Paving the New Road (19 page)

“BUF?” Rowland smiled at Edna to let her know everything had gone well.

“British Union of Fascists … Mosley’s mob. They’re running this tour of Europe’s fascist states. Anyway, Negus, you and your young lady have earned a couple of days’ leave. Campbell won’t be doing anything but meeting a few minor Nazis for a few days. You’re at the Starnberger See aren’t you? … Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, Blanshard, we might just do that. Before you go, could you tell me something?”

“Certainly.”

“I don’t suppose you know if Bothwell was involved with a woman over here?”

“He’s married.”

“Even so.”

For a moment there was silence and then, “Perhaps … One of the Brits mentioned some woman called Nancy … a journalist from one of the American papers.”

“The Brits?”

“We’re not the only people with agents here, Negus. It was just gossip. I dismissed it. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering what he was doing in that lake.”

Rowland heard Blanshard sigh … and then swear. “This is Hardy’s doing, isn’t it? He’s already wired me with his ridiculous
theories … Got some bee in his bonnet about avenging Bothwell, or some such thing!”

“You must admit the circumstances of Bothwell’s death are a little odd.”

Again there was a pause. “That may well be, Mr. Negus, but you should remember that Munich is not Sydney. Even if you do find something—some sort of foul play—what the hell are you going to do with that information?”

“I’m sure the police …”

“The police have already determined that it was an accident. They may have reasons for doing so. Bothwell was not here playing tiddlywinks, boy! Digging into this won’t bring the man back—but it will compromise your position here … Or have you forgotten why you’re in Munich?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then don’t worry about Bothwell, and stay low. I’ll be in touch.” The telephone was slammed down.

Rowland replaced the receiver in its cradle.

“It worked, didn’t it, Rowly?” Edna said excitedly the moment the line was cut.

“Göring cancelled his meeting with Campbell.”

Edna squeezed his arm, delighted and triumphant.

“We’re spies!” she proclaimed, curtseying as Clyde and Milton applauded their congratulations.

Rowland laughed. “It’s probably not entirely spy-like to shout that out, Ed.”

She waved him away. “It’s just us.”

Reminded of that fact, Rowland took the opportunity to tell them of what Blanshard had revealed and his demand that they not investigate any further.

“So we’re going to let it go?” Clyde prompted.

Rowland shrugged. “I’m curious now.”

Clyde sighed.

“I’ll be careful,” Rowland offered. “But while we’re here anyway …”

“Someone should look into it,” Edna said quietly. “Mr. Bothwell was an Australian. Even if it will achieve nothing, someone should find out what happened.”

“Bravo, Miss Higgins!” Milton put his arm around Edna and kissed her forehead. “If we discreetly apply our intellects to the riddle of Bothwell’s untimely passing, the solution will show itself and justice will prevail.”

Clyde groaned. Milton was an avid reader of Conan Doyle. So much so that he occasionally appropriated the persona of Sherlock Holmes … without acknowledgement, of course.

“It can’t hurt to keep our eyes open,” Rowland said, nudging Clyde. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go find Eva. I feel a bit bad about letting her go on her own.”

“I’ll come with you,” Clyde said, resigned. “I’ve been wanting to paint the lake anyway.”

“Milt and I will organise a picnic basket and meet you in a little while,” Edna volunteered. “It’s such a glorious day, it will be lovely by the water.”

That settled, Rowland and Clyde gathered easels and canvas and set out for the lake’s edge.

They found Eva suddenly, catching sight of her stretching out on a towel as they came over a rise.

Clyde stopped. “Good Lord!”

Eva turned immediately, having heard his exclamation. She sat up and waved.

“Is she—?” Clyde started.

“Naked?” Rowland said, taking a deep breath. “Yes. I believe so.” Of course they’d seen naked women before. Aside from anything else, they had both painted nudes. But this was a public place and a little unexpected.

Eva beckoned them over.

“You go,” Clyde said, prodding Rowland. “Find out what happened to her clothes.”

Rowland glanced back at Eva, who was waiting for them with her hands on her hips. “I suppose I’d better.”

He walked down to where she stood. “Fräulein Eva,” he said tipping his hat. “I hope we’re not intruding.”

Eva stretched out again. “Don’t be silly, Herr Negus. I am just sunbathing … Do people not sunbathe where you come from?”

“They do …”

She laughed and wagged her finger at him. “Do not pretend to be shy. I saw your book of pictures …”

He smiled. “I’m an artist, Fräulein Eva. I often use models.”

She glanced over at Clyde, who was focussing on setting up the easels. “Perhaps I could be your model. Herr Wolf has drawn me once or twice.”

Rowland’s brow rose. “Like this?”

Eva giggled.

He stood back and looked at her. She was completely natural and comfortable without a stitch of clothing. Her figure was athletic, surprisingly muscular, and she held herself with the confidence of a woman who was pleased with her body. His eyes moved to the lake which reflected the surrounding violet mountains in the polished glass of its surface, capturing the world and the sky in a mirror image. It was breathtaking in its way, but still just a landscape. Having Eva model for him might not be such a bad idea. Let Clyde paint the trees.

“Would you be comfortable over there?” He pointed out a protrusion of smooth rock.

“But it’s much prettier over here with the lake behind me,” she protested.

“I’m painting you,” he said, fetching one of the easels. “The light is rather more important than the lake.”

Eva spread out her towel and settled on the rock. Rowland allowed her to pose naturally. She reclined on her side, her head in the crook of her arm.

Clyde set up his easel beside Rowland’s, but facing the other way, towards the lake. He had relaxed now. Somehow Eva seemed less naked as a model. Rowland had a talent and preference for nudes and so unclothed women had always been a feature of his studio. Often it had been Edna who sat for him, but occasionally he would use another subject. Indeed, Clyde had first met his own sweetheart, Rosalina, when she’d posed for Rowland.

They hadn’t been working long when Edna and Milton joined them, lugging a massive basket filled from the contents of the well-stocked larder in Richter’s lakehouse. Edna wore a green spotted sundress, fitted at the waist and sleeveless.

Rowland looked up and waved as she appeared at the small rise which fortuitously afforded some minor privacy.

“Over here, Millie.” He used the alias without hesitation now. Edna stopped, startled, as she realised what Rowland was painting, but the pause was very brief. She left the basket and came down to peer over his shoulder at the beginnings of the work.

Milton seemed more amused than anything else. “I’m not sure Blanshard would consider this discreet, old boy.”

Rowland laughed without lifting his eyes from the canvas. Clyde had procured a basic palette of colours, and so Rowland began with
a tonal sketch in sepia, painting in the long lines of Eva’s body and the shadows. Edna stood by him, intrigued. Rowland painted often, but as she was usually his model, she rarely saw how he worked at this stage. This early rendering was almost sculptural. He worked with shapes, pushing and moulding the paint about the linen surface until an impression of Eva seemed to jump from the canvas.

“May I see?” Eva begged, sitting up.

Rowland shrugged. She had moved now, anyway, and he was hungry. They might as well stop for a spot of lunch.

Eva came around the easel, still comfortably naked among them. Her face dropped as she studied what he had done.

“She says it doesn’t look a thing like her,” Rowland translated smiling, as he rummaged through the picnic hamper.

Edna laughed. “Don’t worry, Eva darling.” She patted the picnic blanket beside her, as Eva slipped on a robe. “It will. Robbie’s very talented.”

Rowland translated, expanding so much on Edna’s affirmation of his talent that it was obvious and she took back the original compliment.

They ate lazily in the sunshine, enjoying the languid company, the normalcy of sorts.

“Shall we go swimming?” Edna suggested gazing at the expansive stillness of the water.

Rowland shook his head. “The Starnberger See is a glacial lake, Millie. I expect the water will be rather cold.”

Edna lay back on the blanket, smiling. “I didn’t mean you, Robbie. It’s impossible to drag you away from a painting. I thought Clyde might—”

“No,” Clyde said, slapping his hat back on his head as he stood
to return to his easel. “And you’re not going in either … I don’t want you messing up my view with splashing and whatnot.”

Thus forbidden from swimming for the sake of art, Edna remained on the blanket, reading and chatting with Milton, who could not swim and in any case had no wish to do so.

It was only when he observed the silence that Rowland noticed that the poet and the sculptress had drifted off. Possibly it was the sight of his friends asleep that made him realise that Eva had been posing for rather a long time.

“
Entschuldigung sie, Fräulein
,” he said regretfully. “I’m so sorry … You must need to stretch.”

Eva winced as she sat up and moved her arms gingerly. Rowland poured her a glass of wine, and offered her his hand. “You must tell me when you’re getting uncomfortable,” he said apologetically, and he helped her to stand and handed her the glass. “I get a little forgetful of other things when I’m painting.”

“Can I see my painting?” she asked excitedly.

“It won’t be finished for a while yet,” Rowland said, standing back to allow her access to his easel. “I’ll have to wait for the paint to dry a bit before I can continue. In fact I may have to ask you to sit for me when we get back to Munich.”

Eva wasn’t listening. She stood before the canvas, squealing in delight and clapping her hands.

“You like it, then?” Rowland asked, laughing.

“Herr Negus, this is wonderful. You have made me blue!”

Rowland had indeed painted her figure in the palest grey-blue. Like an eggshell. Though her body was fit and strong, she had seemed to him from the first, fragile. There was a sadness and a desperation in her eyes. He had not captured that yet. At the moment she was just a vulnerable, almost translucent figure clinging to the rock.

“Blue is my favourite colour, but how could you have known that, Herr Negus?”

Rowland toyed with the idea of explaining why he had painted her so, but decided it was unnecessary. Eva liked blue. That was good enough.

Clyde turned to look at the painting. He whistled low.

“What do you think?” Rowland asked, a little nervously. This was somewhat of a departure from his usual style, and he respected Clyde’s opinion.

Clyde stared for a moment, his brawny arms folded. “You used up all the blue,” he said tersely.

Rowland grimaced. It had been a little inconsiderate. Clyde was trying to paint a lake after all.

Clyde sighed. “It was worth it, mate.”

14

ANOTHER HITLER BAN

Handshaking Forbidden

BERLIN, Saturday

Herr Hitler has banned handshaking and has issued an order that in future all officials in Germany must greet one another by raising the right arm, a system hitherto only used by Nazis.

Sunday Times, 1933

F
rau Engels looked at them suspiciously as she tethered her horse. “You have risen early, gentlemen,” she said, her reproving gaze fixed unrelentingly upon them.

“Herr Greenway and I thought we might go for an early morning drive,” Rowland replied, a little relieved the housekeeper had arrived before they left. At least Eva would have someone to talk to in his absence. “Our companions are still asleep. They will be glad to awaken to your fine cooking, Frau Engels.”

The compliment seemed to soothe her a little. She shook her head. “I will not ask what you two young men are up to. I can only guess. My sons are about your age and they have turned me graveyard blonde with their antics,” she declared, pointing at her white hair in
its tight, efficient bun. “And here I am, cooking potato pancakes and cherry cake for breakfast …”

Rowland glanced at Milton. They knew by now that they would have to interrupt or the woman would never stop talking.

“If we depart straight away we might be able to get back for your excellent breakfast, Frau Engels, so we might just say goodbye right now …”

Milton started the engine and though Frau Engels had not stopped talking, Rowland could at least now pretend not to hear her. He climbed into the Mercedes and waved as they drove out.