Authors: Jane Thynne
Clara did. She had felt it standing there in the hall. A silent sense, like pheromones in a hive. She could feel the emotion in the place pressing up against the walls, all eyes alert, hearts beating as one, the sense that everyone there was part of something bigger than themselves. That was a powerful emotion. It was the emotion that the Third Reich relied on. It was the kind of emotion that could move mountains.
‘Most of the people here have known each other since they were girls, anyway. All their parents know each other too. Lotti and I were the only ones who came from the east of Berlin. That’s good, I suppose. They always used to point Lotti out to visitors, to prove that there was nothing stopping a girl from an ordinary background being special in the Reich.’
They stared together, into the blurred shadows.
‘So was there a reason that you asked to see me?’
‘I should have told you this before. I think . . .’ An instinctive glance behind her. ‘I might have a thought about why Lotti was killed.’
Her voice had layers of secrecy in it. She was concealing something.
‘You said there was a boyfriend, and that she was frightened of him?’
‘That’s true. But it’s about something that happened, just before she died. It was a Saturday like this, and Lotti came into the house. She had make-up on but her face was dirty and you could see the tear stains on her cheeks. She laughed a little when she saw me – she always laughed – but I could see something was wrong. She was late to the art class and I know she had spent the night with him. She was flustered, which was so unlike her, Lotti was always perfectly turned out. Anyway, after the class was finished, she came out here and told me a secret. She said she’d stolen something.’
Her words hung in the air, glinting with meaning.
‘I had to promise not to tell anyone else about it. She was very aggressive. She frightened me. She made me swear on my life.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Didn’t you ask her?’
‘I would have done. But that was the last day I saw her. The next thing I knew, they found her body.’
Hedwig swallowed, reliving the horror of the moment.
‘I’ve tried so hard to think what she stole and where it might be. I visited her parents and went into her bedroom, saying I wanted to spend a last moment alone with Lotti, and I searched everywhere but there was no sign of anything.’
As they walked back to the house the high clear voices of the girls were finally rising in harmony, coming together in clear, pleasing unison in their hymn to the Führer.
‘The only thing she said was, “
It’s precious, Hedwig. It’s more precious than you can imagine. There are a lot of big people in Germany who would kill for this.
”’
Clara had a sudden, spiky sense of dread. Perhaps the murder of Lotti Franke was not, after all, the random act of a lone madman. Perhaps it had roots that went deeper. Roots that stretched and touched and entangled others, and ultimately reached out to the darkest places of the Reich.
Chapter Twenty-five
‘I’m afraid I’m not to be trusted.’
Conrad Adler was holding the reins of a dappled grey horse, saddled up and ready for a ride. He was dressed in a finely tailored riding jacket, breeches and high boots, his slick hair shining and a sharp edge of amusement in his eyes. To his side stood a groom with a larger chestnut horse, already snuffing the air impatiently and tossing his head against the reins.
The Reitclub Grunewald, the city’s smartest riding stables, enjoyed an idyllic location directly next to the Grunewaldsee. Though the water and the woodland gave it the feel of deep countryside, the club was near enough to the S-Bahn that one could travel from Ku’damm to stable door in twenty minutes flat. Berliners loved horses and the city was full of bronzed beasts, sculptures of horses rearing in battle, their manes blowing in the winds. Even the famously unsporty Hitler liked to carry a riding whip in his hand. But there was no substitute for the real thing.
That morning the place was humming with activity, grooms polishing harnesses, cleaning out stables and loading wheelbarrows with old straw, darting in and out of the tack room and hanging saddles on the doors. And two dozen shining, well-fed horses were clattering their hooves on the cobbles, thumping against the stable doors as they waited for their ride or being rubbed down, their coats steaming in the morning air.
‘Why can’t I trust you?’
‘I told you I wanted you to accompany me to the cinema but now it comes to it I can think of nothing worse than wasting an evening with you watching drivel. I would far prefer to take a ride and talk to you. And we’re lucky to have countryside like this so close to the heart of the Reich.’
Clara had found Adler’s postcard when she returned home the previous day. Vermeer’s
A Young Woman Seated at a Virginal
. A sweet-faced girl in a blue dress, dreamily poised with her fingers on the keys, the sunlight dazzling off the blue of her silk gown, a choker of pearls around her neck. She snatched up the card with apprehension, wondering how Adler had managed to find her address, before turning it over and reading his invitation.
The Reitclub Grunewald. 12pm tomorrow?
The invitation threw her into an agony of indecision. Since that evening more than a week ago in Paris, Adler had a terrifying hold over her. He knew the truth about her, yet she had no idea what he intended to do with it.
The horse assigned to Clara tossed his head fretfully and Adler rubbed its velvety nose, easing a place where the bridle was tight.
‘D’you think you can handle him? Perhaps he’s too large for you.’
‘I used to have a horse back in England. Inkerman. This one’s about the same size.’
‘Then this will remind you of happy times.’
She took the reins from Adler and swung herself up into the saddle and Adler’s groom helped him onto his own horse.
‘Thank you, Karl.’
They made their way along the bridle path, out of the sunshine and into a tunnel of shadow where the density of the darkness was layered with the low gurgle of wood pigeons. Once or twice the flash of a coppery squirrel crossed their path. The horses picked their way expertly along a route they knew by heart, their hooves padding softly over the leaf mould. It was just as Adler had said. The sight of the conker-brown horse in front of her and the rising scent of warm horsehair, oiled harness and burnished leather provoked a sharp stab of nostalgia. In truth, he was right – the horse was larger than she was used to – but he seemed calm, and she loved the sensation of him moving beneath her, the instinctive communication between animal and rider. It had been years since Clara had been on horseback, and then it was down lanes in the Surrey countryside, fringed by hawthorn hedgerows. Here in the Grunewald the air was fresher, with an edge of pine, and unlike the deciduous English woodland, the densely packed pine trees were dark and impenetrable.
Apart from the occasional command to his horse, or a suggestion of right or left, Adler progressed without speaking, following a route deeper into the wood. From time to time Clara glanced across, but could tell nothing of his thoughts other than he was apparently absorbed in his ride. Leaning down to slap the horse’s neck he said, ‘What do you think of Flieger? He has the most wonderful pedigree, but I don’t care about any of that. I bought him because he is such an intelligent animal. The moment I saw him I had to have him.’
There was a tenderness in his voice she had not heard before and her heart warmed to him in response. She had never met a man who loved horses the way she did. The men she knew liked a hard competitive gallop, or a morning’s hunting on the South Downs, but they rarely spoke about their mounts with the same undertow of attachment.
‘Karl looks after him wonderfully. I’ve told him to make the most of it while he can.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s a Jew,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘The Führer’s shortly to ban Jews from caring for animals so Karl won’t be able to work at the stables any more. He’s going to be looking around for a new occupation.’
After a while they emerged from the forest trail to a clearing where a timbered biergarten stood, complete with a cobbled yard dotted with scarlet geraniums where drinkers were sitting in the sun. A man in lederhosen and a short Bavarian hat was playing Mozart on the violin, and sparrows hopped and pecked between the tables. A stag’s head hung above the door, and glancing into the dim interior Clara saw a collection of other animals – birds, badgers and pine martens in glass cases. Foxes’ heads snarled at each other across the room and a moulting hare, inexpertly stuffed, cocked a glassy eye. At the entrance a stuffed bear with the fur rubbed away at the snout stood, paw extended like a maître d’ welcoming new customers.
‘This place has been here for centuries. Shall we stop?’
They tethered the horses on the fence and sat in the dappled shade. Adler ordered beer for both of them.
‘So. Did the ride bring back pleasant memories?’
‘I’d almost forgotten how much I loved it. I haven’t ridden for so long. It reminded me of being a child.’
‘What were you like as a child?’
His question brought her up short. Her childhood seemed locked off from her now. A vanished dream of gardens and lessons, of intense, intimate adventures with Angela and Kenneth. Yet also, she realized with hindsight, a time of secrets. Of concealed diaries, repressed feelings and hidden emotion.
‘I suppose I was a typical middle child. Self-reliant. Very reserved.’
‘Yes.’ His keen eyes seemed to penetrate her. ‘I can see that. Though from my time in London I would say that’s something of a national trait. The English are very skilled at concealing their emotions.’
She smiled briefly, but did not trust herself to reply. Since Adler’s discovery of her forged document she was determined to guard every detail. She had no idea of his intentions towards her, or what he planned to do with her secret. She wondered if he would raise the matter, or if he expected her to throw herself on his mercy. She would not bring it up herself. She decided to wait and see.
‘Why were you reserved? Were your parents unhappy?’
He could not have dissected her more accurately if he had been armed with a scalpel. Towards the end of her mother’s life the marriage was over in all but name. She had found herself going between her parents like a double agent, translating and embroidering their comments for each other, shoring up the glaring cracks in their façade of family life. Her father retreated to his study with its bay window overlooking the rose garden and her mother to hours of practice on the grand piano.
‘I think they were mismatched. They had a whirlwind romance – I suppose that’s what you’d call it – and once it died down they discovered they were very different.’
‘There’s nothing worse than a romance that has gone sour. It’s why I have always preferred my solitude. What was your first memory?’
‘The Titanic sinking. I remember my parents sitting at the breakfast table – our breakfast room had high walls with a pattern of dark green leaves like wreaths and I was counting them. My father was reading the newspaper and he said, “
All those people dead
.” I tried to allot a wreath in my mind to each dead person. It filled me with fear.’
‘Why? It wasn’t your tragedy.’
‘The idea that death could come quite suddenly, out of nowhere. And then of course it did. My mother died when I was sixteen. I thought as time went by I would miss her less, but in fact I miss her more.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Helene. Helene Neumann.’
Not the name on the gravestone in the Surrey churchyard of St Michael and All Angels, softly eroding as the rain dripped down its runnels. But her mother’s absence was chiselled into Clara’s life in a way that could not be erased. It had brought home to her the telescoping of Time. The way it felt tangible, curdled, the minutes growing thick. Gradually running out.
‘I miss my sister too. We were so close at one time, you would never believe. We just grew apart.’
‘Do you see her much?’
She had a sudden, passionate desire to talk about Angela. It had been so long since anyone asked her questions like this. Yet she refused to let herself relax.
‘Not really. And I haven’t seen my father for years.’
‘Would you like to?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Why stay in Germany then?’
‘For my work.’
‘Can your work be so important?’
‘I think so.’
She took a deep draught of the beer. It was a Berlin Weiss, with a shot of fruit syrup – unexpectedly refreshing. Adler’s questions disconcerted her. Maybe that was the point. She shifted beneath his forensic gaze.
‘Enough of me. What about you. Were you born in Berlin?’
‘No. My family comes from Weimar.’ He leaned back in his seat, languidly stretching his jodhpured legs. ‘I’m a count, actually. Von Adler. The decoration was bought a few generations back. I’m not proud of it, that’s just how things are. I had every blessing I could ask. A perfect heritage, a bloodline, money, and land in the finest city in Germany.’
‘I’ve never been to Weimar.’
‘You should. It’s the home of the Reformation and of Goethe, of course. Have you read
Faust
?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘You must know the story. The man who made a pact with the devil.’
‘He sold his soul in return for anything he wanted on earth.’
‘That’s the one. Don’t go reading anything into that, though.’
Adler tilted his glass towards her and took a sip of foamy beer. The sun caught his glass and made it sparkle.
‘I often think of my life back in Weimar. The place was enormous. You can’t imagine the upkeep, but as a boy one never thought of those things. We had horses, of course, stables of our own, magnificent gardens. A lake and a chapel. Even an ice palace. My mother was much younger than my father and neither of them had any idea about children. I was the only one they had and they treated me as a type of miniature adult. Or rather . . .’