Chapter Sixteen
Darcy paced outside in the courtyard. The silence that had pulsed in the long moments after Max and Helle’s exits had been deafening and Margit had – unsurprisingly – wanted to talk to Otto alone. Darcy had been glad of the opportunity to escape and catch her breath. The cobbles were slippery with frost, but she didn’t care. The aftershocks of what had just happened hummed through her bones and she couldn’t shake it off. She had to move, shunt the news around her body, not let it settle or stick. Her good news had been hijacked in a way she could never have foreseen, tacked onto a bigger plan with consequences far more significant than putting a name to a face and a biography on a wall. This is your moment , he’d said, mere seconds before switching from ally to enemy. His smooth volte-face had felt personal to her, but she knew it had never been that for him. It was simply how business was done at the highest level: take every opportunity without hesitation. Make the kill. Backstabbing and plotting, threats issued behind dead smiles – it was all just part of winning. Too late, she remembered his bio: ‘ Likes skiing, wine, winning.’
She felt like an idiot. She felt small; a minnow to Max’s shark. She thought back on the hours she’d spent in his company over the past ten days. While she’d been preoccupied with unprofessional thoughts about what could and couldn’t happen between them, his mind had only ever been on the job. He’d been spying on her all along. It really was why he’d insisted on her researching in their archives and at his house after hours. It was why he’d lain in wait for her the night of the drinks reception, his hand on her back, fast-tracking her body ahead of her mind. He’d manipulated her attraction to him from the start. He’d seen right through her.
The door swung open and Otto emerged, looking like he’d aged a decade overnight, his usual bluff manner thrown into red-cheeked bluster. Darcy took one look at him and knew better than to interrogate him. He immediately began striding through the courtyard, heading towards the road. She had no idea where he was going but probably neither did he; like her, he just needed to move.
Otto walked with a vigour that betrayed his anger and she had to lengthen her stride to keep up. He reached into the pocket of his navy coat and pulled out a cigarette, lighting up. Darcy hadn’t known he was a smoker, but perhaps they all were today. Something had to take the edge off.
‘So?’ she asked trepidatiously, as they walked along the street.
‘So, Margit’s more pissed than I’ve ever seen her. She’s making calls to the Ministry of Culture, taking this as high as she can...She wants to fight them.’
‘Really?’ Darcy had expected capitulation.
He glanced at her. ‘Why does that surprise you?’
Her mouth opened as she hesitated before saying the words. ‘Well, only that it changes things, doesn’t it – if we know the painting rightfully belongs to Holocaust victims?’
He shot her a furious look. ‘But we don’t know that. Those are simply their accusations. Don’t think the Madsen Foundation’s above lying to get what they want. Don’t think they wouldn’t pay someone to put their name to a falsified report. They have deep pockets, and pretty much everyone has a price. This is just how they like to initiate a negotiation.’
He took a long drag on the cigarette, beginning to slow his walk just a little. ‘Besides, we have only ever acted in good faith – our conscience is clear, because we know our acquisition was legal and fair. It’ll be for the lawyers to argue a debate on the statute of limitations for such matters. Almost none of the original victims are alive now, so the loss is no longer viscerally personal, but more of a principle and a compensation issue. It’s been almost eighty years since that sale, after all – where does the moral responsibility end?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘If the Elgin Marbles question is anything to go by, it doesn’t.’
‘Well, that’s a national heritage issue,’ he muttered. ‘Returning something to its rightful home. But Her Children is already in its rightful home. It’s right here, in Copenhagen, in trust for the benefit of the Danish people. If the Fleishman heirs have struck a deal with Madsen before they’ve even filed for restitution, then their main interest in it is financial – and we cannot rule out the risk that they might change their minds on their deal with the Madsen. Someone else could well come in with a bigger offer to them. And then the painting could end up leaving Denmark for a private collection elsewhere.’
Darcy wondered what sort of numbers they were talking about. Fifty million? A hundred million? A sum like that could patch a lot of holes in the Culture budget.
Otto sighed. ‘As it stands, we are the rightful guardians of this national treasure and for all their big talk in there, the last thing the Madsen Foundation wants is for this to go to trial. Lorensen was doing what he does best and bullying us, but he knows as well as we do that it would take years for the case to be heard; and if there’s one thing financial investors don’t like, it’s open-ended speculation where their money is concerned. And with the parent company looking to list publicly, they’ll want a swift outcome.’
‘So you think he’s bluffing?’
‘He’s just turning the screws. He’s good at it.’
They were walking along Nyhavn now, with its famous, brightly coloured harbour houses and tall rigged ships docked in the canal, tourists bundled in coats as they ate and drank in the waterside cafes.
‘Is there any chance we could approach the Fleishmans and counter-offer the Madsens’ bid?’ Darcy asked.
He shook his head. ‘Madsen will have gone above market value to secure the deal. Plus, the heirs have probably bought into the idea they were sold of seeing it reunited with most of the rest of Trier’s body of work. It’ll help them persuade themselves that their intentions are altruistic.’
‘...Do you really think Helle would sabotage the retrospective?’
Otto glowered at the question. ‘I think that’s highly doubtful. If they followed through with that, it would threaten the viability of the entire show and that would make the press. You can imagine how bad they’d look if it got out that they were trying to blackmail us.’
‘Maybe it should get out, then,’ Darcy murmured.
‘Tempting,’ he agreed. ‘But far too messy. The last thing any of us need is sensation around this. No, Max and Helle were just flexing their muscles – but they play dirty and won’t back off, you can be sure of that. We’ll all need to keep our wits about us.’ He glanced at her. ‘Don’t let Max fool you, Darcy; he’s charming when it suits him, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to trust anyone associated with them. And that includes Rask, too.’
‘Viggo?’ she gasped. ‘But he would never—’
‘Oh, he would. He’s a nice old man and a very good archivist, but at the end of the day, he works for them, not us,’ Otto said firmly. ‘And after all these years of service, there’s no question his loyalty is to the Madsen Collection first.’
‘But I can’t hide from him what I’m doing. It’s just the two of us down there. He can see what I’m working on at any moment.’
‘And that’s fine – just don’t include him in your further speculations. If Helle and Max think Lilja Madsen, as the woman in portrait, strengthens their claim to Her Children , they’ll use any advantage they can get. You can be sure Helle will be briefing him as we speak.’
Darcy sighed, hating the idea of subterfuge. She was an academic, not a spy. Their collaboration, Viggo’s help, had been invaluable up to this point.
‘Don’t look so worried. I know Viggo helped you today with making the identification, but you would have got there sooner or later without him anyway,’ Otto said, as if reading her mind. ‘Trust your abilities, Darcy. You’re a brilliant researcher. You were the one who connected the necklace to the portrait.’
‘Do you think it’s Lilja Madsen in the painting?’
‘Unfortunately yes.’
‘Me too,’ she murmured. They paused to allow a man to cycle past; his two toddlers were huddled inside a large wooden box affixed to the front: part pannier, part pram. ‘...Otto – what’s a goulash baron?’
‘It’s the term used for those who profiteered during the Great War.’
‘But I thought Denmark maintained neutrality?’
‘We did, but political neutrality doesn’t mean there were no financial gains to be made. It’s a generic term, but largely it refers to producers who made their fortunes supplying cheap tinned meat to the German troops.’
‘What’s so wrong with that?’ Helle Foss’s disgusted attitude had struck Darcy as excessive.
‘The quality of the product was shameful. It was produced for soldiers fighting on the front line and they were served intestines, cartilage, ground-down bones in gravy...Sometimes rats, too. Their welfare really didn’t matter – only the profit margins.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes; not exactly a noble endeavour. But then again, great fortunes are rarely made prettily, and the Madsens were not the first or only ambitious family to use art and culture to whitewash their reputation. Look at Vanderbilt and the Met Opera.’ He glanced at her. ‘ Never underestimate the importance of reputation, Darcy. The Madsens are top tier here now, but that wasn’t always the case. You can be sure Helle will not like the prospect of this portrait shining a light on the ignoble son.’
They took another left and the grand Charlottenborg Palace, home of the Royal Academy, sat before them again. They had walked around the block at speed, but Otto seemed somewhat calmer now.
‘How do you think the Academy director will take the news?’ He was still in New York, but this update on the discovery was beginning to look more like a liability that might need his personal attention.
‘Like I did. But at least I can tell him we’re not going to roll over and take it. If Max Lorensen wants a fight, then that is what he’s going to get.’
Max was, in effect, going to war with the Danish state – and yet she sensed he wouldn’t be losing sleep over it tonight. He would probably sleep soundly. Or else not sleep at all, twisting sheets with a supermodel through the twilight hours...Darcy squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the image that had immediately popped up, perfectly formed, in her mind.
He was the enemy. She’d do well to remember that.
‘Hey.’
Viggo looked up from where he was working. He was standing by the glass cabinet, replacing one of the clays. From the way he straightened stiffly at the sight of her, she knew he’d received the call, as Otto had predicted. ‘Darcy – hello.’
She walked into the room with a stilted smile. Were they to act as enemies too? When she had left here, just a few hours ago, they had been friends. Colleagues. Collaborators, putting their heads together and pooling resources. ‘So...’
‘So.’ He swallowed, looking at a loss, watching as her hand trailed idly over the leather tabletop, neither one of them knowing what to say or do. They weren’t built for big business. They were in this for the love of the subject.
She looked straight at him, seeing something in his eyes that almost looked like fear. Who exactly had called him and what had they threatened? He was an old man, quietly doing a quiet job. The consequences of his actions weren’t supposed to bleed into lawsuits against the Danish state.
‘Well, that turned into an eventful day,’ she said finally, breaking the tension with a little understatement.
He laughed with relief. ‘Indeed...I’m glad you came back. I thought perhaps I might never see you again.’
‘To be honest, I have been loitering upstairs for the past hour.’
He looked hurt. ‘You were too scared to come down here?’
‘No, not exactly,’ she admitted, knowing he would never be her enemy, whatever Otto said to the contrary. ‘I stopped in at the Madsen Heritage room on my way. I wanted to look at the photo again, the one showing the necklace, but I ended up getting distracted by another.’
‘Oh? Which one? Does it show the necklace too?’
‘No. But...’ She showed him the picture she had taken on her phone just now, of the photograph she also had seen the other day – of Gerde and Lotte Madsen in the garden. ‘That girl with them.’ She pointed to the dark-haired girl on the blanket. ‘Do you know who she is? The bio on the plaque only lists mother and daughter: Gerde and Lotte Madsen, June 1915.’
He pushed his glasses up his nose, his customary frown of concentration coming onto his face. ‘You know, I’ve looked at this photograph many times over the years, but I’ve never thought to question her identity.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was only the Madsens that mattered,’ he shrugged. ‘This is their gallery, their foundation. She is just a nameless child in a photograph.’
Darcy bit her lip. ‘Do you think she could be Lilja?’
Viggo looked surprised. He hesitated for a long moment, peering more closely, before he replied. ‘Well, now you say it, yes – there is a likeness, although it’s rather blurred to say with any real certainty. And one little dark-haired girl looks much the same as another little dark-haired girl. At least to my eye.’ He looked at Darcy. ‘What makes you think it’s her?’
‘There’s just something in her demeanour. It’s in the way she holds herself...I’m wondering if perhaps she was Lotte Madsen’s friend first.’
‘They do look to be around the same age.’
‘Maybe they went to school together?’
‘No, Lotte had a governess.’
‘...So, then, perhaps she was a companion?’
‘Yes, maybe,’ Viggo nodded. ‘Alternatively, this is just a local girl from a good family, or perhaps even one of the estate workers’ daughters.’
‘How old do you think they are there?’
Viggo pushed his glasses higher again, peering more closely at the image on her screen. ‘Ten? But I would be able to confirm that, certainly for Lotte. What date did you say is placed next to the photo?’
‘June 1915.’
Viggo walked down the room towards the red ledger on the table. He consulted it, running his finger down the page, before disappearing into the first stack. Darcy followed after him, watching as he opened a box file. It was filled with certificates – births, deaths, christenings, marriages.
‘These are the family files,’ he said, pulling a sheet with Lotte’s name on it. ‘Yes, see here – she was born in May 1904, so she was eleven there.’
Darcy looked at the picture on her screen again. The other, dark-haired, girl was smaller, thinner...she was possibly a little younger? Her dress had none of the lace trimmings of Lotte’s, but was nonetheless a beribboned cotton with cross-stitch embroidery at the shoulders. If Lotte was eleven, this girl was definitely no more than that, and quite possibly she was ten.
Darcy bit her lip, scrutinizing the child’s tiny, bird-like frame and dark hair. If the picture had been in colour it might have been more revealing, but the gentle grey and white tones washed out her features so that the image gave an impression of the girl, rather than a direct representation. Just a little dark-haired girl, one of many, as Viggo pointed out. If she only had a missing tooth or a hooked nose, or a third ear; something distinctive about her...
She lapsed into her thoughts. If this was Lilja and she had been Lotte’s friend before she had been Casper’s wife...might this have been an arranged marriage?
‘Could I have a look at those?’ she asked him, pointing at the box file in his hand.
‘Of course.’ Viggo put a hand on her arm. ‘...Coffee?’
She grinned at him gratefully. ‘I’d love one.’
As he filled the kettle and she heard the ting of the spoon against the mugs, she flicked through the certificates for the family, pulling out anything with Lilja or Casper’s names on.
She spread them all out on the small worktable; there were more than she had expected. A frown grew on her brow as she studied them, trying to compile a straightforward chronology from what they told her. But as the facts lodged in her mind – one marriage, two births, three deaths – there was no simple narrative to glean. Instead, more questions arose, like bubbles floating up from the bottom of a still pool.
She bit her lip, trying to understand what the collection was showing her. Tragedy. Suffering. Horror...?
My God, Lilja, she mused – keeping her thoughts to herself as Viggo shuffled in the background. What happened to you?