Free Rachael's Gift by Alexandra Cameron Page B

Linz museum, Goering’s personal collection, decorated state offices or, if considered degenerate, were used for exchange or sold at auction. Neighbours, domestic staff and art dealers who knew the whereabouts of important collections became informants. Opportunists were born – carpetbaggers: people who made money out of war. But really, who knew why people did the things they did? Greed. Desperation. Cowardice.
    I had a series of reference books on the subject stored on my iPad and began to reread them, looking for clues.
    My BlackBerry pinged. It was Monica from the Courtauld Institute in London.
Very hard to decipher due to faded quality but one stamp looks to be École des Beaux-Arts in Paris – see comparisons attached. Still working on the second one. Sorry can’t be more help. Hope all well. Must run. MP. Xx
    You’re up late!
I replied.
Thank you – you’ve been amazing! x
    Monica confirmed what the catalogue raisonné had said – although it wasn’t a new lead, it was one less to follow up.
     
    *
    That night I dreamt of La Roche Guilbeault. The chateau, the sprawling gardens, everything was as it had been when I’d stayed there, and I was young again. I walked through the manicured garden, so closely shaved it might have bled, and stood before the mural on the north-facing wall. It was an image of an iron gate that led to another garden – a wild garden, where exotic flowers grew year round and one could become lost in their velvet colours. Thorns as sharp as scythes and rose petals like the cushion of an open heart – so darkly crimson I thought I could smell them. It was not unlike the rainforests of my childhood.
    Lucien stood facing the wall, the legs of his trousers protruding beneath his heavy winter coat. He was painting and drew the fine tip of his brush along the edge of an unfinished petal. I couldn’t see his face.
    ‘Lucien,’ I said, but he didn’t hear me. ‘Lucien,’ I called again, but he remained frozen. I went to tug at his sleeve, but then my grandmother appeared, holding me back with her sharp nails. She kissed me three times on each cheek. Her skin had the touch of a bird’s feather and her shoulders were as frail. Then she smiled and her skin cracked into a thousand pieces.
    I woke up with a start; it must have been around three a.m. I lay blinking at the mushroom-shadowed ceiling.
    A rose.
    A rose the colour of blood on her fingers. When she touches it, her fingers bleed. She raises them to her lips, but instead of blood she tastes the bitter root of the rose madder tree. The paint is still wet where the hog’s hair of his brush have left their delicate strokes, before the sun has gone down and he can no longer work in the dark. She sees the outline of the petals glinting in the darkening shadow of dusk – so real, she wants to pluck it from the wall and take it with her. From her bedroom window, she watches him paint. The concentration on his face as he wields the brush, his back arching as he reaches the furthest edges of the mural, his torso stretching across the acres of diminishing garden, revealing the illusion at its heart: he can go no further than the wall itself, but his mind, his talent, his mystery, can go on forever.

Wolfe
    The morning lulled in a dead wind, lazy and hot. I cut the engine in the drive; Rach grabbed her board out of the tray. Mr Brown walked in circles, sniffed at the air and raised his leg to pee on the grass. There was a strange smell about, possibly a neighbour burning off. I leant my board up against the wall next to hers and took the bag of croissants we’d bought inside.
    I put the kettle on and laid the croissants on a plate. I spotted the letter we’d left lying on the table from yesterday – another one from the school. Christ, we were in this thing whether we liked it or not. I re-read it.
     
    Dear Mr and Mrs Larkin,
    . . . Since Ms Larkin has not made a statement to the police, we have been given clearance to begin our own