The Silver Castle (3 page)

A silver castle, insubstantial as a dream.

Despite my urgent need to learn more about my father, I felt curiously reluctant to make contact with this unknown woman who summoned me. While I hesitated, the enveloping silence was broken by a curious whirring, creaking sound which grew swiftly louder until two huge white birds came into sight, flying low over the fir trees.

“Die Schwane,”
the chauffeur explained, watching me.

“Oh, swans.”

I recalled having seen swans flying once before, in London, between two of the royal parks. The birds passed directly overhead and flew straight for the castle, almost as if pointing the way. As they descended to land upon the water, I gave myself a little shake.

“Right, let’s go then,” I said briskly.

We proceeded down the narrow track, the big Citroen gliding smoothly ahead, my Fiat lurching behind. After we’d crossed the main highway, I could see that the Schloss stood upon a spur of land which thrust out into the lake. High stone walls bordered the grounds but the crested gates, a tracery of wrought iron, stood invitingly open as if they were never closed.

The driveway curved between beds of rosebushes, pruned and only just bursting into leaf, carpeted now with dark pansies and brightly flowering polyantha. The smooth lawns were starred with clusters of tiny daffodils, already lifting their yellow heads again after the battering from the rain. A line of blue-green Norway spruce threw long, pointed shadows.

The Citroen passed through an archway into a cobbled courtyard and I followed, drawing up beside it. The chauffeur politely came forward to hold my door, then led me into the castle through a dark, medieval portal.

The hall was large and lofty, panelled in a Gothic leaf design with fluted columns rising to the vaulted ceiling. A wide stairway, balustraded with carved dark wood, turned twice before disappearing out of sight. Tall spikes of yellow iris in a porcelain vase stood upon a circular marble table, and spread across the floor was a glorious Persian carpet in soft shades of red. The tallest grandfather clock I had ever seen ticked with ponderous gravity.

“Please to wait here, Fraulein.”

We had paused before a pair of panelled doors and the chauffeur knocked before entering, his cap under his arm. A moment later he was ushering me inside.

Evening shadows were already advancing in the hall, but now I stepped into a lovely green and amber room, brushed with the gilt of sunlight slanting through a western window. A middle-aged woman in a wheelchair was propelling herself forward to greet me.

She was arrestingly beautiful, only the gaunt outline of her cheekbones and the pallor of her ivory skin revealing the cost of a continuing battle against disablement. Her hair was a rich coppery brown, and she wore it twisted into a coil on the crown of her head. A gown of iridescent kingfisher blue had been draped in softly falling folds to conceal the crippled legs. Her face was alight with a charming smile of welcome, and I wondered if I only imagined a hint of wariness behind the smile.

“So Karl has persuaded you to come. I am so glad.” She extended a hand to me, and the grip of her slender fingers was surprisingly strong.

“You are Frau Kreuder, I take it?”

“Ja,
that is so.” A small, apologetic gesture indicated her chair-bound condition. “You will understand why I was obliged to send Karl to find you, rather than come myself.”

“I’m curious to know why you wanted to see me,” I said. “Have you something to tell me about my father?”

“I will explain, but do sit down ... over by the fire where it’s warm. Would a glass of amontillado suit your English taste?”

“Thank you.” I waited for her to pour my sherry, then carried it to a sofa drawn up to the wide stone hearth where pine logs burned. Frau Kreuder brought her wheelchair close and raised her own glass of wine.

“Prost.”

I
replied to the toast, and we sipped our drinks. Then she said, “When Ernst telephoned to tell me he had met you at the ‘Wilhelm Tell,’ I decided to send Karl to the chalet at once.”

“Ernst?”

“Yes, he was the man who directed you. Ernst Schiller is my son-in-law, and he knew how interested I would be to meet Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter.” She glanced across at my hands. “You are not yet married, I see, but was I right in assuming that you call yourself Sherbrooke? I could not be sure.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “all through my childhood I was known as Gail Wade, my stepfather’s name. But after he died— my mother had been dead for some years—I decided to revert to Gail Sherbrooke.”

I allowed it to sound a mere whim of mine whereas it had cost me a questioning of my conscience, since I’d felt somehow that I was being disloyal to the man who had brought me up. I’d finally convinced myself that Gail Sherbrooke had a nicer rhythm to it than Gail Wade for someone in my profession, and besides it was the name on my birth certificate. But I’d been left with the lingering belief that it was an altogether deeper urge, a reaching for my roots, my identity, that had prompted me to make the change.

“I’m glad you did.” She smiled. “Tell me about yourself. What is it you do for a living? Looking at your hands, at those long sensitive fingers, can I guess that it is something artistic?”

“Well yes ... I’m an illustrator. I’ve done quite a lot of advertising work, but my latest job was a series of drawings for a children’s book.”

“How nice.” She said it with formal politeness, while she fingered the silver filigree bracelet around her wrist. “Your father, of course, would never commercialise his art in any way. But then
he
possessed such talent it would have been a sin for him to make any compromise. Not, alas, that the art world gave Benedict Sherbrooke the recognition he deserved. His work was shamefully ignored.”

I couldn’t decide whether to be pleased about her praise of my father, or annoyed by her implied criticism of me. But I didn’t stop to examine my ambiguous feelings. I was on the threshold of hearing what I had come to Switzerland to learn.

“As far as I know, Frau Kreuder, nobody in Britain had ever heard of my father’s work until last week.”

“Last week?” Her eyes flew wide with eager interest. “What is this? What has happened?”

When I explained about it being reported in
The Times
that a painting of my father’s had changed hands at Waterman’s for £2050, she clapped her hands with joy.

“But this is wonderful news. I always knew that his work would one day be recognised. This is the beginning, and soon the world will acknowledge him for the genius he was.” She broke off abruptly. The charming hostess smile remained intact, but a hint of scorn came through in her voice as she went on, “So that explains what brought you to Switzerland. And doubtless you are wondering why you found no paintings of your father’s at the chalet. Well, I can put your mind at rest. There are a great many of them, all safely put away in one of the attics here. I offered to store Benedict’s canvases for him because the chalet wasn’t suitable—it was too damp for one thing, and there was no room. After his death, I had the few remaining paintings brought here too, for safe keeping.”

“How good of you,” I said. “I’m greatly looking forward to seeing them.”

“Whenever you please, of course. They are your property, my dear Miss Sherbrooke, to do with as you will. They may now, as you have clearly realised, prove to be worth a considerable sum of money.”

I wanted to defend myself hotly, but I guessed that heated words would get me nowhere with this poised, sophisticated woman. Instead, I said patiently, “Please believe me, Frau Kreuder, it wasn’t the thought of claiming whatever paintings my father may have left that brought me out to Switzerland. I had always believed he died long ago, you see, before my mother married again. It was a great shock to learn that he had been alive all the while, and it made me long to discover more about him.”

“Why should you have imagined he had died?” she demanded. “Is that what your mother told you?”

“No, to be honest I don’t believe she ever did. I just took it for granted. I know it probably sounds strange to you, but my stepfather was very good to me, and I suppose that is why I never felt any curiosity about my real father. He was never mentioned at home, as far as I can remember, and it was as if he didn’t exist. To a child, that was the same as believing he was dead. The idea of a divorce never once occurred to me, but the other day I applied for a copy of her second marriage certificate, and when I collected this yesterday it stated that her first marriage had been dissolved. So she must have known all the time that my father was probably still alive. I felt... well, sad that I’d never had the chance to meet him. The best I could do was to find out more about him, what he’d been doing all these years. And I want to know, too, the reason why he took his own life. A friend of mind—my agent, actually—managed to discover that Benedict Sherbrooke had lived near Rietswil, and that’s why I’m here.”

Frau Kreuder was silent, gazing into the fire as she considered what I’d told her. I knew that she found my explanations difficult to accept, and I couldn’t altogether blame her for questioning my motives. Even Colin had taken it for granted that I’d want to cash in on the situation.

On a sudden impulse, I said, “You must have known my father well. Did he ever refer to me?”

“Not recently, not for a long time. But when I first knew him, almost twenty years ago, he admitted, quite frankly, that he had deserted his wife and a baby daughter. Benedict was not proud of the fact, but he insisted that he’d had no option. The domestic scene inhibited his work. He should never have married, and when he realised his mistake he knew he had to sever all contact. You must not blame him too much, my dear. A man of genius is above the ordinary rules of behaviour.”

Did I blame him? Perhaps he had acted for the best, but I still felt a sense of rejection that was like a dull throbbing in my breast. I knew it would remain with me for a long time. Perhaps forever.

Frau Kreuder seemed suddenly to cast aside her doubts about me, as if my obvious distress had convinced her where my words had failed.

“Now we must be practical,” she said. “Where are you staying, Gail ... I may call you Gail?”

“Please do.”

“And my first name is Sigrid. So, about your accommodation?”

“I haven’t fixed anything yet, but I don’t expect I’ll have much difficulty. I was thinking of staying in the district for a couple of weeks, just to get the feel of the place and learn what I can about my father.”

“Then why not stay here?” I must have shown my surprise, for she added smoothly, “Where better? We have plenty of room, and no other guests are expected during the time you’ll be staying. It would give me pleasure, Gail. Your father and I were close friends.”

“It’s most kind of you,” I said, half uncertain about the wisdom of accepting.

“Then that is settled. I am so glad. I will ring for Ursula to prepare a room for you.”

Her summons was answered at once by a stolid woman dressed in a green nylon overall. Sigrid Kreuder gave her instructions in rapid dialect German, and the servant gave me a startled glance when she understood that I was to stay. By the time she withdrew I had my next question carefully prepared. It was the question that had nagged at me remorselessly.

“Tell me, please, why did my father take his own life?”

Sigrid Kreuder sighed, making a gesture of helplessness. “Who can ever say what drives a man to such a deed?”

“But how did it happen?” I persisted.

Her eyes closed in remembered pain. She spoke in little above a whisper. “Benedict was found drowned, here in the lake.”

“But couldn’t it have been an accident?”

She shook her head wordlessly, looking much distressed. I was afraid that if I pressed her for more details she might break down.

Curbing my impatience, I gave her time to recover her poise by glancing around the room, really seeing it for the first time. To its elegant proportions, to the choice pieces of rosewood and mahogany, an added sheen had been achieved by the lavish use of silken fabrics ... damask drapes at the windows, panels of watered silk on the walls. Exquisite brocades, in subtle shades of green and gold and ivory, covered the chairs and sofas.

Sigrid Kreuder was watching me now. She gave a little smile.

“An understandable extravagance. You see, we are silk weavers. My husband, Friedrich, has been dead for some years now, but his two sons continue to run the silk mill. My own boy, Raimund, and my stepson, Anton, who is away from home at present on a business trip to America. You will be meeting Raimund later.”

“I shall look forward to it,” I murmured politely. There was one thing I could ask her without, I hoped, causing further pain. “I wonder if you have any photographs of my father. I don’t even know what he looked like.”

“Yes, I think I have one handy.” She spun her chair expertly across the room and searched in the drawer of a sofa table. “Yes, here it is ... not very good, I’m afraid. I have one or two other snapshots in an album which I will show you later, but Benedict was always a difficult subject to photograph.”

My father was standing in the open doorway of his chalet, facing the bright sunlight. He was not a tall man, but there was no hint of middle-aged thickening around the waist and jaw. Dressed casually in corduroys and a shapeless beige sweater, he was unsmiling, as if impatient with the fuss of having his picture taken. His light brown hair, like my own, seemed to glint with hidden highlights. The green-blue eyes that looked out at me were
my
eyes, I realised with a sense of shock.

“Is he as you expected, Gail?”

“I hardly knew what to expect. I can see that I’m a little like him.”

“More than a little,” she said softly. “The way you stand, even something in the way you speak. And I have a suspicion that, like Benedict, you are not the most patient of mortals.”

“Oh dear, does it really show?”

She smiled. “Put that photo away now, my dear, and later I will get copies made for you of all the ones I have.”