sixth sense told Hugo there was more to this story than Orlov and the bronzes. ‘You didn’t leave it at that?’

‘I never saw Orlov again. Nor did I hear any more about the Archangelo bronzes, which vanished from sight. But I’d heard rumours about artworks changing hands and looted paintings leaving the country under cover of darkness, so I did a spot of investigation.’

‘Did you find out who was doing it?’

‘I knew who was doing it in the sense that I knew who was physically getting the paintings out of the country and back to England. On which subject, my lips are sealed. But as to who was arranging the consignments, who owned the pictures, I drew a blank.’

‘Looted paintings, you say?’

‘The bronzes weren’t looted. A lot of paintings were. Many of them taken from France during the Occupation. Which is another reason why Berlin has been on my mind. Quite a few of our clients come to us to trace paintings which disappeared in the war. A case in point – no names, no pack drill – is a young man, who is half French on his mother’s side. She was not only French, but also Jewish and she was in France with her sister’s family when war broke out. He was in England with his father at the time. The whole family over there were arrested and never seen again. However, among their possessions was a fine Picasso, and that, I found out, ended up in Berlin.’

Wasn’t Picasso counted decadent, didn’t they burn that sort of thing? Hugo didn’t much like Picasso’s paintings, but then he was the first to admit that he didn’t know much about art of any style or period.

‘There the trail went cold. I’m fairly sure it reached England, but its present whereabouts are unknown. If I’d ever been able to find out who was behind the whole sordid business, I might be able to help him. As it is, I have an unhappy client whose determination to find the painting borders on the obsessive.’

‘Because it’s valuable?’

‘Because it was given to his aunt by Picasso himself, and she loved it.’ Emerson hesitated and then said, ‘I don’t suppose your interest in the bronzes means you might be on to something relevant to my searches?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Hugo said. He didn’t want to raise false hope. ‘This conversation is strictly off the record. I’m ringing you from a private number. Write it down, and ring me up if you have any further information to do with Berlin. If I can help, I will.’

‘Give me the number.’

‘Selchester 77’

‘Selchester? They dumped you at the Hall, did they? Graveyard of ambition, that place.’

Hugo wasn’t going to rise to that bait. ‘Not such a graveyard these days.’

‘So you’re living in Selchester? Give me your address, I may write rather than ring. You never know with the telephone these days.’

‘At the moment I’m at Selchester Castle.’

Emerson let out a low whistle. ‘Selchester Castle? Flying high, aren’t you? I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lady Sonia. A looker, but not the easiest of company.’

A good description of Lady Sonia. Hugo was warming to Emerson.

‘Very well. I’ll give you the nod if I track down that Picasso and you pass on what you can that might help me in my searches. Happy Christmas, Hugo.’

Hugo put down the receiver, pleased. Emerson seemed to have left the Service without resentment. And had found work that suited him; that was unusual. Life in the Service didn’t equip most people for the civilian world.

Scene 3

No sooner had Emerson hung up than he received another call. ‘Mr Oliver Seynton on the line for you, Mr Emerson,’ his secretary said.

It was clearly a day of coincidences. ‘Oliver. Good to hear from you. I’m afraid I don’t have any news for you about your Picasso. At least nothing concrete. But it’s possible that I might have a new lead. No, I can’t say anything about it at the moment. Leave it with me, you know I’ll be in touch the moment I have something to tell you. You’re away for a couple of days? Well, nothing’s going to happen as quickly as that. We’ll speak after Christmas. Goodbye.’

Scene 4

Hugo came off the phone and decided to join the tour party. Freya frowned at him; she didn’t like the humorous twist to his mouth while he listened to her spiel.

‘Go away,’ she whispered to him, as the others went on ahead. ‘I don’t need you grinning at me, and there’s nothing for you to see.’

‘Oh, but there is. You never gave me and Georgia the complete tour; what about all those locked rooms?’

‘You make it sound like Bluebeard’s castle. I don’t want to disappoint you, there’s nothing behind the closed doors except furniture shrouded in dust covers.’

She took them upstairs to see the solar and then up an oak staircase guarded by two suits of armour. They walked along dark passages lined with oak panelling and up the stone spiral staircase that led to her rooms in the New Tower.

‘Not so new as that,’ Gus said when she told them it had been built in the fifteenth century. He looked at Freya’s desk with her typewriter and neat stacks of paper beside it, and said, ‘This is where you’re working on the history of the Selchester family. I should be so interested to see what you’ve written.’

No, you wouldn’t, Freya said inwardly, and then, ‘I’ve mostly been going through old papers, letters and household ledgers, and so forth. It’s a long job.’

Polly looked up at the picture that hung on the wall opposite Freya’s desk. ‘Who’s that? She looks just like you.’

‘That’s the ninth countess, your umpteen times great-grandmother. She was a redoubtable woman who held the castle against Cromwell’s forces.’

And the ancestor who had inspired Freya to write her first novel.

Polly wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose that meant that her husband was a supporter of the king. A Royalist. I’d have supported Cromwell if I’d been alive then.’