Chapter Thirty
Darcy stood at the bottom of the library steps and looked up. Viggo was bundled up in his heavy overcoat and scarf, his hat on, reading the opening times on the wall plaque. Was there anyone else left in this city who still wore a trilby? she wondered.
‘Morning, Viggo,’ she said, shivering in the cold and rubbing her hands together. Two paces to her right, a couple of empty wine bottles had been left standing politely against the wall, traces of last night’s festivities in the student quarter.
He turned. ‘Ah, Darcy, I’m glad to see you here.’
‘Are we the only people up?’ The city felt as if it was still asleep. The bike racks were empty, birds silent in the small trees clustered in the courtyards. All the shop shutters were still pulled down – even Paludan was at rest – and their only company was a stray cat padding silently over the cobbles with a mouse in its mouth.
In the distance, several streets away, she could hear the clatter of bins being emptied into refuse lorries, commuters disgorging from N?rreport station and heading to their office buildings; but there was an aura of suspension still in these back roads, the city balancing on the tines of night and day.
‘It does appear the Christmas getaway may have begun,’ he agreed, peering around at the handsome Victorian brick buildings she knew well. If the university was her world, these were her temples.
‘And what are we doing here, so bright and early?’ she asked.
‘I thought we should do this together.’
‘Do what?’
The lights inside the building switched on, falling through the windows onto the street in huge golden tiles, and they heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. A lock turned and one of the arched doors opened.
‘Oh!...Good morning,’ a woman said, looking out and seeming surprised to find them standing there.
‘Good morning,’ Viggo replied, with an almost leisurely air. ‘We’re here for the unsealing of a bequest.’
‘...Oh,’ she said again, stepping back. ‘Well, come in. You’re very early.’
Viggo motioned for Darcy to step through first into the impressive pale brick hallway. A huge turning staircase lay immediately before them like a sleeping dragon, set behind arches and lit by high-set round windows. The entrance to the library lay off to their right, and Darcy let Viggo lead the way. She knew the space well – she often worked here – but he was the only one who knew what they were really doing here today.
The space was double height and majestic, an aisle running through a central colonnade with book-lined chambers flanking off on either side. There was a round window at the very end of the central aisle and huge arched windows sat at the end of each book stack, sucking in natural light. But for the books that lined every wall, floor to ceiling, it could have been a grand church.
They walked through, footsteps sounding out of step on the stone floor. A librarian was standing at the large black desk in the middle of the aisle, tapping on a computer. He looked up at their approach, seeing that they were not typical students.
‘We’re here for the unsealing of the Johan Trier bequest,’ Viggo said quietly.
Darcy’s head whipped round to look at him. The what?
‘Ah...you’re ahead of me,’ the man said, tapping something into his screen. ‘It’s still...Yes, it’s still in the vault. We weren’t anticipating a rush.’ He looked back at them, curious that they should be so keen. ‘If you’d like to take a seat in the reading room at the end down there, I’ll bring it through to you?’
‘Thank you,’ Viggo said, removing his hat and slowly making his way. They moved past the reeded columns, in and out of the shadows on the ground, past the thousands of books that lent their powdery, slightly almond-like scent to the dusty floors and old timbers.
They sat down together at a table in the small room at the end. It was no different to any of the other chambers, save for a glass wall that partitioned them from the open space and provided some privacy.
‘So, Johan Trier made a bequest?’ Darcy murmured, unzipping her jacket but not removing it. It would be a while before the central heating made itself known.
‘Indeed. He made a gift to this library in 1923, but the bequest was granted on the condition it was not to be opened for fifty years following his death.’ Viggo shrugged. ‘And he died on the nineteenth of December 1974, aged seventy-nine. So here we are.’
Darcy tried to come up with a reason why 1923 would have been a notable date in Trier’s life. Her Children was completed and sold...He had been on the cusp of leaving Copenhagen as the work dried up...Lilja and Casper were dead, of course.
‘What is the bequest – letters? Sketches?’ she asked.
‘No one knows,’ he shrugged. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough.’ He looked across at her, changing the subject. ‘...I’ve missed you this week.’
It was a simple statement but Darcy crumpled at it, dropping her head. ‘I’m sorry, Viggo. I haven’t been avoiding you .’
‘Oh, I know.’ He watched her, seeing how she fiddled with her fingers. ‘...It must have been quite a showdown between you both—’
Darcy looked up at the comment. What exactly did Viggo know about what had happened? And how did he know it had been between her and Max?
‘I didn’t expect him to react like this.’
She swallowed. ‘Like what?’
‘I thought he’d dig his heels in harder. Normally he likes the fight. I assumed you would be the last person he wanted to see this – but bringing you here was his idea.’
‘He wanted me to know about the bequest?’
‘Seemingly so.’
She frowned. ‘Does Helle know?’
‘By good fortune, she’s skiing with her family in Sweden now. Max assured her he’d oversee this in her absence. He’s the family’s representative, not just a corporate lawyer.’
Darcy was quiet for a moment. If that was so, she couldn’t understand why – having tried deflection and distraction strategies for all this time – he should suddenly choose to bring her in on this. Johan Trier had been both a friend and a foe to the Madsen family, so who knew what they were going to discover here today? Max knew she already knew enough about their complicity in Lilja’s death to besmirch the family’s good name. Was this the white flag of surrender? Or a favour he would somehow call in?
‘...How long have you known about it?’
‘Oh, decades.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘Officially, since Trier died and the bequest was revealed during the reading of his will. Unofficially, since 1961.’
Darcy blinked. Officially? Unofficially? The date registered with her. ‘1961 was when the Madsen Foundation was formed, wasn’t it?’
‘Correct. It’s also when Arne Saalbach died.’
‘Arne?’
‘Yes. And when he died, he left a letter for Frederik Madsen, revealing his relationship with Lilja and his paternity of Emme.’
‘He confessed it?’ Darcy’s eyes widened. ‘And you knew?’ It stung that Viggo had kept this from her when he knew how relevant it was to her research. She had discovered the truth of Arne and Lilja’s relationship herself, the hard way.
‘If Helle had had her way, once you identified Lilja, I wouldn’t have let you down the stairs, Darcy. But I made it clear to her that I would do my job with you, as I would for anyone else. I would assist without leading.’
Darcy bit her lip, knowing it was a fair position to have taken; they had both been trapped in a power struggle between more powerful figures. She nodded in acceptance. ‘Why did he wait until after he died to publicly claim her?’ she asked instead.
‘Partly because when both Lilja and Casper died, he found he couldn’t actually prove he was her father. Back in the 1920s, it wasn’t like it is now – sending off a hair from a comb in the post. Not to mention, he would have had no rights, certainly no power, against a family with resources like theirs. If the Madsens had known Casper wasn’t the father, they might have disinherited the child. And if they’d known Arne was the father, they could have sacked him – and his parents – and taken Emme away...Whatever they liked.’ He shrugged. ‘He was in an impossible position.’
‘So, what did happen?’
‘With all the notoriety around Lilja and Casper’s deaths, it was agreed the Saalbachs would raise Emme at Solvtraeer, “out of the way”. But in truth, neither Lotte nor Frederik had much interest in their orphaned niece.’
‘So Emme ended up being raised by her own father and grandparents anyway?’
‘Yes. It worked to their advantage to simply continue as the faithful servants.’
Darcy gasped at their audacity and sheer good luck. ‘And the Madsens never suspected?’
‘They had no reason to. Arne hid all evidence of his relationship with Lilja. He only held onto the clays she had made of him, and no one guessed they were of him. And by the time he passed away, Emme was grown and had made a good marriage; she had already come into her inheritance at twenty-one. Arne’s own parents were long since dead by then, so they faced no repercussions.’
‘So he wrote the letter as an official act of claiming her as his?’
‘Yes. Every father desires that. It was important to him to have it on record, if not publicly then at least with the family that had destroyed the woman he loved. An act of revenge, perhaps.’
‘But it was still risky, surely? If Emme was revealed as not being a Madsen by blood, they could have revoked her inheritance.’
‘Not without having to explain why. The sensation around the Hornbaek deaths was still fresh enough for many in polite society, even as late as 1961.’
Darcy absorbed all this, remembering how Max had told her most of the family fortune had been diverted to his cousins but for the country house, and some shares and honorary positions within the company. Their branch of the family – the illegitimate line – had been as disinherited as far as was possible without attracting public notice.
In the wake of such tragedy, she would have thought it almost impossible that happiness could flourish for Arne and his secret daughter again; and yet, somehow, it had. Quietly, out of sight and out of mind. ‘It’s nice to think Emme got to grow up there, in the place where her mother was so happy.’
‘Yes. Emme lived her whole life at Solvtraeer. She was married there, had her son...’
‘I saw her wedding photograph when I was up there.’
‘And did you see how Arne honoured Lilja’s memory?...He planted all the flower beds full of lilies. He never loved anyone else after her.’
She gave a quizzical smile. ‘Viggo, how do you know all this about Emme?’
‘It’s in her diaries.’
Darcy blinked. She had never got that far along – and likely never would have, either. She had made the mistake of assuming that Lilja’s story had ended with Lilja’s death.
‘So then Arne’s revelations...’ she mused, coming back to their original point.
Viggo chuckled. ‘Came as quite a shock to the old boy, yes; Fred Madsen was in his late seventies by then, but he was still a shrewd operator. He immediately understood the damage that would be done to the family name if the truth were to come out about Emme’s parentage – it would lead straight back to Lilja’s death and Casper’s culpability. Business had to be seen to continue as usual.’
Seen? Darcy’s eyes narrowed at the semantic hedging. ‘What does that mean?’
‘In the letter, Arne revealed his affair with Lilja – but also how he had concealed it from them for all those years. The night Casper died was chaotic; the family were already en route, travelling up to Hornbaek, having been in Sweden when Lilja had drowned. Arne realized they had to get any and all evidence of the affair out of the house before the family arrived.’
‘They?’ She looked at him, understanding suddenly that Arne hadn’t acted alone. ‘And the portrait would have revealed the affair?’
‘Supposedly she had written an inscription on the back of it. Trier only remembered it was still drying in his studio after the police had arrived when Casper was found dead. He concealed it in the back of Her Children and sealed it. He had promised the painting to Bertram, of course, but the next day, a German tourist visited the gardens and he sold it to him to get it off the estate, right under the police’s noses.’
This, Darcy knew, was the apparent betrayal that had ended Trier’s lucrative relationship with the Madsens.
‘And Arne’s letter told them all this?’
‘Not exactly. He was careful not to specify which painting it was hidden behind; that would have been an unwarranted kindness, telling them exactly where to look. He only said that it was hidden in the back of one of Trier’s paintings.’
Viggo arched an eyebrow at Arne’s sly game.
‘So that’s why the Foundation was set up right after his death – they’ve been assiduously buying the entire Trier portfolio, trying to find it.’ Darcy’s brain was working at triple speed. ‘But surely they must have suspected it was in the back of Her Children – given it was what Trier was working on at the time?’
‘Of course. They just couldn’t be certain.’
It accounted for their aggression, though, trying to acquire it, she thought to herself.
‘Remember, they were only learning all this forty years later. Who, by then, could say with any real certainty what other works had been in the studio at the same time?’
‘Wow,’ she murmured. ‘Revenge really is a dish best served cold.’ For the past sixty years, the family that had covered up Lilja’s death had been scrabbling to keep their tracks hidden. They’d spent tens of millions on the hunt for the portrait, only to have to stand on the sidelines as it was finally found and she, of all people, was drafted in.
Had they underestimated her? Darcy remembered Helle’s cold, assessing stare at the National Gallery drinks reception – clearly trying to decide whether Darcy was a threat. She remembered how Max, too, had hung back, holding back his personal inclinations as he realized the role she was about to play in his life. She remembered the stunned look on his face as they had found the necklace and first uttered Lilja’s name. He must have realized that from there it was a game of dominoes...It was why they’d come in so hard, so fast, on the threats of legal action. Desperate bullying in the hopes of a quick surrender.
‘And so now we’re here for the unsealing of Johan Trier’s bequest,’ she said. ‘Is it a letter admitting what he did and where he hid the portrait?’
Viggo shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, that Trier helped Arne that night?...Don’t you think it’s slightly curious that he chose helping the Saalbachs over his patrons?’
‘Yes. I think it’s very curious. I’ve often wondered about it.’
Darcy looked back at him, the keeper of secrets. For four generations, the Madsens had been bracing for a bomb to go off, the family forced into a waiting game, counting down the years, hours and minutes for this bequest to be unsealed. It was finally happening – and yet Max had invited her to watch?
‘Apologies for the wait,’ the librarian said, drawing her from her thoughts as he came back in with a black folio box and wearing white protection gloves. ‘...So here were are.’
He opened the box and lifted out a brown package, wrapped and sealed with fine steel straps. Beneath it was a small cream envelope, with handwriting in black ink: Bequest of Johan Trier, January 1923 . Darcy recognized his sloppy cursive, but this looked especially dashed and urgent.
Darcy watched, her breath held as the librarian opened the letter. She thought he might read it out loud, but after glancing at it, he simply laid it flat on the table.
Viggo and Darcy immediately leaned in to read.
Enclosed here the diary of Johan Trier. I swear on my honour that everything written in these pages is a true and honest account of events as I witnessed and experienced them. Strictly not to be opened till fifty years to the day of my death.
Witnessed?
Viggo and Darcy swapped glances as the librarian clipped off the security straps with wire clippers. Darcy had to remind herself to breathe as he slipped the diary out of the envelope onto his palm: it was burgundy tooled leather, like all the others.
Innocuous. For a bomb.
For several moments everyone just looked at it as it was set down on the table. Johan Trier’s 1922 diary. The one she hadn’t been able to find in the archives.
‘May we...?’ Viggo asked.
‘By all means,’ the librarian shrugged, oblivious to the significance of what he had handled. ‘I’ll be just outside if you require assistance.’
They watched him go in silence.
Viggo touched the cover lightly before thumbing through into January. He began to read aloud: ‘The first day of the year, and already I am made melancholy by the northern light...’
He looked up at Darcy. They were both far too familiar with the artist’s grumblings, and it wasn’t his life they were interested in.
‘Go straight to August,’ Darcy urged.
Carefully, Viggo flicked through the pages to September, then leafed back carefully towards the date Lilja had died – but even at a high-level glance, they could see the artist’s distinctive sloping scrawl had, in these entries, become smaller, denser, more tightly bunched.
Panic.
Trauma.
‘Ready?’ Viggo asked, smoothing the page flat.
Darcy nodded, taking a deep breath, as together they leaned forward and began to read.