Chapter Five
Five minutes before they were due to join Erik Hartmann and his great-nephew and heir, Bruno knocked on Isabelle’s door. She opened it almost immediately, the two of them face-to-face, each intent on the other, both covering up reactions that were finding their way to the surface.
“You look beautiful,” he said lightly, giving her an approving nod. “What else could you look?” Bella had a genius for looking chic. She was wearing a dress with a fitted top and a flowing, calf-length skirt, the colour of an amethyst gemstone. Her crowning glory was pulled back from her face and arranged in some sort of elegant roll at the back. Large amethyst pendant earrings swung from her ears, throwing lights onto her cheeks. God knows how Erik Hartmann would react when confronted with this vision.
A blush warmed Isabelle’s flawless skin. “Thank you, Bruno. You look good too.” Instinct told her not to enthuse. His outfit comprised a blue linen jacket over a black tee that hugged his taut, muscled torso, with narrow-legged black pants. “The truth is, I’m extremely nervous, if you aren’t. These people are strangers to me as I am to them.”
“Not too strange,” Bruno said. “Kurt will have filled in his great-uncle. You’re the living image of his aunt Helena.”
“Maybe, but we don’t know who I am.”
“We’re going to find out. Come along, now. Got everything?”
“Yes.” Bruno took her hand in his like her very best friend. That alone gave her the confidence and courage she needed to meet this family that could end up hers.
* * *
From the base of the staircase they heard men’s voices in the drawing room beyond, one deep and educated, the other higher-pitched, less cultured, raised in anger. “What the hell do you mean, keeping this secret, Erik, damn you!” The angry voice sounded as though the news he had just received had totally blindsided him. “And why didn’t you tell me, Kurt? Or are you so bloody gutless? I’m your father. Not him. And you ought to thank God for it!”
Isabelle darted a highly perturbed look at Bruno. He increased the pressure on her hand, his thumb soothing her palm. “I’d say Kurt’s dad has come home unexpectedly.”
“Oh God, Bruno!” she breathed. “What do we do now?”
“What we came here to do,” he said purposefully. “Confront them.”
“Can’t we wait until the argument dies down?”
“A minute more might be helpful,” he conceded, but with a certain finality.
Erik Hartmann’s voice came again. “This is real, Stefan,” he said. “The girl is here. You should meet her, or aren’t you game?”
“Game?” The angry voice turned up a few notches to near ferocity. “I don’t want any part of this, Erik. Leave me out of it,” he shouted. “Everything you do stinks to high heaven. Our poor Helena is dead. How could she not be, never getting in touch with us. We loved her, Father and I, though you did bloody well keeping any love from her. This girl is a fraud made up to look like Helena.”
“Why don’t you wait and see?” the darker voice taunted. “I invited them down for drinks right about now. I will admit to a few misgivings myself, but it should be easy enough to tell. Women can do a great deal to alter their appearance.”
“Time to go in,” said Bruno, looking down at this beautiful young woman whose life he had turned upside down. “You have nothing to fear.”
“If I have I don’t care.” Isabelle tilted her chin. “Who are they to talk about frauds?” she scoffed, stepping off the big Persian rug onto the parqueted floor, allowing her high heels to tap out their arrival.
“Okay, we’re on!” Bruno announced, as if they were going onstage. He dropped her hand so as not to give the appearance they were in any way hooked up beyond client and advisor.
The voices had stopped. The house fell silent, as if it had been waiting for this moment for years.
Inside the drawing room, Isabelle knew immediately which man was Erik. She would have known even if the two men had been dressed exactly the same. The family resemblance was strong. Both men were tall, dark haired, dark eyed, with very black straight eyebrows, handsome, the man Stefan noticeably fitter than the much older, heavier Erik, who wore a Paisley evening jacket with a cravat.
Did anyone wear a cravat these days? Bruno wondered. This guy really was a throwback. Probably he had his newspapers ironed.
“Ah, there you are!” their host called with a pleasure they knew perfectly well was feigned. “Come in. Do.” He swept a hand toward the younger man dressed in clean, neat khakis. “This is my nephew, Stefan, Kurt’s father,” he said with practised bonhomie.
For all the playacting, a flash of something akin to fear surged through Isabelle. She had an instinctive distrust of the man who was Helena’s father and, God forbid, her grandfather. The other man, Stefan, was standing stock still, clearly in shock. In the background the silent Kurt was nervously twisting his hands around and around.
Erik Hartmann began to make civilised introductions, his voice purring as though they were honoured guests and this was the start of a very enjoyable evening. Bruno shook hands with both men. Isabelle felt she couldn’t without triggering some kind of adverse reaction in herself.
Stefan Hartmann appeared struck dumb, but there were many signs of emotion. The muscles of his face were working. His dark eyes appeared glazed. It seemed to her, though she could be quite wrong, that he was a sincere and honest man, where his uncle was not.
At the corner of her vision she saw Mrs. Saunders, dressed more formally, appear through a doorway that must connect with the kitchen, then go to a long serving table placed at the back of a sofa. It had been set with a large silver salver with a beaded rim. It held four long-stemmed crystal flutes. She was carrying a silver wine cooler with garlands on it and rams’ heads. Valuable. She placed it alongside the salver. It held a chilled bottle of French champagne. Isabelle recognised the label. Louis Roederer. Their host was splashing out, or maybe he dined on the best of the best French champagnes every night of the week.
“Thank you, Mrs. Saunders,” Erik said expansively. “We’re all going to enjoy a glass, aren’t we?”
“Nothing for me.” Stefan Hartmann broke out of his stupor. “Excuse me, please. I’ve only been home an hour. I wasn’t told of your visit until I came into the house.” He targeted Bruno, then Isabelle, as he spoke.
“Couldn’t you join us?” Isabelle asked with gentle courtesy. “I would like that.”
“Why not, Stefan?” Erik joined in sardonically. “Isabelle and Mr. McKendrick have come all this way.”
Stefan’s dark head shot in Bruno’s direction. “McKendrick?” He gave his uncle a fiercely quizzical look before turning back to Bruno. “You have some connection to Ross McKendrick, the private investigator who came here many years ago?”
“My father,” Bruno replied. “I regret you weren’t at home to be told of our visit.”
Stefan frowned heavily. “When was the visit arranged?”
“A day after you left,” Erik Hartmann cut in smoothly. “You really didn’t give me the opportunity to explain, Stefan.”
Bruno bestowed a wry look on Isabelle. No point in flatly contradicting their host.
“I’m sorry, but please don’t include me.” Stefan Hartmann fixed Isabelle with such a strange look. There were actually a glitter of tears in his eyes. They seemed to speak to her of a deep wound, as if the shock and the grief of Helena’s disappearance would never go away. “I’ll say good night,” he said, moving awkwardly when he wouldn’t normally have been awkward, such was his haste to be gone.
“Perhaps we could speak tomorrow?” Isabelle asked. “That’s if you have the time. I know no more than you do, Mr. Hartmann. All I know is my resemblance to Helena is such it startles everyone, including you. All this is very new to me. I knew nothing of this family until very recently and only through a photograph of Helena and, we assume, one of her mother. Ross McKendrick had the photographs in his possession. I’m as much a mystery to myself as I am to you.”
“Helena’s mother? You surely can’t be talking about Myra?” Stefan spoke in a rush, even further amazed.
“No, no, the photographs were of Helena,” Erik Hartmann said calmly but emphatically. “I gave them to your father myself.”
“Wherever did you get the idea you had a photograph of Myra?” The words were wrested from some place deep inside Stefan Hartmann.
“I believe the two photographs I was shown were of two different women who shared a remarkable resemblance,” Isabelle explained. “Bruno’s father did not see it. I did.” No point in adding Hilary had spotted the difference too. She knew most people wouldn’t, but they would be merely observing whereas she and Hilary, women, had considerable powers of observation.
“My dear girl!” Erik Hartmann appeared to be marvelling she could have jumped to such a conclusion. “I do know the difference between my wife and my daughter. You’re entirely mistaken.”
“Is she really?” Stefan swung aggressively on his uncle. “I’d know which was which. Do you have the photographs with you?”
“I do,” Bruno said.
“So you came here.” Stefan’s whole demeanour had changed.
Erik suddenly waved a hand to hush the housekeeper away. “That will do, Mrs. Saunders. Dinner in thirty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” There was no humility in her voice; nevertheless, the ever-faithful housekeeper moved off as if she couldn’t wait to be gone.
“If it’s only coincidence, and not some connection by blood, that can be easily proved,” Bruno said, crossing to Isabelle’s side.
Stefan Hartmann turned away abruptly, took a few steps out of the room, then faced Isabelle again. “How long are you staying?”
“A very short time.”
“All we need is the answer to a few questions,” said Bruno with swift decisiveness. What were these people hiding?
“I know. DNA testing?” Stefan said, anger resurfacing in his eyes.
“Don’t you all want to know if Isabelle is in some way connected to you?” Bruno asked, the voice of reason.
“You mean like we have a choice?” Kurt suddenly entered the fray. “You’re after money, aren’t you?”
“We most definitely are not!” Bruno answered the younger man almost amiably. “We can all wonder about the extraordinary resemblance Isabella bears to your relative, or we can rule out any blood connection.”
“Or rule it in,” Stefan said. “Which firm do you represent, McKendrick?”
“I run my own wealth management company in Sydney, Mr. Hartmann. The Fortuna Group.”
“Impressive too,” Erik Hartmann interjected. He had checked McKendrick out.
“I’ve involved myself in this because of my father,” Bruno continued. “He was obsessed with finding Helena. He wanted to bring closure to the family. He thought very highly of Mr. Konrad Hartmann, who hired him. I’m doing this for Isabella, my father and, of course, Helena.” He stopped short of telling them whom they now knew had fled to the U.K. Or maybe they did know. Maybe Erik Hartmann knew, if his nephew, Stefan, didn’t.
“Why don’t I get the photos?” Isabelle said. “It will only take a moment.”
“Leave it, my dear,” Erik said, shaking a grave head. “We can see them later.”
“I want to see them now.” Stefan Hartmann didn’t appear to trust his uncle one inch.
Bruno brought the disagreement to an end. “I’ll get them,” he said.
“Good man!” Stefan nodded.
* * *
Bruno moved as soundlessly as a big cat down the corridor. He had a fair idea who he would find when he reached the Turkish Room. He was a past master at intercepting communications between employees, competitors, people in general. Erik Hartmann had given a silent signal to Mrs. Saunders, possibly his long-term mistress. The woman could look vastly different if she took the trouble. Whether his nephew and great-nephew were aware of a possible arrangement between the two, he had no idea. Both Hartmann and the housekeeper were consummate actors.
The door of the Turkish Room was open. He had shut it. The woman had her back to him.
“Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Saunders?” he asked.
She turned, drawing herself up. She did not lower her eyes. She looked fixedly back at him, as brazen as you like. “I was just checking you would be comfortable for the night, Mr. McKendrick. I have trained my staff well, but I always check things myself. Why do you look at me like that?” she asked abruptly. She wasn’t the first person to be unnerved by Bruno’s regard.
Bruno only smiled. “Thank you for going to the trouble, Mrs. Saunders. I expect you want to get on with dinner?”
“I have everything in hand.”
“So do I, madam,” Bruno said. “You appear to have touched my suitcase. It’s not where I left it.”
A look of confusion crossed the housekeeper’s face. “I swear—”
“No need,” Bruno said pleasantly, holding up a hand. “You probably lifted it off the bed?”
“Exactly,” the woman said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She was studying Bruno’s smiling face with little idea of what lay behind the charm.
“Of course.” He didn’t know whether she’d had the time to find the photographs and form an opinion that would be passed to the Master one way or another. One young woman? Two young women? One Helena? One Myra? Mrs. Saunders would do anything Hartmann asked.
He wasn’t such a fool as to leave the photographs on display. He located a specific book on the Ottoman Empire, spread the yellowed pages and found the photographs.
He had learned a great deal from Isabella. His father had never questioned the photographs were of Helena. The same hair, the same features, the same colouring. He had taken them on good faith from Helena’s father as both being of his daughter. Why would a father lie unless he had something to explain? What if Erik were not Helena’s father? How could such a thing be? With the exception of Kurt, who probably had inherited his mother’s colouring, the Hartmann men were dark eyed, dark haired. Myra—the family pronounced it Meera—Hartmann had been a dazzling beauty. She would have attracted most of the men who came into her orbit.
Myra and perhaps her daughter were nothing but bones, as was Erik Hartmann’s half brother Christian. He knew DNA testing was accurate. He had consulted a medical scientist friend. He had asked and learned if half brothers underwent a paternity test, the biological father would be easily identified. Only identical twins would have the same DNA, not half brothers, as Erik and Christian had been.
“If only walls could speak!” Bruno exclaimed aloud. “Did you love Myra, Christian?” he asked the dusky air. “Did she love you? Was Helena your love child?” Stranger things had happened. Or was there some other man involved? A family friend, a frequent visitor? One from overseas? How did one get the Hartmann men to consent to DNA testing? Both would be affronted by any such suggestion. And he wouldn’t blame them.
What wouldn’t I give to hear your story, Christian? he thought. Christian long buried, as was the beautiful Myra. That to Bruno seemed most peculiar. Two members of the family who had suffered accidental death. The family was so influential, even more so in those days, when stations were run like private kingdoms, their accounting of the two tragic events would have been accepted. Such accidents in their part of the world weren’t rare.
* * *
Bruno arrived downstairs to a group reduced to silence. His gaze went immediately to Isabelle, bypassing Eric and Kurt. She gave him a faint, encouraging smile. She was all right, then. He crossed the room to where Stefan Hartmann was sitting, handing him the two photographs. But would he be an expert on Myra, his aunt?
It appeared Stefan thought he was because after a brief perusal, he burst out, “This is Aunt Myra, your wife, Erik.” He jabbed at the larger photograph with a finger, before waving it aloft.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Erik countered with weary contempt. “You wouldn’t have been that old when my wife was killed. You’ve forgotten her.”
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Stefan said, not even bothering to defend himself. “This photograph is of Helena,” he said, having put the larger photograph down before picking up the other. An expression of great sadness crossed his face. “It’s the photo of a heartsick girl. Your wife overshadowed your daughter in all departments. Aunt Myra was a great femme fatale. I remember her well. She had so many attributes. She played the piano beautifully. She was a wonderful hostess, a great rider, a fine markswoman. I remember how she used to draw all the male guests like bees to honey. You hated that. You wanted all her attention, but you never got it. Aunt Myra had a presence, a vibrancy Helena lacked, for all she was just as beautiful as her mother. Note the expressions are quite different. One woman has all the self-confidence the other lacks. Helena looks so unsure of herself, unhappy. Why? What was making her so unhappy? She’d lost her mother, and then she lost my father, her uncle Christian. She loved him, might I remind you, Erik. She loved him and he loved her.”
“If we can trust your recollections,” Erik Hartmann said mildly, unimpressed by what his nephew had to say. “You were a long time at boarding school. The smaller photo of Helena was taken when she had become somewhat rebellious. Occasionally she did foolish things. She had to be cautioned for her own good. The trouble was, my father overindulged her, especially after she lost her mother.”
“She didn’t lose her mother,” Stefan suddenly shouted. “Her mother was killed here on the station. Myra was a superb horsewoman. No one ever worried about her when she went out. She could handle any horse. She could even break in brumbies. She could jump fences with her eyes closed. Everyone admired her. I’m not making all this up. I know. I saw.”
“So what are you trying to say, Dad?” Kurt asked, appearing honestly shocked by his father’s outburst.
“I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Stefan admitted, shaking his head sadly. “What I can say is one is a photo of Helena, the other is of her mother. It’s a mystery how you, Uncle Erik, couldn’t pick which one was of your wife and which one was of your daughter. God help me if I’m wrong.”
“You are wrong, Dad. You have to be,” Kurt cried, the blood draining from his tanned face.
“We’ve got a captive audience here,” Erik Hartmann pointed out almost languidly, as if immune to family outbursts.
Stefan looked across at Isabelle. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, young lady. I had to speak my mind.”
“I’m glad you did,” Isabelle replied.
“Not that it makes a great deal of difference if both the photos are of Helena or they aren’t,” Bruno said in a sombre voice.
“So what are you sweating on?” Kurt asked him angrily.
“Be quiet, Kurt,” Stefan snapped, turning his head to reprimand his son. “This young lady only seeks to find out if there’s a family connection. Isn’t that right, Isabelle?”
Quietly, Isabelle replied, “I have spoken at length with my parents—the people I have always believed to be my parents—but could I have been adopted?”
“That being so, there would be adoption papers,” Erik Hartmann said, as if that settled the matter, as it would. “Obviously there aren’t.”
“I don’t look anything like either of my parents,” Isabelle couldn’t refrain from commenting.
“I’m certain that’s not a unique state of affairs.” Erik studied Isabelle at length. “Are there no redheads on either side of the family?”
“My mother has a cousin in Scotland with red hair,” Isabelle admitted.
Erik Hartmann spread his hands. “There you are, then. Look at young Kurt. He takes after his mother’s side of the family, blond, blue eyes.”
“There’s nothing for it but we settle this thing.” Stefan Hartmann, brow furrowed, took a stand. “I don’t know a lot about DNA testing, but it’s accepted by the courts. I’d be happy to give you a sample of whatever is needed.”
A bitter look flared in Erik Hartmann’s eyes. “I absolutely forbid you to do such a thing,” he said in a low, angry voice.
“Could you tell us why, sir?” Bruno asked, his tone courteous. “We’re sorry if you’ve been made to feel offence, but you did allow us to come here.”
“A big bloody mistake, I’d say!” Kurt leapt in again. It was obvious he couldn’t control his own anger. He was 100 percent behind his great-uncle.
His father curled his lip in disdain. “What’s it got to do with you, Kurt? I’m beginning to think all you really care about is keeping in with Uncle Erik.”
Kurt stopped, unsure. “These people are after something, Dad.”
“Your inheritance?” Stefan scoffed.
Erik Hartmann interrupted. “How do you know I haven’t learned to my sorrow that my daughter is dead?”
Kurt blinked in astonishment, but his father jumped to his feet with all the energy in his tall, strongly muscled body. “You store up information like a miser, Erik. You’ve learned—you’ve learned—the hell you have! You’re a liar!” He rejected his uncle’s claim out of hand.
“Have you, sir?” Bruno was very conscious of what all this was doing to Bella.
Erik Hartmann didn’t answer directly. “Helena destroyed this family,” he said, pulling at his silk cravat. “She was given everything she could possibly want and she ran off.”
“I’d like to know where.” Isabelle’s green eyes sparkled with challenge. Helena didn’t destroy the family. The family destroyed her. She didn’t have a shred of proof, but that was what she believed.
“My dear, you don’t have a role in this,” Erik said, sounding very kind. “You may have dreams you’re a Hartmann, but I know you’re not. I grant you a remarkable resemblance, but we’ve all seen doubles.”
“Why won’t you allow testing?” Stefan demanded of his uncle. Clearly, they weren’t close, rather at loggerheads.
“Because, my dear nephew, it’s an affront to our family, of which I am head. Your grandfather would totally agree with me.”
Isabelle gave their host a long look, trying to judge the sincerity of his words. “Surely Konrad Hartmann, were he with us now, would change his mind?” she asked.
Stefan was frowning, leaning his hand on the back of a sofa. “Of course he would. Anything to establish what could have happened to Helena.”
“My father is not with us now. I make the decisions now. Isabelle here is very beautiful, but she could have dyed her hair. You notice her eyebrows are naturally dark. She could be wearing contact lenses. She could even have had plastic surgery.”
“None of which is true,” said Bruno flatly. “If you, Stefan Hartmann, are willing to undergo DNA testing, it should be all we need to prove a familial connection.”
“For the love of God!” Erik burst out, showing the first sign of agitation. “I won’t have this. I am head of this family. Not you, Stefan. You have a stake in Eaglehawk. That’s all.”
Isabelle stood up. “I am truly sorry if our coming here has upset you all. We were invited. What I don’t understand is why?” She directed her gaze at Erik Hartmann, lounging back in his chair.
“Because of the McKendrick connection, my dear girl,” he said, settling back into his confident, rich voice. “My father, Konrad, thought Mr. McKendrick a fine man who did his very best. The invitation was intended as a courtesy.”
“My father was a fine man.” Bruno entered into the discussion. “We have reason to believe Helena may have fled to the U.K.” He expected that to badly shake them, even the Master of Eaglehawk.
“She did,” Erik Hartmann said with enormous calm.
Kurt sat staring at his great-uncle as if he didn’t know what to say, but his father placed himself squarely in front of Erik, drawing a furious whistling breath through his teeth. “I would never have imagined even you would keep that piece of information from us,” he cried in undisguised shock. “What right did you have not to tell us?” He threw a heated glance at his son. “Wouldn’t you want to know, Kurt?”
“Yes, Dad, yes,” Kurt answered immediately, touching his forehead with his fingers, as though he had a terrible headache. “When did you find out, Uncle Erik?” he pleaded, looking immensely bothered.
“Would you believe only recently?” Erik Hartmann replied calmly. “At the same time, I learned Helena had died.”
Stefan brought his fist down so hard on the serving table everything jumped. “That isn’t good enough!”
In the middle of it all, Mrs. Saunders appeared, no doubt waiting in the wings as instructed. “Excuse me, sir,” she addressed the Master, “dinner is ready.”
“Dinner?” Stefan bellowed. He was swaying back and forth on his booted feet. “Who wants bloody dinner at a time like this?”
“I do, Stefan,” Erik said mildly, “and I’m sure our guests do as well. They’ve come a long way. The least we can do is feed them.”
“What did that bloody woman tell you before?” Stefan asked, watching his uncle closely.
“That bloody woman has devoted her entire adult life to serving this family,” Erik shot back with ice in his voice and possibly his veins. “I’m shocked you should attack her, and in front of our guests. Now, why don’t we put further discussion aside and go in to dinner?”
Stefan shook his head. “Not for me, thanks. Tell our splendid housekeeper to send my dinner over.”
“I think I’ll go with Dad,” said Kurt, of a sudden finding his bond with his father the stronger.
“Whatever, my boy!” Erik Hartmann smiled benignly, presenting his arm to Isabelle. “Shall we go in? I must confess I’m hungry.”
Isabelle’s appetite had fled. She had no option but to accept her host’s arm when she had already formed an instinctive dislike and distrust of the man. She was deeply disturbed by what she had heard and the tensions within the family. If they had existed in Helena’s youth, small wonder she had run away to find some peace and harmony.
Stefan levelled his dark eyes on Bruno. “I’ll see you both in the morning. McKendrick, we have things to discuss. Forgive all the anger. It happens when painful memories resurface.”
“In the morning, then, sir.” Bruno extended his hand.
Stefan took it. “I like the look of you, McKendrick,” he said. “I trust you. I trust you to look out for that beautiful girl. She’s the living spit of Helena, even if she’s far more spirited. It can’t be coincidence.”
“No,” said Bruno.
Isabelle was blood.
* * *
Dinner was pure theatre. Erik Hartmann presided, the most gracious, most practised of hosts. Mrs. Saunders moved back and forth, her helper a pretty young part-aboriginal girl, who smiled shyly. The table had been laid to perfection with plates and dishes from a beautiful porcelain dinner service, “been in the family ever since I can remember, Royal Crown Derby’s Old Imari.” There were two silver candelabra, silver flatware, crystal glasses. No flowers, but an ornate German silver centrepiece. A large cut-glass and ormolu chandelier hung over their heads. The three courses were up to restaurant standard, beautifully presented.
Isabelle couldn’t wait to get away. Bruno, clever, highly educated, well travelled, had no difficulty matching Erik Hartmann’s cultured conversation, but Isabelle sensed Bruno too was keen to escape. Bruno didn’t bring Isabelle’s musical abilities into the conversation, waiting, Isabelle sensed, for their host to pursue the subject, but he never said a word. She might have been a doll sitting at the table. Both she and Bruno were certain Kurt, who had defected to his father, would have relayed every word they had exchanged on arrival.
No background music had floated in the air all evening, but the grand piano, a Bechstein, the one Helena was seated at in the portrait, was prominent in the drawing room. Erik Hartmann was like some character out of a Gothic novel, playing the role of betrayed husband, betrayed father. The crimes were against him. The crimes could well have been the other way around. Isabelle felt sure of it now.
* * *
“Thank God that’s over!” Isabelle whispered as they made their way up the divided staircase to the gallery. “Relief, that’s what I feel.”
“Whatever is the man playing at?” Bruno’s voice was as soft and potentially dangerous as the purring of a big cat.
Isabelle drifted closer to his side. This was one heck of a scary place. “I have no idea. Did Helena know something about her father that caused her to run? Did your father come to find out something about Erik Hartmann that got him run over?”
“That would take him right down to Hell.” The purr had turned into a growl. “Everything turns around the same thing. Why did Helena run? She was only twelve when her mother was killed. What would a child know?”
“Maybe she knew nothing then, but she could have found out something years later.”
“Then why didn’t she go to the grandfather?” Bruno asked as they moved down the corridor.
“Maybe her grandfather wouldn’t have listened to a word against his son and heir. Old school thing.”
“I can buy that,” Bruno said. “It’s like we’ve stumbled into a foreign country. Konrad would have trusted his son against the suspicions of a nerve-ridden girl, even if she were his granddaughter.”
“That’s men for you.” Isabelle exhaled a puff of disgust. “I think Konrad Hartmann would have been the classic definition of a well-born European patriarch. They brought their homeland with them. I bet they all speak German. They certainly did a lot of travelling around Europe with their buying trips, even as far as Turkey. With the family occupying both wings, we have the central core to ourselves,” she pointed out, a little tremor in her voice. “This is one spooky house. The height of Goth, don’t you think? I’m glad you’re with me, Bruno. Sometimes it’s handy to have a big, strong man around. Though the trusty Mrs. Saunders has rooms downstairs.”
“When she is where she’s supposed to be,” Bruno said very dryly. “I take it I’m the big, strong man?”
“You are. I depend on you, Bruno. You got me into this after all. At least Kurt went off with his dad.”
“That’s a good thing,” Bruno agreed.
They were outside her door. “Come in for a while,” Isabelle entreated, a strung-up expression on her face. “I feel way too unsettled to go to sleep. I could have nightmares.”
“I suppose I could sleep right outside your door like that guy slept outside Queen Victoria’s door,” Bruno suggested with a smile.
“John Brown, her Highland ghillie,” Isabelle said. “‘The best, the truest heart that ever lived,’ Victoria said when he died. Apparently, she had a huge appetite for sex, a bit at odds with all the ‘life of purity’ she tried to force on her sons. Prince Albert, described in his day as ‘effeminate, ’ was finally driven to putting a foolproof lock on his door to escape her advances.”
Bruno had to laugh. “Is this true?”
“Absolutely. She was the one on the rampage, not Albert. That great love affair was very much a fiction. She used to knock on his door, screaming at him in German to open up. According to records and her own letters reviling her sons, she was a manic personality who was unbelievably cruel and controlling with her children. They must have done a little jig when she died. She even put John Brown’s bully of a brother in charge of one of the princes. He gave the child hell. The courtiers on the side of the prince reported it, but the queen ignored them. Isn’t that just awful? Not mom of the year. I’ve always been interested in history, even historical trivia. Absolutely sickening, the facts as opposed to what’s dished up for public consumption.”
“That occurs at all levels of power,” said Bruno. “I may not sleep outside your door, but you can be sure I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re not only the sort of guy women ogle, Bruno, you’re the sort of guy who comes to a damsel’s rescue.”
“I’d like to think so at least.” He opened her door and then stood back for her to enter the extravaganza that was the Chinese Room. “Stefan has agreed to see us in the morning.”
“That’s good news. Do you suppose Helena was happy in this bedroom?” she asked as she moved to the centre of the room, looking tantalizingly young and beautiful in her amethyst dress. “Do you suppose she had an idyllic childhood?”
“Hardly. Losing one’s mother must come a close second to the terrible trauma of losing a child.”
“You lost your mother,” she said gently. She didn’t think Bruno had even now come to terms with it.
“You mean she took off without saying good-bye.” Bruno swallowed down a harsh response. “She’s doing well. The guy comes from some old, illustrious family. God knows where she got to meet him.”
“Waiting at the lights, crossing the road?” Isabelle suggested. She’d had her fair share of desirous glances at such places. “Men dream of meeting a beautiful woman with the power to attract all their senses, don’t they? Your mother would have given off a powerful magnetism.” She didn’t say, like you. “You’ve no desire to look her up?”
“No, Isabella,” he said with great firmness.
“So both our mothers took off,” she said sadly.
“If we’re correct, they did.”
“I refuse to believe Helena was happy here,” she said. “This room is far too overpowering to be restful. It’s like a niche in the Oriental section of a museum.”
“It is,” Bruno agreed.
“Why ever did Konrad Hartmann have his granddaughter’s bedroom decorated like this?” Isabelle asked in wonderment.
“If it was he who did the decorating,” Bruno pointed out. “It could have been done in his father’s time, although we know from the dour Mrs. Saunders that Konrad had the en suite put in.”
“Taking space off the adjoining bedroom, don’t forget. Clearly Mrs. S. was jealous of Helena. She could even have conspired against her.”
“The Turkish Room is downright dowdy by comparison.” Bruno’s dark eyes were making a clean sweep of the large room, searching out details. “Everything the same as you left it?” he asked.
“Well, no one has shifted the bed,” she said.
“I’m not joking.”
“Aren’t you?” She gathered herself, staring across at him.
“The estimable Mrs. Saunders was in my room when I went up to get the photographs.”
“And just when were you going to tell me?”
“Ah, well, yes. I’m telling you now. You must be aware we’re being watched like hawks.”
“Well it is Eaglehawk Station.” Isabelle let out a nervous laugh. “I know, don’t tell me. She was checking on our photographs?”
“Bella, if I went into business, I’d want you as my off-sider.”
She shook her glowing head. “I think you mean partner. Do you think she found them?”
“I’m certain she didn’t,” Bruno said with satisfaction. “I’d picked a book at random and hid them in it. She didn’t have a lot of time.”
“So the Master managed to tip her off?” Isabelle sat herself down on the ornate bed, waving Bruno into a deep armchair. “Those two are cohorts,” she said, her emerald eyes fixed on him.
“I thought that was a military unit in ancient Rome?” Bruno said, fascinated by the sight she made as she sat on the extraordinary Chinese bed with its green embroidered silk coverlet. His eyes were flooded by colour: Bella’s radiant hair, her jewelled eyes, the pearlescent skin. Her amethyst dress was a perfect colour foil for the silk quilt. Such was the link that had grown up between them, he felt as though he had known Isabella since she was a little girl. Her beauty and her engaging personality never paled but gained strength, yet their first encounter had taken place such a very short time before. Time didn’t seem to have meaning. One either caught the fast train or took the slow one. He had never believed himself capable of being so enchanted. But he knew what impulses were in him; the elemental fire had to be banked and contained. He was determined on maintaining the correct moral boundaries.
“I actually meant cahoots, not cohorts,” Isabelle was saying.
“Co-conspirators.”
“Do you suppose Stefan is as belligerent all the time? I’d hate to be around him if he had a gun in his hand. Must be hard to live with, uncle and nephew at each other’s throats. That could be one of the reasons Kurt reaches out to his great-uncle. His father must show his disappointment Kurt isn’t made in his mould.”
“Why doesn’t he leave?” Bruno asked. “He’s obviously not tied to the land. He acts more like a grown-up kid. I fully expected him to stamp his foot or chuck something at me. Surely he needs some life. He must have a dream. Where are the girlfriends?”
“Maybe he’s got one and we haven’t seen her? He’s handsome enough.”
“You’ve been keeping your eye on him?” Bruno regarded her with a mocking expression.
“For heaven’s sake. I feel sorry for him, if you want to know.”
“Compassion is a strength,” Bruno remarked, liking that quality in her.
“Kurt has all the makings to be handsome, but there’s something missing,” Isabelle considered. “He’s a couple of years older than I am, yet he seems immature. All in all, we’ve got off to a very dismal start.”
“What else? Isn’t it what we expected? Erik doesn’t appear to want the mystery of Helena’s disappearance and supposed death solved. How unbelievable is that?”
“I’d say they’ve all had a lot of practise forgetting Helena.”
“Kurt, of course, is hanging in there for the money. I can check how much the family is worth.”
“Who cares?” Isabelle exclaimed. “Go on. You want to say something.”
“You already know what I want to say. If you turned out to be Helena’s daughter, you would have the stronger claim.”
“When Erik Hartmann clearly doesn’t want me in the picture. That’s a complete aberration for a possible grandfather. What is he up to, claiming he had word of Helena’s death in the U.K.? Who told him? And very recently . . .” She stopped, uncertain.
“You’re thinking Hilary?”
“I can’t rule out the possibility. I was born in a London maternity hospital. Was Helena in the same ward?”
“God knows! From what I saw of Hilary, she’s the sort of woman who could come up with solutions to hers and other women’s problems. What if Helena were in no position to keep her baby? Alone, frightened, traumatized, without money. What if Hilary lost her baby? Was there a swap?”
“No, no, no!” Isabelle shook her head. “I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it. What I can believe is Hilary might have contacted Erik with some information she had.”
“Then why didn’t he do what everyone else would do? Inform his family.”
“Hilary told me she’d made enquiries about the Hartmanns from some influential friend. But to say Hilary and Erik Hartmann had made contact would be to take a massive quantum leap.”
“Here’s another leap: Erik could have staged his wife’s accident. He could have spent time working it all out.”
“A theory without proof. We will never know.”
“Then Christian gets accidentally shot.”
“One suspicious death is hard enough to cover up. But two? Two is a pattern. The police would be all over it, Bruno.”
“They would need hard evidence. Suspicion is not enough. This house is talking to me, Bella. This room. Christian’s room. This is no ordinary family. No ordinary house. Secrets are imbedded in the walls. Couldn’t Christian have fallen in love with his sister-in-law? Yearned for her?”
“What about his wife?”
“She could have been very stout.”
“Be serious,” Isabelle said, knowing he was trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Why don’t we hear a thing about her? It’s as though she never existed. It’s all Myra, Myra, Myra. What about the wife, Abigail? She bore Christian a son, Stefan.”
Bruno was struck by a moment’s sadness. He would always miss his father. He would always feel anger over the way his dad had died. “Dad would have checked her out,” he said. “He described her as a pretty woman, reserved in manner but perfectly pleasant when they met. I have to double-check this, but Dad thought there had to be a lot of repressed emotions there.”
“Nothing strange about that!” Isabelle blew out a breath. “If Christian had fallen in love with his sister-in-law, Abigail would have known about it. He wouldn’t have been able to conceal it. His every glance would have given him away.”
Bruno couldn’t ignore that piece of insight. “Christian may well have loved his wife. He married her. Had two children by her. There are all degrees of loving. Myra may have seduced him and he surrendered gladly. A sort of love, if you like. They would have had plenty of secluded places they could go to be alone.”
“What! Behind the spinifex bushes?” Isabelle asked facetiously. “So Erik finds out and decides they must die. Abigail might even have alerted him to what was going on right before his eyes. She could have been horrendously jealous, not accepting at all. Who knows if Helena were Christian’s daughter? Maybe that’s why Erik doesn’t want any DNA testing. They can tell these days, can’t they, who the father is even within families?”
Bruno nodded. “Stefan is willing to give us a sample.”
“What, a mouth swab? How do we go about it? How do we store it?”
“One thing at a time.”
“Okay, Doc! You realize Stefan could be ignorant of so many things that went on. We should ask him about his mother. She could easily be alive and living elsewhere. All the women took off. Erik would be a fearsome man if he found out he’d been cuckolded. Why did he invite us here? Does he propose to kill me too? We have been poking our toes into pretty murky waters.”
“He might be a devil, Bella, but he’s not a fool. It will all come out now. Either you’re one of the Hartmanns or you’re Hilary’s baby, as Norville claims. The facts will come out.”
“I hope so. We have nothing really to go on but my extraordinary resemblance to Helena Hartmann and her mother.”
“Isn’t that enough? Your appearance has lit the fuse. It’s put them all in a panic.”
“We’re so close,” she agonized.
“Yes, we are. Think you can sleep now?”
“Sure, with one eye open.”
Bruno laughed. “I’ll wait until you’re ready for bed. Hang on, I’ll go get a book. Lovers never seem to throw away their love letters. Who knows? I might find a stack hidden away in Christian’s retreat from the world.”
“Surely he shared a room with his wife?” said Isabelle as she slid off the bed. “There would have been an adjoining room for their child.”
“This was his retreat, Bella. Here it was far easier to be left alone. Christian and his wife may have had the East Wing. We can ask Stefan. Did his mother, Abigail, leave her husband for most of the time, like his own wife spends most of her time in the city with their daughter?”
“I wish we’d stayed out of it, Bruno.”
“We need to find out who you are. We need to find out the truth.”
“Sounds so noble, doesn’t it, finding out the truth? But bad things can happen to people trying to find out the truth.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Bella.”
Her green eyes locked on his. “You say that with such surety . . .”
“It would have to be over my dead body. And that’s not going to happen.”
She sighed deeply. “Go get your book, Sir Lancelot. Or is that Sir Galahad? I seem to remember Galahad was Lancelot’s illegitimate son.”
“God, I have a lot to learn to catch up with you,” Bruno said, making for the door.
“The more I think about it, it’s Sir Lancelot. Anyway, you’re elected.”