Prologue

Eve

Nice, June 1946

I arrived at the Villa des Cygnes at what they call on the C?te d’Azur the ‘Magical Hour’. That time of the evening when the sun sinks over the Baie des Anges, the sky turns pink and gold, and the sea darkens to a deep shade of purple. From the height of Mont Boron, I could take in the sweeping expanse of the Mediterranean, the picturesque harbour and terracotta rooftops of Nice. But one doesn’t stop to admire the view when one’s father’s life is at stake.

What I did notice as my fingers gripped the locked iron gates to the garden was the dilapidated condition of what must have once been a grand house: a Neo-Pompeian style summer residence. The pink stucco was crumbling in places, and the Rococo balustrading that surrounded the rooftop terrace looked as if it might disintegrate and come crashing to the ground at any minute. My gaze travelled to the statues of Greek gods and goddesses that stood on either side of the overgrown path. Under the circumstances, their blank stares were unnerving, as was the Medusa mascaron situated above the villa’s entrance door. My heart beat fast against my rib cage and my hand trembled as I pressed the buzzer near the gate. No sound emitted from it and I wondered if it could only be heard inside the house.

I looked desperately around for any sign of life. I had no evidence, only a hunch, that Kristina Belova might have returned to the villa. But what would I do if she wasn’t here? My mind flashed to my father held in a lice-infested cell in Fresnes prison, chains around his wrists and ankles. When there was no response to my second press of the buzzer, I stepped back and considered how I might hoist myself over the gates. Before I had to think too much further, the front door opened and the stooped figure of a man appeared. His black butler’s uniform hung off his skeletal frame and his face was so pale it was almost ghoulish in the fading daylight. I shivered slightly when he shuffled down the path towards me. But as soon as he drew close, I could see that he was no apparition, he was simply ancient. At least ninety years of age.

‘Can I help you, mademoiselle?’ he asked, in the breathless voice of a man of failing health.

‘I am Eve Archer. I’m here to see Madame Bergeret,’ I said, using Kristina Belova’s married name.

The butler looked taken aback. ‘Has she invited you?’

‘I sent a telegram and didn’t receive a reply. I’ve come all the way from Paris.’

He touched his breast pocket, but then seemed to think better of it. ‘Madame Bergeret doesn’t wish to see anybody.’

The way his gaze shifted, I sensed that what he said was only a half-truth. I thought of the painting that had turned up at the H?tel Drouot auction. Kristina was working again, and someone had put her artwork on the market. So why would she not wish to see anyone? I was prepared to talk to her through a crack in the door if she preferred. But talk to her I must.

‘Please, I must see her. It’s about Serge Lavertu. He’s in grave danger.’

My father’s name seemed to startle the butler like an electric shock. ‘Serge Lavertu? He’s alive?’

Something wasn’t right. Did this man not read the newspapers? If he had, he would have known my father was indeed alive, but not for much longer if the Ministry of Justice had its way. It was either going to be the guillotine for a double murder or the firing squad for a war crime. Unless I could persuade Kristina Belova to come to Paris to testify on his behalf, my father was doomed.

‘Yes, he is alive,’ I said. ‘Please, I need to speak to Madame Bergeret tonight.’

The butler’s gaze travelled to my small suitcase. It would have been more prudent for me to have found a hotel in town and come to the villa in the morning, but my panic had made me act in haste. After another pause, he reached for the key in his pocket and opened the gate.

‘I am Lorenzo Amato,’ he said, with the pride of an Italian manservant who takes his role seriously. ‘Follow exactly in my footsteps. The garden is booby-trapped.’

Then, to illustrate his point he indicated a large pile of rubble that once might have been an outbuilding. ‘The Germans took over the villa in 1943 and left it mined when they retreated,’ he explained. ‘After the liberation, a looter decided to use the toilet in the guest quarters. He pulled the chain and “boom!” – the building collapsed on him.’

I flinched. The newspapers were full of descriptions of hapless people who had set off undetected mines simply by turning on a light switch or straightening a painting.

‘And the house? Is the house clear?’

We reached the front door and Lorenzo opened it, ushering me into the entrance hall. ‘It was cleared by the British. They think they got everything... well, except the cellar. But nobody goes down there anymore.’

A fluttering sound made me look upwards through the middle of a grand spiral staircase. Straight above us was a hole that tore right through the ceiling and roof. Black specks that I recognised as bats circled overhead. The rest of the hall looked as rundown as the exterior of the house with a broken chandelier and peeling paint.

Lorenzo put my suitcase down and indicated for me to sit on a sofa carved with so many laurels, medallions and rosettes, it could have come straight from the Tsar’s winter palace, although the ivory silk upholstery had seen better days before it had been attacked by moths.

‘Now we wait,’ he said, turning on a floor lamp and sitting down next to me.

He drummed his fingers on his lap and looked about him as if we were two people on a bench expecting a bus.

I anticipated some explanation for his odd behaviour, but when none was forthcoming the tension grew too great for me. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked.

He pointed to the second floor. ‘When the light fades completely, Madame Bergeret will stop painting. She will take some tea while I prepare supper. I have the samovar boiling now.’

While it wasn’t unusual for an artist to be disciplined about her work, something about the degree of orderliness felt odd. It was beginning to dawn on me that Kristina, as well as Lorenzo, might not have much contact with the outside world. Perhaps it explained why she hadn’t come running to my father’s aid herself.

Lorenzo must have noticed the look of consternation on my face. ‘It is not Madame Bergeret’s natural temperament to be so particular about time,’ he explained. ‘She was always the loveliest and most accommodating of people. Keeping strict time is her way of coping. The war has affected us all.’

I shifted in my seat. It was true that Kristina had suffered tragedies of her own. ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.

My sympathy seemed to make Lorenzo warm to me a little more. ‘I have served the Belov family for nearly sixty years,’ he said. ‘I was first hired by Madame Bergeret’s grandfather. I’ve known her since she was a baby. Now I am all she has left.’ He sighed. ‘And I am such an old man.’

The remaining daylight suddenly dimmed as if someone had switched off a light. The tinkle of a little bell sounded from upstairs.

‘Excuse me,’ said Lorenzo, rising. ‘Please wait for me here.’

He disappeared into another room for a few minutes, returning with a tray and some tea things and an oil lantern.

‘This way, Mademoiselle Archer,’ he said, leading the way up the stairs slowly. Despite his unsteady gait he did not grab the balustrade but carried the tray with as straight a posture as he could muster and with a sense of dignity that was striking. I got the impression that he lived for this moment each day.

On the upper floor was a large room lit by a row of sconces down one side. From the frescoes on the ceiling and the French doors that opened onto a balcony, it might once have been a ballroom. Propped up on the floor, tables and chairs, were dozens of paintings of all sizes, colours and configurations. They sat among piles of books, newspapers, and an array of objects including a carousel horse and a broken violin. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but I thought I caught sight of a tiny caramel rabbit hopping from behind one painting to another. The clutter seemed at odds with Kristina Belova’s organised schedule.

Lorenzo put the tray down on a side table. Thinking that we were alone in the studio, and that Kristina must be coming to join us from somewhere else in the house, I stepped closer to study a portrait of a man with black hair brushed away from his handsome face. He seemed familiar to me, and then I remembered I’d seen him in another portrait in my father’s art gallery. He was Max, Serge’s business partner and Kristina’s husband.

A sudden tingle ran down my spine, alerting me to the fact that we weren’t alone in the room after all. Lorenzo cleared his throat. I turned, and for the first time noticed the tall woman with her back to us. She was cleaning paintbrushes in a bowl of water. Her platinum-blonde hair hung down her back in a loose plait. All of a sudden, she turned and looked over her shoulder. Had she felt my stare at her back? Her gaze settled on me, and my breath caught in my throat.

‘Madame Bergeret,’ said Lorenzo, ‘may I present to you Mademoiselle Archer.’

I was struck instantly by Kristina’s large blue eyes, the sparkling type that looked as if they had pieces of the stars in them. She was even more beautiful than she appeared in her self-portraits. Maturity had given her face character, and the lines around her eyes and mouth accentuated her sculpted features. For someone who had been in a death camp, she looked remarkably healthy. It was both a surprise and a relief.

Despite my best intentions of approaching the pressing subject with care, I gushed, ‘I have heard so much about you, Madame Bergeret. I’ve come because Serge Lavertu urgently needs your help.’

I did not refer to Serge as my father – that was a secret I didn’t share with anybody. Even Serge himself did not know it.

Kristina studied me intently. ‘Yes?’

A queer feeling clenched my stomach. ‘Serge Lavertu,’ I repeated. ‘Your art dealer. Your friend.’

She glanced uncertainly at Lorenzo.

‘Serge Lavertu,’ he said slowly, announcing every syllable carefully. ‘He is alive. It is wonderful news!’

Kristina seemed to be on the verge of smiling but then her face twitched. For one dark moment I thought that some deception might be taking place. Perhaps she did not want to be associated with an art dealer who had allegedly sold a French national treasure to Hitler. But then I noticed the look of genuine struggle in her eyes.

I turned to Lorenzo. With an awful, tragic fatalism, the old man shook his head.

I looked back to Kristina whose eyes glistened with tears. ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Archer. You see... I don’t quite remember Serge Lavertu.’

She bowed her head by way of apology and then I saw it. The missing patch of hair above her ear and the jagged scar that ran across her exposed skin. Kristina had incurred some sort of head injury.

I felt the blood draining from my face as the terrible truth dawned on me. The only chance I had to save my father had gone terribly wrong. How much can one’s circumstances change in a mere thirty days? Only a month ago my life had felt wonderful. After years of struggle, I had been on the pathway to success. How smug I had felt on the morning of Lucile’s birthday party. How excited I’d been about the day ahead. If I had only known what trouble had been heading my way, I might not have got out of bed at all.