The House with Nine Locks, page 20
With love,
Mama
TWENTY-NINE
It took three weeks for the medical examiner to complete his report, and it was not until then that the funeral arrangements could be finalised. He found a concentration of alcohol in Lennart de Wolf’s blood of 0.12 grams per litre, quite enough to have affected his balance. His death was ruled an accident. The funeral service went ahead in late August.
Adelais did not feel like company. Alone in the house, she occupied the hours cleaning, starting in the attic and working down. She tidied up her room, ignoring the impulse to leave it as her father had, her books and clothes scattered across the floor. Stripping the sheets off her parents’ bed brought a lump to her throat. Their musty scent reminded her of childhood, of days that would never come again. The sight of the bare mattress was bleak and final. She had to close the door.
She avoided her father’s workshop for as long as she could. She did not want to look at his empty chair, his workbench, his things – none of them needed any more. She preferred to imagine him in there, working, a magnifying glass screwed into his eye, humming to himself as he used to. Unfortunately, her father’s remaining customers started telephoning after a while. Adelais had to tell them to come and pick up their clocks, because the clock mender was dead. Some of them had heard already. Gradually the workshop emptied of timepieces, until there were none left but some broken watches and a pair of wall clocks that had been unclaimed for years.
Three generations of de Wolfs had been laid to rest at the Campo Santo Cemetery on the north side of Sint-Amandsberg. Lennart’s plot had been reserved years ago. Besides the headstone, that left the coffin, the flowers and the pall-bearers to be paid for.
The funeral director, Mr Heirwegh, did not waste time describing the more expensive options. ‘The Swedish pine is very popular,’ he said, showing Adelais a black-and-white photograph in a printed brochure. The coffin was pale and had straight sides like a shoebox. Just underneath the photograph, in small type, was written: BEF1200. Handles extra.
‘Now don’t worry, my dear.’ Mr Heirwegh smiled in a way that was meant to be reassuring, but which merely showed off his gold teeth. ‘We can assist in an application to a church charity, if funds are a concern. We know them very well. And I understand your mother did a great deal of good work in the parish.’
Adelais nodded.
‘And there are the civic authorities, although between you and me …’ Mr Heirwegh lowered his voice. ‘… I wouldn’t turn to them except as a last resort.’
Mr Heirwegh had been well briefed. He knew that Lennart de Wolf had been a drunk, that his wife had run away, that his daughter was, in effect, an orphan with no obvious means of support. He probably assumed the de Wolf girl was destined for the street, or to be a rich man’s mistress, provided he could overlook her bad leg. It would have surprised him to learn that she had a numbered account at a private bank in Luxembourg. Adelais would have liked to see his face.
She handed back the brochure. ‘What else do you have?’
Adelais opted for a cherry-wood casket with brass handles and a bouquet of white lilies for the top. Together with the hire of a horse-drawn hearse, the cost came to seven thousand francs. She paid the first two thousand in cash on the spot, which seemed to quell any doubts Mr Heirwegh might have had about accepting her business.
From the undertaker’s, Adelais took a tram back to Volderstraat, where she had once spent the best part of an hour buying napkin rings. She went up to the ladieswear department in the Grand Bazaar and picked out a black velvet dress with long sleeves and a bow at the neck. She bought black stockings, a pair of black shoes, and a hat with a veil. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she could not help reflecting that she looked good in them. Black suited her. It seemed to set off her blonde hair – except that her hair was a mess. After she had paid for the clothes, she found a hairdresser and had it cut.
Father de Winter, dressed in purple vestments, presided over the funeral Mass. Adelais sat alone at the front of the church, the other mourners behind her. More people had turned up than she had expected. She glimpsed the Wouters family, Dr Helsen with Saskia, a couple of veterans from the archery club, a cousin and his wife from Maldegem, and several of her mother’s charitable ladies. She knew what they must be thinking: where was Mrs de Wolf? Why was her mother not there? During a pause in the proceedings, she heard someone whisper Africa. She was glad. If they already knew, there would be no need to ask her.
Adelais listened to Father de Winter reciting the liturgy and felt nothing, only that she wanted the service to be over. His eulogy had the same effect. It seemed to be something he had taken from a book. Nothing he said truly applied to her father, except a long and tortured metaphor about clock-mending and eternal life.
After the final prayers, the pall-bearers picked up the coffin and carried it out of the church. Father de Winter followed the coffin and Adelais followed him. It was only when they reached the end of the aisle that she saw Sebastian Pieters. His mother was standing beside him, dressed elegantly as ever, but looking older than Adelais remembered her. Sebastian looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie, his hands clenched together in front of him. He tugged at his collar as Adelais approached. She had seen him do the same thing at the opera house. She had to hide a smile.
A westerly wind was blowing through the cemetery, carrying the sound of locomotives from the nearby freight yards. At the interment Father de Winter’s voice sounded small, his words insignificant. Adelais watched the coffin being lowered into the hard ground. The cherry wood was rich and lustrous, the handles gleaming – everything new, like the lilies lying on top: the beginning of something, not the end. That was the promise, it seemed to her, or the pretence. But her father was dead and all his dreams had died with him, and she did not believe, as she walked from the grave, that she would meet him again in heaven, or anywhere else.
After condolences had been offered, Dr Helsen offered her a lift back to Schoolstraat, but it was only one kilometre away and Adelais said she’d prefer to walk.
‘You don’t want to be on your own now, do you?’ Saskia said.
‘Just for a bit.’
‘We could go to the pictures later, if you like.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll see what’s on and call you.’
When the Helsens had gone, Sebastian came over.
‘How did you know?’ she said, after he had kissed her on the cheek.
‘My mother.’ He nodded towards the gates of the cemetery, where Mrs Pieters was deep in conversation with Father de Winter. ‘She reads the notices in the newspaper religiously. Never likes to miss a good death …’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry, I—’
‘It’s all right. It’s good of you to come.’
He smiled. ‘Are you all right? You look … amazing, actually – I mean, considering the—’
‘You could have left it at amazing, but thanks.’
They started walking.
‘Will you be all right?’ he said. ‘You know, money-wise? I heard—’ He checked himself again. Adelais could imagine what he had heard. When it came to news of other people’s vices, Ghent turned out to be a smaller town than she had ever realised.
‘I’m fine. You don’t have to worry. What about you? How’s Antwerp?’
They had exchanged the occasional letter, but it was more than two years since they had seen each other. For a long time, she had preferred it that way.
Sebastian shrugged. ‘They’re working me hard, long hours and not much time off, but, you know, I’m learning a lot. It’ll work out eventually.’
‘Are you still seeing that girl, Marie-Astrid?’
They were halfway along the east wall of the cemetery, shaded by a line of plane trees. It came to Adelais that it was getting on for eight years since Sebastian had ridden his bicycle off the quayside into the River Leie.
‘You won’t believe it, but we’re engaged.’
‘What?’ Adelais stopped.
‘I was going to write and tell you, but then this happened and I didn’t think you’d—’
‘Engaged, that’s … that’s wonderful.’ Adelais walked on, faster. ‘Congratulations, Sebastian. I didn’t know things had … That’s great news.’
‘I’m sorry to … Today of all days.’
‘It’s fine. I’m happy for you, both of you. When’s the big day?’
‘Next spring sometime. It’s not decided. I’ll let you know, of course.’ Sebastian was tugging at his collar again. ‘It’s a shame you and Marie-Astrid didn’t get a chance to … You’d like her. You’d be friends, I’m sure.’
‘I remember her very well.’ They had reached the main road. It ran all the way to Antwerp and bore the city’s name. ‘She gave me some good advice. I’ve never forgotten it. Now undo that top button before it chokes you.’
Sebastian took up her suggestion. A few of the other mourners were following on behind them. The rest had already disappeared.
‘There was something else in the paper,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you saw it.’
‘Saw what?’
Sebastian looked away up the road. ‘The countess’s hunting lodge, they’re going to auction it, the city council, I mean. They had plans for it, apparently, but they kept falling through. So it’s going to be sold, along with a lot of land they don’t want. The auction’s tomorrow, I think.’
For Adelais it was one more loss, one more piece of her past falling away. But not the biggest, she told herself – the least of them, in fact: a dream of no consequence that the two of them had happened to share. She could as easily picture somewhere else when she pictured happiness.
‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ she said. ‘I hate to think what state it’s in by now.’
‘You’re right, I suppose. It was bound to be sold sooner or later.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘And it was never going to happen, was it, the hotel and everything? If we’re being realistic.’ Sebastian lowered his gaze and kicked the ground. ‘Still, we had some good times there, didn’t we?’
Adelais watched Mrs Pieters approach. She was coming to claim her son.
Saskia decided they should see Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, even though it was showing at the Rex, which was down by the station and further than they usually liked to go. They had already seen Ben-Hur and she must have thought a giant angry woman was the only other thing spectacular enough to keep Adelais’s mind off the day gone by. It worked. With all the screaming and destruction, as the rampaging giant hunted for her unfaithful husband in her tattered underwear, it was hard to think about anything else.
The next morning, Adelais got up early, put on her black dress and took a tram to the centre of the city. The offices of the city council were on the Botermarkt, in a grand old building with tall windows and rows of black columns on the lower storeys. At the front desk, she asked where the auction of council property was taking place and at what time.
THIRTY
They rode out towards Laarne on the scooter. It took less than fifteen minutes from Schoolstraat. Adelais did not tell Saskia where they were going or why.
‘Good, I like surprises,’ Saskia had said, as they were swapping seats.
They rode through the countryside at speed. It had been sunny in the morning, but by the time they reached the hunting lodge the sky had clouded over. Since Adelais’s last visit, the ivy that was wrapped around the gates had been hacked down. In its place, a sign had appeared, reading KEEP OUT next to a silhouette of a dog’s head.
Saskia peered through the bars at the overgrown driveway. ‘Who on earth lives here? Sleeping Beauty?’ That summer they had seen the Disney cartoon at the Capitole, twice.
‘You’ll see.’
Saskia examined the padlock and chain that still secured the gates. ‘Not unless you’ve a hacksaw, or a magic spell.’
Adelais reached into her shoulder bag. ‘Or a key.’
She opened the padlock and removed the chain. The gates swung open with a mournful whine worthy of a B-movie horror. She climbed back on the scooter. ‘Come on.’
‘What about the dog?’ Saskia said.
‘There is no dog.’
The house looked much the same from the outside, except that another window had been boarded up and scaffolding covered part of the roof. The air was clinging and heavy, laced with sickly smells of decay coming from the woods. They walked around the terrace and then into the garden at the back, Saskia playing along, waiting to be told what it all meant.
‘It was built by a countess,’ Adelais said, ‘for parties. She was famous for them.’
‘My kind of girl,’ Saskia said.
‘Let’s have a look inside.’ Adelais had two more keys for the front door. They crossed the hallway and climbed up the grand staircase.
‘It’d be a nice old place, if it was done up,’ Saskia said. ‘Pity it’s a ruin.’
‘It’s not a ruin. Structurally it’s sound. Once the roof’s been repaired, it’s mainly plaster and paint. Some windows might need replacing, and I expect the drains—’
‘All right. What’s this about? How do you know all this? How do you have keys?’
They had stopped outside the ballroom. Adelais opened the doors. ‘You like it, don’t you, the house?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘I bought it.’
‘What?’
‘At auction. The city council were selling it off. There wasn’t much interest, actually. Mostly people wanted the land – farmers, I suppose.’
‘How much?’
‘It had a really low reserve price and I didn’t bid much more than that.’
‘How much?’
Adelais dabbed at the parquet floor with her stick. ‘All of it, pretty much. Yours and mine. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’
Saskia walked away across the ballroom without saying anything. She was angry, of course, furious. She had every right to be. She should have been consulted, at the very least. If there had been time, Adelais would have consulted her – except that Saskia would have said no. No, was the realistic response.
She was standing by the windows. ‘This is the hotel your friend wanted to open, isn’t it? I remember you told me about it.’
‘Sebastian found the place. It was his idea, but he’s gone now. I can do it without him. Or we can.’
Saskia went through into the adjoining room, taking in the elegant plasterwork and the classical lines. ‘How are you going to explain the money? A girl from Sint-Amandsberg who used to work in a bar? No one will believe it.’
‘My great-aunt Magdalena in Luxembourg, she left me everything in her will. A rich eccentric. I’m working on the story.’
‘There’ll need to be more than a story.’
‘I’ll get more.’
Saskia shook her head. She was going to walk away, or insist that Adelais cancel the purchase before the money changed hands. Renovating an old hunting lodge, starting a hotel, that was hard work, not her idea of fun. Adelais had hoped she might see things differently once she saw the place. She realised now that wasn’t going to happen.
Saskia had reached the west-facing salon next to the ballroom. ‘This is where you’d put the roulette table. Maybe two of them.’
‘Roulette tables?’
‘That’s how you’d make this pay. A licence to print money, remember?’ Saskia laughed. ‘Like having your own bank. You couldn’t lose.’
Adelais saw it now: Saskia had been thinking about casinos ever since their trip to Luxembourg: well-heeled people, exchanging cash for chips, and chips for cash, and losing plenty in between. ‘There won’t be gambling here. It’s not allowed.’
‘Not without a licence. We could get one. Another draw for the tourists they’re so desperate for.’
Adelais did not know what to think. Gambling had never been part of the dream, not the dream she had shared with Sebastian, but she was already beginning to see how it might work.
Saskia walked back into the ballroom. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. It was how she had looked when she first saw one of Adelais’s forgeries: a world of illicit possibilities opening up.
‘So …?’
‘I have one condition,’ Saskia said.
‘Name it.’
‘Whatever happens, whatever we do here, we keep Sebastian Pieters out of it. Agreed?’
The Countess
THIRTY-ONE
Brussels, Spring 1960
At the end of March, Major de Smet received a copy of the report from the Currency Management Department at the National Bank of Belgium. He immediately took it up to the operations room on the top floor of Federal Police Headquarters, ignoring the telephone ringing on his desk.
The report was twenty pages long and consisted mostly of data arranged in tables. It was written in French. A label stuck to the cover read ‘Translation on Request’. De Smet flipped to the summary on the last page. It was signed by Monsieur Etienne, the chef de département adjoint. In the twelve months to December, it said, 2,407 high-quality counterfeit notes, with a notional value of BEF1,203,500 had been identified by the central bank and destroyed. The condition of the notes covered the full range, from pristine to badly damaged.
It is clear that many of these notes have been in circulation for a considerable period, certainly several years. As such, many are likely to have passed undetected through the retail banking system at various times. On the other hand, the high incidence of freshly printed notes, suggests that this particular counterfeiting operation is not only continuing, but has increased the pace of its activities.
Taking into account these factors, and assuming that the deterioration rates of legitimate and counterfeit currency are comparable, the Bank estimates that when it comes to counterfeit notes of this quality, the number recovered account for between a quarter and a third of the total in circulation.
