‘ONE PAINTING, VAN GOGH, VARIATION ON WHEAT FIELD With Cypresses, one Picasso, blue period, two Degas in the drawing room, one Still Life with Apples Cézanne in the dining room, I mean honestly, sweetheart, but the placement! Excuse me, miss, if you could just get out of the way…’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Isabelle said. She’d woken up, too late and not hung-over enough, to a phone call from Lillian Oberman informing her the final arrangements for the funeral had been made, and that it was to take place tomorrow. Then these people showed up out of nowhere and began moving through the apartment like locusts.
A grey-haired man in a comfortable suit extended his hand for a shake.
‘Martin Greeves,’ he said. ‘Paintings and Modern Art.’ He made a business card materialise. Isabelle examined it suspiciously.
‘Boucher’s?’ she said. ‘The auction house?’
The man gestured to his two younger companions, a man in a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up, and a woman in a conservative suit and haircut. ‘This is Philip, he’s Books and Manuscripts, and this is Rebecca, she’s—’
‘Cataloguer,’ the woman said. She shook Isabelle’s hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Feebes.’
‘John from Wine and Spirits is in the wine room,’ Martin Greeves said. ‘The rest of the team should be over momentarily.’
‘The rest of the team?’ Isabelle said.
‘Furniture, Jewellery, Handbags and Accessories, plus our Egypt expert and our East Asia specialist. Now, I have a list of inventory here, but I can’t seem to find—’
‘Who let you in?’ Isabelle demanded.
‘Let us in?’ Greeves said. ‘The foundation hired us to do a full evaluation. For the auction, you see.’
‘What foundation?’ Isabelle said.
‘The Henrietta Feebes Foundation,’ Greeves said.
‘I never heard of that,’ Isabelle said. She felt sick inside.
‘Then I am as confused as you must be,’ Greeves said. ‘But we have a job to do, so, if you’ll excuse me. I’m trying to locate an item described as “gold-plated shovel, mid-nineteenth century”. The inventory list says it should be hanging above the fireplace in the foyer, but I can’t seem to find it.’
‘The what?’ Isabelle said.
Then, in her confused state, a memory came back.
She was fourteen or so, had just been expelled from that school in Switzerland. She’d hated that school, for no good reason other than she felt that she did not belong; all the other girls, well-brought up and mannered, just as smart, but born into their wealth, knew how to wave and how to dress and how to exit from a helicopter, knew how to execute a perfect pirouette and how to ride a horse and how to shoot—
Henrietta was in London that summer, disapproving of Isabelle’s fate. She sent Isabelle to Feebes Manor. Isabelle remembered being driven to the old pile of a house, this huge edifice that must have been amazing a century back but was now, in Henrietta’s own words, ‘An absolute drain, just the upkeep on the place is going to bankrupt us.’ Cousin Alfie, a year older, was on the seat beside her, a practised bored look on his face, hair down to his shoulders; in the heart of the overgrown maze they both tried to smoke cigarettes and coughed out their lungs. In the dusty library, later, he tried to feel her up.
Isabelle wandered from room to room, dead people’s paintings hanging on the walls. Birds nested in the upper rooms and foxes made a mess of the shrubbery. Nature had reclaimed the grounds.
Mice ran in the dark and nibbled at the rotting curtains, the lights fizzed as wires frayed and the current fluctuated unpredictably. There was something fun about being there, camped out in the library. They went on excursions, finding a hoard of stuffed animals in one upstairs room, owls and deer, an elephant-foot umbrella stand and an armadillo ashtray. In another, the remnants of beds were piled up like kindling for a bonfire.
Once, they tried going down to the cellar, found rows and rows of bottles of wine and got drunk and threw up on the floor. One small door at the back was closed shut with a big heavy lock, leading Isabelle didn’t know where. Something about the door scared her.
She was at Feebes Manor as punishment for being expelled. Cousin Alfie for whatever he did – he wouldn’t tell her. They were to clean the place up. It seemed like forever, but it was only a long weekend. When Henrietta and Uncle James arrived, each driving in a separate Rolls-Royce up the driveway, it was clear the cousins had done nothing useful, nor were they expected to.
‘We’re putting the place up for sale,’ Henrietta announced. ‘It’s time.’
‘Many fond memories,’ Uncle James murmured. ‘So many.’
‘Aha,’ Henrietta said. ‘Listen, kids. We’re going to do a clear-out before the sales agents arrive. Just bring everything down to the lawn.’
‘Must do something about the cellar,’ Uncle James murmured.
Henrietta shot him a sharp glance and he flinched.
‘Father would not have wanted to…’ Uncle James said, and then faded away.
‘I will take care of the cellar,’ Henrietta said.
‘Good, good,’ Uncle James said. ‘So many fond memories. Sherry, anyone?’ He wandered up the stairs and vanished into the house.
Isabelle looked at Alfie, who looked back at her and shrugged.
‘Race you,’ he said.
They ran inside. They began ransacking the place, hauling old candelabras, paintings pulled from the wall, cracked glassware and moth-eaten tapestries onto the lawn. Soon they were dirty and dusty and hot. In the El Torturador upstairs a bed still stood, as sturdy as it was seventy, a hundred years ago. Isabelle pushed Alfie onto the bed.
‘Go on, then,’ she said. She pressed herself on him. Her lips sought his. Alfie lay still under her. When she kissed him his lips were dry.
‘I’m not sure I like girls,’ Alfie said. He pushed her off. She sat on the bed beside him.
‘Fair enough,’ Isabelle said. ‘Want to get drunk again instead?’
‘Think they’ll notice?’ Alfie said.
‘Nah.’
‘Sure,’ Alfie said.
They snuck back down to the cellars. The dusty bottles lay in rows.
‘Do you think we have to lug these all up for them?’ Alfie said.
‘Maybe,’ Isabelle said. She picked a bottle off the shelf at random.
‘You got the opener?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
The wine was warm. It tasted fruity. After a few sips it made her limbs feel heavy and nice. The locked door at the far end was still locked. It was the old baron’s place. She went up to it. She held the lock. It was new, it had no dust on it.
‘What are you doing?’
She jumped. It was Henrietta, standing there, looking at her.
‘N… nothing.’
‘There’s nothing in there, Isabelle.’ She turned her gaze on Alfie.
‘Alfred, put that bottle away.’
‘Yes, Aunt Henrietta.’
‘Both of you, come with me.’
Isabelle followed her mother up the stairs, seething with a mixture of embarrassment and resentment. Once back above ground, Henrietta sent Alfie to find Uncle James. She led Isabelle back into the library and then just stood there, looking severe.
‘What am I going to do with you, Isabelle?’ she said.
‘I don’t know, Mother,’ Isabelle said. ‘What would you like to do with me?’
‘Don’t be cheeky.’
Isabelle was going to say something, thought better of it. Henrietta went to the fireplace. No one had lit it in years. She reached for a thing on the wall.
‘What’s that?’ Isabelle said.
‘It’s a shovel.’
‘Why is it hanging on the wall?’ Isabelle said, bemused.
‘It belonged to old Edward Feebes,’ Henrietta said. ‘He had it plated in gold.’
‘That’s a weird thing to do.’
‘I used to be fascinated with it when I was a girl,’ Henrietta said. She took the shovel off the wall and held it like a weapon, trying it out. ‘It killed a man once, right here in this room.’
‘Who?’ Isabelle said.
‘Some employee of my father.’
‘Was it murder?’ Isabelle said, eyes wide.
‘Just an accident, I think. Still. There were always stories.’ She whooshed it through the air then smiled unexpectedly. ‘I think I’ll take it back to New York,’ she said. ‘As for you, young lady, you need to go back to school. London this time, I think. And I expect you to stick at it for once.’
‘Can’t I go back home with you?’ Isabelle said. She tried not to show she was hurt, but it was there.
‘You need structure,’ Henrietta said. ‘Discipline. I can’t give you that in New York.’
‘But Mother…’
‘Come here,’ Henrietta said, softening. Isabelle went to her, submitting to the unexpected hug.
‘You know I love you,’ Henrietta said.
*
‘Miss Feebes?’
‘Huh?’
‘The inventory?’
‘Oh, right.’ She came back to herself, stared stupidly at Martin Greeves (Paintings and Modern Art). ‘The shovel.’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, it’s not here,’ Isabelle said. ‘Mother did a big clear-out a few years ago. I think it went in the rubbish. It was just gold paint, you know. On it. I don’t think it was worth anything.’
‘All right, thank you,’ Greeves said. He scribbled a note in his paperwork. ‘I had better get back to it, then.’
Isabelle stared after him. She called Dr Steinmeier.
‘What’s the Henrietta Feebes Foundation?’ she said.
‘Oh, that,’ Dr Steinmeier said. ‘You’d have to speak to the lawyers. I understand it’s what your mother wanted. The foundation, I mean. A charitable enterprise. Not unusual. I really don’t know, Isabelle. I’m sorry.’
He hung up, still mumbling apologies. Isabelle stared at the phone.
‘What the hell?’ she said.
‘Isabelle?’
She turned. A young man with perfectly cut hair and suit stood there watching her with a sardonic smile.
‘Alfie!’
She ran to him. Holding him felt good. He pulled back, looked her over, said, ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m sorry about Aunt Henrietta,’ he said.
‘When did you get into town?’ Isabelle said.
‘Just now. Beatrice is staying at the Carlyle. She sends her love. She’ll see you tomorrow for the funeral.’
‘And Uncle James?’
Alfie shook his head. ‘Couldn’t make it,’ he said.
‘Not good, huh?’
‘He has his good days,’ Alfie said. ‘But there’s less and less of those. You know how it is.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘At least he’s sticking around,’ Alfie said. ‘I’m in no hurry to become the next baron. I wish I could chuck the whole thing and become, I don’t know.’
‘A commoner?’
‘God, no,’ he said.
Isabelle laughed. ‘Then what?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. I never see you in London anymore. We shouldn’t leave it for funerals and weddings.’
‘Is anyone getting married?’ Isabelle said.
‘Beatrice is engaged,’ Alfie said. He put his finger to his lips. ‘Gareth finally proposed.’
‘Good for Beatrice,’ Isabelle said. ‘Hey, Alfie?’
‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘It’s good to see you.’
She hadn’t realised how alone she felt. He put his arm around her.
‘Let’s go shopping,’ he said.