It took a while, but the wagons for the passengers were eventually filled. The first two were bound for the Hotel de Saxe, the others were to transport lesser mortals, and one the farmer and his son who had been rescued from the avalanche. Neither were badly injured, and Samantha Smith (who had ridden out on one of the wagons to help) was able to travel back on one of the wagons for the Hotel, assured that her patients were in the good hands of the village nurse).
Karl was as good as his word and procured seats in the first wagon for himself and Judy. Flora and Joseph were there too; Ashton chose to ski back to the hotel, but, as the horses moved at a walking pace, it was easy for most of the journey to ski alongside the wagon and exchange a little shouted conversation with Flora and Joseph – although, as they approached the hotel, he offered to ski ahead and arrange suitable accommodation, for the Hotel de Saxe was not that large.
“That would be so kind of you, Mr. Sherman,” Flora told him. “You’d better prepare them for quite the crowd!”
Joseph was enjoying the romanticism of a lantern-lit ride through the snow, and quite happy to see the local architecture. “I’ll have to get back here when it’s light,” he enthused, “but this is wonderful, isn’t it. Oh, I’m sorry, perhaps you had plans for Christmas you are missing?”
The question was addressed to Ms DeWilde, as Mr Sherman was here already, so presumably this was his Christmas plan.
Jack Adler was offered a ride back to the village in the second wagon with Samantha; of the passengers only Alder Bishop remained at the site of the avalanche. It appeared that the horse that had been caught in the avalanche had not been killed, and Adler remained, with a few of the villagers, to dig it out. Fritzel was one of those remaining – he scribbled a hasty note to his mother, which he sent by the first wagon, to inform her that a distinguished guest would shortly be arriving, and to make sure that she kept back one of the best rooms for him, and he assured Alder they could walk back together once the horse was freed.
“Much appreciated,” Alder replied in German. “Now, let’s see to this poor beast.” With the driver holding the horse’s head and crooning to him in some language Alder didn’t speak, but what appeared to possess a calming influence, the group bent to the task.
The diggers found their rhythm soon enough in the form of Christmas carols, most chorusing in German. Alder joined in, slightly off key but enthusiastic, in English. Snow flew, enthusiastically, everywhere.
In the second wagon wagon heading for the village, Jack was pleasant company at least, getting to know those he worked with and keeping jovial despite the situation.
The American nurse, Samantha Smith, was mostly quiet on the travel back. She listened to the conversations, nodding when appropriate, but seemed to have little to say at the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The open wagons progressed at a stately pace through the crisp night air (although it was still early evening), but the village of Bad Bernsdorf was not far, and it was not long before they saw the lights and then found themselves making their way through the streets of the village, lined on each side by the picturesque Untergebingenhausen, characteristic of that part of the world. Despite the hour, villagers came into the street to cheer the arrival of the wagons.
At last they drew up at the Hotel de Saxe, a welcoming sight with its lanterns and the older retainers ready, with old world courtesy, to assist the ladies to alight.
All the passengers were ushered into the main room while the retainers ferried their luggage in, piling it into the centre of the room.
Frau Blauer was at the reception desk, a welcoming smile on her face, ready to check all the guests in. As they did so, the retainers asked them to point to their baggage so that it could be taken to their rooms, and their rooms prepared, although the guests were offered glasses of an excellent Glühwein to warm them after their cold excursion.
“That one’s mine,” Flora let them know, pointing to a single large steamer trunk pasted with labels acquired during her European trip so far.
Once the others had been greeted, Judi stepped hesitantly forward.
“Frau Blauer?” Outside the hotel a horse could be heard whinnying, no doubt unnerved by the storm. Judi proffered her paper again. “I made arrangements with your husband for a room.” She hesitated at the woman’s stern look, “The letter was signed, Fritzel Blauer?”
Frau Blauer frowned suddenly and seemed as though she was about to make a sharp reply when there was an intervention.
“Fritzel is the son,” Karl explained with a chuckle, appearing at Judy’s shoulder.
Frau Blauer seemed to relax, to medium frosty.
“Guten Abend Gutrun,” he continued smoothly in German. “You must forgive our English rose. She was not to know. So Fritzel is once more in the family business. You must be so proud.”
This elicited a genuine smile.
“Ja,” she said in the same language. “Fritzel is a good boy. He is helping at the hotel and continuing his studies as well. They thought very highly of him at the University. He was assisting Professor Szilard before … all that unfortunate business.”
“I know you never truly get time off,” Karl continued in German, “but if you can spare me a few moments we must talk later, once you have seen to your guests. It has been too long.”
Joseph was writing his name in the guest book. He kept his face neutral, as it would be impolite to listen in, but even though Professor Szilard was very much outside his own field of expertise, he recognised the name from the papers. As he straightened he smiled at Frau Blauer and Mr Stransky. He could understand the former being proud of a son who must be very smart indeed, and he was once again favourably impressed by the way the gentleman seemed to smooth things over.
“I apologize for our sudden appearance,” Joseph’s German was excellent. “I hope we’re not too much of an inconvenience, but I must say I’m happy to be able to see this place. Not just to get out of the cold! I’m looking forward to staying in the Hotel de Saxe; you have a stellar reputation.”
Ashton wandered back into the reception after changing out of his skiing clothes and into a modest suit. He had spoken to Frau Blauer hastily on his arrival at the hotel as Flora had suggested to warn her of the number of guests arriving. He gratefully accepted a warm glass of Glühwein and watched the arrival of the guests from the train with interest.
Attracted by the noise of a large number of arrivals, other guests began to appear – and there were some signs of recognition. A slight, handsome, fair-haired man, lounging near the door to the room set aside as a library (for reading newspapers and writing letters), nodded at Ashton – this wasFranz von Essen, a well-known German skier (for those who followed such things).
Ashton looked with surprise at Franz. Ashton intended his stay at the Hotel de Saxe to be low-key and private, but people he already knew were popping up everywhere. Ashton had met Franz von Essen while taking part in skiing competitions but found his presence here to be a less than pleasant surprise.
Franz inclined his head in recognition of Ashton. He seemed no more pleased to see Ashton than Ashton was to see him.
From the door of the Casino, several people appeared. A tall, moustachioed man who, despite the warmth of the inn, appeared to be wearing a fur lined cloak, spotted the tray of mugs of Glühwein stationed near the fire, gave a deep, thankful bellow of “Aha!” and headed forward to claim a mug for himself and, incidentally, the best seat by the fire. Only then did he glance around at the guests. He appeared to recognise no-one but, after taking a long sip – one might almost call it a swig – at the Glühwein, announced in a booming voice, “I am Count Vasily Dolgorukov, and I am honoured to make your acquaintances!”
Behind him were a man and a woman, both well-known to any who followed the newspaper reports: Chetwyn Glyde, the media tycoon, and his beautiful long-term mistress, Nellie Nolan, clinging to his arm. Chetwyn’s sharp glance swept the room – and rested on Joseph Lawrence.
“Ah good,” he said. “Don’t know why you are here, but you’ve saved me the bother of telegraphing. I’ve come across some of this so-called decadent art, and I want your opinion on it.”
“Mr Glyde,” Joseph replied, his voice a polite neutral as he spoke the name. He knew the man was in Europe, didn’t know he would be here. But the invitation to examine the works he brought warmed him up. “Of course, I would be happy to look them over. I think they said we would be here until after Christmas, so I am available.” His face was now far from neutral, and his expression clearly showed the inner debate he had about how polite it would be to offer to look at them right away.
“Miss Nolan,” he added, perhaps a tad later than Joseph would have if there hadn’t been any art in the offering.
“Ah, Herr Glyde has been to a Schandausstellungen. How daring,” Karl observed, speaking again in German. “No doubt the artists were keen to part with their work for a fraction of its value.”
“Actually,” Joseph postulated mildly, and in really quite accentless German, “Decadent art is an art movement of the end of the last century, mostly in France.” Less mildly, he continued, “A Schandausstellung is where I’m going. To several, I hope. The artists may not be compensated adequately, but at least if I buy it, it will be preserved, and I will try to help them as much I can. Should we just let it all be destroyed, instead?”
“Oh, I very much doubt it will be destroyed,” Karl replies lightly. “Not when it provides such a lucrative trade. It is just another means of exploiting those who don’t conform, nicht wahr?
“The German government will be so grateful for your contribution. Perhaps they will even film your visit for posterity.”
Joseph looked bleak. “They will destroy it. When Savonarola lighted the Bonfire of the Vanities, Botticelli came and burned his own paintings.” He spoke with the certainty of someone who had seen it happen before. Then he mde an effort to smile. “But perhaps this is not a discussion for this moment. My name is Joseph Lawrence, andI’m always available to discuss it later, Mr …?”
“Stransky, Karl Stransky.” Karl said, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Lawrence. I would be delighted if you kept me abreast of anything you recover. I am always interested in the fate of beautiful things.”
He cast a glance in Ms Nolan’s direction and offered a knowing smile.
Joseph gave Karl a firm handshake. “Likewise,” he said, “it seems we’re both interested in beauty.” He reached into his pocket and handed the other man a card with his name, and the address of his Chicago gallery.
As soon as he stepped back into the hotel Jack’s sodden hat was swept smartly off his head again and a polite nod given to the those present with appropriate greetings of ‘Sir’ ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Miss’ given out, even to the Count who for some reason drew a longer look. “I’d be mighty glad not to drink and something to line my stomach. Hard, cold work out there… And here’s me forgetting my manners again. Jack Adler the second. Pleased to meet y’all.”
The Count was clearly not unaware of Jack’s longer look. In response he gave a genial smile and called out, “Welcome! Welcome, Mr Adler! I am sure dinner will be served shortly … but in the mean-time, will you not join me in a drink?”
He gestured expansively – so that anyone might assume this was a party supplied by the Count’s generosity, rather than a kind gesture by the Hotel’s owner.
“I’d right be delighted to,” Jack replied with one last glance around the place before his coat was dispensed appropriately and he moved to the heat of the fire. But not to the Glühwein yet, for he was far too busy watching the various interactions and those occupying the hotel. Not that his gaze ever lingered too long, except maybe on Miss Miranda Glyde.
Down the stairs came two more people, the fragile young Miranda Glyde and, following her, the saturnine David Olson. Both paused near the foot of the stairs to survey the scene … and then Miranda gave a little cry, seemingly of joy, before racing across the room and positively throwing herself on to Flora de Wilde.
“You’ve come, you’ve come!” she was saying, half laughing and half crying.
“Good heavens! Randi!” Flora shrieked, catching up the other woman in surprised, but welcoming embrace. “Darling, it seems an age since I heard from you, and then it was ever such a queer letter. What are you doing here?”
David Olson looked at Miranda sharply at the reference to the letter, and then took a leisurely step towards the reception desk. It might have been to remove himself into the background. It also, however, placed him in an excellent position to read the register, albeit upside down.
Samantha Smith entered the lobby as with the last of the second cart. She watched the reunion with interest as she unbuttoned her long woollen# coat.
Miranda hugged her closer and breathed into her ear, “We must talk – soon.”
Flora responded to this suggestion with a firm nod.
Then she released Flora and stood at arm’s length, holding her hands and smiling at her.
“Daddy took it into his head to spend a few months touring Europe. And this is remote – but so friendly! The people are just to die for.”
“Are they really? They were very obliging about the avalanche, I must say,” Flora replied.
David Olson moved back towards them and said, smiling. “I believe it’s Miss De Wilde, isn’t it? Miranda’s journalist friend?”
Perhaps he laid a little unnecessary emphasis on the word “journalist”. It certainly had an effect on several present. Nellie Nolan released her breath in a sharp hiss; Chetwyn Glyde turned from Joseph Lawrence and frowned at his daughter. The Count coughed on his Glühwein (which might, of course, have been wholly co-incidental).
Flora turned to Olson with a faintly challenging air. “Why, yes. That is, naturally I wasn’t a journalist when Miranda and I were at school together, but I decided I’d rather be that than a dilettante. Maybe I’ll get a few good travel pieces out of this European junket,” she added hopefully.
Joseph had been aware of the two ladies greeting each other, of course (as he was aware of Mr Adler’s entrance, but not in a position to react right away), so as his conversational partners turned, following their look was natural. The look he had for the reunion was very different from the reactions of the others; he seemed mostly happy that other people were happy, and the young blonde woman did seem very happy to meet the lady he himself just met on the train. Yet, as he surveyed the room and the other guests, that contented look changed into something more quiet. Well, the reactions of those around him were hard to miss.
“Miss DeWilde, how nice for you to meet a friend,” Joseph chose to emphasise the other word in
Olson’s sentence. He, too, accepted a glass of Glühwein. “With good company, and beautiful things to look at, this will hopefully be a very enjoyable Christmas, yes?”
The presence of a journalist seemed to be of no note to the Texan Jack Adler at least, and finally at this exchange he helped himself to some wine, but remained standing. Perhaps he knows some manners after all.
Chetwyn seemed about to remonstrate with his daughter, but before he could say anything, there was a sudden scream from the middle of the room.
Most of the luggage had been cleared away; only a trunk, a hardshell case, two boxes and a medium-sized leather bag remained (and those closest could see they were labelled “ALDER BISHOP”. A maid who had been removing Joseph Lawrence’s bags, had sprung to a safe distance as she screamed and was now staring with horror at a small box with a series of holes drilled into it along both sides.
“Es bewegt sich!” she shouted. “Es bewegt sich!”
And, true to her words, the little box rocked to and fro.
Recent Comments