It was late by the time her taxi reached Griebnitzsee. A lustrous moon made the shadows denser, the darkness blacker. Firs crowded in across the narrow road. Silence came sifting down like snow and a fine sheen of rain puckered the glistening surface of the lake.
She guessed now who it was that had given her name to the Gestapo and the knowledge had made the world change shape and close in around her. Her adrenaline was firing like an electrical charge, sparking through her body, yet her mind was focused and determined, rinsed clear.
The big villas with their gates and long drives were draped in darkness. Shutters were closed and curtains drawn. Either the owners were away or they weren’t bothering to light the street for the benefit of a rare, late-night passer-by. Yet again Clara regretted moving to this isolated spot. In the city there would be noise and nosiness, but in Griebnitzsee there was only indifferent silence.
As she approached the house, she remembered another point on Leo’s list. Listen to what you don’t hear. Pay attention to anything unfamiliar, to the gaps in the environment around. Any whisper that lay behind the natural stirrings of the forest and the waves thudding against the jetty in the lake. She stopped for a moment, ears strained for any change in the texture of the silence. Anything that might make her senses prickle, the way they did when danger was near.
And it was there. The rattle of the front gate that had been left unlatched. The gate that Clara always closed. Like a bat squeak of menace, it sounded a high note of alarm in her ears.
But it was not until her key turned in the lock that she realized he would be waiting for her.
Hugh Lindsey was standing in the drawing room holding the postcard of the Vermeer painting that Clara had propped on the mantelpiece. The lamps were unlit, but the flood of moonlight washing in through the long windows accentuated his face in unfamiliar chiaroscuro.
‘I like this one. Young Lady seated at a Virginal. It’s from the National Gallery, isn’t it?
‘What are you talking about, Hugh?’
He carried on, as though she had not spoken.
‘Vermeer’s ladies look so pure and innocent, don’t they, but who’s to say they are really? Isn’t that what appeals to us about them? The suggestion of corruption underneath? This one here – this little musician – we know that she may have more than music on her mind, because there are erotic paintings behind her. There’s Cupid and a procuress.’
Clara snapped the light on, causing him to blink.
‘What are you doing in my house?’
‘I’ve been here a couple of times actually, since I drove you that evening. I wish you’d invited me in then, but there was obviously something on your mind. I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve watched you.’
‘You watched me.’
‘Don’t take it personally, Clara. I like you a lot. I know your family. But ideology means more than pure sentiment.’
‘You mean Bolshevik ideology.’
‘If you like.’
She remained where she was standing, by the door. Her legs were trembling too much to move.
‘You probably don’t know but your dear Bolsheviks are planning to team up with the Nazis. There’s a pact underway right now. What does that say about them that they’re prepared to ditch their principles at a moment’s notice?’
He smiled. ‘Principles are a luxury that other people pay for. Besides, this pact you’re talking about – if it happens – will ultimately advance the cause of Bolshevism.’
‘And how is helping Hitler going to advance your cause?’
‘I’m no admirer of the Nazis, as you well know. But Stalin needs to protect the world from the expansion of British imperialism.’
‘Protect the world? The English are the only ones who will oppose Nazism.’
‘Oh, Clara.’ He gave an indulgent smile, as though at the foolishness of a child. ‘The English are hopeless. They have no idea of the Nazis’ methods or intentions.’ He looked around him, restlessly. ‘I suppose you don’t have any more of those Gauloises with you?’
She reached in her bag and withdrew the packet, tossing it to him.
‘Thank you.’
Pulling out his Dunhill lighter he inhaled languidly.
‘There’s something about us English which makes us think that because we all go to the same schools and belong to the same clubs, White’s or Brooks’s, or the Athenaeum, or at a stretch the Reform, and because we share the same tailors, that we must also share the same mind. King, Country, Class and Club, that’s our religion. The effortless English gentleman. Born to rule the waves. The only rules being not to sleep with a colleague’s wife and not to light one’s cigar before the third glass of port. Our highest test of character is being a good cricket umpire and playing by the rules. Ideological dispute is the stuff of university common rooms. Well I’ve never been part of that pompous, self-satisfied tribe.’
‘So it was better to become a spy?’
He gave a gravelly, cigarette-choked laugh.
‘My dear, isn’t that rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black? It takes one to know one.’
If Hugh Lindsey knew about her, what others might he be aware of? Despite his outward languor, Clara felt their two minds matching each other, calculating, intensely alert. Trying to compute which of them was the more dangerous.
‘As soon as I realized what you were about I informed my friendly local Gestapo, but for some reason they allowed you to slip the net.’
Clara had heard that in extreme situations, fear would turn to anger, and now she felt fury, pure and hot, coursing like fuel through her veins. It was so difficult to equate the handsome, cultured, smiling being before her, with the threat he posed.
‘Why not have the courage of your convictions and join the Russians outright?’
‘Perhaps. But how much more satisfying to destroy the citadel from within. It’s rather a thrill, outwitting others. Hugh St John Lindsey. Just the sort of chap they expect to mingle with them, attending their grand dinners at the Grosvenor House and the Dorchester and Claridge’s, listening to their deeply misguided speeches.’
Claridge’s.
‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the man Lotti Franke met in London. The one she fell in love with.’
‘There was a hotel dinner. The Faith and Beauty girls were being paraded like Hitler’s little princesses. The pearls of the Reich. Well, a couple of nights in the company of the lovely Lotti was enough to settle that question. Lotti was like one of Vermeer’s girls. An exquisite face and the morals of the gutter. Did you see that photograph of her in the paper the other day – the one by Yva? It captured her perfectly, I thought.’
‘But to kill her, Hugh? Why would you need to do that?’
‘She was threatening me, I’m afraid. In the most extortionate way. She wasn’t a nice person, Clara. She’d stolen from me.’
‘I know all about that. She stole a jewel.’
‘A jewel? No.’
For a moment he looked baffled and his bloodshot eyes blinked as though Clara was speaking a foreign language. Then he smiled.
‘Ah. That’s what the Führer’s dealer called it. Hildebrand Gurlitt. A jewel. I suppose it is, in its way. One of the great gems of Western culture. But it wasn’t a real jewel. It was a book.’
‘A book? That can’t be true.’
‘But it is. I had come by a rather lovely manuscript. I knew what it was because, without being immodest, Roman literature of that era is my speciality. And this was a copy of the Tacitus Germania.’
‘You’re lying. I met an expert at the Ahnenerbe who told me it was in Italy.’
‘As indeed it was. The Codex Aesinas. Hitler’s dearest wish. The one manuscript above all others he would like to possess. But there was another codex. It had spent hundreds of years at a monastery in Austria until it came into the hands of an antiquarian dealer there. Who was unfortunate enough to have his collection thieved by Nazi louts. I’d heard of it years ago, in Vienna, and once my contact described it, I knew exactly what it was. I just had to have it. I went to Austria to find it, but no luck. It had already been carted off back to Berlin. So I followed it, and once I arrived here I discovered I’d come in the nick of time. The stash was being held in a warehouse in Kopernikusstrasse under the auspices of Hildebrand Gurlitt. The riches there were mouth-watering. Paintings, silver candlesticks, porcelain, all sorts. But most importantly the Germania.’
The fragments that had been spinning around Clara’s mind began to pair and come together.
‘So that was what Goering wanted.’
‘Goering wanted it passionately because the Führer wanted it too. The competition between them is pitiful. Goering was a regular visitor to the warehouse and when he heard about the Germania he was determined to have it. He’s engaged in some kind of race with the Führer and knowing how much the Führer desired the Tacitus made it all the more desirable to him. I managed to buy it the day before Goering turned up. It was better in my hands than his, I reckoned.’
Clara felt a choking emotion. Pure rage that this man had dispensed with a life so casually.
‘So Lotti had to die for that? Just that?’
‘To my astonishment the girl recognized the Codex for what it was. Apparently she’d heard about the Tacitus at the Ahnenerbe. Anyway, because she imagined I was having some affair with another woman, she took it upon herself to steal it. I assume she wanted to teach me a lesson, but I don’t need lessons from young ladies. Particularly not on the subject of Latin literature.’
‘But to strangle her?’
He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his brow and gave a faint wince of what might be remorse.
‘I didn’t want her to die. I wanted her scared in order to get my Codex back. That’s what I told the man. But he was a local communist hoodlum and he killed her in an excess of patriotism.’
‘Is that what you call murder?’
‘The chap assumed she was an enemy of the Soviet Union. Indeed she probably was.’
‘And where is this precious Codex now? The one that’s worth a woman’s life?’
‘That’s my greatest regret. It’s lost. I’m afraid it will have to remain a casualty of war. It’s a shame. I must be one of the very few people in the world who could recognize that Codex right off for what it was. I was a Greats scholar at Oxford, you know. There was only one man above me. He took the Newdigate Prize. Just pipped me to it. And it still rankles, if I’m honest.’
Hugh had entered a kind of reverie. The whites of his eyes were cracked and yellowish, like the glaze on an old painting. Clara realized he must have been drinking all evening. He leaned against the mantelpiece and turned the photograph of Clara’s mother around to face him.
‘I suppose whether one likes Stalin, or England, Fascism or Communism, it’s all a question of taste, isn’t it? Like the difference between Vermeer or Klimt . . .’
He took another swig of whisky, then placed the bottle on the mantelpiece with the deliberation of the profoundly drunk.
‘I’m not proud of this, Clara. I’ve been a faithful servant of the Soviet Union since my twenties and if Stalin wants me to dispose of British agents, that is what I must do. No matter how much I might personally like or admire them. I do like you, very much.’
He reached downwards and she saw the sudden glint of metal in his hand.
‘But I suppose betrayal is one of those things we English do so well. Like garden parties and well-made gentlemen’s shoes.’
‘You wouldn’t shoot me, Hugh. Think how easily you’d be traced.’
‘As a matter of fact everyone imagines I’m in Prague. I was obliged to leave my car in the care of the Adlon and I’ll be heading off tonight.’
She looked down at the pistol. It was bigger than the tiny Derringer she had possessed. As Hugh moved the muzzle a fraction, pointing it more directly at her chest, a cold fear clutched at her. She looked over at the pictures of Erich and her mother on the mantelpiece and wished passionately that she had kept a photograph of Leo after all. Yet it was still Leo’s face in her mind as the shot rang out.
The noise filled the room and blasted out into the darkness. Hugh Lindsey staggered, as if surprised, a dark treacle of blood beginning to stain his suit. As his body jerked sideways and backwards, and then fell awkwardly to the floor, Clara spun around to see Hedwig Holz. Her arm was shaking so much that the muzzle of the gun was a blur. The room smelled of gunpowder and perfume.
‘I never thought I could shoot someone.’ Hedwig’s voice was trembling, but she lifted her chin resolutely. ‘All those lessons must have counted for something.’
Clara forced herself to remain calm. She wondered if Hugh might die, and how quickly, but looking at him sprawled awkwardly on his back she saw that his skin was already becoming chalky, and his eyes were open and motionless, as if surprised. She moved swiftly to the front window and looked out.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Hedwig. ‘They’re always hearing shots round here. They’ll think it’s the Faith and Beauty girls having night-time pistol practice in the forest. Either that or someone shooting geese.’
Clasping her arms around her chest, as if to protect herself from the trauma, Clara walked off into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She felt a violent nausea at the sight of Hugh Lindsey lying there, and her own surprise at not being dead.
Something he had said, a comment she barely registered in the fear of the moment, now resounded.
I was a Greats scholar at Oxford, you know. There was only one man above me. He took the Newdigate Prize. Just pipped me to it. And it still rankles, if I’m honest.
The Newdigate Prize was Oxford’s great honour for poetry. John Buchan had won it in his time, and Matthew Arnold and Oscar Wilde. And, more recently, it had been awarded to another gifted classics student: Leo Quinn.
Hugh Lindsey must have fostered a grudge against Leo. A grudge that had stretched for decades all the way from the golden stone cloisters of Oxford to the other side of Europe. And finally, years later, he had found a way to take his long desired revenge.
Hedwig had followed her mutely to the kitchen and was standing, shivering violently, as shock took hold. Gently Clara removed the gun from the girl’s shaking hand and put her arms round her.
‘I owe you my life.’
Hedwig leant her head on Clara’s shoulder and for a moment the two women stood motionless in the deep silence, aware only of their own beating hearts. Then Clara stepped back and gazed searchingly into Hedwig’s unassuming countenance.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
The blood had drained from Hedwig’s face, but her voice was steady. Clara hoped she would not be burdened with guilt at the idea of having killed a man.
‘I can’t ever thank you enough. That was very brave of you.’
‘I wasn’t brave.’ Hedwig’s jaw clenched. ‘It wasn’t courage; it was anger. That man killed my best friend. I shot him for Lotti’s sake as much as yours.’
‘I’m grateful all the same. More than I can say.’
There was something about this young woman that belied the apologetic posture and the hesitant demeanour, Clara realized. Behind the awkward exterior there was steel in her.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I had to get a gun for my boyfriend. He’s in trouble.’
‘I thought you were going to the ball?’
‘I was. I went to the afternoon practice but I was terribly nervous. I made quite a hash of it. I kept getting out of time. At the end of it, Fräulein von Essen took me aside and said I stood out too much. I didn’t stay in line. If I took part in the dance I would let down not just myself but the entire Faith and Beauty movement and probably the Führer himself. She had been considering making the whole group withdraw because of my laziness, but instead she had decided that I should suffer the shame alone. I would not be able to come to the ball and should just stay quietly at home.’
‘So you came here.’
‘I went to the Faith and Beauty home. I knew it would be deserted, and it was the ideal opportunity to collect my pistol.’
Clara’s head was still spinning, trying to piece together the fragments of information.
‘Why does your boyfriend need a pistol?’
‘He works as a forger. He makes documents for Jews in hiding. Identity documents. Recently he undertook a job and he thinks he was followed. He was providing a document for a lady . . .’
‘A forger, you say?’
‘Yes. He had a job and when this lady left, he could tell she was being watched.’
‘How could he tell?’
‘He saw she was being shadowed.’
Fragments of information were colliding in her head, like shards of a broken vase forming together into a whole.
‘But that’s not the point,’ continued Hedwig. ‘If this lady was being tailed, then it’s likely that they saw Jochen too, so he’s worried now that the Gestapo are on to him as well. He’s already left his job. And he wanted me to get him a pistol.’
‘But why come here? To my house?’
‘I was on my way back to the S-Bahn and I saw a man ahead of me. I recognized him at once.’
‘Because you’d met him in London.’
‘Lotti was obsessed with him. I told you. They’d become lovers. As soon as I saw him again I realized it must have been him that Lotti had been meeting. That was the man she was terrified of. The man who must have killed her. But I still don’t know why.’
A sudden, sharp clarity possessed Clara and she took hold of Hedwig’s hands. Circumstance had brought the two women together, but fate had interlaced their lives and the events of that night made a lasting bond between them. Now she wanted to do everything she could to help.
‘You were right about the jewel, Hedwig. Lotti died because of it. And I think I can tell you what and where it might be.’