The Road Home

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The Road Home Page 12

by Margaret Way


  “You look beautiful,” he said lightly, giving her an approving nod. “What else could you look?” Bella had a genius for looking chic. She was wearing a dress with a fitted top and a flowing, calf-length skirt, the colour of an amethyst gemstone. Her crowning glory was pulled back from her face and arranged in some sort of elegant roll at the back. Large amethyst pendant earrings swung from her ears, throwing lights onto her cheeks. God knows how Erik Hartmann would react when confronted with this vision.

  A blush warmed Isabelle’s flawless skin. “Thank you, Bruno. You look good too.” Instinct told her not to enthuse. His outfit comprised a blue linen jacket over a black tee that hugged his taut, muscled torso, with narrow-legged black pants. “The truth is, I’m extremely nervous, if you aren’t. These people are strangers to me as I am to them.”

  “Not too strange,” Bruno said. “Kurt will have filled in his great-uncle. You’re the living image of his aunt Helena.”

  “Maybe, but we don’t know who I am.”

  “We’re going to find out. Come along, now. Got everything?”

  “Yes.” Bruno took her hand in his like her very best friend. That alone gave her the confidence and courage she needed to meet this family that could end up hers.

  * * *

  From the base of the staircase they heard men’s voices in the drawing room beyond, one deep and educated, the other higher-pitched, less cultured, raised in anger. “What the hell do you mean, keeping this secret, Erik, damn you!” The angry voice sounded as though the news he had just received had totally blindsided him. “And why didn’t you tell me, Kurt? Or are you so bloody gutless? I’m your father. Not him. And you ought to thank God for it!”

  Isabelle darted a highly perturbed look at Bruno. He increased the pressure on her hand, his thumb soothing her palm. “I’d say Kurt’s dad has come home unexpectedly.”

  “Oh God, Bruno!” she breathed. “What do we do now?”

  “What we came here to do,” he said purposefully. “Confront them.”

  “Can’t we wait until the argument dies down?”

  “A minute more might be helpful,” he conceded, but with a certain finality.

  Erik Hartmann’s voice came again. “This is real, Stefan,” he said. “The girl is here. You should meet her, or aren’t you game?”

  “Game?” The angry voice turned up a few notches to near ferocity. “I don’t want any part of this, Erik. Leave me out of it,” he shouted. “Everything you do stinks to high heaven. Our poor Helena is dead. How could she not be, never getting in touch with us. We loved her, Father and I, though you did bloody well keeping any love from her. This girl is a fraud made up to look like Helena.”

  “Why don’t you wait and see?” the darker voice taunted. “I invited them down for drinks right about now. I will admit to a few misgivings myself, but it should be easy enough to tell. Women can do a great deal to alter their appearance.”

  “Time to go in,” said Bruno, looking down at this beautiful young woman whose life he had turned upside down. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “If I have I don’t care.” Isabelle tilted her chin. “Who are they to talk about frauds?” she scoffed, stepping off the big Persian rug onto the parqueted floor, allowing her high heels to tap out their arrival.

  “Okay, we’re on!” Bruno announced, as if they were going onstage. He dropped her hand so as not to give the appearance they were in any way hooked up beyond client and advisor.

  The voices had stopped. The house fell silent, as if it had been waiting for this moment for years.

  Inside the drawing room, Isabelle knew immediately which man was Erik. She would have known even if the two men had been dressed exactly the same. The family resemblance was strong. Both men were tall, dark haired, dark eyed, with very black straight eyebrows, handsome, the man Stefan noticeably fitter than the much older, heavier Erik, who wore a Paisley evening jacket with a cravat.

  Did anyone wear a cravat these days? Bruno wondered. This guy really was a throwback. Probably he had his newspapers ironed.

  “Ah, there you are!” their host called with a pleasure they knew perfectly well was feigned. “Come in. Do.” He swept a hand toward the younger man dressed in clean, neat khakis. “This is my nephew, Stefan, Kurt’s father,” he said with practised bonhomie.

  For all the playacting, a flash of something akin to fear surged through Isabelle. She had an instinctive distrust of the man who was Helena’s father and, God forbid, her grandfather. The other man, Stefan, was standing stock still, clearly in shock. In the background the silent Kurt was nervously twisting his hands around and around.

  Erik Hartmann began to make civilised introductions, his voice purring as though they were honoured guests and this was the start of a very enjoyable evening. Bruno shook hands with both men. Isabelle felt she couldn’t without triggering some kind of adverse reaction in herself.

  Stefan Hartmann appeared struck dumb, but there were many signs of emotion. The muscles of his face were working. His dark eyes appeared glazed. It seemed to her, though she could be quite wrong, that he was a sincere and honest man, where his uncle was not.

  At the corner of her vision she saw Mrs. Saunders, dressed more formally, appear through a doorway that must connect with the kitchen, then go to a long serving table placed at the back of a sofa. It had been set with a large silver salver with a beaded rim. It held four long-stemmed crystal flutes. She was carrying a silver wine cooler with garlands on it and rams’ heads. Valuable. She placed it alongside the salver. It held a chilled bottle of French champagne. Isabelle recognised the label. Louis Roederer. Their host was splashing out, or maybe he dined on the best of the best French champagnes every night of the week.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Saunders,” Erik said expansively. “We’re all going to enjoy a glass, aren’t we?”

  “Nothing for me.” Stefan Hartmann broke out of his stupor. “Excuse me, please. I’ve only been home an hour. I wasn’t told of your visit until I came into the house.” He targeted Bruno, then Isabelle, as he spoke.

  “Couldn’t you join us?” Isabelle asked with gentle courtesy. “I would like that.”

  “Why not, Stefan?” Erik joined in sardonically. “Isabelle and Mr. McKendrick have come all this way.”

  Stefan’s dark head shot in Bruno’s direction. “McKendrick?” He gave his uncle a fiercely quizzical look before turning back to Bruno. “You have some connection to Ross McKendrick, the private investigator who came here many years ago?”

  “My father,” Bruno replied. “I regret you weren’t at home to be told of our visit.”

  Stefan frowned heavily. “When was the visit arranged?”

  “A day after you left,” Erik Hartmann cut in smoothly. “You really didn’t give me the opportunity to explain, Stefan.”

  Bruno bestowed a wry look on Isabelle. No point in flatly contradicting their host.

  “I’m sorry, but please don’t include me.” Stefan Hartmann fixed Isabelle with such a strange look. There were actually a glitter of tears in his eyes. They seemed to speak to her of a deep wound, as if the shock and the grief of Helena’s disappearance would never go away. “I’ll say good night,” he said, moving awkwardly when he wouldn’t normally have been awkward, such was his haste to be gone.

  “Perhaps we could speak tomorrow?” Isabelle asked. “That’s if you have the time. I know no more than you do, Mr. Hartmann. All I know is my resemblance to Helena is such it startles everyone, including you. All this is very new to me. I knew nothing of this family until very recently and only through a photograph of Helena and, we assume, one of her mother. Ross McKendrick had the photographs in his possession. I’m as much a mystery to myself as I am to you.”

  “Helena’s mother? You surely can’t be talking about Myra?” Stefan spoke in a rush, even further amazed.

  “No, no, the photographs were of Helena,” Erik Hartmann said calmly but emphatically. “I gave them to your father myself.”

  “Whe
rever did you get the idea you had a photograph of Myra?” The words were wrested from some place deep inside Stefan Hartmann.

  “I believe the two photographs I was shown were of two different women who shared a remarkable resemblance,” Isabelle explained. “Bruno’s father did not see it. I did.” No point in adding Hilary had spotted the difference too. She knew most people wouldn’t, but they would be merely observing whereas she and Hilary, women, had considerable powers of observation.

  “My dear girl!” Erik Hartmann appeared to be marvelling she could have jumped to such a conclusion. “I do know the difference between my wife and my daughter. You’re entirely mistaken.”

  “Is she really?” Stefan swung aggressively on his uncle. “I’d know which was which. Do you have the photographs with you?”

  “I do,” Bruno said.

  “So you came here.” Stefan’s whole demeanour had changed.

  Erik suddenly waved a hand to hush the housekeeper away. “That will do, Mrs. Saunders. Dinner in thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no humility in her voice; nevertheless, the ever-faithful housekeeper moved off as if she couldn’t wait to be gone.

  “If it’s only coincidence, and not some connection by blood, that can be easily proved,” Bruno said, crossing to Isabelle’s side.

  Stefan Hartmann turned away abruptly, took a few steps out of the room, then faced Isabelle again. “How long are you staying?”

  “A very short time.”

  “All we need is the answer to a few questions,” said Bruno with swift decisiveness. What were these people hiding?

  “I know. DNA testing?” Stefan said, anger resurfacing in his eyes.

  “Don’t you all want to know if Isabelle is in some way connected to you?” Bruno asked, the voice of reason.

  “You mean like we have a choice?” Kurt suddenly entered the fray. “You’re after money, aren’t you?”

  “We most definitely are not!” Bruno answered the younger man almost amiably. “We can all wonder about the extraordinary resemblance Isabella bears to your relative, or we can rule out any blood connection.”

  “Or rule it in,” Stefan said. “Which firm do you represent, McKendrick?”

  “I run my own wealth management company in Sydney, Mr. Hartmann. The Fortuna Group.”

  “Impressive too,” Erik Hartmann interjected. He had checked McKendrick out.

  “I’ve involved myself in this because of my father,” Bruno continued. “He was obsessed with finding Helena. He wanted to bring closure to the family. He thought very highly of Mr. Konrad Hartmann, who hired him. I’m doing this for Isabella, my father and, of course, Helena.” He stopped short of telling them whom they now knew had fled to the U.K. Or maybe they did know. Maybe Erik Hartmann knew, if his nephew, Stefan, didn’t.

  “Why don’t I get the photos?” Isabelle said. “It will only take a moment.”

  “Leave it, my dear,” Erik said, shaking a grave head. “We can see them later.”

  “I want to see them now.” Stefan Hartmann didn’t appear to trust his uncle one inch.

  Bruno brought the disagreement to an end. “I’ll get them,” he said.

  “Good man!” Stefan nodded.

  * * *

  Bruno moved as soundlessly as a big cat down the corridor. He had a fair idea who he would find when he reached the Turkish Room. He was a past master at intercepting communications between employees, competitors, people in general. Erik Hartmann had given a silent signal to Mrs. Saunders, possibly his long-term mistress. The woman could look vastly different if she took the trouble. Whether his nephew and great-nephew were aware of a possible arrangement between the two, he had no idea. Both Hartmann and the housekeeper were consummate actors.

  The door of the Turkish Room was open. He had shut it. The woman had her back to him.

  “Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Saunders?” he asked.

  She turned, drawing herself up. She did not lower her eyes. She looked fixedly back at him, as brazen as you like. “I was just checking you would be comfortable for the night, Mr. McKendrick. I have trained my staff well, but I always check things myself. Why do you look at me like that?” she asked abruptly. She wasn’t the first person to be unnerved by Bruno’s regard.

  Bruno only smiled. “Thank you for going to the trouble, Mrs. Saunders. I expect you want to get on with dinner?”

  “I have everything in hand.”

  “So do I, madam,” Bruno said. “You appear to have touched my suitcase. It’s not where I left it.”

  A look of confusion crossed the housekeeper’s face. “I swear—”

  “No need,” Bruno said pleasantly, holding up a hand. “You probably lifted it off the bed?”

  “Exactly,” the woman said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She was studying Bruno’s smiling face with little idea of what lay behind the charm.

  “Of course.” He didn’t know whether she’d had the time to find the photographs and form an opinion that would be passed to the Master one way or another. One young woman? Two young women? One Helena? One Myra? Mrs. Saunders would do anything Hartmann asked.

  He wasn’t such a fool as to leave the photographs on display. He located a specific book on the Ottoman Empire, spread the yellowed pages and found the photographs.

  He had learned a great deal from Isabella. His father had never questioned the photographs were of Helena. The same hair, the same features, the same colouring. He had taken them on good faith from Helena’s father as both being of his daughter. Why would a father lie unless he had something to explain? What if Erik were not Helena’s father? How could such a thing be? With the exception of Kurt, who probably had inherited his mother’s colouring, the Hartmann men were dark eyed, dark haired. Myra—the family pronounced it Meera—Hartmann had been a dazzling beauty. She would have attracted most of the men who came into her orbit.

  Myra and perhaps her daughter were nothing but bones, as was Erik Hartmann’s half brother Christian. He knew DNA testing was accurate. He had consulted a medical scientist friend. He had asked and learned if half brothers underwent a paternity test, the biological father would be easily identified. Only identical twins would have the same DNA, not half brothers, as Erik and Christian had been.

  “If only walls could speak!” Bruno exclaimed aloud. “Did you love Myra, Christian?” he asked the dusky air. “Did she love you? Was Helena your love child?” Stranger things had happened. Or was there some other man involved? A family friend, a frequent visitor? One from overseas? How did one get the Hartmann men to consent to DNA testing? Both would be affronted by any such suggestion. And he wouldn’t blame them.

  What wouldn’t I give to hear your story, Christian? he thought. Christian long buried, as was the beautiful Myra. That to Bruno seemed most peculiar. Two members of the family who had suffered accidental death. The family was so influential, even more so in those days, when stations were run like private kingdoms, their accounting of the two tragic events would have been accepted. Such accidents in their part of the world weren’t rare.

  * * *

  Bruno arrived downstairs to a group reduced to silence. His gaze went immediately to Isabelle, bypassing Eric and Kurt. She gave him a faint, encouraging smile. She was all right, then. He crossed the room to where Stefan Hartmann was sitting, handing him the two photographs. But would he be an expert on Myra, his aunt?

  It appeared Stefan thought he was because after a brief perusal, he burst out, “This is Aunt Myra, your wife, Erik.” He jabbed at the larger photograph with a finger, before waving it aloft.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Erik countered with weary contempt. “You wouldn’t have been that old when my wife was killed. You’ve forgotten her.”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing,” Stefan said, not even bothering to defend himself. “This photograph is of Helena,” he said, having put the larger photograph down before picking up the other. An expression of great sadness crossed his face. “It’s t
he photo of a heartsick girl. Your wife overshadowed your daughter in all departments. Aunt Myra was a great femme fatale. I remember her well. She had so many attributes. She played the piano beautifully. She was a wonderful hostess, a great rider, a fine markswoman. I remember how she used to draw all the male guests like bees to honey. You hated that. You wanted all her attention, but you never got it. Aunt Myra had a presence, a vibrancy Helena lacked, for all she was just as beautiful as her mother. Note the expressions are quite different. One woman has all the self-confidence the other lacks. Helena looks so unsure of herself, unhappy. Why? What was making her so unhappy? She’d lost her mother, and then she lost my father, her uncle Christian. She loved him, might I remind you, Erik. She loved him and he loved her.”

  “If we can trust your recollections,” Erik Hartmann said mildly, unimpressed by what his nephew had to say. “You were a long time at boarding school. The smaller photo of Helena was taken when she had become somewhat rebellious. Occasionally she did foolish things. She had to be cautioned for her own good. The trouble was, my father overindulged her, especially after she lost her mother.”

  “She didn’t lose her mother,” Stefan suddenly shouted. “Her mother was killed here on the station. Myra was a superb horsewoman. No one ever worried about her when she went out. She could handle any horse. She could even break in brumbies. She could jump fences with her eyes closed. Everyone admired her. I’m not making all this up. I know. I saw.”

  “So what are you trying to say, Dad?” Kurt asked, appearing honestly shocked by his father’s outburst.

  “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Stefan admitted, shaking his head sadly. “What I can say is one is a photo of Helena, the other is of her mother. It’s a mystery how you, Uncle Erik, couldn’t pick which one was of your wife and which one was of your daughter. God help me if I’m wrong.”

  “You are wrong, Dad. You have to be,” Kurt cried, the blood draining from his tanned face.

 

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