by Karen Swan
Jacques’ expression changed completely. Flora’s theory he could dismiss as fantasy, the well-intentioned but misguided mistake of a young, naive stranger. But his lawyer? The man who had spent his entire career – like his father before him – working for and protecting his family?
‘Leo,’ Jacques protested, his skin paling to ash grey. ‘What are you saying? You cannot mean that—’
‘She is right, yes.’ Travers looked directly at Flora. ‘That day in my office, mam’selle – you were also correct about the missing papers. I had to remove them from the desk after you had left the apartment. The letter sent to our company from the intruders addressed the owners as Von Taschelt so I had to assume there was paperwork in the study from my father which identified us all. Naturally, I was under instruction to ensure that did not happen.’
Flora stared at him, having guessed as much, but she was still stunned – and suspicious – to hear him admit it. ‘So then why didn’t you just remove the paperwork before we went in?’
‘My hand had been forced, mam’selle. The letter was forwarded to the family by a junior who did not know of the existence of the codicil, much less the specifics within it. By the time I knew what had happened, the family knew too and you had already been called. There was no time. I had to hope that you would be so distracted by the collection you found there that you wouldn’t think to open the drawers. Or at least, not immediately anyway.’
Flora stared at him, trying to suss his game. He was saying everything she had painstakingly worked out herself as she separated the truth from his lies; he was confirming her hunches, playing the ally again, but she wouldn’t be fooled a second time.
‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you,’ she replied coolly. ‘If the intruders saw from the papers that the owners were Von Taschelt and sent the note on to you, how did a junior, who you say supposedly knew nothing about the will or codicil, know to forward it here to a family of an entirely different name?’
It was the very question, the red thread, that had led to her unravelling the secret just a few short hours ago. He would have needed Vermeil’s real name to be kept hidden at all costs; he could not possibly have afforded for anyone else to have known.
Travers shrugged. ‘Because it is on our computer system.’
‘Your system?’ Lilian repeated, shocked. ‘You mean the information was just sitting there? Just anyone could see that the estate belonging to Franz Von Taschelt now belonged to François Vermeil?’
‘No. Only those associates working directly with me had access to those files, madame. In total, two people.’
‘But if they saw the name—’
‘It means nothing to them, madame. Why should it? Estates pass through different names in the same family – via marriage – all the time, and the associate in question here is a twenty-three-year-old law graduate. The name of a Nazi art dealer from the Second World War means nothing to him and it shall remain that way. There is no reason why it should be recognized by anyone outside the sphere of art history, a small and closed world indeed.’
Travers looked back at Flora. ‘It was not my intention to deceive you, mam’selle, only to act according to the strict and very clear wishes of our client.’ Then he turned back to Jacques. ‘Jacques, I am sorry. I had no choice.’
Jacques, by now leaning forward with his head in his hands, let out a small groan. ‘No. No.’
Lilian rose in a fluid movement, and smoothing her narrow skirt distractedly, began to pace, wringing her hands. ‘How can this be? How can this be? You are telling me we . . . we are not Vermeils, but Von . . . Von . . . ?’
‘Von Taschelt,’ Travers finished for her.
A sob escaped her and she slapped a slim hand over her mouth, eyes pressed shut. ‘Is it legal, our name?’ she asked finally. ‘Who have I married? Are my children living with names that are not recognized in law?’
‘Lilian, it was the war. Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced, emigrated, changed their names, tried to start afresh – nearly all of them Jewish families.’
‘But I don’t understand!’ she cried. ‘How can it be so easy to just . . . change your name like that, change your entire identity?’
‘It was not easy. What Jacques’ father had to do to secure that liberty for his family. He . . . he . . .’
Jacques looked up, then stood. ‘He what? Say it, man. How did he save his family, when so many others couldn’t?’
Travers swallowed, looking down. ‘He cooperated.’
‘Cooperated,’ Jacques nodded, agitatedly, his hands planted aggressively on his hips. ‘You mean he worked with them? He worked for them! He was one of them!’
‘No—’
‘No? Do you think I am a fool, Leo? Do you think I don’t know what happened to those poor families? She’s just told us he was a known dealer. He . . . he would have . . . robbed them. For his own profit!’
‘For his own protection,’ Travers said quickly. ‘Your protection.’
‘No!’ Jacques shouted. ‘He got rich, made this fortune robbing those people of their assets whilst saving his own skin, knowing they were the only bartering tools they would have had – knowing he was trapping them in a country without any means of escape. No negotiation, no deals, just a one-way train ticket to the labour camps!’ he cried, his voice breaking. ‘My God, he was one of them.’
He dropped back into the chair as though he’d been cut at the knees, his face hidden in his hands, his huge shoulders heaving. Lilian came and perched on the seat beside him, her bony knees pressed against his thighs as she gently rubbed his back.
‘How many people know about this?’ she asked quietly, her own composure recovered in the face of her husband’s distress.
‘No one but us,’ Flora said. ‘And Angus, of course. I told him just before I left to come here.’
‘Leo?’ Lilian asked.
‘Just me. My father entrusted me alone with the knowledge when I graduated into the company.’
She nodded and stared at a spot on the wall for a few moments. ‘Then that is how it shall stay. We withdraw the Renoir from the sale. We don’t sell a single thing – not so much as a button – from that apartment.’ She enunciated every word with crystalline clarity. ‘We just close it up again and continue as before.’
‘How can we?’ Natascha cried. ‘Everything’s changed!’
‘Nothing has changed,’ her mother replied, even more quietly. ‘We are the same people we were an hour ago. Your father doesn’t remember his father. Why should he bear the burden of his mistakes?’
No one said a word. It was true – but naive, surely, to think they could continue as before?
Flora glanced over at Xavier, wondering why he didn’t say anything. He never said anything. He was the only person in the room who hadn’t reacted. Was he made of stone? Was he still there?
He was standing by the window, his back to them, hands thrust in his jeans pockets and his head bent. The sunlight caught his profile and for a moment – just one – she saw something different in him: not the taunting arrogance or defiant anger or mocking haughtiness of their previous encounters, but something pale and unvoiced. A vulnerability.
‘Xavier.’
He lifted his head at the sound of his mother’s voice, his eyes catching on Flora’s as he turned, and she glimpsed again what had shimmered between them last night in that split second before she had decided his agenda was capricious, when he’d asked the simple question, ‘Do you need a ride?’
He blinked, looked away, walked over to Lilian. ‘Yes?’
‘You are to go to Antibes. I want you to speak to your grandmother.’
‘Mother—’
‘Listen to me, Xavier, you are the only one. You are close to her, she will talk to you.’
‘What about me?’ Natascha demanded, her body tense as she sat forward. ‘Why don’t you ask me to go?’
Lilian glanced at her for a beat, before looking back to Xavier. ‘It is clear now
why she has been so determined we were not to go to the apartment. She never wanted to be the one to tell your father the truth. She is ashamed.’
‘Which is why it is between them. She owes Father the truth.’
‘She will never do that. She would never hurt him. Your father is her only child, her obsession. We all know she barely tolerates me for taking him away from her.’ She allowed a half-smile to stretch her lips as she reached for his hand. ‘I need you to speak to her, find out what happened before it is too late. She is old and her health is not good – we must have answers.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Tell me you’ll go?’
Xavier stared down at her, the pulse visible in his neck. He nodded, barely.
Natascha sank back in the cushions as though she’d been pushed, her jaw thrust forward as she began to pick at her nail polish.
‘What would you like me to do with the collection?’ Flora asked quietly, into the silence.
Lilian looked over at her, as though surprised to find her still there. ‘You must continue researching it. If we cannot sell it, we at least need to know exactly what it is that we now possess – whether we like it or not.’
‘Of course,’ Flora replied, feeling faintly nauseous at the thought of discovering the individual horror stories of these appropriated works. To whom had they belonged? In what circumstances had they been sold? She remembered Angus’s expression again, as the realization had hit – the entire collection had become worthless at a stroke; they couldn’t even donate pieces to any museums, not without the provenance being established all over again. If this secret was going to stay in the family, the collection would need to stay hidden.
‘It is imperative that the information we’ve been given today never leaves this room,’ Lilian said briskly. ‘Do you understand?’
Flora and Travers nodded.
‘Natascha?’ her mother enquired in a firm voice when the girl remained silent. ‘Do you understand? This is not something for you to gossip about with your friends, do you hear me?’
Natascha rolled her eyes, which her mother seemed to take as a yes.
‘Come.’ Lilian helped Jacques to stand. ‘This has been a great shock.’ She looked across at Flora. ‘Excuse us, we need some time alone to process this.’
‘I understand,’ Flora said, standing too and stepping back slightly to allow them to pass, noticing the beads of condensation slipping down the neck of the unopened champagne bottle.
Something seemed suddenly to occur to Lilian and she stopped walking and looked over at Flora. ‘I want you to take the collection to Antibes. Work on it down there.’
Flora’s eyebrows shot up. ‘W-what? All of it?’
‘Yes.’
Flora swallowed. ‘But why there?’
‘I want my mother-in-law to see it, I want her to trip over her past . . .’ She paused, lost in thought. ‘I want her to face up to what she’s done. Whatever they did, they did it together.’
And she turned and led her husband away, Travers following almost on their heels.
Flora found herself alone in the room with Natascha and Xavier, a curl already on Natascha’s lip. But before she could say a word, throw an insult or a cushion, Xavier spoke first.
‘Go.’
Flora looked between the two of them. ‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry.’
‘Are you?’ he asked, a scathing note in his voice matching the curl of his lip. She heard the blame, saw the shame in his eyes.
‘You heard my brother,’ Natascha hissed. ‘Get out of our house. Or isn’t this sufficient for you?’
Flora dropped her head and hurried out. It didn’t matter what she said. Words weren’t ever going to be enough.
Chapter Seventeen
‘So, is this business or pleasure?’ she asked as Noah stopped in front of her, looking fine in a cream suit and panama, one hand in his trouser pocket. ‘Because I need to know whether I’m off-duty or not.’
He smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling gently. ‘Well, now that depends. You see, I need both a car and a lunch date, and you struck me as the perfect person for both.’
Flora laughed. ‘I can’t say that classic cars are my area of expertise. If you’re serious about buying today, you’d have been better off with Angus.’
‘Oh, I sincerely doubt that,’ he quipped, giving her a blatant once-over in her lemons-and-oranges printed D&G dress that answered her question quite definitively. ‘I think we’ll just go with whatever looks best with you sitting in it,’ he said, placing a hand lightly on the small of her back as they began to walk.
She chuckled, the very suggestion amusing. He was joking – right?
It was a crisp day, the clear sky foreshortening their shadows on the ground. Flora thought there was probably no more magical setting to enjoy the classic car market than here in the grand gardens of the Chantilly estate, where pleached trees were planted in long avenues and the frothy fancies of the baroque architecture were so beautiful as to be rendered not just once, but twice, reflected perfectly in the marble-still moats. What car could possibly be more appropriate to crunch over this gravel than a Bugatti or Bentley?
She herself had come by limo. Noah had travelled here straight from the airport but had sent a car to collect her in Paris and it was as well he had; the showdown with the Vermeils yesterday had overwritten everything else in her mind and she’d not only forgotten to cancel the date, she’d also forgotten all about the date until the driver had knocked early that morning, robbing her of another much-needed lie-in.
She glanced at him as they dawdled through the displays, feeling like a fraud for being here at all. She wasn’t interested in him; he’d just been in the right place at the right time in Vienna, he’d called at the right time in the rain . . . She was here with him, but she wasn’t here because of him; his presence was incidental to her.
And yet, it wasn’t a chore to be in his company. He was funny, good-looking, attentive, intelligent; all the things her mother would be buying a new hat for. What could she say? She liked him, only liked him. It was the same old story.
The crowd was moving in a vaguely one-way system around the parked classic cars, people – mainly men – peering closer to read the detailed histories of each one, hands hovering longingly over the don’t-touch, polished paintwork, eyes narrowing in appreciation of the hand-stitched leathers. She and Noah allowed themselves to be swept up in the drift, meandering, almost lazily, around the concours, her scuffing at the grass with her feet as they talked, Noah making witty wisecracks that prompted her to touch his arm as she laughed. They began to relax, Noah leaning in to her, their fingers brushing as they examined a brake light or steering wheel or brightly polished alloy.
It was another day of steaming temperatures and she took off her shoes after a while, allowing her bare feet to sink into the lawn as Noah lingered over the Bentley R-Type Continental with Mulliner Park Ward coachwork, imploring her to stand by the Jaguar XK120 with closed-in wheels for a photograph as she, giggling, protested. He won in the end, but only after she stole his hat and peered out from under the brim with a coy smile.
They walked some more, the sun beating in a constant pulse, and she stood still as he applied sun lotion to her shoulders, a kindness that felt strangely intimate amidst the milling crowds, every person there from the same tribe – scented and silken in expensive creams, low-key in clothes that started in the early thousands.
‘It’s hot. What do you think? A drink to cool us down before the auction begins?’ he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the chateau.
‘Lovely.’
They walked towards the dramatically sweeping steps that had once been trodden by ladies in satin shoes and pompadour dresses and were today dotted with the well heeled sitting with their catalogues and engaging in laughing conversations. Champagne bars were set out along the terrace, Bonhams banners flickering in the breeze, all the shaded tables already taken.
‘Try and find somewhere for us to sit,�
�� Noah said. ‘I’ll bring the drinks over.’
Flora smiled and turned to find a spot, just as she heard her name called. She looked up to see Max St John, head of Vintage and Prestige Car sales at Bonhams and a former associate of her father’s, walking towards her. She went to call Noah back – this would be a worthwhile introduction for them both – but he had already disappeared into the crowd.
‘Flora Sykes, what a delightful surprise,’ he boomed. ‘Had I known you were coming I’d have arranged special passes for you.’
‘Well, I’m here in more of a personal capacity today,’ she replied as he kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.
‘Even so, you should always let me know. How’s your pater? Retirement suiting him?’
She pulled a face. ‘So-so. I think he misses the hubbub of the salesroom.’
‘I quite understand. He’s only a few years advanced of me and I can’t . . .’ He looked out at the champagne-quaffing, silken throngs. ‘Well, I can’t imagine not being a part of all this.’
‘I can’t imagine it either. You’ve done such an amazing job. What a coup! The setting’s just perfect, and the calibre of the cars you’ve attracted. You even booked the weather . . .’ She shrugged as a sleek brunette with glossed limbs wearing a jade-green silk dress and black Dior straw hat glided past. ‘It couldn’t be more perfect.’
‘Have you seen anything you like?’ he asked, waving an arm to encompass the exhibition of cars arranged on the lawns below them.
‘Me personally? Plenty,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s not going to be happening any time soon. I think I’ll still be bombing about in my Mini for a while yet.’
He laughed, leaning in to her more closely. ‘I say though, fine art’s your bag – what do you make of all this Von Taschelt business, eh? There’s a turn-up for the books!’
Flora felt her blood freeze in her veins, the world spin a little more slowly, at the very mention of that name. ‘Sorry, Max, I . . . I don’t follow.’