The Poellenberg Inheritance (10 page)

But fidelity in public, above all, the maintenance of the family's image, were duties which the young Princess fulfilled from the start of her marriage. She had been a handsome girl, tall and well developed in the style which her generation admired. She was a most envied young woman in her own circle.

The Prince was young and his appearance was distinguished; if he showed little humour or animation this was not regarded as a cause for criticism. Pride and their past sat like a mantle on the shoulders of the Von Hessel family.

His wife was treated with the awe accorded minor royalty, her jewels, clothes and cars, her villa in France where Royalty frequently stayed, the Grimm's fairy tale schloss on top of a mountain, the Berlin town house, shooting lodges, and art treasures which would have graced any museum in the world – all these things were part of Margaret Von Hessel's daily life. Living with a man who contracted a venereal disease within a year of their wedding, who spent every night gambling with his friends or dining with one of his many mistresses, was the hidden part of her existence.

She had borne the humiliation, the disgust he inspired in her, and the loneliness of her youth with silent fortitude. She was a Von Hessel, and eight hundred years of tradition helped sustain her. She occupied herself with charities, with taking a personal interest in the running of her houses, and with compiling a detailed inventory of the treasures in the family's possession. And that was when her passion for the Poellenberg Salt developed. They spent part of every year at the Schloss Würtzen, a medieval castle built by an ancestor in the thirteenth century and extensively modernised by her husband's grandfather. The Salt was displayed in the main dining hall. It was not protected; it stood on the enormous oak table exactly as it had done for hundreds of years, shining with ineffable beauty in the lofty hall, its magnificent jewels like beacons when the lights were lit. Margaret could look at it for hours, absorbed in the poetic lines of its figures, touching the tremulous golden leaves of the central tree with a finger to make the branches move. There was a ruby as big as a large pebble; she loved to stare into its heart, where a tiny reflection of her own face was discernible. It was said to have belonged to Lorenzo the Magnificent. The faces of the nymphs fascinated her equally; there was a sly sensuality in the golden eyes and round the curving lips, more subtle than the sexual leering of the muscular male figures. It seemed impossible, but every female face was different. The master had painted portraits in metal, each a likeness to a real woman. Margaret loved the Salt; her feeling towards it was so personal that she resented anybody even touching it. It was as if the whole unbelievable creation had been made for her alone, for another bride to look at and fondle, after Eleanor de Medici who had been dead for five hundred years. Her husband found this obsession with an inanimate object quite abnormal, and he said as much. The exquisite beauty of form, the harmony in the jewels which prevented so much opulence from ever being vulgar, none of this appealed to him. He preferred flesh and blood women to the cold nakedness of golden nymphs. But if it amused his wife to gloat, then he had no objection. He objected very seldom to anything she did. She had borne him one son, and he forgot her existence thereafter. She could spend what she wished, travel where she chose, surround herself with her own friends and amusements, while he enjoyed life in his own way. He took no interest in his son either; that was the mother's province.

And as the boy grew up Margaret detected the same traits in him as in his father. He was stupid; even as a baby he lacked initiative, content to sit and play with his fists, sucking and chewing until his nurse put him into gloves. His eyes had the Von Hessel glaze of indifference to life. He made little progress at lessons. His tutors said frankly he was bored. At school he showed an aptitude for sport, and being who he was, his academic failings were overlooked. He was a failure whose family name protected him, and nothing his mother could say or do could light any gleam of ambition or enthusiasm in him. The more she criticised the less he reacted. He was found dead drunk in his room at the age of fourteen. He was a member of the Hitler Youth, which his father had insisted he become with the idea that the discipline would do him good. Margaret had objected bitterly but there was nothing she could do. Her husband had to be obeyed. He talked of discipline, when what he meant was politics. They were immensely powerful and rich, but even so they didn't dare to flout the growing power of the dictator who controlled the country. Friendship with the Nazi hierarchy wasn't required of people like them; but it was unwise to deviate in public. So Heinrich was enrolled in the Hitler Jugend and dressed up in the uniform. After a year he was privately expelled for being drunk. He was sent to a clinic in Austria under another name, surrounded by servants and a bodyguard to keep away the curious. He came back apparently cured but within six months the bouts began again. He smashed the furniture in his room, and there was a short spell in a nursing-home before another cure was tried, this time in Switzerland. It was the beginning of a pattern which was repeated over the next ten years. He grew up with his public Von Hessel image; a typical German aristocrat, heir to an immense empire of armaments, steel, coal, and allied industries, one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Heinrich showed no interest in women. He had a permanent, passionate love affair with alcohol, and his world was bounded by the possibility and availability of drink. There was no contact between him and his father, who quite calmly declared him useless and gave no more thought to him. His only concern was to prevent the secret being known, to protect the family name. All the influence which his incredible wealth could exert was employed to keep Heinrich's misdemeanours out of the newspapers. There was gossip among their friends. His frequent absences caused a rumour that he was subject to mental breakdown. He was said to be a homosexual, because there were no women in his life. When war broke out he was eighteen. The Prince made him a director of the armament factory in the Ruhr, and he was exempted from military service. It was the only time in their long married life that Margaret had felt sorry for her husband. They spent the evening together, which was a rare occurrence, and he said quite simply that it was the most miserable day of his life.

‘My son isn't even fit to serve his Fatherland. He has to hide while his friends go out to fight. And he's the last of us. Our family dies out with a drunken degenerate who can't be trusted not to disgrace himself. Which is my fault, not yours. We must have more children.'

His wife had suspected his sterility, when he ceased to cohabit with her. His syphilis was cured but its after-effects were permanent. There had been nothing she could say, yet he seemed to expect an answer. The silence had grown between them. Finally it was the Prince who broke it. ‘If you found a lover, I should not object, provided he was of our blood. I thought I should tell you this. Now I'm going to bed.'

And two years later, in 1942, her son Philip, the child of her one love affair, was born. She had met his father during a visit to Berlin. He was a Luftwaffe pilot, seven years younger than herself, a gay and charming young man, the son of her own second cousin. They shared the same Von Hessel blood, the same traditions. Together they would keep the line unsullied.

She had known he would be killed; there was a sense of impermanence about him which broke her heart. The child she carried was born after his death in action over the English Channel. It was baptised in the chapel at Schloss Würtzen in the font where ten generations of the family had been christened.

Philip Friedrich Augustus Franz, Prince Von Hessel, the bastard son of a dead man. The Princess stood in the chapel and accepted the congratulations of their friends. Her husband stood beside her. Nothing was ever said, it was never acknowledged that Philip was not his child. But he was content; the family had a second heir, the name would continue in spite of Heinrich. And by the same unspoken attitude he let his wife understand that there must be no more lovers.

‘Philip,' Margaret said, ‘I know I'm right. What that Englishman said on the telephone convinces me that we are getting near.'

‘Did you know there was a daughter?' Philip asked.

‘Yes,' his mother said. ‘There was one child, I had forgotten what the sex was. It was clever of Fisher to make contact with her so quickly. He says he's sure she knows something but that unless he reveals our interest in the case she won't tell him what it is. I gave my permission, because we have to know what Schwarz came to tell her.'

‘Mother,' Philip said, ‘Mother, is there any use trying to persuade you to call a halt, even now? You know how I feel about it; you know what Heinrich feels.'

‘Heinrich has no right to feel anything,' she said angrily. ‘If it wasn't for him we wouldn't have lost the Salt.'

‘One man is dead,' her son said slowly. ‘Beaten to death, after all these years. Who killed him? Is there any connection between his death and that report about Bronsart being seen in Paris – Mother, I think we're opening up something that should never be disturbed at all! Supposing that he is alive; now that we know Schwarz escaped and stayed in hiding all those years, it's possible that Bronsart did the same. And if he's coming into the open, he's certain to be caught. If he comes to trial the whole story could come out! Please, Mother darling.' He reached out and held her hand. There was a deep love and sympathy between them. ‘Please stop while there's still time. Forget the Salt. Other people lost great treasures; what does it matter now, besides the other risk!'

‘It matters to me.' The proud eyes blazed in memory. ‘It matters to me that one of the most beautiful objects in the world was taken from us by a ruthless parvenu, seized and hidden so that he could creep out one day and claim it. No, Philip, I'm going to get it back! If he lives, he'll lead us to it. And it's coming back to the place where it belongs. It's ours, my son. One day it will be yours; you know that. You know that you'll own everything, be responsible for all our interests. The Poellenberg Salt belongs to you.'

‘And Heinrich?' her son asked quietly. ‘You talk as if he didn't exist. I wish you wouldn't.'

‘You have a kind heart,' she said. ‘You find something to pity about him. I find nothing. There is no excuse for what he became. He's a degenerate; he has no will, no feelings, no interest in anything but lying in a coma of drink. He's my son, but the day he dies, I shall not shed a tear. Also he hates you, Philip. You know he does.'

‘That's because you've always loved me,' he said. ‘And you've shown it. I don't blame him.'

‘He'll die,' the Princess said. ‘His liver is rotted, his health is getting worse. One day he just won't recover. The doctors have made this clear to me for some time. And when that comes, you will be the head of the family, and I can retire and become an old woman, doing gros point in my armchair.' She squeezed his hand and smiled. The memory of his father was very clear. Whenever Philip laughed it was as if the man she loved had come back from the grave. It would all be his. Millions, power, prestige, a great future in a Germany already counting high in the councils of the world which it had almost conquered. And the Salt belonged to him.

‘If Bronsart lives,' she said suddenly, ‘we will have our treasure back. If he died in the retreat, then it is lost to us. So it rests with Fate, my son. Fate will decided what happens next.'

‘It wasn't Fate that killed Schwarz,' her son said.

‘No,' she agreed. ‘It could have been a thief that he disturbed, the papers said so. It could have been a quarrel. Or it could have been the General, come back to close his mouth. That, my darling, is what I think, and what I believe Fisher thinks also. Now we have to wait to see what comes from the daughter. Just imagine being the child of such a man! Come, it's time we went inside. I have to telephone Brükner about the extension to the Verbegan plant.'

‘I have the most terrible hangover,' Paula said into the telephone. ‘Otherwise I'm all right. How about you?'

Fisher sounded cheerful. ‘I'm fine. You said you weren't working today. How about lunch?'

‘I've changed my mind.' Paula spoke with her eyes closed. Her head was pounding. ‘I have some things to do and I've got to get some letters written and sent off. I could have dinner this evening, or better still, come here and I'll cook something. We've got to talk.'

‘You haven't changed your mind about that, then,' Fisher said. ‘I'm glad. We need each other in this. Anyway, at the moment I need you, and I can give you the information you wanted. Shall I come at about eight?'

‘Make it seven-thirty. I'll get my own back on you and give you a drink.' She sounded as if she were smiling. He was sorry she refused an earlier meeting. He was anxious to get on and get the information; he had spoken to the Princess at eight o'clock that morning and extracted permission to reveal her identity and the purpose of his enquiry. He was impatient to get on with his investigation, to start on a serious hunt for Bronsart, but no action was possible without exhausting Paula as a source. Another reason, which in the morning light he wasn't so eager to recognise, was a desire to see her again.

Her father was a Nazi general, a member of the infamous murder squads which had spread Hitler's terror throughout Europe. No wonder the mother had played it down. Fisher could see her point. But it had been a cruel and selfish attitude to take in regard to her daughter. Some hint should have been given, some warning that her father was not the hero figure that the girl had obviously tried to create out of nothing. Besides, the mother had been married to him. She knew what he was and what he was doing. The wives of all the top men were singing the same song after the war. We didn't know; we weren't told, our place was in the home. Fisher called that excuse a lot of balls. Their estates were staffed by foreign slave labour, their homes were filled with other people's treasures, the furs and jewels that arrived back from France and the Low Countries were the property of captured Jews who'd tried to buy their lives. Fisher had no sympathy for Mrs. Ridgeway. She had baled out after the war, with a well-heeled Englishman as a protector. If he felt sorry for anyone it was Paula, who had been left as an appendage all her life.