Her task this morning was to discover why Max had described this house, when he had been here and where he was now. And until she knew whether Adam Peters was a neutral party, she needed an alibi.
By the time, she had pulled on a fresh jumper, stolen out to the bathroom to wash, and come back to her room to put on a dab of lipstick and brush her hair, Helena had one in place. She went in search of her host.
Adam Peters, however, was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen nor in the library. She was tempted to open some of the many other doors - doors that Anna had opened, Johannes had walked through as much as doors which might lead her to Max. But she restrained herself. It wouldn’t do to be found snooping too soon.
Helena let herself out of the house instead.
A wintry sun hung like a pale lozenge in the swirling cloud-strewn sky. In the distance, the tall shadowy firs rose into craggy peaks capped with snow. There was a sublime beauty about it all, but why then did she have this shiver of apprehension.
She set out down the drive, then turned into a path banked by drooping rhododendron. It curved into another which gave onto an ancient spreading beech. There was a child’s swing hanging from one of the branches. An ancient slab of wood lightly covered with snow. But the ropes looked new. Again she had the strange sense that she had been here before. She perched on the swing. The cold air tickled her nostrils as she propelled herself through the air.
In the distance she heard the hum of an engine, the slam of a door. She swung a little longer and then, somewhat recalcitrantly went back to the house. She wondered whether she should knock, decided against it. The door wasn’t locked.
‘Hello,’ she called out softly.
There was no answering call and she made her way toward the kitchen. Before she had got there, a door burst open and Adam emerged from what seemed to be some nether depth.
‘Morning,’ he waved a wrench at her good-humouredly. There were prominent holes in his thick green sweater. ‘Boiler’s acting up again. But the coffee’s hot and I cook a mean brunch.’
‘Sounds good.’ She followed him into the kitchen. There was a boxful of groceries at the end of the table.
He ushered her towards a chair, busied himself, whistled scraps of unidentifiable tunes.
‘Scrambled eggs, fresh sausage…’
‘No sausage, thanks. I don’t eat meat.’
He turned towards her, raised a single eyebrow in mocking surprise. ‘Oh? For your good or the world’s?’
‘The world’s, I guess.’
‘All those poor little squealing piggies,’ he skewered one of the sausages and twirled it round with a malicious laugh, before dropping it into the frying pan. ‘What else do you do for the world.’
‘What I can,’ Helena sat up straighter, prepared to counter the challenge.
He met her eyes, rearranged the smile on his face, so that the mockery vanished. ‘Sorry. Cynicism. Historical hazard. Occupational too.’ He put a plate heaped with toast and eggs in front of her.
The words Helena had spied yesterday in the folder on the library desk, leapt into her mind. Without thinking, she blurted them out at him, ‘ “Just as the deer uses grass, the fish water, the bird air, so the holy man uses woman.” And meat and land and energy reserves and everything else, I imagine,’ she looked at him contemptuously. ‘Nature’s rapists. A holy profession. Quintessentially male. Adam-cult, indeed.’
He chuckled, ‘So you did a little delicate prying yesterday?’
‘Very delicate,’ she talked over the flush which rose to her face. ‘The book was lying open. I’m afraid I’m an inveterate reader.’
‘So I notice. You left this in the library by the way.’ He placed Max’s book of essays by her plate.
‘Silly of me,’ Helena muttered. She watched his face covertly, but it betrayed nothing.
All he said was, ‘I gather you’re interested in matters environmental. Then he paused, studied her, ‘Not so terrible is it, this cult of the free spirit that brought me to these parts? A little medieval pantheism. An eco-pyramid with God and godly man at the top, instead of the more modern circle which you undoubtedly approve of.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Helena bit her lip. She musn’t challenge him now and give away too much, though the desire to attack this ludicrous proposition was almost overwhelming. She ate a little of her egg instead. ‘Delicious,’ she murmured.
But he wouldn’t let it rest. ‘I suppose, Ms vegetarian Latimer, you’d prefer it if we took man out of the equation altogether. Left just women perhaps, and the deer and the fish and the birds. Oh yes, and the grass and the water and the sweet-smelling air,’ he was needling her.
‘Or perhaps, since women can’t really do it all alone, we could get rid of the people altogether - impure, all of them! - and just leave nature to get on with it, as some of your more apocalyptic eco-freaks and tree huggers would undoubtedly wish,’ he was waving his fork around dangerously, ‘since of course we’re not part of nature, we poor human specimens.’ He laughed abruptly.
‘Delicious,’ Helena murmured again.
He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Had one of them round here the other day.’
Helena couldn’t resist, ‘A poor human specimen or an eco-freak?’ she asked quietly.
He focussed on her, grinned. ‘The latter.’
She thought he might hear the sudden racing of her heart. To this unregenerate brute, Max might easily appear as an eco-freak. She had to pursue this calmly, without a flicker of the eyes. ‘Oh?’ she said as casually as she could, pretending no interest.
‘Yes, she would gladly have fed my parts, bit by bit, starting with the most delicate, to the darling little piggies.’
‘She?’
‘A former student of mine.’
‘I see,’ she tried not to let her disappointment show. ‘You teach?’
He seemed suddenly to have lost all interest in the conversation. ‘I’ve been known to,’ he mumbled, rose to pour them some more coffee, offered her a cigarette.
She shook her head, grimaced her disapproval.
‘Oh no, of course not, how could I have forgotten. But you’ll mind if I don’t. No virtue possible if it’s not tested,’ he chuckled sardonically, lit up.
She could have smacked him.
‘So, Ms Latimer, it is Ms. isn’t it? Now that we’ve had our breakfast, can you tell me what your business here is.’
Helena had her lines ready. She scurried over them quickly. ‘I’m writing a travel piece about this part of the country. A friend, who was supposed to meet me in Munich and who didn’t turn up for some reason, told me about this place, said the artist Johannes Bahr had once lived here.’
The explanation didn’t seem to thrill him.
‘The piece is for Harper’s and Queen,’ she added, as if it would make the difference.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ he stubbed out his cigarette, added, ‘I have a horror of living in a museum.’
‘But Bahr…’
‘I know, you’re going to tell me it’s my responsibility to art, to the world. And the local innkeepers will love me,’ his lips curled maliciously. ‘But do you really want all those rampaging tourists polluting these innocent green meadows?’
She glared at him.
‘Okay, okay, you’ve come all this way. What do you want to see?’
‘Everything,’ Helena murmured. ‘The…’
A loud ring interrupted her.
‘The telephone here sounds like a fire engine,’ he muttered, vanishing through the door.
Helena relaxed. She had learned nothing yet, but at least her alibi was in place. The rest would follow soon enough. She could ask him casually if he had read Max’s book. That would be a start.
When he came back into the room, he had a preoccupied expression on his face. ‘I have to go out. Sorry.’
‘Oh,’ she was crestfallen.
‘I didn’t realize I’d been that charming,’ he smiled, met her eyes. There was
a moment’s silence between them. In it, Helena had the sudden sense that she had been touched, caressed.
It passed as quickly as it had come. All at once he was in a hurry. ‘Feel free to look around. There are pictures here and there - everywhere except on my desk,’ he chided her for a second. ‘The grave is by the lake. Don’t dig up any bodies. And you’re welcome to come back, if you need to see more.’ He gave her an open charming smile.
But as he turned to go, she heard him mutter under his breath, but distinctly for her ears, ‘Third snooper in as many weeks. What is this place coming to!’
She was sorely tempted to run after him, ask him about the others. Max, she was suddenly certain, had been one. What had he told him? She would have to come back. Otherwise, it would be too obvious.
And she would clear up. It wouldn’t do to be a bad guest. Quickly Helena washed pans and dishes, scrubbed the table clean. A quick tour round the house was in order. Max hadn’t described the inside of the house, but she wanted to see it in any case.
She found the conservatory through which the trees rose like columns, contemplated the pictures by Johannes Bahr which had been hung there, felt them through Anna’s eyes. She had wanted to question Adam Peters about Anna as well, but that had to be a secondary consideration. Nonetheless, she looked into the salon, where so much life had passed. The room needed a coat of paint, but its essential grace was still there, the rococo flair of dusky rose, soft blue and white, and more canvases by Bahr. She paused in front of one she was sure must be of the two sisters and felt a shiver run through her. Ghosts again.
Helena prowled, traipsed down into the cellar just to still yesterday’s fears. There were an assortment of wine wracks, an array of dusty furniture, an ancient boiler. But no signs of Max or any rough and tumble. Her conversation with Adam Peters had already put paid to those imaginings in any case. She went up to the first floor opened doors, shunned the room with an unmade bed which must be Adam’s. A restless sleeper, she thought, a maddening man. But she didn’t go beyond the door. Nor did she climb the stairs to the attic floor. She didn’t want to arouse his suspicion in any way. Then, having tidied her own room, she put her bag in the car and set out towards the lake.
Max’s letter had mentioned the tombstone, the boathouse. Why? What was it about them that was significant. Helena gazed out across the lake, hoping to catch site of some factory towers billowing their pollutants into the sky, excreting them into the lake, but there was nothing here, except the mountains, the trees, a church spire, a cluster of houses on the other side.
She would have to follow the rest of the trail. Max must have stayed somewhere near here to detail the area so precisely. And she would come back to Seehafen. Adam Peters wouldn’t run away. His bad politics apart, she was now almost certain he was just a little too welcoming to be an agent of any kind.
Two villages away, Helena struck lucky. In a little slope-roofed inn set back from the road, she was greeted by the buxom pink-cheeked owner, who seemed only too happy to settle into a chat.
‘A friend of mine passed through here,’ Helena began after a series of preliminaries about the charm of the spot, the idyllic view, the pleasantness of the inn, ‘an older man, tall with white hair’.
‘Herr Hillman,’ the woman burst out. ‘A charming gentleman, so soft-spoken. And no bother at all. He complimented my cooking. Said it reminded him of his youth,’ she giggled. ‘He stayed for almost two weeks. Went out walking everyday, just like a young man. Had a spot of bother though. Lost his passport, poor man.’
‘When did he leave?’ Helena asked with growing excitement. She had picked up the trail again. Max had simply transposed ‘Hill’ for the German ‘Berg’.
‘Oh, let’s see. About ten days ago.’
Her hopes faded a little. ‘Did he say where he was heading?’
The woman considered for a moment, ‘I’m not sure, Fraulein. He did talk about going further into the mountains. But he left in a great hurry. Even forgot his letters. I posted them for him,’ she added with a touch of pride.
Helena’s pulse raced. ‘One of them may have been to me,’ she laughed too loudly. ‘In London. Do you remember if one of them was to London?’
The woman looked at her askance. ‘I…I think so. But I don’t pry you know,’ she said hastily.
‘No, no, of course not. And the others? You couldn’t possibly remember whom they were addressed to? It might help me find Herr Hillman more quickly.’
The woman shrugged, ‘There was only one. But no, I don’t remember.’
Helena couldn’t tell whether she was lying or not. ‘Well, if it comes to you, do let me know,’ she urged the woman without insisting. ‘Meanwhile, I’d like to stay for a day or two, if you have a room, that is.’
The woman suddenly beamed, ‘You can have Herr Hillman’s room. It’s the prettiest, best view. I only have one other guest so far this evening. A young man. An American.’
‘Oh?’ Helena stilled her instant suspicions. ‘I’ll need a phone to check in with my office.’
The woman looked at her with something like injured pride, ‘In your room, Fraulein. A completely new system.’
The room, as austere as a monk’s cubicle and as neat, looked out on the gleaming lake. From it, Helena thought she could make out the bend where the house was. She scanned Max’s letter again. Yes, this was right, the cluster of oaks, the double dip of the valleys. But however hard she stared, there was no clue here as to why Max had considered any of these details significant. Though he would have liked this room. Helena sighed with an impatience bordering on despair. Perhaps she had been on the wrong track all along and James Whitaker was right. Perhaps Max was in no trouble at all, was simply here to enjoy the view, to escape, to retreat. And wanted none of them to find him. Not even her.
‘Speak to me, Max,’ she addressed the letter. ‘You’ve always spoken to me before, when I’ve needed you. Tell me.’ But the letter was as silent as the hills, as silent she suddenly thought as if she had been addressing the father she herself had never known. It came to her that she was behaving like Anna, invoking her missing son, entreating the dead Johannes to speak.
Helena shrugged the silly notion away. She had a sudden desire to work in order to regain her bearings. Writing always soothed, made order out of chaos. She had brought a file full of notes with her, for a piece on pesticides she had been researching for some time. She rang her office, spoke to the Environment page assistant, checked on post and telephone messages, then had a word with Carl Sykes, her immediate editor. Yes, it would be wonderful if she could get the article done. But it would wait a week. She was meant to be on holiday.
Some holiday, Helena thought. She found her file, the accumulated notes of a long investigation, together with a preliminary draft of her article.
By the time Helena had written her piece, she felt better. Night had fallen. A drink was in order and perhaps another little chat with her garrulous hostess who might be prodded into memory.
Downstairs, the inn had taken on an altogether different allure. The dark beamed bar was abuzz with voices. Men with square weather-hardened faces sat at the long oak tables now heaped with beer tankards and dishes of pretzels.
There was a momentary silence as Helena walked towards the bar. She could feel the eyes on her back, curious, suspicious. She was tempted to turn towards them and rail, ‘Have you never seen a woman before?’ But she kept her counsel, asked the barman for a glass of wine, a sandwich, looked up to see a fair young man at her side.
‘Hi, Frau Bauer told me there was a fellow foreigner here,’ he grinned. ‘Doing a spot of out-of-season tourism?’
It was interesting, Helena thought, as she nodded. As soon as this young man had claimed her, the voices in the room had started up again. She was made safe, tamed by a man’s presence. How ridiculous it all was. With Max, and that too was something she so valued about him, there was never any question of the accident of her sex.
‘Nic
e place,’ the young man said. ‘I’m Bob Rawthorne by the way.’
‘Helena Latimer.’
‘You’re from England.’
She nodded.
‘I’ve been living in Munich for some six months. Work in pharmaceuticals.’
Helena pricked up her ears, offered her newest identity. ‘I’m writing a travel piece about this part of the country.’
‘Oh? There’s some good walking. I could show you tomorrow. And some picture postcard chalets to rent. Thought of doing it myself.’
She hadn’t considered that, Helena kicked herself. Of course. If Max had wanted to be invisible for whatever purpose, a chalet would be far better than a hotel. She started to chat animatedly with her new friend. One never knew where one’s leads might come from.
Over the next days, Helena pursued these with the tenacity she brought to her investigative journalism. She drove further into the Alps, visited monasteries with lavish baroque chapels, questioned hotel keepers and estate agents.
One in Oberammergau had rented a chalet to a man of Max’s description, but there was no one in the tiny wooden house when Helena went to visit. Peering through the windows revealed nothing. She left a note naming the guesthouse where she was staying. Then she sat in a local tavern watching people come in and out, hoping against hope that Max would walk through the door and she could hear the comfort of his voice.
It was from Oberammergau that she sent Claire a card, telling her that she was hot on Max’s trail and having a holiday, despite everything. But she wasn’t: she was tired, too tired.
On Friday, she went to see the two firms she had made appointments with on the advice of the Munich Greens. She grilled the Public Relations man in the chemical plant mercilessly on toxic waste and its disposal. His smooth manner irritated her, but she could find little fault with what he said; nor did his face betray the slightest flinch when she mentioned the name of Max Bergmann or indeed, Herr Hillman. He had heard of neither. On the other hand, he was quite prepared to have an assistant show her round the plant. The Sunday Courier was a paper he respected.
At the timber firm, the red faced manager she was shown to was a little less suave, a little less comfortable, but she quickly determined that whatever it was he was hiding had nothing to do with Max.
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