by Rose Edmunds
Yes, but nine still fell way short of Beresford’s exalted standards.
‘So to get the story straight, you didn’t invent a bunch of A-Levels and fancy degrees?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, shocked. ‘It’s important to stick to the truth, isn’t it?’
‘And does sticking to the truth entail fessing up about syphoning off four grand a month from your employer? And being wanted by the police?’
‘He judges me as a person,’ Mel continued, ignoring my dig at her. ‘And he loves my outlook on life.’
Which was so unfair. Not that I wanted or needed Beresford’s approval, but it seemed I’d never obtain it, no matter how hard I tried.
My phone pinged, distracting me from laying into Mel.
‘Strnad’s replied,’ I said. ‘He can meet me at the castle today at two. You coming?’
‘Ah—no—sorry. Maurice is taking me round a gallery this afternoon. Anyway, I must shower and wash my hair before breakfast. Will you wait for me?’
‘OK—go on then.’
At least there was some justice in the world. Beresford might be Mel’s next mark but he could be safely relied upon to half bore her to death before parting with a penny. Uncultured Mel would have to strain every sinew in feigning a suitable interest in art.
‘See how slim she is,’ said Little Amy. ‘Guess you’ll never get back in shape. Still, that’s your fault for getting pregnant at thirty-eight. And no baby to show for it. Too bad. Still you’d have been a terrible mother…’
‘Will you stop needling me?’ At which point Mel popped out from the bathroom, under the misapprehension I’d been addressing her.
‘Charming—I’d have said you were the one needling me. Don’t suppose you’ve got any eyebrow tweezers?’
‘In my cosmetics bag—help yourself.’
Once she was gone, I opened my mouth to remonstrate with Little Amy, but she’d already dematerialised.
‘You nasty little bitch,’ I muttered under my breath.
12
Half of me was offended that no one cared for my company—the other half was relieved to be alone. For the last two days, I’d been overwhelmed by a surfeit of human contact and an interval of solitude seemed overdue.
As I picked up my hire car near Prague railway station, a spirit of adventure seized me. I was on the hunt for a priceless artwork and, contrary to Novak’s opinion, convinced I’d pin it down.
Apart from a near-death experience with a tram, and the disconcerting addiction of Czech drivers to tailgating, the fifty-kilometre journey was uneventful. I arrived fifteen minutes early and sat in the castle car park, more or less empty on this crisp February afternoon, contemplating the imposing structure in front of me.
Castle Strnad looked like a caricature of a Bohemian castle. Though it dated from the fifteenth century, various wings had been haphazardly added over the years, creating a large sprawling edifice. The guidebooks specifically referred to the extensive labyrinth of secret passages underneath the original structure, but not the paintings found there.
Rudolf Strnad greeted me warmly with a handshake and a smile. In his early fifties, he had a regal bearing befitting a descendant of one of Bohemia’s most prominent noble families, and his facial features were characteristically Slavic. While my instant impression was of a man with great energy, he also emanated a slightly jaded aura. Since he’d spent much of his adult life striving to regain his family’s estate then touting for funds to maintain it, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. The battle had cost him two marriages, and now he lived alone in a less appealing section of the castle.
He was dressed like a well-heeled cosmopolitan international in chinos, a checked shirt and a burgundy sweater, most likely all Ralph Lauren, together with deck shoes. He spoke with an educated East Coast American accent.
‘Loving the fur coat,’ he said as an opening conversational gambit. ‘Few women have the balls to wear real fur these days.’
The coat was proving to be an albatross, provoking comment wherever I went. I resolved to go shopping for something equally warm but less conspicuous.
‘And few men have the balls to call us out for it.’
He laughed, and I warmed to him instantly.
‘I’m a pragmatist,’ I said. ‘I inherited the coat from a friend’s wife, and it’s about fifty years old. Undoubtedly better for it to keep me warm in this bitter cold than hang in someone’s closet reeking of mothballs.’
I was aware this sounded defensive, and now wished I’d left it at the flip response, but Strnad made no comment as he led me through the grand entrance hall. Its walls were lined with antlers, and stuffed moose heads that seemed to stare at me reproachfully.
‘My great-grandfather loved to hunt,’ Strnad explained, as we climbed a sweeping staircase leading to the main rooms. ‘Spooky I know, but the visitors adore them.’
Funny how people enjoyed this macabre display of animals, yet recoiled at a fur coat, even though the same principles applied.
Strnad led me through corridor after corridor, until ultimately we reached a large oak door leading to his living quarters. Inside, it was as though we’d stepped out of a time machine. The apartment was spacious, white and equipped with ultra-modern furniture.
‘Wow—not a moose head in sight. Is this the real you?’
‘What a perceptive question. This is what I’ve become after having antiquity rammed down my throat. Does that make sense?’
‘Total sense,’ I said. ‘My mother’s a hoarder and I’m a minimalist.’
‘Yes, I get that. How bad a hoarder is she? The TV shows I’ve seen are shocking.’
I used to dread such direct enquiries, but I now accepted that my mother’s mental illness was her problem, not mine. And Strnad’s relaxed style made it easy to confide in him, so it all poured out. My father’s death, which had triggered her hoarding, the shame, the secrecy, the broken plumbing, the lies I told to prevent anyone seeing inside the house. This had been my driving force, I explained, affecting every area of my life.
Having spewed it all out, I felt suddenly anxious I might have shocked him.
‘Oh sorry—is that too much information?’
‘Way too much.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘I haven’t even poured out the coffee yet.’
He led me into a kitchen resembling the galley on a spaceship, and rivalling my own kitchen in Chiswick for state-of-the-art appliances.
‘I made coffee specially for you,’ he said, gesticulating at a futuristic machine.
‘That’s so cool. Where did you buy it?’
‘Online, from a German company. It was hideously expensive, but it’s a trek to the nearest Starbucks, so I thought I’d splash out on something all-singing-all-dancing.’
‘It’s certainly that.’
‘A slice of cake?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I shouldn’t.’
‘So you take good care of your waistline,’ he said, immediately pinpointing the reason for my hesitation. ‘I understand, but this is a special Czech blackcurrant cake, made to my mother’s recipe. You will never taste a finer cake, I can assure you.’
‘Put like that…’
Damn—I’d never lose the five pounds when events kept conspiring against me, but it would be rude to refuse.
‘It would be a shame to miss the experience.’ He cut me a large slice and took a smaller one for himself.
‘It sounds like your life would provide ample material for a novel,’ he observed.
‘I would need to be in strong place emotionally to write it.’
‘And yet you wish to use my story as your background…’
He regarded me with a steely intelligence, no doubt suspecting the stated reason for my visit was as fictional as the thrillers I purported to write. I decided it would be best to pre-empt his challenge.
‘Before we go any further, I’ll come clean. I’m not writing a thriller.’
‘I guessed as much.’
Now I thought about it, this did not surprise me. He would have researched my background as closely as I had scrutinised his. And yet, of course, I hoped he had not…
‘But you agreed to see me anyway. Why?’
‘Because I’m intrigued about the true purpose of your visit, and the reason for your subterfuge.’
‘Is that all—you just want to find out why I’m bullshitting you?’
‘No—there’s more. You seem to be a remarkable person, so we may both benefit from this encounter, whatever your motivations. And I’m seldom wrong about these things.’
He had Mel’s conceit about his ability to read people, but perhaps with more intellect underpinning it.
‘So if you had to guess why I’m here?’
‘Not a clue. I assume you’re not hoping to sell me tax planning advice, although Lord knows, I could use some.’
I took a mouthful of the cake, which was sublime. It melted in the mouth as the cake’s sweetness combined with the tart blackcurrant to overwhelm the taste buds.
‘No—I’m all out of tax, and I doubt I’ll ever go back, though your case would be complex for sure. The IRS have very long arms.’
‘Indeed. If you’ll forgive the pun, my affairs have taxed the best brains in the business.’
I laughed dutifully.
‘This cake is amazing.’
‘I felt sure you’d enjoy it. In fact, I’ve never found anyone who didn’t.’
‘So, thank you for seeing me… um, what should I call you, with all your titles and everything?’
‘Oh, Rudi please, I don’t go for formalities—except when it suits me.’
‘I’m working as an investigator on behalf of a friend’s father.’ By no stretch of the imagination could Ed be described as a friend, but this explanation was so much less confusing than the truth. ‘He left Prague on the Kindertransport in 1939, aged seven.’
‘Ah so you wish to ask my advice on restitution?’ asked Strnad, seeing the light.
‘Sort of.’
‘It’s a complex area, but my advice is simple. Your client should consult an expert lawyer. Believe me, these are not matters to dabble in. And you may be an ace at picking through obscure tax legislation, but when it comes to restitution law, you are as much an amateur as my housekeeper. I can recommend someone if you wish.’
Seeing me slightly crestfallen, he added, ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to insult you, but the position for assets lost pre 1948 is notoriously tricky.’
‘I’m not insulted—I wouldn’t dream of opining on the subject. My client has engaged a lawyer, and we’ve been advised that there is little or no basis for restitution. But this is a matter of fairness and equity, rather than strict legal form.’
‘What type of assets are you talking about?’
‘A work of art.’
‘Are you implying that I have your client’s property?’
‘Not for a minute—why do you ask?’
‘Because we own a fair amount of art, though it’s all been verified as Strnad family property.’
‘I understand, and I’m enquiring about a collection found in a Prague apartment last month, previously hidden in this castle.’
‘Ah yes, Stanislav Novak. I’ve been following the case and I can’t say I’m sorry the tax authorities finally caught up with him. He’s a nasty piece of work, and a hoarder if ever I saw one. What’s the connection with your client?’
Rudi listened in silence as I told the story of George, the Picasso, and the deal I’d struck with Novak. I’d left whole chunks of the story out, like Stanislav’s unnerving resemblance to Ed, but it was enough for now.
‘So he’s still harping on about me stealing those two paintings,’ Rudi said when I’d finished.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And that’s why you’re here—to demand them back? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you…’
‘Yes, I get it—you don’t have then and you didn’t steal them. But what better place to start searching than their last known location?’
‘I follow the logic,’ said Rudi, ‘but honestly I don’t know what happened to those paintings. As you’ve surmised, Novak’s accusations were entirely baseless. However, as it’s much more pleasant interacting with you than him, I’m happy to help you as much as I can. But first, can I offer you more coffee?’
I accepted without hesitation, hoping for a second slice of cake and bugger the calories, but Rudi was doing a better job than me of watching my figure, and didn’t offer one.
Rudi began by retelling Novak’s story from his own perspective. In 1992, shortly after the family recovered Strnad Castle, he received a letter from Stanislav Novak. Novak maintained that his father Jan, a friend of Rudi’s grandfather, had left his artworks at the castle for safe keeping during the Communist coup. He enclosed a photocopy of a statement witnessed by Maxmilián, detailing the works, their exact location in the labyrinth of underground passages and authorising their release to whoever presented the document.
‘I knew nothing of my grandfather’s arrangement with Jan Novak,’ he said. ‘But the maze of passages is so intricate it seemed entirely possible for something to lie undisturbed there for decades. My father was still alive in ’92, but couldn’t shed much light on the matter. In 1948 he was already at Harvard and didn’t recall any of Maxmilián’s friends who were art buffs. But the precise instructions persuaded him that Novak’s claim was authentic.’
‘Go on.’
‘Admittedly, we found it odd that Novak’s father’s name wasn’t on the document, but guessed this was a precautionary measure in those paranoid times. Anyway, I invited Novak to examine and collect the pictures, but when he arrived, he spotted two were missing. He flew into a terrible rage and ranted on about how we’d stolen them and sold them on the black market to finance the restoration of the castle. He seemed concerned that these two pieces were of special value to his father, although how he imagined we’d known this and deliberately picked them is beyond me.’
Rudi wouldn’t realise, but accusing others of stealing was typical hoarder behaviour.
‘So why didn’t he report the theft?’
‘Same reason as we kept quiet—expediency. Strictly, the pictures we found should have been dealt with through the proper channels. We had no definite proof that the artworks belonged to Novak, after all.’
‘So why release them to him?’
I thought Rudi looked a little sheepish at this point.
‘He couldn’t alert the authorities to the alleged theft, without highlighting the existence of the other paintings—I imagine there were issues of provenance, and tax liabilities on his father’s estate. Equally, if we had followed the correct procedures, he would have free rein to level his accusations. Frankly, I didn’t need the aggravation. Like you, I’m a pragmatist Amy—I’ve had to be.’
‘So what do you reckon happened to the two missing pictures?’
‘I guess my grandfather knew of Jan Novak’s special affection for these pieces, and hedged his bets by moving them to another place of safety. Maxmilián died unexpectedly, before he could flee to the US as planned. It’s possible he never informed Jan Novak of the change in hiding place.’
‘Did you tell Stanislav any of this?’
‘Absolutely not—he was so unpleasant I had no wish to prolong my contact with him. Anyway, once he’d latched onto the advantages of keeping the other artworks a secret he seemed to accept that the other two were gone.’
‘Did you ever try to find the Chagall and the Picasso?’
‘We combed every inch of the passages, but without success. To be frank, I’d forgotten about the whole episode until I read about the raid on Novak’s apartment.’
‘There’s only one problem with your theory—Novak told me the Chagall resurfaced a while ago.’
‘I guess it’s possible Maxmilián used two different hiding places.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘No,’ he said.
But I’d detected a minute hesitation.
‘Are you sure…?’
‘I’m not prepared to hand over anything else in secret to Novak.’
‘That wouldn’t happen…’
‘But the deal you did.’
‘Doesn’t involve giving Novak physical possession. If we find it on your property, we report it to the authorities and then it’s up to Novak to take the appropriate legal action.’
‘And if you find it elsewhere?’
Wherever we found it, the self-seeking Beresford would be trumpeting the news from the rooftops, so secrecy wasn’t an option. I put this to Rudi, who seemed reassured.
‘I have an idea,’ he said. I waited, agog to hear the details.
‘The family vineyard in Moravia.’
Rudi told me how certain legal complexities had delayed restitution of the vineyard, so they hadn’t regained control when Novak visited. In any case, he doubted if it would have occurred to anyone as a hiding place. But recently, they’d discovered cases of wine almost two hundred years old, bricked up in the cellars behind a false wall.
‘What—wine from the vineyard?’
‘No—very fine vintages like Chateau d’Yquem 1892—worth up to thirty thousand bucks a bottle, so I’m told. Whole collection’s worth about three mill.’
Nothing compared to the art though.
‘Could the Picasso be down there too?’
‘Well, we haven’t explored properly yet, but we believe there’s a network of cellars as convoluted as the underground passages here. So who knows?’
There was something odd about Rudi’s account, and after a few moments’ reflection I put my finger on it.
‘Why didn’t you search for the paintings when you found the wine?’
Rudi shrugged.
‘Because I’d forgotten about Novak after twenty odd years.’
This sounded reasonable enough, and I let it drop.
‘Would you like to see the vineyard?’
‘What—now?’
‘No—it’s a good couple of hours drive there and I’m busy until tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘Ah that’s a shame,’ I replied, anticipating the next move.
‘But you’re most welcome to stay here. I’m sure we can find you a toothbrush…’