When James arrived to collect Stephanie from the hospital on Monday evening, she was chatting to Toby on Skype. Her mother had been really concerned about her adventure, but they were all trying to downplay it for Toby’s sake.
“Grandfather has asked to see you,” he explained as he helped her into the car. “Are you up to going to my place now or would you rather go home? I’ve cleared it with your dad either way.”
Stephanie smiled at him as he leaned across to pull her seatbelt carefully over her, and tilted her head up to kiss him. “Let’s go and talk to him.”
“Or we could just go and make out in my room,” James suggested wickedly.
“Maybe we could do that after – although you will have to be gentle with me, I’m still pretty banged up.” Stephanie winced as the seatbelt tightened across her. The ribs she had broken when her car was forced to stop suddenly were taped, and her face and arms were covered with cuts and bruises.
“Always,” James murmured, kissing her again before closing the door and racing around to the driver’s side. “Your dad is insisting that you are not left alone until Alex is found.”
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess, if you’ve been assigned the task of babysitter, then it’s not all bad.”
James’s grandfather, Charles, was waiting for them in his study. He looked a shadow of the domineering man she had encountered on previous occasions. His eyes carried a haunted look, and had dark rings under them. James helped Stephanie into a chair. Charles frowned, a look of unease at her discomfort crossing his face.
“I think I owe you some explanations, Miss Cooper,” he began clearing his throat.
“Stephanie, please,” she smiled at him.
“You recognised my painting – Painter on the Road to Tarascon. You are a clever young woman.”
She nodded, unsure what to say.
“I was unable to enlist to serve in the war due to a childhood ailment. I am ashamed to say that I was unable to bear my brother Edward getting all the glory, so I decided that I would make my mark on the war in my own way.
“My old friend Karl Hoffman, who was the director at the National Gallery in Berlin, approached me before the war. He was disturbed by the number of art works that were being destroyed by the Nazis. Anything which didn’t fit their criteria of what a good painting should be was considered ‘degenerate’ and burned. He started obtaining as many threatened pieces as he could and hiding them. But when someone became suspicious of him, he knew that his days were numbered and he came to me for help.” Charles paused, his eyes distant. “My father obtained passage for him on a merchant ship to Canada, but unfortunately it was bombed and all souls on board lost.”
“Oh how tragic,” Stephanie said. “Sophie mentioned meeting him, in her diary.”
At the mention of Sophie’s name, Charles blanched.
“Ah, Sophie.” He shook his head sadly. “The first time I saw you here with James, I thought for one irrational moment that you were her, you look so alike.
“She and her brother were friends with Edward and visited here on many occasions during the summer before war broke out, through to the beginning of 1940. By this time, I was working with Hoffman to smuggle as much endangered art out of Germany as we could. Unfortunately, someone got the wrong idea and thought I was collaborating with the Nazis, which drove our work even more underground. I initially had grand plans of involving the National Gallery, but the investigation put a stop to that.
“So my war efforts took a different turn. I was disillusioned and I realised that our proximity to both London and the coast meant that Carlswick was an ideal location for a clandestine black market operation. The art smuggling had given me a taste for excitement so I got involved. Very few people would suspect someone in my position of being implicated in such business. I quickly realised that we could trade in more than just food, cigarettes and booze. I started trading in people – helping those would could afford it, to escape from Europe. Payment was often in the form of paintings and jewellery and other valuables. We had a very successful little operation running for a time.
“The night your aunt died, she came to the house to talk to my mother. Apparently she and Edward were about to elope and she wanted Mother’s blessing.”
“Did she get it?” whispered Stephanie, a little reluctant to interrupt Charles from his reverie.
He blinked twice, returning to the present and turned his gaze to her. “I believe so. Sophie had a big smile on her face when she walked out of the drawing room into the foyer that night, but unfortunately, my study door was open and Hoffman and I were bringing a heavy bronze statute up the hidden staircase from the cellar. Sophie, of course, recognised Hoffman and well, I don’t know what she thought, but she ran.
“By the time I reached the driveway, she was driving away at speed. I followed in my car only to see her take the corner to the village too fast. Her car skidded on the wet road and slammed into the old oak tree. By the time I got to her it was too late. She was dead.”
Stephanie gasped and put her hand over her mouth.
“I didn’t run her off the road as David accused, but she was running from me. And like the coward that I was, I left her there for someone else to find the next morning. I didn’t think the family would survive another scandal so soon after the last one. Please forgive my cowardice,” he pleaded, as tears started rolling down his cheeks. He put his head in his hands.
Stephanie stood and moved gingerly around the desk, putting her arms gently across his shaking shoulders.
“Sshh, it’s okay. You’ve had to live with this your whole life. Of course, I forgive you. It was an accident, a tragic accident,” she said, glancing at James who had sat forward in his chair and was staring at his hands, his jaw clenched.
“So where do you think Alex is now, Grandfather?” James voice was cold.
Stephanie frowned at him.
The old man looked up and wiped his eyes on a handkerchief and patted Stephanie’s hand. “I have no idea,” he replied. “James, don’t think too badly of me. Over the years, as the horror of what went on in Nazi Germany came out, I repatriated as many pieces anonymously to survivors and their descendants as I could. But many families I simply couldn’t find. Unbeknown to me, Alex found out what I was doing and saw an opportunity to make money through his vast network of antiques clients. He sold several smaller pieces that I didn’t realise were missing and then had gotten greedy and decided to sell the van Gogh, despite my fervent protests. The Painter, you see, is special to me. It was the last piece that Hoffman brought to me.”