The Silver Castle

by Nancy Buckingham

  “I’m afraid I know nothing much about it, but this particular cloth sounded fabulous. I’m an artist, you see ... an illustrator.”

  “Ach so. Then come, and I will show you.”

  He led the way through a pair of fire doors into another, smaller room that thankfully was quieter. On a long bench a woman was minutely examining a bolt of cloth for imperfections. It was a most glorious fabric, a rich crimson ground with the formalised design picked out in gold thread ... warriors mounted on elephants, framed within elaborate roundels of birds and lions and crossed spears on shields.

  “It is very, very beautiful,” I said, gazing in awe.

  The little man smiled his delight and pride. “We are pleased with it.”

  “I’m sure you are. How did you ever work out such a complicated pattern?”

  “That is our craft, nicht wahr?” He lifted an edge of the fabric and fingered it lovingly.

  “It must cost a fortune,” I said.

  “To one whose kingdom floats upon an ocean of oil, it does not seem so expensive. And the money will be well spent if it serves to keep alive old skills that might otherwise die out.”

  I recalled what I’d come here for. “I gather you had problems with this fabric when it was on the loom, Herr Lemmer.”

  “Silk is not always an easy lady to handle. She can be ... temperamental.”

  “Herr Kreuder said you were having a great deal of difficulty with the gold thread.”

  He looked frankly puzzled. “We had to experiment a little with the tension, Ja. But when we had mastered that, all went well.”

  My heart was thudding with a fast, unsteady beat, and my throat was dry and tight.

  “But surely ... didn’t Herr Kreuder have to return specially from Geneva the other day because things were going wrong? That’s true, isn’t it?” I cried with rash intensity.

  There was a sudden, embarrassed silence. Franz Lemmer and the woman checker were looking at someone behind me. When I turned around I was dismayed to find myself face to face with Anton.

  “Hello, Gail. I didn’t expect to see you here.” His expression was stern and he was clearly displeased, and puzzled.

  “I ... I thought I’d just drop in,” I stammered. “You’d mentioned this special fabric to me, and I was interested to see what it looked like.”

  Anton spoke a few words to Franz Lemmer in an undertone, then turned back to me.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come along to my office.”

  I wished I could think of a plausible excuse to refuse. In nervous silence I followed him into a corridor, up a flight of stairs, then through another corridor until we reached the office block. As Anton opened a door into a small room a secretary looked up from her typewriter and smiled at me pleasantly. He didn’t introduce us, but led the way straight into his own office, a larger room that overlooked the mill’s yard.

  “You’re back earlier than I expected,” I began nervously. “Did things go all right in Zurich with your lawyer?”

  He didn’t answer that, but said in a brittle voice, “I would be interested to know, Gail, why you decided to come hurrying here to the mill this morning, when you believed that both Raimund and I would be conveniently out of the way.”

  “I told you,” I floundered. “I wanted to see that special Persian cloth.”

  His eyes were dark with suspicion. “Why today? Why didn’t you just tell me that you wanted to see it?”

  I shook my head helplessly. There was nothing I could say to account for my behaviour, which had been discourteous to say the least. I watched Anton turn and walk to the window, wishing that I could feel hate for this man, or even plain uncomplicated fear. Instead, I felt torn in two by this other, unwanted emotion. By some strange alchemy I loved him—still loved him—and I wanted to run to him. I longed to convince Anton that I was here because, absurdly and against all reason, I sought evidence ... not of his guilt, but of his innocence.

  Anton spun around to face me again. “I’ll answer the question I heard you put to Franz Lemmer downstairs just now. You wanted to know—and I don’t begin to understand why—whether my return from Geneva the other day was necessary. The answer is yes, or so I thought at the time. But as things turned out, Franz was able to cure the trouble on his own before I got here. Well ... does that satisfy you?”

  I caught at the back of a chair for support and closed my eyes against a sudden swirl of dizziness.

  Anton went on in a different voice, a voice that was gentle and coaxing. “Gail, what’s this all about? These last few days you’ve been acting very strangely. For heaven’s sake tell me what’s wrong. What have I done to upset you?”

  I had to fight the impulse to scream out accusations against him, dredging up every last fragment of self-control. Already Anton was suspicious of me. If he knew that I had guessed the truth about him, my own life would be in jeopardy.

  “It... it’s not you, Anton. It’s poor Willi that has upset me. I know you think I’m being silly, because I hardly knew the boy, but somehow I can’t help myself.”

  He nodded slowly. “I heard that Josef was rude to you at the funeral yesterday. I intend to speak to him about it.”

  “No, please don’t. It’s better forgotten.”

  “As you wish.” His voice was steady as he looked at me. “You can’t help Willi now, Gail. The police will try to trace the driver, of course, but ...”

  “There’s no real evidence, is there?”

  “It seems not. But perhaps, you know, what’s happened is for the best. Willi hadn’t much of a life to look forward to.”

  “Are you trying to justify his killing?” I exploded, swept by a sense of outrage.

  “Of course not.” He looked startled by my ferocity. “I’m sorry if I sounded unfeeling.”

  “You did—very.”

  “I was merely trying to put things in perspective for you. It’s no use making yourself miserable, Gail. Look, why not let us take that boat trip this evening? Dinner and dancing on the lake.”

  “No, I don’t want to.”

  “Just dinner then. Somewhere quiet.”

  I wished I could turn and walk out through the door, but something held me trapped. I just stood there limply, shaking my head in a slow, lost movement. A buzzer sounded and Anton picked up the phone on his desk, speaking in impatient dismissal. When he replaced it he looked at me again with frightening intensity.

  “Gail, please....”

  “I said no.”

  “Why not, for God’s sake?”

  In three swift strides he came around the desk and caught me roughly in his arms. While common sense warned me to wrench free, my longing for him won a shameful victory ... only for a few brief seconds, but long enough to show me how fragile were my defences against him.

  “Please let me go.”

  But I hadn’t needed to protest aloud. Already he’d felt my resistance, felt my rejection of him. Almost violently he pushed me away, his face tight with anger.

  “Go then, damn you.”

  “Anton, I ...”

  “Yes?”

  I let the silence hang. What could I say to him?

  “Please try to understand,” I began at last. “I ...”

  “But I do understand.” There was savage bite in his voice. “I’ve made an utter fool of myself. It is not the first time that has happened, but I hope to God it’s the last.”

  I hurried from the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the outer office Anton’s secretary glanced up and gave me a curious look. Somehow I summoned up a faint smile for her before passing through into the corridor and finding my way out of the building.

  I was crossing the yard to where I’d left my car when Anton caught up with me. He had been running, and his voice was breathless.

  “Gail, please forgive me. I behaved abominably.”

  He reached for my hand, then dropped it at once. Because he was afraid I would snatch it away from him? Or because interested eyes would be wat
ching from the windows?

  “Come back and let’s talk,” he pleaded.

  “No. There’s nothing to be said.”

  He stood hesitating, running his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

  “Then at least promise me that you won’t allow my rudeness to drive you away. I beg you, Gail.”

  “Very well.”

  I would stay for one reason only ... to find a way of exposing him as a murderer. So why, as I drove out through the gates and along the lakeside road, did I feel a singing in my heart?

  Chapter Fifteen

  That afternoon, in her upstairs sitting room, Sigrid was showing me some of her designs for textile printing. Through my work as an illustrator I knew about colour printing on paper, and the altogether different techniques of working with fabric caught my interest. I was particularly attracted by a chrysanthemum pattern in quiet shades of green and blue and fawn, rather like a William Morris print.

  Breaking in upon my admiring comments, Sigrid began tentatively, “Gail, I wonder if you have guessed what I would so dearly like to happen?”

  “What’s that?” I turned my head to look at her.

  She didn’t answer me, but asked another question. “I am right, am I not, in thinking that you are fond of Raimund?”

  Warned now, but incredulous, I replied cautiously, “Yes, I like Raimund. He’s very pleasant.”

  “He thinks most highly of you. As his mother, I can tell.”

  Last night, at dinner, Sigrid had been doing her best to push us together ... until that mysterious phone call from New York. Now she was returning to the theme. Instinctively, I bristled at such pairing tactics, but I had no wish to offend my hostess.

  “Raimund has been very kind to me,” I said. “You all have.”

  She made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “Please, Gail, do accept if ... when Raimund asks you out again.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said awkwardly.

  “Yet you told me how much you enjoyed that piano recital he took you to. Tomorrow evening there is to be a Russian ensemble at the Tonhalle. Do you care for Shostakovitch?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “I’ll tell Raimund to get two tickets.”

  I said coolly, “I think you should leave it to your son to issue his own invitations, Frau Kreuder.”

  “Oh, but he will be inviting you, I’ll see to that.” Her expression was all at once apologetic. “I know what you must be thinking, Gail... that I’m the typical interfering mother. And I suppose I am, in a way. But although Raimund is a charming young man, he does require a little pushing in the right direction. I don’t mean that to sound tactless, my dear ... as if he needs pushing where you are concerned. I mean, rather that he needs a guiding hand. And that’s the very reason why I should feel so happy if only you and he could ...”

  “No please, it isn’t possible.”

  Hoping to end the conversation, I went to the window and stood looking out across the lake. A steamer was passing close by and the passengers lined the rails, pointing with admiration at the Schloss Rietswil. It must indeed have looked a splendid sight, perched upon a promontory with its silver-grey stone walls gilded by the afternoon sun, its well-tended gardens sloping gently to the water’s edge. I could imagine them thinking what peaceful, contented lives must be lived by the occupants of this beautiful old castle. Yet the reality was so different,

  Sigrid wheeled her chair beside me and laid a hand upon my arm. Once again I was reminded of the surprising strength in those slender fingers of hers.

  “You are so intelligent, so levelheaded,” she said. In this respect you are not in the least bit like your father. Dear Benedict ... I’m afraid he was completely unworldly and he sometimes acted in ways that might be considered irresponsible. I suppose your mother must have thought so, for one.”

  “And Willi’s mother?” The words were jerked out of me against all discretion.

  I felt Sigrid’s fingers tense. “You know about that? Ach so! Who told you?”

  “Willi’s aunt. After the funeral. I insisted on her explaining why Josef was so hostile towards me.”

  Sigrid’s expression was sombre as she met my eyes.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to know, Gail. I guessed that you’d somehow feel obliged to make yourself responsible for the boy. And I honestly believed—for Willi’s sake as much as for yours —that it was better to leave things as they were. Better to let him continue in the only sort of life he knew.”

  “And instead we let him die.” Sharp needles of pain pricked behind my eyes. “All along I felt such a strange sense of affinity with Willi, but I could never understand it. If only I’d known that he was my brother.”

  She sighed. “Poor boy. But he was happy in his simple way, Gail, you must believe that. The aunt is a good woman, and she loved Willi devotedly. Benedict used to give her money sometimes, when he had any. He never turned his back on the lad. He always took an interest in him, encouraged him.”

  “Yes, I know he did. Willi loved my father ... our father.”

  “And he was right to do so. Benedict’s faults were unimportant beside his work as an artist. I shall always be grateful, and humble too, that he accepted my help and guidance.” She paused, then added on a sighing breath, “That is what you could offer Raimund, my dear ... help and guidance. Because he too is unworldly—though in quite a different way, of course.”

  So already she was back to that. I said despairingly, “Please, don’t let’s talk about it any more.”

  “Do not reject my son, Gail, I beseech you.”

  “I don’t reject him. I like Raimund very much, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Perhaps time will change your feelings,” she said with another deep sigh. “I pray that it will.”

  My patience was exhausted, so I excused myself and left her. Feeling at a loss, unsettled, I wandered up to the attic floor of the Schloss. I had been postponing the task of sorting through my father’s paintings—and I knew the reason why. There would be a finality about it, a setting the seal on my departure. But just now a thought had flickered through my mind, and I had an urge to follow it up.

  I worked through the stacks of canvases methodically, glancing swiftly at each one and pausing sometimes—part of my mind still clinging to the hope that I might find something to justify Sigrid’s claim that Benedict Sherbrooke had been a genius. I was halfway through the collection of paintings when I found what I was really searching for ... a picture of Willi. It had been done about a year ago, I guessed, and Willi was kneeling on the scrubby grass by the chalet, a kitten in his arms ... his tiger-cub cat. It was a charming composition, in the style of Millais, I thought, the flaw of sentimentality more than balanced by a sense of compassion. I tucked the canvas under my arm and went to the door.

  At the far end of the shadowy corridor a shaft of yellow light shone down from the stairway to the turret. So the lighting was working again now. Wondering who was up there, I walked along the corridor and climbed the curving stair. The door at the top stood open now and I entered the turret room and glanced around enquiringly.

  “Is anybody here?”

  The place was so cluttered that for a moment I was unsure if I was really alone. It was a circular room with three windows and two doors, the one through which I’d entered and the other—a smaller one and locked, I found—which I decided must be a storage cupboard. There was a mass of old furniture, some in obvious need of repair. I picked out the rocking horse and train set that Raimund had mentioned, and several other relics of childhood, boxed games and model cars, a saddle for a pony, tennis racquets with broken strings, and small-size skis. Nothing here, though, that seemed to justify loving care from Karl and the locked door I’d been confronted with the other day. I went to one of the windows and, as I’d guessed, the view from here was spectacular. I could see right across to the chalet on the hillside where my father had lived. Then turning, I looked sadly down at the waters of Zurichsee wh
ere my father had died.

  A sob caught in my throat and I wished suddenly that I had never come to Switzerland, that Colin had never shown me that paragraph in The Times. I would have been spared so much anguish ... and perhaps it would even have spared Willi’s life. If I hadn’t been here, if Willi hadn’t tried to tell me through his carvings about my father’s murder, then Anton need never have discovered what Willi had witnessed that night. But there was no going back, no unravelling of time. I had come to Switzerland, and now I was trapped in a web of mystery and danger. My task was quite clear. However much I might hate it, however much it went against all my deepest instincts, I had to expose Anton Kreuder for the killer he was.

  Faintly I heard the whirring of the lift and realised that someone must be ascending to the attic floor below this. I preferred not to be caught nosing around on my own, so I hastily slipped back down the spiral stairs. But I should have guessed I’d be too late. Just as I reached the bottom step, the lift doors opened and Karl emerged. He stopped dead, his eyes nearly popping as he glared at the canvas I carried under my arm.

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s just one of my father’s paintings ...”

  “But how? Where did you find it?”

  I decided to overlook the rudeness of his brusque, suspicious manner. Gesturing along the corridor towards the attic where the rest of the paintings were stored, I said evenly, “Where do you think I found it? In the attic back there, of course. I picked this one out because I wanted to put it in my bedroom.” I turned the canvas for Karl to see and went on in a friendlier tone, “It’s rather nice, don’t you think? A good likeness.”

  “Ja, it is like Willi.” He still seemed doubtful, and his gaze flickered measuringly at the turret stairs behind me.

  “I noticed there was a light on,” I explained, “and I thought somebody must be up there. I wanted to look at the view from those high windows. Isn’t it marvellous?”

  “Marvellous?” Karl seemed not to understand the English word. He didn’t wait for me to explain, though, but squeezed past me and ran up the narrow stairs. I heard him slam and lock the door at the top.