by Sarah Rayne
‘The murdered martyr,’ said Margot.
‘Not everyone who gets murdered is a martyr.’
‘How could we do all that, though? You can’t walk into somebody’s house and start searching.’
‘Don’t be stupid, I shan’t do it openly. And the “how” is already in place.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When Arabella went to get more coffee, I went into the dining room for the liqueur bottle, you remember. I was thinking ahead by that time,’ said Marcus. ‘We’d seen the portrait – we’d heard that mention of a music shop and of Cain’s father having a music shop in Lindschoen, and so on. So I thought there was very likely more to be found – certainly that it was worth looking around without anyone knowing. So I wedged that narrow side dining-room window very slightly open – only a couple of centimetres. I used one of those menu cards, folded up.’
‘They’ll realize. They’ll see,’ said Margot, in panic.
‘I don’t think they will. Arabella Tallis is more organized than you’d think. While everyone was drinking coffee, she had whipped all the dishes and the glasses out of the dining room and dunked them in hot soapy water. She had even tidied away the tablemats and wiped the crumbs off the table. And the curtains were halfway open, if you remember—’
‘Dryads and rusalkas,’ said Margot, dryly.
‘Yes. I think it’s a safe bet that the curtains will be left like that. And even if Arabella goes in there tomorrow to finish tidying up, she probably won’t touch the curtains. As for Cain himself, I doubt he’ll go in there for days.’
‘Arabella did say the dining room’s hardly ever used,’ Margot admitted.
‘Exactly. And even if it’s noticed, a bit of card stuck in a side window wouldn’t mean anything.’
‘When would you do it?’ asked Margot, after a moment. ‘Tonight?’
‘No. Arabella’s not going home until later tomorrow, and it’d be better to wait until Cain’s on his own. I’d prefer him to be out of the house altogether, but I can’t lurk outside Greymarsh for days on the off-chance. So it will have to be the middle of the night when he’s asleep. It looked as if the main bedrooms were at the front, so he wouldn’t hear someone sneaking in through a room at the back. He’s probably a bit deaf, as well.’
‘He didn’t seem deaf.’
‘You’re determined to find flaws, aren’t you?’ said Marcus, impatiently. ‘I’m telling you, I’ve got it all worked out. The study’s at the back of the house, if you remember, and I’ll bet anything worth finding would be in there. I’ll wait until Friday, to be sure Arabella’s gone.’
‘And then break in?’
‘And then break in.’
Margot thought that Friday night would never come, and then, when it did, she thought it would never end. Marcus left at two a.m. and Margot sat huddled in a chair, watching the clock tick round. He would not be more than an hour, surely. If he had not returned by three o’clock, she would start to worry.
She had offered to go with him – she could keep watch, she said, but Marcus said it would be better if only one of them was creeping around Greymarsh House.
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘Not always.’
‘Why not?’
‘We both know,’ he said, and when he turned to look at her, the disquieting glint was in his eyes again. Then he started to talk about finding an old black jacket with a hood so he could blend into the darkness, and the moment passed, and it was the familiar Marcus once more.
When three a.m. came and there was no sign of him, Margot began to get nervous. Supposing Mr Cain had caught him and called the police? She began to listen for police sirens.
Half past three. What would she do if the phone suddenly rang and it was the police saying they had taken her brother into custody? She began to wonder how long it would take her to walk to Greymarsh House to see what was happening. Marcus had been going to park his car in a layby a little way from the house. It would be well off the road, he said, with overhanging trees, and he would smear mud over the number plate as well. Anyone seeing it would think it was a couple who had parked up to have a bonking session on the back seat.
It was after four a.m. when Margot finally heard his car, and she ran to the door at once, prepared for a tale of disaster and failure.
But it was all right. He was smiling and patting his jacket pocket. He had found something.
‘But not,’ he said, throwing the dark jacket on to a chair, ‘without a blip. Cain must have heard me as I was about to leave – that was a bad moment. I was about to climb out of the dining-room window when a light went on, and he was standing in the doorway.’
‘Did he see you? Oh God, did he recognize you?’
‘No,’ said Marcus, very positively. ‘I had the hood pulled well up and the room was in shadow. He would only have seen a dark outline.’
‘What did you do?’
‘A defensive reflex action,’ said Marcus. ‘I grabbed the brandy decanter and threw it at him.’ He frowned, then said, ‘It caught the side of his head, and it knocked him out. But it’s all right,’ he said, before Margot could speak. ‘He was only stunned – I checked his heart and his pulse and everything was fine. And just as I was about to go I heard the milk cart trundling along the drive – you know that distinctive whirring sound those things make. So I opened the front door to make sure the milkman would see Cain lying on the floor, and then I beat it like a bat escaping hell.’
‘It sounds all right,’ said Margot, slowly.
‘It is all right. And now listen to what I’ve found.’
It was a letter, and it was in German.
‘It was in a box file over the desk,’ said Marcus. ‘I almost missed it, but there were three or four files, labelled with things like, “Insurance” and “Bank statements”. One had what was obviously private correspondence – that was the one I grabbed, of course. It was mostly letters from friends, and they weren’t of any interest, except for this one. I’m translating it for you, and I know I’ve got it correctly.’
Dear Stefan,
It was good to hear from you and have your news. Please accept the enclosed as a birthday offering – no doubt you’ll use it to replenish either your bookshelves or your wine cellar! I hope the birthday dinner is enjoyable – your goddaughter will make sure of that, though. I so much enjoy the anecdotes you send about her.
I was in Lindschoen last week – you’ll like to hear that it’s hardly changed. Driving back, I noticed that the old Torhaus is still empty. It’s always been a bit of a mystery, hasn’t it? I believe attempts were made years ago to trace its owner, but it looks as if the authorities have given up. It’s probably an impossible task – so much was lost during the war – documents and deeds vanished – also, as we both know, so did many people. I’m always glad to think that Velda was able to take you to England.
I hope to visit England again soon. It’s been far too long, and it’s time we got together and reminisced.
Kindest regards
‘It’s signed “Nathaniel”,’ said Marcus. ‘And there’s an address in the Paderborn district. I think that’s more or less in the Lindschoen area, although I’ll check the map.’ He looked at her, and his eyes were alight with excitement. ‘But you got the reference to the Torhaus, didn’t you? That translates as gatehouse, by the way.’
‘The house whose rightful owner was never found,’ said Margot, slowly. ‘You think that could be Lina’s house?’
‘Don’t you think it could? If it’s in the Lindschoen area … And even if that’s a dead end, there’s that other lead about Cain’s father having a music shop.’
‘You’re going there, aren’t you?’ said Margot. ‘To Lindschoen. To find this Torhaus?’
‘Yes … And,’ said Marcus, ‘you’re coming with me.’
‘But can we do it?’ said Margot, next morning. ‘Can you get the time off work? And can we afford it?’
‘I’ve got annual leav
e left,’ he said. ‘And if I say there are family problems, I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty. It’d only be for about a week – that ought to be long enough. I’ll take the laptop so they can email anything urgent. As for the money …’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘We’ll have to do it on the cheap. Stay in quite basic places. It might cost less to drive all the way, rather than fly and hire a car out there. Maybe the ferry from Harwich across to Holland, and then into Germany. Or the Shuttle from Folkestone. I’ll find out.’
Margot said, ‘I’ll get the last bank statement and see exactly how much money we’ve got.’
They heard, that afternoon, that the milkman had seen Stefan Cain lying on the floor and called the paramedics. It was assumed that an intruder had got in, and that Mr Cain had heard him, and had gone downstairs to investigate.
A terrible thing, people in Thornchurch said, if a man of that age could not be safe in his own home. Such a nice man as well, so gentlemanly, and those adult classes for German and German literature had been very well attended and very interesting. Still, apparently he had suffered only mild concussion and bruises.
Marcus had phoned Greymarsh House later in the day.
‘Sort of to make an alibi,’ he said. ‘Behaving as if I didn’t know about the injury. I got the answerphone, of course, but I left an innocent message, thanking him for the dinner party.’
‘I’m glad he’s all right,’ said Margot. ‘I’m glad you didn’t kill him.’
‘I’d have let myself be arrested for house-breaking sooner than kill him,’ said Marcus. He had been studying a map of Germany, finding Lindschoen, but he looked across at her. ‘What would you have done if I had killed him?’ he said, in a very quiet voice.
‘I’d have found a way of making sure you weren’t suspected,’ said Margot, at once. ‘Told the police you were here, probably.’
‘You’d have lied for me? Even if I’d murdered someone?’
‘It’s what sisters do for brothers, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Marcus, softly. ‘It’s what brothers should do for sisters, as well. You protect your own – even if it means lying.’ He paused, then said, very deliberately, ‘Not if it were to be a case of murder, though. I don’t think I could protect anyone who had committed a murder.’
He looked at her for a moment, not speaking, then went out of the room.
Margot sat very still, his words reverberating through her brain. What had he meant? Had he meant anything at all? Or was he trying to tell her he knew what she had done – Lina and then their mother …? He could not know, though, not for sure. Or did he suspect, and was he trying to tell her that he suspected? Margot remembered how he had looked at her the night their mother died – how there had been hatred in his eyes; no, it had been more than hatred, it had been fear. And immediately afterwards he had insisted she must not live on her own, and he had taken over her life and they had ended up in this out-of-the-way place where no one knew them. But that was because of Stefan Cain being here. Or was that all it had been? Couldn’t they have investigated Stefan perfectly well from a distance? Had it really been necessary to move to this small place where no one knew them?
But of course Marcus had not meant anything by that remark. It was only that his mind was taken up with going to Lindschoen and finding the house.
EIGHTEEN
Wewelsburg Castle, 1939
Giselle missed the house in Lindschoen more than she could have believed possible. Even after all these weeks in the castle – was it four weeks now, or five? – she ached for the familiar cobbled square and the comfortable untidiness of the shop.
She had no idea what Felix would have been told about her, although it would not be the truth. What would the children have been told? Stefan was too small to understand anything except that his mother had vanished, but Christa … What would Christa think? With a fresh jab of pain, Giselle remembered that it would soon be Christa’s sixteenth birthday, and that she and Felix had intended to give a special party.
Reinhardt came to her room most evenings – Giselle had no idea if it was to see if she was attempting to write the music that was to be called Siegreich, or to make sure she was still alive, or even whether it was simply to gloat. But, incredibly, these visits had become the centrepiece of her day. She knew that this was because it broke the tedium of her days inside Wewelsburg, but she still listened for his step on the stairs.
She had begun to transcribe Andreas’s score, note by painstaking note, onto the blank sheets brought for her, and she had written Siegreich across the top of the first page. She was determined to work as slowly as she dared, so that Reinhardt would think she was struggling for inspiration. Also, the longer she took, the more chance there was of something in this grim situation changing – and changing in a way that might open up an escape possibility.
She finished transcribing the first page, and confronted the necessity for destroying it before starting on the next, remembering her bizarre idea of shredding up the pages and eating them, one by one. It did not seem so bizarre now, in fact Giselle thought it was the only thing to be done. But could she do it? She would have to try.
It took longer than she had thought; the feel of the dry paper in her mouth and her throat made her retch, and once she had to run to the curtained recess to be sick. But she forced herself to keep trying, and in the end she managed it. She drank plenty of water afterwards to wash the minute fragments down thoroughly, and tried not to think about the ink on the pages. The prospect of dealing with all the sheets in the same way was horrid, but it would have to be done, and at least there would be long intervals between the times.
But Reinhardt said she was working too slowly. Each time he said it, Giselle knew they were both aware that once the Siegreich was finished she would have served her purpose. Would Reinhardt really hand her over to Hitler’s butchers to be executed?
That a spark had been ignited between them was undeniable. Giselle hated herself for knowing this – if Felix had been at her side, such a spark would never have been lit. But it had, and she would acknowledge it. What was more difficult to acknowledge was that the attraction was no longer only physical. Reinhardt frequently understood her thoughts – he could sometimes follow the process of her thinking and complete her sentences, as she could his. He recognized allusions she made – to books, to poetry. Giselle knew by now that the cold, composed façade hid something far warmer.
She thought seduction had been in Reinhardt’s mind from the very first meeting. I hate you, she thought, studying him covertly. I hate you and I loathe everything you stand for and believe in, and I would claw your eyes out if it would mean I escaped. But if it would get me back to Felix and to Christa and Stefan, I would let you make love to me until we were both exhausted and spent.
The next time he asked how much longer she would need to finish the Siegreich, Giselle looked at him thoughtfully, then curled up on the bed, leaning back against the worn cushions.
‘It could be some time.’
He frowned slightly, then after a moment he came to sit by her on the bed. He had never done this before, and Giselle felt her heart miss a beat. Was this to be the night?
In a softer voice than he had yet used, he said, ‘You have arranged your hair differently.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected you to notice.’ She had, in fact, combed it in a different style that afternoon, more out of boredom than anything else.
‘I notice everything about you.’
‘I know.’
She let her hand fall on to the bed, palm uppermost. Would he see the slight gesture as an invitation? She let her hand remain there, and the moment lengthened. Then he reached for it, and his fingers closed around hers. Slowly, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.
Giselle was horrified at her own response. She felt as if a hundred-volt electric shock had torn through her. She drew in her breath sharply, then she took his hand and repeated his gesture, ki
ssing his own hand, then pressing it against her cheek. His hand remained against her face and his eyes darkened, then his arms came out to her, and he pulled her against him.
She had thought she would resist being kissed on the lips. Prostitutes were said to do that – any sexual act with their clients was acceptable and allowed, but kissing was too intimate; it was something to reserve for the real loved one.
But as soon as Reinhardt began to kiss her, Giselle responded. His hands were on her body, moving with a kind of helpless urgency that was almost endearing. When he reached down to unfasten the belt of his trousers, she glanced down, and he said, softly, ‘Yes, Giselle, you see how I am so very ready for you.’
‘I do see.’
But she caught her breath on a half-sob. I can’t do this, she thought. I mustn’t. It’s violating everything that matters – Felix – my own people … It’s the action of a wanton. But if it’s a question of behaving like a wanton or dying …
When Reinhardt took her hand and guided it down for her fingers to enclose him, she did not resist, and excitement blazed up again at his cry of pleasure. He pushed her back on the bed – not violently or insistently, but as if he could no longer contain his need.
‘This has been a long time in the making, Giselle.’ He was thrusting his hands under her skirt, and his voice was so urgent he might almost have been pleading with her to agree with him.
‘Yes. Oh, yes, it has.’ It came out breathlessly.
‘Afterwards, we will never speak of it. I should be taken out and shot if it were to be known that—’
‘That you had taken a Jewish female to bed? And that female your own prisoner?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be taken out and shot eventually, though.’
He shook his head, not in denial of the words, but as if it was too painful a prospect to contemplate.
The moment hung on the air – Giselle thought: do I ask him now to let me escape? No, not yet, not yet …
He had torn his clothes and hers aside; but again, it was the impatience of overwhelming passion rather than an act of violation. Giselle remembered how she had believed that when this happened, as she had known it would, she would be able to pretend it was Felix who was with her. But it was impossible. Everything was too different – the shape of Reinhardt’s head when she held it in her hands felt different, the scent of his skin was his own. His caresses were less practised, rougher than Felix’s had ever been, but Giselle could have wept because they still drew a violent response from her.