The Silver Castle

by Nancy Buckingham

  * * * *

  Anton must have heard the car. He came striding out to the hall the instant we walked in. His face was a dark mask of anger and, not even acknowledging me, he started speaking to Raimund in German. I grasped that he was raging at his brother for ignoring his message. Raimund made no protest, staring back at Anton helplessly like a guilty schoolboy on the headmaster’s mat. I felt impelled to step in and say something in his defence.

  “I’m sorry, but if there’s been a misunderstanding, it may have been my fault.” Bending the truth, I went on, “I mentioned to Raimund that you had arrived back, of course, but I didn’t realise that you wanted to see him urgently. Raimund was going to St. Gallen on business and he took me along to show me around a bit.”

  Anton didn’t hurry about switching his gaze from Raimund to me. When he did I saw the bite of fury in his eyes, and I couldn’t blame Raimund for quailing.

  He said, “I’m surprised, Miss Sherbrooke, to hear that you even bothered to mention to my brother that I was back. I had not assumed that you would, which is why I took the trouble to telephone our customer in St. Gallen with a message that Raimund was to return to the mill immediately. But it seems that he was too intent on spending the day with you, instead of facing up to his responsibilities.”

  Oh, Raimund, you fool, I thought wretchedly. You’ve given Anton an excellent excuse to browbeat you. Why won’t you learn that you can’t run away forever?

  There was a whisper of wheels and Sigrid emerged from the salon. Her usually serene face was tense, the skin translucent and tight-stretched over her high cheekbones. Fatigue had dulled her eyes, and I could guess that these past hours with her stepson had been highly unpleasant for her.

  “Anton, I implore you not to make a scene.” She glanced at me and made an apologetic little gesture with her hands. “Gail, I wonder if ... ?”

  I said, “I’m rather tired, so if you don’t mind I’ll go straight up to bed.”

  There was a glimmer of gratitude in her wan smile. “Is there anything you’d like ... coffee, hot milk, sandwiches? I’ll have Ursula bring a tray up to you.”

  “No, nothing, thank you. Good night.”

  At the first turn of the staircase I paused and glanced down. The three figures were motionless, frozen like a tableau, waiting for the moment when I was safely out of hearing.

  Chapter Seven

  The gardener was forking the soil of an empty flower bed as I went past, and turned to watch me sullenly. To my Guten Morgen he gave only a grunt. Behind him was a magnolia tree in full magnificence, its creamy velvet goblets delicately flushed with pink, and I thought what an incongruous background it made to his heavy, uncouth figure.

  I walked on down the drive and out through the tall entrance gates, heading for the chalet. I was glad, I told myself firmly, that the die was cast, my decision made. It was a relief that I would be leaving the Schloss Rietswil today and returning to London.

  I had awakened late, unrested from a night of fitful sleep. Drawing back the curtains, I discovered it to be a morning of ineffable beauty, clear as crystal, soft as silk. Out on the lake a yacht was skimming gracefully in the sunshine, its sail a bleached triangle patching the lapis lazuli of the water. But I could enjoy this tranquil scene for only a moment before my thoughts were jerked back to the violence of that night in February, when a motor launch sank to the bottom and two people died.

  I knew then with sudden conviction that it would be impossible for me to remain here. In spite of what I had told Raimund last night, I must leave without delay. His brother’s attitude made it the only course open to me. But first, I had things to do, people to face. Or perhaps only Sigrid alone. It would be enough to say my good-byes to her, just leaving a message for Raimund. Anton, I felt sure, would insist on an early start to every working day, and I guessed that both men would have already left for the silk mill.

  I was right about that. I breakfasted alone in a small glazed sunroom, with white-painted furniture and bright orange cushions. Ursula brought me crisp rolls and butter, and a dish of damson jam.

  “How soon will it be possible for me to see Frau Kreuder?” I asked her as she set down the silver coffeepot. “I wish to tell her that I shall be leaving today.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she darted me a look. “Wie bitte?”

  “I am returning to England today,” I said firmly. There, it was done, I was committed. “I shall have to phone the airport to make a reservation.”

  The woman seemed astonished, at a loss to know whether she was pleased or sorry. She stood studying me uncertainly, the polished wooden tray hugged against her apron.

  “Frau Kreuder does not know of this, Fraulein?”

  “Not yet. As I said, I want to tell her as soon as possible.”

  She gave a series of slow nods while she considered this. Finally, she said, “Ja! I will tell Frau Kreuder. She will send for you.”

  I ate very little, but the coffee revived me. I was back in my room packing, having phoned the airport and fixed a flight for mid-afternoon, when I was summoned to see my hostess. She was in the small private sitting room which adjoined her bedroom.

  As I entered she spun her wheelchair towards me, then stopped and stretched out both her arms.

  “My dear girl, what is this I hear from Ursula? Why do you wish to desert us like this, at such short notice?”

  I said unhappily, “Surely that’s obvious, Frau Kreuder. Last night Raimund explained to me about my father and your stepson’s wife. In such circumstances, knowing what I know, how can I remain in the same house as Anton? His attitude towards me is only too plain.”

  She reached for one of my hands, squeezing it tightly to emphasise her words.

  “Please, Gail, I beg you. You are wrong to suppose that Anton’s anger was directed against you. It was about something else altogether . , . something that happened when he was in America. And in any case, he is over that now. So I most earnestly beg you to change your mind.”

  “It’s not just his anger last night that I’m thinking about. He despises me, and although it’s unfair of him, I can understand how he feels. I am a reminder of the very thing he most desperately wants to forget.”

  “But Anton does not blame you for what your father did.”

  I shuddered, remembering our encounter at the silk mill yesterday. “You wouldn’t say that if you had seen his face change when he first learned who I was. And last night, the look in his eyes when he spoke to me.”

  “I admit that your presence here came as a shock to him,” she said. “But rest assured, my dear, Anton has no wish for you to quit this house.”

  “I know you are only meaning to be kind. Honestly, it is best that I leave now.”

  She regarded me with a sad expression. But it was something else that marred the serene composure of her face. She looked upset, almost afraid. I wondered what unbearable things Anton had said to her last night. And why, now, she was prepared to cross him still further by pressing me to stay on.

  “Will you say good-bye to Raimund for me?” I said briskly, to avoid any further argument. “You and he have been so good to me, so thoughtful. I realise that you wished to spare me from knowing the sordid details about my father’s death, but perhaps it would have been better if you’d told me straight away.”

  “I wish you need never have known,” she whispered, and I knew how true this was from the anguish in her voice.

  “I’ll go and finish my packing now,” I told her. “And when I get back to London I’ll think about the paintings and write to you about them. We’ll sort something out.” The thought struck me that lunch time might bring the two men home, and I added hastily, “I’ll leave before lunch, and have something to eat at the airport or on the plane.”

  She looked startled and deeply distressed. “Oh, Gail, why this indecent haste to depart? At least stay till later in the day.”

  I shook my head. “No, it is better that I don’t.”

  Sigrid had
done her best to persuade me to change my mind, but I remained adamant. And now, for the last time, I wanted to look at the place that had been my father’s home. But even more, I hoped that I might see Willi. I felt a need, which I couldn’t really explain, to try and make him understand that I was his friend.

  Today, the hair I’d fixed as a telltale sign was broken. Excited, I pushed open the chalet door and saw at once that my drawing was gone from the easel. No one else came here, surely, so Willi must have found my message. Had he understood the implication of the two figures, a girl and a young boy, shaking hands and smiling at one another?

  I glanced around for some other evidence that he’d been here, but everything was still in the curiously precise order that had so surprised me that first day. Except ... in the centre of the bed lay a piece of wood, red-grained and rough-textured. I picked it up and saw that it had been crudely carved into the shape of a boat. I stared at it, pondering. Was this a message meant for me, a gift as a token of friendship returned? But why a boat, what was the significance?

  Lost in contemplation I’d hardly been aware of a car approaching, but now I heard the scrunch of tyres outside. I went quickly to the window. To my dismay, I saw Anton Kreuder getting out of his blue Mercedes. In that fleeting glimpse I saw that his brow was ridged, his face intently set. But as he opened the door and came in, he gave me a strained smile.

  “Hello, Gail. They told me you’d be here.”

  Unable to think of anything to say, I merely echoed one of his words. “They?”

  “Yes ... Karl and Ursula. They had noticed you coming up the lane from one of the upstairs windows.”

  “I ... I thought you were at the mill,” I faltered nervously.

  “I was. But Sigrid phoned me to come home.” His smile subtly changed, reproaching me now. “She told me you are planning to leave us. Why should you want to do that?”

  “You know why.”

  “But you mustn’t feel that you are ... in any way to blame for your father’s actions.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “But you seem to.”

  The frown returned, tiny now, just between his eyes. “Such a point of view would be wholly unreasonable.”

  “Fairly natural, though. Emotional reactions don’t involve reason, do they?”

  “But reason should be one’s guide,” he insisted. “Emotions are not to be trusted, I’ve found that out.”

  Absurdly, my heart twisted in pity for him ... a response, I thought angrily, that only proved the truth of his last remark. Emotions were treacherous things.

  He seemed aloof now, withdrawn from me, and despite my anger pity got the upper hand. I decided to make it easy for him.

  “You don’t need to feel badly about my departure. It’s time I went home, anyway. I’ve discovered what I came here to find out, and there’s no point in hanging on and prolonging the agony.”

  “A few more days would make little difference.”

  Why couldn’t he understand? With a despairing feeling, I said, “There’s a vast black shadow lying between us. We can’t pretend it isn’t there. Both of us desperately want to forget what happened, and we won’t come anywhere near to succeeding as long as we’re under the same roof.”

  His eyes held mine. “And if we were a thousand kilometres apart—I here, and you in London—would it be any better then? Perhaps we should make ourselves talk about things, to throw some light on that black shadow.”

  “My father killed your wife,” I said bleakly. “That’s the simple fact ... simple and stark and horrible. Does putting it into words make it any easier to bear?”

  He made a small protesting gesture with his hands. “Better than leaving it unsaid. Your father was not the first man my wife ... turned to.”

  “And that makes a difference?”

  “Does it not?”

  Perhaps she was seeking love, I whispered, but only in my mind. Yet Anton responded as if he had heard those unspoken words.

  “Valencienne and I were not close. For some time things between us had been difficult.”

  Because you devoted yourself to your work, I wondered, rather than to her? Because you thought emotions were dangerous and not to be trusted?

  “I don’t know where we went wrong,” he added with a sigh.

  I said abruptly, “Please tell me about my father.”

  “What can I tell you that you do not know already.”

  “A great deal, I imagine. Your stepmother and Raimund have been less than frank, in an effort to spare me pain. Frau Kreuder is very much prejudiced in his favour, because she believed he was a genius.”

  “And you? You’ve looked at his paintings, I gather. Do you not agree with her judgement?”

  I shook my head. “He had great talent, that’s indisputable. He had a real mastery of traditional forms and techniques. But he lacked the personal vision ... the uniqueness, that leaves technique behind. I believe someone once said that talent does what it can, while genius does what it must.”

  Anton considered this. “So Benedict Sherbrooke was no second Gauguin? I’ll admit that I am not altogether surprised. I often thought Sigrid was allowing her enthusiasm to run away with her.”

  “I think my father knew he was a failure,” I said. “He aspired to heights he could never hope to reach, and in his heart he must have realised it.”

  “You can judge all that merely from looking at his paintings?”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m just being fanciful?”

  “Not at all. I think you must be unusually perceptive. What you say makes a lot of sense to me. Benedict was certainly unsure of himself, always needing to have his confidence reinforced.”

  “Which your stepmother did.”

  I found it difficult to meet Anton’s steady gaze and I glanced away. Through the window I glimpsed the roofs of the Schloss with the bell tower and the various turrets, all shining silver against the lake’s blue water.

  “I can’t help wondering,” I went on slowly, “if my father’s sense of failure had something to do with his suicide. Otherwise ... I mean, if you love somebody, suicide isn’t a solution.”

  I thought that Anton was going to leave my question unanswered. As if he was unwilling to reveal his thoughts to me. At length he said, “I think you’re right that his reasons were complex. He must have felt that the pressures on him were beyond solution.”

  “Pressures?” Something in Anton’s voice made me look at him sharply. “What pressures?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Don’t we all of us feel under pressure of some kind? But I now think that your father did what he did for something more than love of Valencienne. The most important thing in Benedict’s life was his work, his integrity as an artist. He was very serious about that. He had his own code of honesty, which he adhered to strictly.”

  “You’re being very generous towards him—a man you have every cause to hate.”

  I was watching Anton’s face now and saw a shuttered look come down across his eyes. It was as if he’d let me come too close to sharing his secret thoughts.

  “The best thing to believe, Gail, is that his brain snapped suddenly under the strain, and that he wasn’t entirely responsible for what he did.”

  “Are you saying this to make it easier for me to bear?”

  “Not only for you—for myself, too. And what little we know for certain does fit that theory. The phone call he made to me just beforehand ... he sounded like a man at the end of his tether.”

  “Tell me about that. Raimund mentioned it, but he wasn’t very clear about what had been said.”

  “Neither am I.” Anton passed a hand across the back of his neck, as if to ease a tension. It was so unexpected. I picked up the phone and Benedict was on the line.”

  “Please try to remember what he said.”

  “It’s difficult, but I’ll do my best. I know he started off, “Is that you, Anton? Listen, I’ve got to make you understand.” And he rushed on about not being able to
face up to it, things were beyond bearing ... that the only course left him was to end it all. I tried to reason with him, to ask him what it was all about, but he refused to listen to me. It was too late for arguments and evasions, he insisted ... there was only one way out, and they were going to take it. That’s the sort of thing he kept saying, on and on in a jumble of words. I had no idea, of course, that by ‘we’ he meant Valencienne and himself. All I grasped was that he’d worked himself up into a state about something, and needed calming down. I expect Raimund told you that I tried to find him, but nobody had seen him that evening.” After a pause, Anton finished, “Next morning a fishing boat spotted the launch lying on the bottom of the lake. It was in quite shallow water.”

  He had half turned away from me and was fingering some of the things on the small table beside the easel. But I knew his thoughts weren’t here. He was back to a morning, two months ago, when the surface calm he had painstakingly imposed upon his life had been shattered by brutal ugliness and scandal.

  “You must feel very bitter against him,” I said in one breath.

  It was a long moment before Anton replied. “I suppose I do. But to some extent I must blame myself.”

  “You mean because you couldn’t find him that night?”

  “No, not just that—for being blind. For being so absorbed in my work that I was unaware of a situation developing right under my nose. To that extent the responsibility was mine.”

  “I think you’re being unfair to yourself,” I said impetuously.

  “As I was unfair to you yesterday.”

  “Oh that. But you couldn’t be expected to make a fair and unbiased judgement when you were suddenly confronted with Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter.”

  “At least,” he said, “I could have avoided being so disgustingly rude to you. I can only apologise.”

  “Please, forget it.”

  There was an oddly intent look in his eyes. “During the time I was in America I thought often of the English girl I met the day I left Zurich. I was on my way to the airport and I called in to collect an electric shaver I’d left for repair. As I came out of the shop, there you were.”