The Legacy (17 page)

‘“Start engines.” The pulse began to thud beneath their feet and the boat drew away, leaving a wake behind. The captain did not even look to see if anyone was still above the surface. He gave another order to the first mate. Men went below to swab what human refuse had been left in the hold and the baggage brought aboard was locked in his cabin, safe from thieving curiosity. He didn't intend to steal anything himself; he knew Albrecht Hoffman and the SS had a long arm. He would get his price and the crew would get theirs.

‘Hester had heard the noise; it was muffled by the deck above and the closed door, but she heard shouts and shrill screams. Something terrible was happening. She held the baby tight. He started to cry and she fumbled, giving him her breast to quieten him. Nobody heard his hungry wailing among the other human voices crying out. Then it was quiet. The engines had stopped before the shouting began, and now they started up again. She didn't realize that she was shaking as if she had a high fever. She fought down hysteria by trying to squeeze some milk from her almost empty breast to feed her son. The jumbled German words echoed in rhythm with the beat of the engine.

‘“You make a noise and the kid dies … stay quiet … the kid dies.” She crooned a whispered song to him, and in the dark airless place, she lapsed into sleep at last. The sleep was her refuge from insanity. In the morning, when they were docked in Gothenburg, the man who had saved their lives opened the door and brought her up on deck. He had volunteered to stay aboard as watch; the rest had gone. The captain's cabin had been emptied and the bags and bundles taken in a cab to a boarding-house; they would be collected by Albrecht Hoffman. Hester didn't speak; she followed him in silence, hushing the baby, as they left the ship.

‘“Money?” he asked her in his poor German. “You have money?”

She shook her head. Then she held out her wrist; she was wearing a gold watch. He took it off. “We'll get money for this,” he said. “I'll buy food for you.” He looked at her in the pale daylight; her face gaunt, her blue eyes huge and empty. He said simply, “I'll take you home to my mother. I'll be good to you.” He had never said such a thing to any woman before. They took a tram to the city centre, where he sold the watch to a jeweller, who gave him a fair price on account of the silent exhausted girl carrying a sleeping baby in her arms. Then on to the railway station; Johansen bought tickets and some food for the journey, and they caught a train. She still hadn't spoken. He pressed food on her; she ate a little and then she said, “What happened to my husband? What happened to the others?” He shifted on the hard seat. The train was half empty; the only other person in their carriage was an old peasant woman, asleep and snoring in the corner.

‘He said, at last, “They're dead; they went overboard. I hid you because I knew the orders. What's your name? Mine's Hendrik Johansen.” She didn't answer; her stare became wider, more vacant. It worried him. He asked again, jostling her with his elbow. “Your name? What's your name?”

‘Hester said, very slowly, “I don't know, I don't remember.”'

There was a knock on the study door. Christina didn't hear the first time. There was a second louder knock. It was the housekeeper.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Farrington. There's a Mr Harry Spannier on the telephone. Shall I put him through?'

Christina shook her head. ‘Tell him I'll call him back.'

‘I know you didn't want to be disturbed,' the housekeeper went on. She couldn't ignore the atmosphere in the room; she had worked there for nine years and never felt anything like it. ‘But I have some soup and a cold supper prepared for you and Mr Wallberg. Belinda's had hers; she's watching telly.'

‘Thank you. We'll have it later. I'll call on the house phone.'

The housekeeper looked quickly at the lawyer. His face was like a stone carving, as she described it to her husband later. ‘Grim looking. And she looked like she'd been given some really bad news. Shocked, that's what she was. I expect it's something to do with that horrible Alan.'

Alan Farrington was part of the staff's demonology. If he got the house, he'd sack the lot of them.

‘I'll bet it is,' he had agreed. ‘Not to worry, dear. Nothing we can do about it.' He was a philosophical man by nature. He wanted to watch his favourite quiz programme and not waste time worrying about what they couldn't alter.

When they were alone, Christina got up; the room felt cold, perhaps because the fire was low or because she herself felt chilled by the horror of what she had been told. She put some logs on and poked at them till they began to burn.

‘Rolf? Aren't you going to finish it? What happened to the girl, Hester, and the baby?'

He said in a flat unmoved voice, ‘Johansen took her home to his family; she never remembered her name. The boy was a year old when she went into the garden shed and drank a bottle of carbolic disinfectant. There was an inquest and an autopsy and they found that she was three months pregnant by the Swede. He had been good to her in his way, but I suppose that was too much for her. Maybe she remembered. No-one will ever know. He went back to sea and his mother had the boy adopted. The point of this story is that the scroll was part of the loot stolen by Himmelsbach and Hoffman. When all the stuff was sorted and stored, they found the scroll and opened it, but nobody knew what this Hebrew document meant. They were looking for pictures, gold, valuables. Jews would say that the Lord God protected it, because it wasn't destroyed. In fact, when Hoffman and Himmelsbach divided everything up after the war, Hoffman put it among some drawings Himmelsbach didn't want and sold them. So, many years later, your husband found it in the dealers in Stockholm. If I believed in a God, I'd say there was some kind of Providence at work.' He gave a mirthless little smile. ‘But I don't believe, so I put it down to chance. I suppose you're going to ask me how I know all this?' He got up and stretched a little. ‘As everyone was dead, including Hester Rubenstein, and the baby was adopted, how did I find out what happened?'

‘Yes,' Christina agreed slowly, ‘I was going to ask that.'

‘I said everyone was dead, which is true of everyone who went on that boat, but Hester's parents-in-law stayed behind in Germany; and the father survived. His wife died that winter and he stayed hidden until after the war. Then he went to Sweden to find his son and daughter-in-law and the baby. He started searching, investigating but nobody knew anything. They'd never reached Sweden. The family and the scroll had vanished, along with all the other Jews who set out on that journey. All he had to link up with them was Himmelsbach, but he had disappeared too. When Rubenstein traced him to Sweden, it was already too late; he was dead. So, in the end, the old man asked for help from other sources. What they were is too complicated and doesn't really matter, but, because of the importance of the scroll, certain people became interested, and so my firm became involved. The practice of taking refugees out of Germany in order to rob and kill them was not unknown; it looked like just such a case. So we started from there; we had a date to help us, and we had old Rubenstein's clear recollection of what had happened and the deal that was made. Swedish criminal records led us to the sailor who saved Hester's life; he was an old alcoholic, living by begging at the dock side, but he remembered the beautiful Jewish girl as if it had happened yesterday. He cried as he talked about her.'

Christina looked at him. ‘You said you were adopted? Are you that child?' He smiled then and shook his head.

‘How neat it would be to say yes, but that sort of thing only happens in novels. No, I'm not the boy; I couldn't be because of the age difference. I tried to find him, but he'd died of appendicitis when he was six. The adoptive parents were poor farmers, living miles from a doctor, let alone a hospital. Yes, I was adopted, but that's the only similarity. I'm not a Jew, Christa. You don't have to be Jewish to want to right such a terrible wrong. That's why I took the case, why I was so anxious to find the manuscript and restore it to the Rubensteins' surviving relatives. Hester's father-in-law is dead now; they are poor people and not Orthodox, living in France. They would be happy to sell it, and I could have helped you at the same time. Can you understand this?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, I can. What I don't see is how I could take any money for it. I'd better call Harry Spannier, then we should have supper. Help yourself to a drink, I won't be long.'

She went out of the room to telephone. He noticed that.

‘Well,' Jane Spannier demanded. ‘What's the news? Did they find anything?'

Harry said, ‘Apparently it was a copy of the Song of Solomon, hundreds of years old. It must be priceless. But it's gone! Christa said it's been stolen!'

His parents stared at him. ‘Gone?' Peter Spannier questioned. ‘How could it have gone? Who could have taken it?'

‘James. He's the only one who's been down there since Richard's funeral, and Christa thinks he must have pinched it then. She says this Swede is going over to New York to get it back. She said the whole story is too horrible … she sounded pretty upset. I'm driving down to see her tomorrow.' Jane and Peter exchanged glances.

‘Shouldn't I come with you?' his father suggested.

‘Not unless you want to come to Sweden,' Harry answered. ‘This whole business stinks as far as I can see, especially Wallberg; he needs checking out. While Wallberg's in New York, Christa should go back to Stockholm and ask a few questions. I'm not busy, so I can go with her.'

‘And she's agreed?' Jane queried.

‘No, I haven't told her yet; but she will. Now, Mum, I'll help you with dinner. I'm very housetrained, you'll be surprised.'

‘I'm sure,' his mother retorted, ‘and that's not the only thing about you that'll surprise me, I can see … you can set the table. And Peter, not another gin and tonic, darling, please … I'll be ready in ten minutes.'

‘Good,' he said cheerfully. ‘Just time for me to put one down, dear.'

‘He's impossible,' Jane murmured as she went out with Harry.

‘He doesn't like being nagged,' was the answer. ‘I don't know why you bother, Mum.'

‘Habit,' she retorted. ‘He expects it, and rather enjoys doing the opposite, like you. So I'm not going to repeat myself and tell you to be careful and not get too involved with Christina, because I know you won't take a damned bit of notice!'

Rolf Wallberg watched her; she hardly ate anything. He was very hungry. ‘I've shocked you, haven't I? I shouldn't have been so graphic,' he said at last.

‘I keep seeing them', she said slowly, ‘being thrown into the sea. Richard would have been horrified if he'd known.'

Would he, Rolf wondered; he wasn't convinced of English scruples. They'd plundered half the world without a qualm of conscience, just as Richard had cheated the unsuspecting dealer, Poulson. But he didn't say anything to contradict her. He finished his food, gulped a glass of wine and said, ‘I'd better go. I won't stay the night this time. It's better for both of us if I start early tomorrow. I'll get a flight to New York, and pay a friendly visit to your stepson.'

‘Supposing he denies it? He's always lied; he couldn't help himself. You can't force him.' He came over to her and, for a moment, he laid his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but the same flicker of response was there. She repeated herself. ‘You can't force him to give it back.'

‘I can try.' There was a brief pressure of his hand, then, without saying goodbye, he left her.

‘Mum?' She hadn't heard Belinda come in. ‘Mum, has he gone?'

‘Yes, he had to go back to London.' Belinda looked closely at her mother. ‘You looked worried … wasn't he able to help?'

Christina had explained briefly that they were searching for something valuable they could sell to help fight the court case with Alan. She put an arm round her mother. ‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘you'll find it. We can look tomorrow.'

Christina held her close. ‘It isn't here, darling, but Mr Wallberg thinks he knows where it is. He says he'll get it back for us.'

Belinda said happily, ‘Then if he says it, he will. Come on, there's one of those films you like on telly, that's why I came to fetch you. I thought he might like to watch it too. It's a shame he's gone.' The film was a riotous Steve Martin comedy, which Belinda had seen several times. Sitting with her daughter, Christina wondered what it was about that cold unfathomable man that so attracted her child. Was it some sense of budding sexuality, an innocent recognition of the magnetic force that had shaken her so badly and made her afraid of herself … She had never experienced such an impact with Richard or Jan or any of her boyfriends. That one kiss had been a lightning bolt of sexual fusion between them, and it was Wallberg, not her, who had pulled back. And then he had steeped her in horror, sparing nothing in his description of that mass murder of the innocent.
You can't force him.
They were her words.
I can try.
And that hot-hand contact that burned through to her skin. She remembered, with a sense of overwhelming relief, that Harry Spannier was coming the next day. Suddenly it made her feel safe.

James Farrington called his brother from his office. He was prone to little meannesses, like charging his personal calls to his employers. It was early morning, New York time; he knew Alan would be in his office after the mid-morning conference. There'd been no word from his brother and James was uneasy; they always kept in contact, though it was more on his side than Alan's. Alan usually expected him to make the running; it was part of the power game. James had played it so long it didn't occur to him to see their relationship as one-sided; he knew it was and that it wasn't going to change. But he'd made three unsuccessful calls to the Chelsea house, leaving messages, and his brother hadn't rung back, so he put the call through to his Holborn office. Alan's voice came on the other line after a pause. ‘Hi.'