The Freiburg Cabinet Read online

  The Freiburg Cabinet

  a novel by

  Thomas Charrington

  Copyright © 2016 Thomas Charrington

  The right of Thomas Charrington to be identified as

  the Author of the Work, has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means without the prior written

  permission of the author or his agents.

  All characters and commercial enterprises in this

  publication are fictitious (excluding factual historical references)

  and any resemblance to real enterprises and real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design © Philip Cundall

  .. for Siobhan

  Acknowledgements

  My heart felt thanks to Adrian House for the considerable time and effort he spent injecting some order and decorum into the very crude initial manuscripts and for his invaluable advice on shaping the general landscape of the book.

  Huge thanks also to Kevin Fox-Slater for his numerous sharp observations and for helping me mould my characters into living, breathing human beings - all from an isolated farm in the Australian outback.

  My gratitude must also extend to Paul Martin of Robin Martin Antiques in Notting Hill, for allowing me access to his extensive library, and for his golden nuggets of information regarding 18th century French furniture.

  Finally I must thank Ara for providing the initial spark, and Philip for his artistic grip on the graphics and presentation.

  PROLOGUE

  Oliver Clasper had just shut Titus in the kitchen for the night and was wandering down the flagstone passage to the hall when the telephone rang. He stopped dead and looked at his watch—it was 11.48pm. A flutter of worry rippled through him; calls at this time of night were rarely good news. Turning round, he retraced his footsteps back into the dark kitchen and plucked the handset from its illuminated cradle on the wall.

  “Strupe Hall,” he said tentatively.

  There was no answer at the other end of the line, but he could sense the presence of someone very clearly.

  “Hello …can I help?” he said, firmly.

  A further hesitation followed, and then he heard some guttural sounds as though the caller was being strangled. Suddenly Fabien’s quavering voice came through, low and urgent.

  “Oliver … Oliver. I’m sorry,” he began, the words coagulating in his throat, “I … I know it is late … but … oh merde, I needed to tell you something … something important.” He hesitated, and Oliver heard a muffled sob. “She’s … she’s leaving me, Oliver. Elle voulais me quitter!”

  “Who is?” Oliver said, momentarily confused.

  “Cecile! Cecile … she has ‘ad enough … wants to end it. Mon Dieu, I’ve just been speaking with her! Oliver, she says the situation is ’opeless … that I have never got any money or time … that I never will have any in my present job. I have told her to be patient, but she won’t listen. I feel I have let her down … failed her. Je n’en peux plus!”

  Oliver stayed silent as the young Frenchman wept uncontrollably for a few seconds, before regaining a semblance of control.

  “I am calling to … to agree with your plan; let’s just make the cabinet … copy the damn thing and sell it, or I ‘ave lost her forever!” He choked up and fell silent again, whilst Oliver took a deep breath.

  “Fabien … Fabien, now listen to me,” he said authoritatively. “I’m terribly sorry to hear this … I really am. But my dear fellow, you’re obviously in a highly emotional state at the moment. This is a big decision—it needs to be made with a cool mind. I don’t want …”

  “Oliver … I don’t care!” the young man shouted in a high-pitched outburst. “Tu ne comprends pas? I just don’t care about consequences anymore. I am finished without your ’elp!”

  The line went dead, and Oliver was left gazing into the gloom at the glowing eyes of Titus in his basket. Then slowly and very carefully, he replaced the handset onto its cradle and left the room.

  “Peoples do not judge in the same way as courts of law; they do not hand down sentences, they throw thunderbolts; they do not condemn Kings, they drop them back into the void; and this justice is worth just as much as that of the courts.”

  – Maximilien de Robespierre –

  1791

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 1 – Three and a half years later

  Two blazing shafts of sunlight stabbed through the cobwebbed windows of Melvyn’s workshop, like a pair of vigilant prefects in a chaotic and turbulent classroom. Swirling eddies of dust and steam drifted skittishly across their piercing gaze, before once again disappearing into the shadows beyond. On the other side of the cluttered space, Melvyn stood back from the grinding machine for a few moments and wiped the sweat from his brow with an old towel. Short and muscular, with a heavy boned face and dark inset eyes, his rounded shoulders and powerful stained fingers were testament to a life of hard physical work.

  Blowing the dust from his watch, he glanced at the time and sighed—nine twenty am, and the air was already too warm. It was going to be one of those relentlessly hot summers, where the pitch on his roof dribbled like black treacle and the grass was crisp underfoot. Kneeling down, he reached to the back of a low shelf and pulled out a dusty fan. After giving it a few vigorous puffs, he plugged it in and pressed ‘on’, anticipating an orgasmic blast of cool air. Nothing happened.

  “For fuck’s sake!” he shouted, yanking the plug out and throwing the fan back on the shelf. “Does anything bloody work around here!”

  He flexed his cramped fingers and took a long swig of water from a green canvas flask on the workbench. Belching loudly, he swept a lank rope of black hair away from his face and again picked up the chisel. Bracing himself and anchoring his feet once more, he leaned forward and carefully forced the blade against the vicious wheel, causing an angry stream of sparks to rain down on his hands.

  Ignoring the hideous racket, his eyes watched the fiery spitting edge between metal and stone with intense concentration. To overheat the blade would ruin it, so every few seconds he whipped the tip of the tool into a vessel of cold water where it hissed briefly and coughed out a small cloud of steam.

  After a while he switched the machine off, and grabbing a thick oily cloth, gave the shaft a few deft wipes. He then turned to face the window. The blade glittered in a thoroughly p
leasing way as he rotated it slowly, close to his face, searching for any imperfections in the newly honed metal. Behind him, the grinder slowly wound to a stop and the workshop filled with a heavy silence.

  As he put the chisel down, he became aware of a telephone ringing in the main house, and shortly after, his wife Mary called him distantly from the kitchen door. He muttered to himself, remembering the line to his workshop was faulty again; it was bound to be Oliver, his long-time employer. Oliver’s impatience had always been a source of irritation to Melvyn, and on this particular morning, for no identifiable reason, even more so. It seemed that so often when he felt in a perfectly focused state—when his own mind was vibrating as it were, in complete sympathy with the items surrounding him—Oliver was there to interrupt.

  He moved lithely across the planked floor in a well-rehearsed pattern, flicking off the power to the glue pot and iron, and then pulling the blinds down on the windows. Sometimes the conversation was short and other times lengthy, but he liked to play it safe. He briefly allowed his eyes to rove over the masterpiece in the centre—the eighteenth century Freiburg Cabinet twin, with its chequered purpleheart marquetry and intricately carved ormolu mounts. Instinctively he scanned the carcase for deviations from parallel and the entire structure for squareness. It was firmly glued now and there was precious little he could do to correct it, but checking and rechecking was an itch he could never shake off.

  “Call me, I need an update, Melvyn,” Oliver’s voice said charmlessly on the messaging service a few minutes later.

  It was a manner he had become accustomed to and reminded him that, although trained at the bench, Oliver was more a sharp businessman than cabinetmaker. But Melvyn needed him. His audacity, his ability to treat the unthinkable as just another step, was a marvel and had made him into a rich though secretive man.

  He pressed a button on the keypad and waited. His Neanderthal hand looked incongruous against the high-tech black of the phone—like two separate eras on Earth, momentarily brought together.

  “Melvyn?” Oliver answered gruffly.

  “Yeah,” he replied quietly.

  “Just wanted an update—how’s she coming along, my old friend,” Oliver said, trying to inject some bonhomie into his tone.

  “Good, Oliver, the secret compartment is finished. I’m not entirely happy with the retaining molding though; it’s going to need some work to get the colouring absolutely perfect and …”

  “Listen, that’s no problem to a master like you!” Oliver interrupted, trying to disguise his impatience with flattery. “So when will she be ready—we’re into June now, and I’m itching to get our creation across the channel.”

  “It’ll be ready when it’s ready, Oliver,” Melvyn said flatly. For God’s sake, just leave me to get on with it.

  “Come on, you miserable old bugger, is that the best you can do!” Oliver chortled loudly down the wire, trying to humour him. “You’ll be the death of me, Mel—always keeping me on tenterhooks right to the last! Between us, we’re going to give the ‘Antiques’ trade something to talk about for the next decade—we’re making history here, Mel, giving back to the world something it lost a long time ago!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Melvyn replied peevishly, such grand bloody statements. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow, when I know exactly where we are.”

  “You do that, old fellow,” Oliver said heartily as he put the phone down.

  Oliver Clasper slumped back on his Chesterfield and lit a cigar. He then stuck a finger under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Nudging fifty-two years, plump, and with a receding hairline, he still exuded an unmistakably rakish look—a quality which seemed to emanate from the brown and silver curls that flowed back from his temples and bunched thickly at the back of his tanned cranium. He gazed through the open sash on to the beautifully manicured lawn, and allowed himself to drift in neutral for a few minutes, as the lazy sounds of early summer and the sweet scent of philadelphus mingled around him. The copper beeches lining the drive shimmered majestically in the morning heat, little twirls of wind ruffling the rusty leaves in chosen places, making them twist and glitter frivolously. The whole world was busy—kind of languidly busy—and this gave his relaxation a most satisfying backdrop.

  Presently he leaned over and picked up a telephone on a small side table. Pressing a speed dial, he waited.

  “Morning, Tim, all okay?” he said with a yawn as the call was answered.

  “Oh hi, Oliver … yes, nothing to report, it’s quiet this morning. I’m just trying to sort out the window display—a couple of bulbs have blown and it’s looking a bit sad. I need to get in there with a brush, I think … it gets so blooming dusty.”

  Tim was Oliver’s nephew and manned his antique shop in London. This was situated in that small but strategic street which runs between the northern ends of Battersea and Albert Bridge Roads. Not a grand affair, the shop was never intended to attract random visitors. It was rather a place for colleagues in the trade to pop in and peek at any new pieces Oliver had acquired, and to flaunt their own. After a brief discussion, Oliver brought the conversation to a close.

  “Well, that all sounds good, Tim, well done. Speak tomorrow … oh, and let me know when Des is planning to drop by. Be in touch.”

  He replaced the receiver without waiting for a reply. Titus, his deep-chested boxer, jumped up and stretched noisily, hoping to cajole his master into some physical activity. Oliver ignored him and flicked through a paisley patterned address book, perched on his knee. He stopped suddenly, and again picked up the receiver whilst Titus slumped back on the carpet with a loud sigh.

  “Lily?” he said in a gentle voice. There was a long pause.

  “Well, well … hello, Oliver,” the voice at the other end replied lazily, “what a nice surprise.”

  “And what are you doing on this lovely morning … soaking up the Gloucestershire sun? You sound frightfully busy.”

  “Sarcastic, uh? Well, I’m lying by the pool, if you must know, and wondering why I married a man who was already betrothed to a golf course,” Lily said, with a tinge of bitterness.

  “Once that game sinks its teeth into you, you’re as good as finished,” Oliver chuckled. “I’ve known many a good man change into a golf-obsessed fanatic overnight. I must say I’m surprised at Giles—I imagined he’d think twice about leaving his beautiful wife alone on a glorious ‘Garden of Eden’ day.”

  “You can be quite poetic when the fancy takes you, Oliver,” Lily mused. “Never imagined you as the romantic sort! Is there a serpent and an irresistible fruit in this fairy tale of yours?”

  “So let me guess … a blue G-string and matching top?” Oliver said evasively, sensing a trap.

  “Yuk! What do you take me for—bloody uncomfortable things and so vulgar with it! I don’t want everyone to see my bottom,” Lily said with a little giggle.

  “Everyone? Anyway, I’m told it’s in great shape,” Oliver said with a faint tremor in his voice.

  “And who exactly has passed on that information, Mr Clasper?”

  “Perfection always finds a way of revealing itself, Lily,” he crooned, “and it should be entitled to an audience, if I may be so bold.”

  He briefly moved his head away from the phone and wiped a silk handkerchief across his brow—the morning had heated up suddenly.

  “You’re in a devilish mood today, Darling,” she said laughing. “Come over and swim later—I could do with some company, and bring those amazing new clippers, I’m fed up with clearing leaves from the pool.”

  “Could do with a dip, actually,” he said with a phony yawn. “I’ll see you around noon … just got a couple of things to sort out.”

  “Looking forward Darling,” she replied breezily.

  Replacing the receiver, he wandered over to the window where he extended both hands onto the sash. He felt excited and, in equal measure, nervous. There was an undeniable frisson between Lily and him—a relentless current which at times he
felt powerless to resist. They just got on so damn well—always had. But although she flirted—teased him with the cool cadence of her voice—he knew she was out of bounds; Lily was a married woman, and married to a man he knew well.

  A bee wobbled clumsily over the window ledge and fell on the polished parquet floor at his feet. He stepped on it without a thought and, plucking a tissue from his pocket, threw the remains in a bin. The phone unexpectedly leapt into life and made him jump.

  “Hello,” he said softly, fully expecting it to be Lily with another trivial request.

  “Good morning, Oliver,” a familiar Russian voice said down the line. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it, but I’m back.”

  Oliver’s mind shuddered.

  “Z … Z … Zoltan?” he stuttered, a surge of adrenaline entering his blood stream. “Well … well, what a surprise … what brings you back to little old England?”

  “Things change. The bitch left me … stripped me clean, or should I say, is stripping me clean … and I needed to get out before I went crazy. But this is not what I’m calling about, Oliver. I’m calling to give you chance to square up with me and face your obligations.”

  “My obligations?” Oliver said, his stomach tightening.

  “That’s what I said. You see … I had unexpected encounter two months ago, when I came over to see Viktor.”

  “Your father Viktor?”

  “I believe that’s his name,” Zoltan said coldly. “And … well … let’s say I had little time off, so I thought I’d go to one of my old haunts … okay, our old haunts … the Wallace Collection. And of course I just seemed to find myself on first floor, wandering into the ‘Study,’ just like we used to do all those years ago. Yes, just to check that Marie Antoinette’s furniture was still there … you know, for old time’s sake. And then woah! Who should I see? Who of all people should I bump into, except he didn’t notice me … with notebook and camera no doubt, checking just how faded the purpleheart is after two hundred and twenty years. Yes, I thought you’d go quiet. I just watched him for while and satisfied myself that he was doing what I suspected he was doing. Oh Oliver … that guy was concentrating … oh yes … the sort of concentration generated by need to copy flawlessly!”