Where Memories Lie

by Deborah Crombie

  "You're not suggesting that Miller was a war criminal?" Cullen laughed in disbelief. "He was English, for God's sake."

  "I don't know," said Gemma. "Maybe Gavin Hoxley was just paranoid, but I got the impression from his notes that he felt our government was somehow complicit. And it seems an unlikely coincidence that Hoxley should die so conveniently with David Rosenthal's murder unsolved."

  "But even so," argued Cullen, "it still doesn't add up. You're saying that if Miller was a war criminal, that the powers that be would have let Rosenthal kill him. But it was Rosenthal who ended up dead. And what does any of that have to do with Kristin Cahill and Harry Pevensey?"

  "I don't know," Gemma repeated, frustrated. "But there's something here we're not seeing, and I just can't quite-"

  "We can start by asking Ellen Miller-Scott if her father knew David Rosenthal," Kincaid suggested.

  "No," Gemma said slowly, as she thought it through. "I've got to talk to Erika first. And I'm worried about her." She turned, gazing at the redbrick town house, thinking of what they had found inside. "Dominic Scott is the third person connected with the Goldshtein brooch to have died. And I kept trying to ring Erika all last evening. She didn't answer."

  ***

  Gemma stopped by Notting Hill Station, to pick up a proper print from Melody and to borrow a car from the pool. She didn't want to take the time to walk to Arundel Gardens, nor to walk home for her own car. Melody had offered to come with her, but she'd refused again.

  "I'll ring you," she said. "If-Well, I'll ring you."

  She parked with unexpected ease, just across from Erika's house, and when she glanced at her watch she saw with surprise that she had missed lunch. But she felt hollow with anxiety rather than hunger. And she had not yet made it to hospital. At the thought of her mother, the knot in her stomach tightened even further.

  Reaching Erika's door, she rang the bell. Her heart gave a little skip. She waited a moment, then rang again, punching at the button, then trying the door, but it was firmly locked. Why had she never thought to ask Erika for a key in case of an emergency?

  The shade was pulled down in the bedroom that faced on the little yard, so she could see nothing inside. She had taken out her mobile to ring Melody for reinforcements when the door swung open and Erika looked out at her.

  "Gemma, my dear, whatever is the matter?"

  Gemma's knees went wobbly with relief. "Are you all right?" she asked in a rush.

  "Of course," said Erika, looking bemused. "I was out in the garden. And you look as if you're about to collapse on my doorstep from heatstroke. Come in."

  "But where were you last night?" Gemma asked as she followed her into the house. "I rang and rang."

  Erika led her into the kitchen. "Sit, and I'll get you some water." When she had handed Gemma a glass filled from the tap, she said, "I was out at a university dinner. For some reason they saw fit to trot me out for an award, but I have to admit I enjoyed being made much of. But why should you have worried?"

  "Erika, last night…how did you get home from your dinner?"

  Erika looked more puzzled than ever. "I took a taxi. The cabbie fussed over me as if I were doddering and waited until I got in my door. Why should it matter?"

  "But before you got in, did you see anything unusual?"

  "No, I can't recall-" Erika's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait. There was a car idling a few doors down, but I didn't think anything of it-"

  "What sort of car?"

  "Oh, one of those big square ones. Like a Land Rover."

  Gemma felt as if all her muscles had turned to jelly. "Thank God for that cabbie."

  "Gemma, what on earth is this about?" Then the penny dropped, and Erika looked frightened. "Does this have something to do with that poor girl?"

  "It might do," said Gemma. "I think I'd better start from the beginning." She reconsidered, and said, "Or better yet, I need you to start from the beginning." She sipped at her water, warm as a bath straight from the tap. "Erika, why did you never tell me that your husband was murdered?"

  "David?"

  "Unless you were married more than once," Gemma answered a little tartly, and realized she felt hurt by Erika's silence.

  Sinking into the chair across from Gemma, Erika said, "It never occurred to me. It was so long ago, and I thought that part of my life long buried-why should I have burdened you? And why should it matter to anyone now?"

  "Would your husband have read the Guardian the day he was killed?"

  "My article." Erika closed her eyes. "Yes. David would have bought the paper. It was my first published piece, and David was dutiful, if not deeply interested. But I still don't understand."

  Gemma pulled the print Melody had made her from her bag and handed it across the table.

  "Oh, dear God." Erika stared at the page. "Where did you-How did you-"

  "It was in the Guardian, on that very same day. In the society page."

  "But this-" She looked at the photo again and pushed it away, as if it were contaminated. "That's Joseph Mueller. Why does it say his name is something else?" She had gone pale as the white lilies in the vase on the kitchen table. "I never thought to see that face again."

  "Who was he, Erika? How did you know him?"

  "He was German," Erika insisted, her voice shaking. "What is he doing in an English newspaper, with an English name?"

  "He is English," Gemma assured her. "His name was Joss Miller. He was a financier, and an art collector, and he just died two years ago."

  Erika stared at her, her face contorted, then turned her head and spat. "That is lies, all lies. This man was a German, and a trafficker in human lives. He took money from Jews, promising to get them safely out of Germany. And if we had no communication with others he said he had helped escape, we assumed it was because they didn't dare write to us. But now I wonder if anyone whose money he took ever came out of Germany."

  "But you did," said Gemma, frowning.

  "Only by the grace of God and the kindness of a German farmer. I went back, after the war, but I couldn't find the farm. Perhaps it was destroyed. Perhaps my memory was faulty. I never knew the family's name, but I fear they cannot have gone unpunished."

  "Punished for what? I don't understand."

  "No. You could not." Erika seemed to shrink into her chair. "But I suppose I must tell you, because it has to do with the brooch, and if my silence is in some way responsible for that girl's death-"

  Gemma bit her lip. She had never had the chance to tell Erika about Harry Pevensey, but now was not the time. "Please," she said, leaning forward and touching Erika's hand. "What happened?"

  Erika gripped Gemma's hand, then let hers fall to her lap. Her eyes lost focus. After a moment she began to speak, so softly that Gemma had to strain to hear.

  "I told Kit, just a little. About how my father's work was patronized by the wealthy Germans, and how he did not believe that we would be touched by the madness being spouted by the Nazis. But by 1938, it became evident even to my father that things were out of control, that there was no surety of safety for any Jew. And I had married David.

  "David had been a lecturer at the university, in philosophy-we Germans had always been great believers in philosophy, much good it did us-and after the Nazis banned Jews from faculty positions in all the German universities, David tutored students privately. Many Jewish professors did-it was a way round the restrictions."

  Gemma thought of the difference in ages between Erika and her husband. "You were David's student?"

  "Yes." Erika gave a ghost of a smile. "The age-old story. Naive young girl falls in love with wise older man. And David was a radical, who spoke out against Hitler's regime, and that recklessness made him all the more appealing. As for him, I think he was flattered by my attention, and he saw himself as furthering my political and intellectual education. I don't think he was ever in love with me, but of course I didn't know that then.

  "But David's outspokenness made my father even more concerned
for our safety, and he made arrangements to get us out of the country. It would cost, we were told, but there was a man who would take us out through the Netherlands and from there into England. My father said we should go first, and that he would follow when he knew we were safe.

  "There was another couple, older, friends of my father's, who would go with us. They vouched for this man, Mueller"-Erika did not glance at the photo-"and they paid him handsomely, as did my father.

  "When we parted, my father gave me the diamond brooch, the last thing he had made, to keep secretly. Not even David knew of it."

  Now she looked up and met Gemma's eyes. "He was a big, handsome man, this Mueller, with a Berliner accent. He said he had many connections. He had a small van, with the markings of a carpet firm, and he had papers showing that he and his helper were salesmen. We rode in the back, with instructions to cover ourselves with the carpets if we were stopped.

  "The first night we stopped at a traveler's hotel. We were allowed out only to relieve ourselves in the darkest part of the night, and once back in the van we were given a little black bread. David and the other man, Saul, began to complain, but when they saw Mueller's face, they stopped."

  Gemma had to still the impulse to stand and move about. She didn't dare even to drink from the glass of water, for fear of halting Erika's story.

  "The next night," Erika went on, "we stopped at a farm very near the Dutch border. As I said, I was never sure of the exact location. Once it was dark, we were taken out of the van and led into the barn. We thought we would be fed and allowed to sleep in the straw. But that was not the case." Erika paused, clasping her hands together, and Gemma held her breath, fighting a wave of nausea.

  When Erika continued, her voice was a thread of sound. "Mueller had a gun. His helper held the gun on the others while Mueller raped me. Then Mueller held the gun. Then they did the same with Sarah. When Saul tried to stop them, Mueller shot him. When they were finished with Sarah, he shot her."

  Gemma swallowed. The smell of the lilies was sickly sweet, overpowering. She realized she had tears running down her cheeks, but Erika's eyes were dry. "And David?" Gemma managed to croak.

  "David did nothing," Erika said without intonation. "Mueller found the brooch when they stripped me. To this day, I don't know why they didn't shoot us then. Perhaps they weren't finished with me. Perhaps they enjoyed humiliating David. Or perhaps, having found the brooch, they thought they might somehow get more money from my father if they kept us alive.

  "They tied us up, on the floor of the barn, beside Saul's and Sarah's bodies. I suppose they went into the farmhouse to drink. We heard laughter and shouting."

  She took a little gulping breath. "David didn't speak to me. Not a word, all that night. Just before dawn, the farmer came out and untied us. He gave us some money and told us in which direction to run, towards the border. I have always been afraid that he and his family must have died for his kindness.

  "We ran, stumbling in the dark, hiding at any sound, and by daylight we found we were in Holland. Some people fed us and helped us get to a Jewish aid organization. From there we came to London. We were penniless, and I was…injured." She met Gemma's eyes, then looked away. "I had started to bleed after they raped me, and it only got worse. By the time we reached London, I had lost my baby. A girl. I was very ill. For a time they thought I might not live. And the doctors told me I would have no more children."

  "Erika," Gemma managed to whisper, "why did you never tell me?"

  "I thought-I thought it would only add to your pain. And I-I had never spoken of it to anyone. Not even-" She shook her head. "And we-David and I-he could never bear to touch me afterwards. Perhaps he felt I was defiled. But I think it was also that he felt he had failed me, failed himself, failed utterly as a man.

  "He became a shell, a ghost of a man. Until he began to write his book and to speak with strangers in whispers. I never knew what he was writing, or who these people were. I suppose I was a coward myself, because I did not ask. It was only when Gavin told me what he suspected that I began to guess what David had been doing."

  Of course Erika would have known Gavin, Gemma realized. He had interviewed her. She started to ask, but Erika began to speak again. "Perhaps David felt retribution would somehow absolve him. But if, on that day, he saw a photo of Joseph Mueller in an English newspaper-Mueller was here, in London?"

  "In Chelsea. He lived not far from Cheyne Gardens."

  "Chelsea? My God." Erika was trembling. She pressed her clasped hands to her lips, then dropped them again as she said, "I would never have thought to glance at the society page-such things had no interest for me. But David-David always read whatever newspaper he bought from front page to back. It was a compulsion. If he had seen that photo, he would have found where this man-"

  "Miller."

  Erika nodded. "Miller. Where Miller lived. But if David went to his house, how did he…"

  Gemma finished it for her. "End up in Cheyne Gardens? Maybe Miller arranged to meet him there. To talk."

  "Yes." Erika nodded. "David still expected people to talk, to be rational, even after everything that had happened."

  "But Miller would never have allowed David to connect him with his past. It's said his money came from construction after the war, but he had to have started with something-"

  "The profit from theft, and murder. Mueller, Miller," Erika said slowly. "His family must have been Germans who Anglicized their name. That would explain his fluency with the language, his knowledge of the countryside, how easy it was for him to go back to the German version of his name, to pretend to be German."

  "If David found him, he would have had much to lose. And…he enjoyed violence."

  "So he arranged to meet David, planning to kill him." Gemma felt certain of it now. "But was taking the manuscript just a bonus?"

  Erika sighed. "David might have believed he could threaten him with it. How could he have been such a fool?"

  "And instead, Miller took it and stripped David of any identification. But then you reported David missing, and identified his body. Miller hadn't counted on that. So he tried to have the investigation stopped."

  "Gavin said the order came from the top," said Erika. "And if…Miller…had found out that Gavin had made the connection with the newspaper-"

  "Gavin." Gemma looked at her friend with a sudden knowledge that wrenched her heart.

  Erika met her eyes, but there was no need for her to speak.

  "I read his notes," Gemma said after a moment. "He was a good man, and a good police officer. And I thought it very odd that he died just after he was told to leave off looking into David's murder."

  "His superintendent said it was suicide, but I never believed it."

  "If Gavin had shown you that day's paper-"

  "I would have known who had killed David, and why," said Erika.

  "If Miller heard from some of his pals that Gavin had connected David with vengeance groups, he might have thought it too close for comfort, even before Gavin made the connection with the newspaper photo," Gemma mused. "And if making a few discreet suggestions that David's death wasn't worth pursuing didn't do the trick-"

  "Francis Tyrell, the superintendent, didn't seem to care for Jews. Perhaps Miller knew that it wouldn't take much urging to convince him."

  "But Tyrell didn't convince Gavin Hoxley, so Miller arranged a meeting with him, an anonymous tip, perhaps-"

  "Gavin," said Erika, her eyes bright with tears for the first time. "Gavin was a strong man. But he would not have known what he was facing. And if he'd thought he might learn something about David's murder, he wouldn't have rung me until he was certain. But he never had that chance."

  CHAPTER 21

  At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end…

  – W. H. Auden, "Twelve Songs"

  "But what about the brooch?" asked Erika. "I still don't understand why that poor girl was killed. Or why the brooch was never sold in all those years."


  "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that." Gemma stood, and discovered that all her muscles had cramped, as if she'd been tied in knots for hours. "I'm going to make us some tea. And something to eat. Are there any biscuits?" She needed time to process what she'd learned, and she wasn't eager to tell Erika the things she hadn't yet been told.

  "I made braune Zuckerplätzchen. Brown-sugar cookies. For Kit and Toby."

  Gemma looked up from filling the kettle in surprise. Had she ever heard Erika speak German?

  "I found myself wanting to remember things," Erika explained. "I hadn't had them since I was a child. They're in the tin."

  The red-and-green tin, incongruously Christmassy, sat next to the cooker. Gemma put the comfortingly lumpy biscuits on a plate and got out cups and saucers. Erika, who usually quickly took charge in her own kitchen, sat and watched her without protest.

  She looked exhausted, and yet it seemed to Gemma that some of the strain had gone from her face. And Gemma thought, as she often did, how beautiful Erika was, still, and wondered what she had been like when she had known Gavin Hoxley.

  "Erika," she said, realizing something she had never consciously noticed as she popped tea bags into the pot and filled it from the kettle, "why don't you have any photos of yourself?" She didn't ask why there were none of David, not now.

  "I brought nothing out of Germany." Erika gave a little shrug. "Not that it would have mattered, as things happened. And then, I don't know. David never touched a camera, and I-" She frowned. "I think there is one, taken not long after the war, by a neighbor. It's in the top drawer in the secretary."

  Leaving the tea to steep, Gemma went into the sitting room and opened the top drawer of the little writing desk. Among the bills and pencils, she found a few loose photographs. Some were obviously more recent, taken in color, and were of Erika at various university functions. But there were a few in black and white at the bottom of the drawer, and these Gemma removed and took through into the kitchen.