by Janet Tanner
Handing so much of her son over to them had not been easy – he had been, after all, all she had left and there had been times when she had wished with all her heart that she could metaphorically pull up the drawbridge and keep him in England, all to herself. But she had known that she must not do that. The de Savignys had suffered enough, it would be wicked to deprive them of their grandson too. And besides, she owed it to Charles to see that the title and heritage that should have been his passed smoothly to his son.
Dear God, he was so like him! Kathryn thought now, looking at Guy – physically like him, at any rate. With only the soft light of the table lamp and the flickering firelight to illuminate the room, it might almost have been Charles sitting there in the chair opposite her. The dark hair, the olive skin, the aquiline nose that was so unmistakably de Savigny, even the build, taut and wiry beneath the baggy jumper and twill trousers, were so like Charles as to almost constitute a reincarnation.
Guy was not so like Charles in character, though. He was stronger, less intense, much more his own man. Though she was not so vain as to take credit for it, there was a great deal of Kathryn in Guy. His inner confidence and ease with himself came from her, as did his stubbornness and refusal to accept defeat. And she had taught him, she hoped, not to be afraid to give and receive love – though so far she had to admit there had been little sign of him finding the lasting happiness with a woman that was her dearest wish for him.
Perhaps that was why he had come today, she thought, hope sparking briefly. Perhaps he was going to tell her he had finally decided to ask Wendy to marry him, but in all honesty she didn’t think so. There was a slight edge of wary defensiveness about him that was more in keeping with a confession than the bearing of good news, and surely if there had been someone important in his life she would have had some inkling of it before now.
There was something, though, she was certain of it – had been from the moment he telephoned to tell her he was coming. One aspect of Guy that was very like his father was his transparency – to her, at any rate. She knew, had always known, when he was keeping something from her, and he was doing it now.
She rose from her chair, a still-slim woman in a nut-brown polo skinny-rib jumper and full-length tweed skirt that nipped her waist and fell smoothly over her hips to make her appear taller than her five feet four inches. She liked to wear long skirts in the evenings and was glad they were all the fashion; there was something very cosy about the feel of the wool swirling gracefully about her legs, and the cottage, for all her efforts, could be draughty in the depths of winter. She crossed to the basket of logs, lifted one out and tossed it on to the fire, pressing it down with the poker until a shower of sparks flew. Firelight flickered on her face, almost unlined in spite of her fifty-three years, and lit the golden lights in her close-cropped hair. Then she straightened, rested one wool-clad elbow against the mantelpiece, and looked directly at her son.
‘Don’t you think, Guy, that it’s time you told me whatever it is you came to say?’
She saw the slight narrowing of his eyes – so slight as to have been virtually unnoticeable to anyone who knew him less well – and knew without question that she had been right.
‘You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?’ she asked.
‘Oh no, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you and I don’t know quite where to begin.’
‘Whyever not? I’m not some kind of ogre, am I? And I’m not easily shocked, either. I’ve been around too long and seen too much of life for that.’
He smiled briefly. His mother’s life here in a sleepy village in Hampshire, with her antique shop and her garden her main interests, scarcely constituted life in the fast lane and it was difficult for him to imagine that it had ever been much different. She had, he thought, been protected from harsh reality for most of her life, born the child of doting, reasonably well-off parents, married briefly into a wealthy respected family with a history that stretched back for hundreds of years, cushioned by the soft cocoon of country life. She had brought him up virtually unaided, it was true, and that, he supposed, could not always have been easy, but still it was hardly the sort of existence to describe as ‘ seeing life’. Whatever Kathryn had experienced, it seemed to have left scarcely a mark on her, and apart from her occasional explosions of fiery anger, soon over, he could not remember ever seeing her composure dented.
Except when it came to this one subject.
‘Because it’s something you never want to talk about,’ he said.
She stiffened. He saw it in the sudden straightness of her back, the way her hand with its perfectly manicured but unvarnished nails gripped the edge of the mantelpiece.
‘I want to talk about the war,’ he said, hating the fact that he was distressing her but having to go on anyway.
‘Why?’ There was a slight tremor, but also the stubbornness he knew so well in her voice. ‘The war was over and done with a very long time ago, Guy. Why should you want to talk about it now?’
‘Because it’s not over and done with as far as I’m concerned. Something has happened, something I want to follow up, but knowing how you feel about all that I didn’t want to do it without telling you. And besides, I need your help.’
‘What are you talking about, Guy?’
He hesitated. There was no easy way to do this.
‘I think it’s possible I might have found Otto von Rheinhardt.’
He heard the quick intake of her breath and went on swiftly: ‘Look – I know this upsets you, but as I said, I think it’s just possible that I might know where he is. He’s never been caught, has he? He’s never had to answer for his crimes. If he’s still alive, then I think it’s time he was made to, don’t you?’
Her hand was at her throat now, playing nervously with the slender gold chain that hung over the brown wool polo-neck. He did not think he could ever remember having seen her so agitated.
‘I’ve heard about a German living in exile,’ he went on. ‘A German with a houseful of treasures that sound suspiciously like the ones that went missing from the château. Grandpapa used to tell me about them, all the things that were looted. In particular, there was a triptych …’
‘The world is full of triptychs. Why on earth should you suppose it’s the same one?’
‘I don’t know. It might not be, of course.’ He didn’t feel like going into details. ‘You’re right, it’s a very long shot. But all the same, a German of about the right age, living in luxury on a remote Caribbean island with a houseful of what appears to be very French treasure … I want to check it out. This man may not be von Rheinhardt. The triptych and the treasures might not be the ones stolen from Savigny. But I wouldn’t mind betting they were stolen from someone. If I don’t get our stuff back, then perhaps someone, at least, will get theirs.’
There was a prolonged silence. In it the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece sounded very loud. Guy looked away uncomfortably, looked back again. Kathryn was, he thought, very pale.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I need some pointers. You knew von Rheinhardt. To start with I need to know what he looked like.’
‘My dear Guy, it’s thirty years since I last saw him. He’ll have changed now, even if he didn’t have plastic surgery, which I understand many of them did. Haven’t you any idea how thirty years can change someone?’
‘Thirty years haven’t changed you. I’ve seen photographs of you when you got married and when I was a baby, and I don’t think you’ve altered at all.’
Kathryn laughed shortly.
‘That’s rubbish! Of course I have.’
‘Well, you’re older, yes. But there’s no mistaking you really.’
‘You say that because you see me regularly – have done through all those years. The changes take place gradually, little by little, and you simply assimilate them. Your French grandparents and Tante Celestine would think I had changed, I am sure. As would anyone who has not seen me f
rom that day to this. It would be the same with von Rheinhardt. I expect I could pass him in the street and not know him.’
But the tiny tremor was back in her voice, telling Guy that was not the truth. The arrogance of the man would not have changed, those cold eyes in the handsome Aryan face … she was seeing them now. Thirty years or three hundred, she would never forget.
‘Don’t you think he deserves to be brought to justice?’ Guy said harshly. ‘Why should someone who commits the sort of crimes he committed get away with it? And live with the proceeds of his wickedness? Surely if he was so evil you want to see him punished?’
‘I’m sure he will be punished,’ Kathryn said quietly. ‘If not in this life, then the next. I think I am content to leave it at that.’
Guy prickled with frustation.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Von Rheinhardt had a way of contaminating everything and everyone around him, spreading evil. He’d do it again.’
‘He wouldn’t have much chance of getting away with it in a prison cell.’
‘Don’t be so sure. There are people who manage to spread mayhem whatever the circumstances. Von Rheinhardt is one of those. I don’t just mean tangible disasters, Guy. He somehow manages to bring out the worst in people. No, I honestly believe the past is best left alone now. I have managed to put it behind me. Why can’t you do the same?’
‘Because unlike you, it seems, I want the man who is responsible for my father’s death brought to justice, if that is at all possible, and I want the family treasures back where they belong. I don’t want to hurt you, Mum. I don’t want to drag up memories that are painful to you. But I owe it to my father, don’t you see? I owe it to my heritage.’
‘The Savigny inheritance.’ She said it wearily, looking, he thought, suddenly older than her fifty-three years, though such a short time ago she had looked much younger. ‘ Oh Guy, what a lot that has to answer for!’
‘What do you mean by that?’
She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged.
‘Family pride and duty. You sound just like your father. I’m sure your grandpapa has instilled it in you just as it was instilled in him. I know it’s up to you to carry on the Savigny line. I’ve done my best to make it easy for you, though God knows, it isn’t what I’d have chosen for you. We’ve lived in England but I have tried to ensure you were as much at home in France as you were here, that you understood their ways, that you would be worthy of the title and your family name. I’ve accepted that one day I will lose you to them …’
‘That’s rubbish!’ he interrupted. ‘You don’t have to lose me at all!’
‘I’ve accepted that your place will be there, just as it would have been if your father had lived,’ she went on as if she had not heard him speak. ‘But this one thing I ask you, Guy. Don’t go after vengeance for the sake of vengeance. It won’t do anyone any good and it may do a great deal of harm.’
‘Then you won’t help me?’
She looked at him long and steadily. He thought he saw a flash of that old familiar fire in her eyes, then her mouth set in a determined line.
‘That’s right. I won’t help you. I’d go further. I have very rarely asked anything of you. I want you to have your own life and I’ve avoided making any demands of you. But I am asking you now. If you have any respect for my feelings, forget this whole thing. Please. Leave the past where it belongs.’
He looked at her, feeling her pain, wanting to alleviate it and knowing he could not. This was something he had to do, for his father, for his family.
‘I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry if it upsets you. But I have to find out if this man is von Rheinhardt.’
‘I see.’ Her breath came out on a sigh. ‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t do it, Guy, but I think I understand.’ She paused, regaining control of herself. ‘ Would you like a drink? I’ve got a bottle of Glenfiddich in the chiffonier.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘To be honest,’ Kathryn said, ‘ I think we could both do with one.’
After he had gone she sat staring into the fire until the last embers glowed and died.
She had thought it was over, but it was not. No, correction, she had known it would never be over but she had learned to live with it. Now it was all going to begin again. Thirty years had gone by and she had a new life now, the life she had built for herself and for Guy in this quiet Hampshire village. A life that had revolved first around him and then around the pursuits that were all she wanted now – her little shop, her home, her garden. A life that had been spared to her in spite of all the odds. It was not the life she had envisaged for herself. But it had not been so bad. In the curiously acquiescent way of those who have lived through hell, lived more in a few brief years than some people live in a whole lifetime, she had accepted it and been grateful. She had Guy. She had seen him grow up, which was more than she had expected during those dark days. She had her independence, which she prized above all else. She had her memories, precious ones as well as the distressing ones which she had chosen to close her mind to.
Now, suddenly, the chasm was threatening to open beneath her once more, the bolts on the dark door to the past that she had closed so firmly were scraping in their rusty housings.
This man, this German of whom Guy had spoken, might not of course be von Rheinhardt. The odds must surely be stacked against it being him. Yet Kathryn had the most dreadful feeling that it was.
The ogre had not been dead at all but merely sleeping. If Guy found him and managed to bring him to trial it would all come out, all the secrets she had fought to keep hidden. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now, except hope and pray.
The last of the fire fizzed and died. Kathryn shivered slightly as she moved out of the aura of warmth it had thrown, collecting the empty glasses and taking them into her little kitchen for washing. But she wouldn’t do it tonight.
As she passed the mirror in the tiny hall, wood-framed, slightly crazed, bought at one of her beloved auction sales because it suited the cottage, her reflection leaped up to meet her and for a moment it seemed she was looking not at her fifty-three-year-old self but at the girl she had once been, just as if what Guy had said was true and she had not changed at all. The soft light in the hall miraculously removed every trace of crow’s-foot and wrinkle, camouflaged the sprinkling of grey that was beginning to dull the bright golden brown of her hair at the temples, and she saw herself for a moment as she had looked then, all those years ago. Strange, she thought, that she should bear so few scars to tell the world of all she had been through. But then, she had been lucky. Others had not.
Oh Guy, Guy, why won’t you leave it alone? she murmured to that other image, that other self. But the face in the mirror gave her back no answer other than the one he himself had given her.
He would do what he had to do, for himself, for his father and for the dynasty of Savigny. That he did not realise the demons he might be unleashing, the fact that he might be doing a disservice to all concerned, was neither here nor there. Apart from telling him the whole unvarnished truth there was nothing more that she could do now, and she shrank from that prospect. The man might not, after all, be von Rheinhardt. If he was not she would have broken her silence to no purpose.
Kathryn hoped fervently that the man was not von Rheinhardt.
The headlights of his car cut a swathe through the darkness as Guy navigated first the lanes and then the major roads on his way back to Bristol.
He drove more slowly than usual because his mind was busy and to drive fast, even on these quiet roads, required all his concentration.
His mother’s reaction had been no more or less than he had expected – why should she change the habits of a lifetime and discuss with him now the things she had always resolutely refused to discuss? But he was disappointed all the same. Knowing her hatred of the Nazis, and this one Nazi in particular, he had hoped she might put her reticence aside when she heard there was a chance that von Rheinhar
dt might, at long last, be brought to face trial for his crimes. Surely, Guy had thought, she would want justice? Wouldn’t that free her in some way from the ghosts of the past? But it seemed she did not want that. Not even the prospect of revenge had been able to persuade her to give up her secrets.
Well, at least he had told her what he intended to do – that he was going to take Bill’s job in the Caribbean, if he could get it, and investigate the German at first hand. He wouldn’t have wanted to begin something like that without telling her. Whether he had her approval or not. It was part of Guy’s nature to like things straight and above board. He had hoped for her assistance, too – God knew he needed it – but that she had not been prepared to give. Well, he would have to look for the evidence he would need to establish the German’s identity in another quarter. His grandfather would not be so unforthcoming, he was sure. He would go to France and talk to his French family. He had intended to do that anyway; Kathryn’s refusal to help made it that little bit more necessary, that was all.
But why was she so anxious to block out the past? He couldn’t understand it, never had been able to. In most matters she was as open and honest as he was, she didn’t shy away from the unpleasant or try to avoid harsh reality. Just this one area was a closed book with her and nothing, it seemed, would make her turn the pages.
Guy’s, breath came out on a long sigh. He hated upsetting her, but his mind was made up. He would not be able to rest until he discovered for himself if the German Bill had told him about was, in reality, Otto von Rheinhardt. Any other consideration must, in this instance, be relegated to the sidelines.