The Legacy (19 page)

For a moment she was tempted to call James direct and warn him Rolf was on his way, persuade him to give back what he had stolen, but she resisted. There was no reason to be afraid for James; all Rolf could do would be to threaten. James didn't need her protection.

It's just as well I'm going back, Christa. I could get to like you
… James had come to RussMore and betrayed her trust; she owed him nothing. They were making their descent. Seat-belts fastened, Belinda craned to see out of the window as they broke through the light cloud and came into view of the islands linking together to form one of the most beautiful cities in northern Europe.

Home. She hadn't thought of it in those terms for nearly ten years. Harry nudged her. ‘Want a hand to hold? I hate landing.' Belinda heard him.

‘I love it,' she said. ‘It's so exciting seeing the ground coming up so fast.' He grimaced.

‘I hate kids,' he said; ‘they've no nerves. Bump! There we are, safe on Swedish soil. Thank God!'

‘You're not scared,' Belinda giggled. ‘You just want to hold Mum's hand!' She thought it terribly funny.

Harry ignored her, and said seriously to Christina, ‘I particularly hate eleven-year-old girls … because she's right, of course.'

Her brother was meeting them. Christina thought how much older he looked; they hadn't seen each other for three years. He'd sent messages and flowers, but he hadn't come to Richard's funeral. She'd been hurt, but accepted the excuse: his girlfriend was pregnant and the birth was scheduled by Caesarean for the same day. It was their second child; neither had ever mentioned marriage. Richard had been disapproving, and she realized that she'd been influenced by his opinion. But he was there now, waving at the head of the crowd in Arrivals, and she waved back.

He was a big man, fair-haired and blue-eyed, but the resemblance ended there. He had a round face with a broad brow and a nose flattened in a skiing accident when he'd slid into a tree. He was clever and hard-working and had built up the business they'd worked in together. Now there were Nordohl design centres in Stockholm and Gothenburg with a strong wholesale market. He embraced her, shook hands with Harry, who was introduced as Richard's cousin, and hefted Belinda into the air for a bearish hug. ‘You've grown so tall! You were a little girl when I saw you in England. Christa, why didn't you bring her over before? Give me a kiss.'

‘Why didn't you and Gerta come to us?' she couldn't help saying. Invitations had been issued and avoided, because he and Gerta didn't feel comfortable at RussMore. He didn't pay attention, but went on playing the fool with his niece, who was giggling with pleasure.

Harry noticed and took Christina's arm. ‘I thought only Farringtons had family rows. Come on.'

They left their bags at the Emburg; it was a pleasant second rank hotel in the Old Town. They all lunched together, and then Sven Nordohl was going to drive Belinda up to her grandfather at Yurgen. It was a friendly meal, but there was a distance between brother and sister; she'd done more than just move to England and adopt English ways, Harry realized; she'd broken her own family ties in the process.

‘Well,' Sven Nordohl said, ‘you didn't really say why you've come over. Holiday?' There was a question within the question: What was Christina doing with this “cousin” of her late husband's? She understood and flushed with resentment; Sven's morals were his own business. Her attitude had changed.

She said flatly, ‘I'm not happy about the lawyer who's advising me on Richard's will. He's a Swede, acting with our London solicitors, so I've come over to find out more about him. Also, Richard bought something when he was over here; apparently it's very valuable. I don't know if I told you but my stepson, Alan, is taking me to court, because Richard left RussMore to Belinda.'

‘No, you didn't tell me, but then we don't communicate much, do we? And I'm not surprised he's going to court; you're not allowed to treat your children unequally in Europe, you'll have to change all that in time. Belinda looked up; she was eating a very rich chocolate cake and there were dark little crumbs around her mouth.

‘Alan's horrible,' she said. ‘Horrible to Mum; horrible to everyone.'

‘I don't think we need go on about the rights and wrongs of English inheritance after that,' Harry said cheerfully. ‘Wipe your mouth, Belinda, you've got chocolate all over your chin. Actually,' he addressed himself to the discomfited Sven, ‘you could be a help in all this. Where would we go to buy antique books, documents, that sort of thing? Is there a street where the dealers have their shops? There is in London.'

‘Yes, it's not too far from the Emburg,' was the answer. ‘A couple of streets away. Most of the antiques are in the Old Town anyway because of the tourists. They're very expensive.'

Harry grinned in his disarming way. ‘We're not aiming to buy, just to ask a few questions. And where would I find a list of lawyers? Top of the range firms?'

‘There'll be a directory,' Sven Nordohl answered. ‘The Emburg'll have one. I think,' he glanced at his watch, ‘I think we should be setting off; it's a long drive.' He smiled at Belinda. ‘Your grandpa's so excited you're coming. He's got a lot of nice things fixed up for you to do.'

Belinda nodded. ‘I'm excited too.' She looked at Christina with the direct gaze of uninhibited childhood, then she turned to her uncle. ‘My brother Alan
is
horrible,' she said, ‘and I don't want him to live at RussMore.'

Sven insisted on paying the bill. As he did so, Harry murmured to Christina, ‘She's certainly her mother's daughter; doesn't mince her words.'

Goodbyes were said, and as they hugged Christina whispered to Belinda, ‘Darling, have a lovely time, and give Grandpa my love. I'll call you tomorrow. And be good, won't you?'

‘I will, Mum. You have a nice time too, won't you?' Then the car drove off, with the child waving to them out of the window.

‘He's chippy, isn't he?' Harry remarked. ‘Nice man, but chippy with you.'

‘He thinks I've turned into a snob, that's why. Grand houses and English upper-class ways don't go down well with Swedish people; we pride ourselves on being democratic and fair. Sven thinks, in some way, I sold out by marrying Richard. If he feels like that, I can't help it.'

‘Your father, too?' Harry asked.

‘No, not Papa. He's the least judgemental person in the world; he thinks everyone has a right to live their lives and believe what they want, so long as they don't hurt others. Sven has a lot of prejudices, though he'd never admit to them. Harry, I don't mind, I've been away too long to let it get to me. Maybe he's right; I have changed, and he doesn't recognize me any more.' She smiled. ‘I couldn't help being proud of Belinda, the way she spoke up. I suppose it was rude, but I loved her for it. It's funny, if ever I've thought of giving in to Alan, she does something to make me tough it out.'

They were in the street, walking in the direction of their hotel. As they crossed the road, Harry slipped his arm through hers and kept it there.

‘Let's start with the place Richard bought that document,' she said. ‘I want to get on with things; that's why we've come, after all.'

It was a narrow cobbled street, with picturesque overhanging houses, and there were shops everywhere. Shops selling furniture, ceramics, antique glass and several dealers in rare books, but none by the name of Poulson. ‘Let's go left,' Harry suggested.

Remembering, Christina shook her head. ‘That's nothing but gift shops and tourist tat. There used to be a street somewhere towards the right where there were more shops, not such expensive ones … Let's try there.' But time had changed it; there were only three moderate dealers offering Swedish glass and ceramics of doubtful value, and a lot of cafés.

‘Back to where we started,' he suggested. ‘Maybe the name's changed? After all, it is twelve years ago. We can go in and ask.'

The first bookseller was unable to help. He had been established for a year, moving premises from Gothenburg, and he was more interested in trying to sell them some eighteenth-century maps than helping with information. Three doors down the proprietor was a woman. The shop was discreetly lit, with the distinctive smell of old leather. Harry noticed there was a cubicle with special lighting where a buyer could examine at leisure.

‘May I help you?' She spoke in English. Christina answered.

‘We are looking for a shop called Poulson,' she explained. ‘We've been up and down the street but we can't find it, perhaps it's changed its name. Would you know about it?'

She was in her mid-forties, dowdy, scholarly, as befitted her calling, but with shrewd eyes. She said, ‘Everybody knows about it. Poulson's was closed two years ago when the owner was murdered.'

She made them coffee and they sat in her inner office, leaving the door open so she could see if a customer came in. She was attentive when Christina explained that they were trying to trace the dealer who had sold an ancient Hebrew document to her husband; if the lady was interested in antiquities, she might well end up being a client. Nice to think of a Swedish girl getting on so well in the world. Her clothes and accessories told her there was money, and the Englishman with her was no gawping tourist; she sold to people like this couple. She made herself very helpful, and she noticed that the woman looked shocked when she said Poulson was murdered.

‘He was from Denmark, originally,' she told them. ‘Been here for years. We all knew him well. He was good, but sometimes careless. My husband bought a beautiful Gothenburg Bible from him at half its worth and sold it at a big profit. Poulson didn't hold a grudge; he took life easily. That's what made the murder so horrible.' She had leaned forward a little, enjoying her role as storyteller. ‘It was a robbery, so the police said, but they weren't just ordinary thieves. The poor old man was tortured before they killed him. Can you imagine anyone doing that? Seventy years old and he'd been tied up and tortured. They'd broken his fingers, one by one. God knows why. The shop was turned upside down, but the stock records showed nothing was missing; that's the extraordinary thing. Some of us wondered if he'd been dealing in stolen goods. They never found the brutes who did it. You can understand why the place stayed empty for so long. Then that young man moved here from Gothenburg and opened it up again.'

‘But we asked him,' Christina protested; ‘he said he'd never heard of Poulson.'

‘Well, he would, wouldn't he? It's not a selling gimmick, is it? Not that he tells the truth about some of his goods either.'

Harry spoke then. ‘And this happened when—two years ago?'

She nodded. ‘About that. I was away visiting my daughter at the time, but my husband was here; he noticed the shop was closed up without any lights on. After two days he called the police, and they broke in and found the poor man. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you.'

Christina said slowly, ‘And no-one knew what they were looking for? Or if they found it?'

The dealer shrugged. ‘The police said they'd questioned him for hours before they killed him. He didn't have a fine stock, just one or two things. He wouldn't have stood all that pain if he could have helped it. I just don't know; it's a mystery. It'll never be solved, I'm afraid.'

In the street outside Harry took her arm again. ‘Before we jump to any conclusions, let's go back to the Emburg and look up some lawyers.'

‘It's not like you', Christina said slowly, ‘to be so cautious. What a horrible coincidence!'

‘Very nasty,' he agreed, ‘if it was a coincidence. Which I don't think you believe and I don't either but, as I said, we won't jump to conclusions. Now, which way do we go? I'm lost.'

‘What a nice apartment,' Rolf Wallberg remarked.

James Farrington said, ‘Thanks. Actually I'm going to sell it and move somewhere more secure. Two days ago I was robbed in here at knifepoint! The bastard hasn't been caught and he could come back some time. It doesn't make for sound sleep.'

‘How unpleasant,' Rolf said coldly. ‘But you weren't hurt; that was lucky anyway. This is such a violent city.' He took a seat without waiting to be asked.

James said awkwardly, ‘You wanted to see me on Christa's behalf. I'm not sure what I can do to help but, of course, I'll try. Can I get you a drink?'

‘No,' Rolf answered, ‘this is not a social call, Mr Farrington. I've come for Mrs Farrington's property: the document you stole from your father's collection.' He saw the colour creep into James's face. He had looked pallid and strained, still slightly shocked from his ordeal two days ago; now he went scarlet and then white at the lips.

‘Please don't waste time denying it,' Rolf went on. ‘You stole it and, so long as you give it back, Mrs Farrington will not take any action, or tell anyone what a thief you are. So where is it?'

James didn't answer. He went and poured himself a very dark Scotch and sat down, his shoulders slumped in despair. Too easily cowed, Rolf decided; he'd played this part many times before. He drank some of the whiskey. ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' he said in a voice that didn't invite belief. ‘I never stole anything.'

Rolf stood up and moved a step towards him. ‘Your stepmother is a kind forgiving lady. I'm not kind and I don't like people fooling with me. Where is it?'

James said loudly, because he was aware of a real menace about the man, ‘Are you threatening me?'

‘Yes,' was the answer, very quietly spoken. ‘Yes, I'm threatening you. I shall beat the lying shit out of you, Mr Farrington, and you won't dare to complain because you can't explain why I did it. You have two minutes.'