Read sample The Carlswick Affair

Prologue

The clock in the old tower chimed eight times and fell silent. The neoclassical building was in darkness, except for a pool of light emanating from a single lamp burning in the curator’s office.

A loud pounding on the front doors echoed through the stillness of the night. Karl Hoffman was startled and jumped up from his desk. Who could it be at this hour?

The pounding sounded again, louder and this time accompanied by shouting: “By order of the Führer, open up!”

“I’m coming,” muttered Hoffman as he hurried down a sweeping staircase to the foyer. The moon shone in through the large picture windows, bathing the foyer in an eerie light. The normally benign marble statues standing in a semi-circle facing the doors, now cast menacing shadows. Hoffman, a short, slightly overweight, balding man in his mid-forties, shuddered and felt his heart racing as he began the process of unlocking the bolts and lifting the heavy metal bar from across the massive wooden doors. Inserting a large metal key in the lock, he had barely finished turning it when the doors were pushed open with such force that he was sent sprawling backwards across the marble floor.

Heavily armed soldiers filed into the foyer and stood to attention as an officer strode in and stood over him.

“Hoffman?” he sneered. He cut an imposing figure in his Nazi uniform. He was over six foot tall, with cropped blond hair protruding from under his peaked cap.

“Yes,” Hoffman replied, the icy hand of fear clutching at his throat. Having your name known by a Nazi officer was never a good thing.

The officer thrust a piece of paper towards him. “I have orders to gather all the remaining Degenerate Art that is in your possession.”

Hoffman scrambled to his feet, sweat beading on his forehead. “Now? At this hour?” he asked.

“Are you questioning an order from our Führer?” the officer shouted as he began to peel off his black leather gloves.

Hoffman held up his hands and took a step backwards eyeing the soldiers’ rifles uneasily. He, like many Germans, had heard the rumours of people who disagreed with a request from Hitler, disappearing, never to be seen again. “No. No—of course not. I am just surprised not to have been given more notice. I have no staff here at this hour to assist.”

“This is why I have brought my men.” The officer smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Now, where are they?” he demanded.

Hoffman ran a hand through his thinning grey hair and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Follow me.” What would they want with the art and why suddenly at this time of night? he wondered.

He led the soldiers down a winding staircase into the depths of the gallery to a large basement room. He paused, unlocking the door.

“Now, which pieces do you require?” He glanced at the document he had been given by the officer. It didn’t specify, it just stated all Degenerate Art still being held at the Nationalgalerie.

“All,” the officer said sharply.

Hoffman stood up straight at the officer’s tone. He wanted to know where the soldiers were taking the artworks, but he was too afraid to ask. A few years earlier, Hitler had labelled all types of modern artistic expression as Degenerate Art, and called any artist who did not have Aryan blood a degenerate. Hitler’s decree of June 1937 had given Goebbels authority to ransack all of the German museums. Along with works by German artists, his team had also scooped up pieces by painters such as Picasso and van Gogh.

“The items in this room are all by lesser known artists and have little value on the international market,” Hoffman said indicating the hundreds of paintings stacked on their ends in rows along the walls. Shelving at the back of the room contained many books and row upon row of bronze and terracotta statues and sculptures, stacked there only because they had been created by Jewish artists.

A wave of nausea passed over him. He recalled the Degenerate Art Exhibition he had seen in Munich in late 1937 where 650 paintings, sculptures, books and prints had been gathered from German museums and were displayed in a way that made a mockery of them. Hitler had called the artists ‘incompetents, cheats and madmen’ and over two million visitors had flocked to see the exhibition that Hitler said showed qualities of ‘racial impurity, mental disease and weakness of character.’

Hoffman prayed that this wasn’t about to happen again. He, like many in the art world, had been horrified to see works by artists such as Chagall, Klee and Mondrian treated in such a dismissive manner. But they had been powerless to stop the exhibition, which had been the brainchild of Hitler himself.

The officer signalled to his men, who pushed past Hoffman into the room and began gathering the paintings and marching back up the stairs to the foyer.

“Careful,” Hoffman couldn’t help but call after them, his curator’s hackles raised at seeing artistic treasures so roughly treated.

The officer gave a nasty laugh. “Oh, you needn’t worry about that.”

The first of the soldiers returned to the room, carrying out more paintings and sculptures. In no time the room was empty.

The officer turned to Hoffman. “Are there any more?”

“Only those being prepared for auction,” Hoffman lied.

The officer studied him. “Very well,” he said, and turned on his heel and marched back up the stairs. Hoffman let out a shaky breath and looked sadly into the empty room before closing the door and following the officer.

“Excuse me?” he called. He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “What are you going to do with them? Is there to be another Degenerate Art exhibition?”

The officer paused at the top of the winding staircase and looked down at Hoffman with scorn and laughed. “Come, my friend, you will see.”

It was then that Hoffman smelled smoke. He ran up the stairs past the officer, whose laughter echoed through the silent gallery. He pushed open the massive doors leading onto the front steps. There on the gently sloping grass frontage, the Berlin Fire Brigade had started a large bonfire and soldiers and firemen were tossing the paintings and books from the gallery’s basement room onto it. Hoffman gave a cry and sank to his knees, watching in disbelief and horror as hundreds of works of art were systematically destroyed.

Chapter 1

Stephanie Cooper hauled two large suitcases out of the black cab and deposited them on the footpath. The taxi driver remained seated behind the wheel, no offer of assistance forthcoming.

Well, there goes your tip, Stephanie thought, paying him the exact amount owing for the journey. The cab pulled away, the driver muttering something about bloody tourists.

Stephanie smiled to herself. That may have been true on her previous visits to London, but she was no longer just a tourist, now she was a bona fide resident, due to start studying for her degree at Oxford in October.

Turning, she gazed across at the National Gallery, which dominated one side of Trafalgar Square. With a smile she remembered attending an exhibition with her father a couple of years earlier. Her love of Impressionism had begun that day. I must make time to visit the Gallery again before uni starts, she thought.

Stephanie pulled the retractable handle out of each suitcase, and adjusting the strap of her bag across her body, started walking into Charing Cross Station, wheeling the heavy suitcases behind her. Her father had offered to drive her down to Carlswick at the weekend, but Stephanie was keen to get settled into her grandmother’s house, so she had decided to take the train. She might as well get used to being independent.

The light streamed onto the station concourse from the magnificent arched glass roof that joined the brick entrance of the underground to the platforms for the overland trains.

After purchasing her ticket at the electronic ticket booth, she stopped beneath the large overhead arrivals and departures board and located the platform that her train was to depart from and slowly made her way towards it. She paused briefly at a coffee stand, but just couldn’t work out how she could balance a coffee cup and manage her bags at the same time. Coffee was one of the things she really missed about home. Londoners, for all their cosmopolitan ways, still seemed to be focused on tea. God only knows what Carlswick will be like, she thought. I might have to start drinking the stuff.

The train was already at the platform, its doors open ready for passengers. Bypassing the first class carriages, she stopped at the next empty one. She glanced around to make sure that it was safe to leave one of her suitcases on the platform for a moment, while she lifted the other one onto the train. A guy around her age caught her attention as he sauntered down the platform towards her, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar. He was very attractive—tall, with messy dark hair, tight black jeans and a Beatles t-shirt. She was puzzling over where she had seen him before, when he looked up and locked eyes with her.

Caught staring, she blushed and busied herself retracting the first suitcase’s handle and struggled onto the train.

“Here, can I help you?” a deep, slightly husky voice asked behind her.

When she looked around, the guy had stopped. She automatically started to say, no thank you. But looking back at her were gorgeous green eyes, framed by unfairly long black eyelashes, and the words died on her lips. Deciding it would be churlish to refuse his help, she instead replied, “Sure, why not. That would be great, eh.”

He lifted the second bag as though it were empty, and placed it beside her first one in the carriage. Together they pushed the two suitcases into the luggage rack.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him, as she took a seat in the row nearest the door.

“No problem,” he smiled back at her, holding her gaze. “Going on holiday?” he asked swinging his guitar off his shoulder and sitting down opposite her.

“No. Moving. Temporarily, at least,” she replied.

“Anywhere nice?” the cute guitar player asked.

“I’m going to stay with my grandmother for a couple of months before uni starts. She lives in a little village called Carlswick,” Stephanie replied, before remembering that this was London, and she shouldn’t be chatting to strangers as openly as this—even good looking, helpful ones. She silently admonished herself and looked down at her hands.

“I know Carlswick very well,” the guy replied.

“You do?” she asked, looking up.

“Yeah, I live there,” he said with a grin. “I’m James,” he added, introducing himself.

“Stephanie,” she replied. “You know, you look familiar. I haven’t been there in a while, but maybe I’ve seen you in the village.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’d remember meeting you, trust me,” James replied.

Stephanie inclined her head and smiled shyly, acknowledging the compliment.

“And you are Australian, right?” James caught his bottom lip with his teeth and frowned slightly as he guessed.

Stephanie dragged her eyes away from his mouth and instead pulled a face at him.

“God, I got that wrong, didn’t I?” James grimaced. “New Zealand?”

“Yeah, I’m a Kiwi,” Stephanie confirmed.

“Would I be digging myself an even deeper hole if I said Australians and New Zealanders are very similar?” James teased.

“Similar? New Zealand wasn’t settled by convicts, we have a superior rugby team, friendlier people, bigger mountains and better ice cream,” Stephanie said with mock seriousness.

“And more sheep than people, if I remember correctly,” James added.

Stephanie rolled her eyes and laughed. She glanced at his guitar. “You play?” she asked. God, shoot me now! Stupid question. Of course he plays, he wouldn’t be carrying it around if he didn’t, she thought, mentally kicking herself.

James gave a slight chuckle, “Yeah, you could say that. I’m in a band.”

“That’s cool. I might have to come and see you play,” she said. One thing Stephanie loved was live music and it didn’t matter how big or small the band, she could watch and listen for hours. And with eye candy like James playing, even better.

The train gave a jerk as the doors closed and it slowly pulled out of the station. Stephanie looked out of the window and watched the buildings start to rush by as the train gathered speed. She gave a sigh and settled back happily in her seat. Her adventure was beginning.

She studied James as he, too, looked out of the window. From the artfully messy hair, to the sexy grin and easy laugh, he was gorgeous. Stephanie wished she had worn something a little nicer than skinny jeans and a little tank top.

As though he sensed her scrutiny, he turned his head and locked eyes with her again. Her breath caught in her throat. Wow. Now say something witty and entertaining, she told herself.

“So what do you do other than play in a band?” she asked. Not witty or entertaining, but it would have to do.

James gazed at her for a moment, a slight frown on his face and then broke into a relaxed smile. “Nothing much. Gap year, I suppose you could call it. A long gap year,” he said.

The journey passed quickly as they relaxed and chatted, mainly about music—Stephanie explaining about the small New Zealand music scene and James discovering that her musical taste ranged from The Beatles to Snow Patrol and Muse.

“You must find London strange after growing up in New Zealand,” James commented.

“I’ve been to London a lot. My father lives there and I visit him a couple of times a year. But I seem to discover something new about it each time. It’s my favourite city in world,” she explained, as the driver came over the intercom announcing that Carlswick was the next station.

James nodded in agreement. “I love it too. I saw Key City play at the Roundhouse last night. It’s so great to have all that live music just on the doorstep,” he said.

He stood and slung his guitar back over his shoulder, and held out his hand to her.

“This is our stop,” he said. She took his hand and jumped up, their legs brushing in the enclosed space. They stood holding hands and gazing at one another for several long seconds. Stephanie knew that she should say something, but she didn’t want to break the moment.

“Would you like to catch up for a coffee sometime?” James asked finally, as the train eased into the station. She released her hand from his and reached into the luggage rack for her suitcases and wheeled them towards the doors. James followed her and took one.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she smiled at him and held onto a pole with her free hand to maintain her balance, as the train eased to a stop.

James pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and nudged her shoulder with his. “So, what’s your number, then?”

She gave it to him and he keyed it into his phone. The doors opened and they stepped off, pulling the suitcases down behind them onto the platform. James continued wheeling one as they walked through the station to the car park.

“I’d offer you a lift, except, I just don’t think all your bags would fit,” he grinned, waving his hand in the direction of a row of motorbikes and scooters.

“That’s okay. I’m getting a cab,” she said, smiling at the driver who jumped out and started loading her suitcases in the boot. She turned towards James. “It was nice to meet you,” she said.

“Likewise, Stephanie,” James said, his eyes roaming her face. “See ya.” He turned and sauntered off towards the row of motorbikes. Stephanie gave her grandmother’s address to the driver and climbed into the backseat of the cab. She watched out of the window as James pulled away on a Vespa.

She smiled and crossed her fingers that he would call, soon.

Chapter 2

Stephanie’s grandmother, Ellie Cooper, lived in a six-bedroom, two-storeyed, red brick Georgian manor house called Wakefield House, on the outskirts of the village of Carlswick. Stephanie had always loved visiting the house as a little girl. It had been in the family since the First World War and it was where her grandmother had been born.

The front door was flung wide open before the taxi had even come to a halt. Stephanie leapt out and greeted her grandmother with a warm hug and kiss on her cheek.

“I am so pleased that you decided to come down early. I have been so looking forward to seeing you,” Ellie said, smiling. She was an elegant woman in her eighties, with soft white hair pushed off her face and curling gently at the nape of her neck.

Stephanie paid and thanked the taxi driver and pulled her bags up the front steps and into the house.

“Now, I have put you in the blue room with the little bathroom at the top of the staircase. I hope that’s alright?” Ellie asked.

“That’ll be perfect, Grandma,” Stephanie said smiling. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and studied the pictures of various ancestors and family members which hung there. As a little girl, they had meant very little to her, but now with her burgeoning interest in history, she looked at them through new eyes. Wow, she thought, some of these are really old. I wonder how far back my family history goes? Making a mental note to study the photos further, she began lugging her suitcases up the stairs.

Stephanie wasn’t due in Oxford until October, which meant that she had two whole months of summer to enjoy. And enjoy it, she intended to do. She had worked hard for the previous six months juggling two jobs to save as much money as she possibly could, and now she needed a holiday, before the real work began.

A couple of hours later, a quiet knock on her bedroom door offered Stephanie a welcome reprieve from an afternoon of unpacking. Her bedroom looked like a clothes bomb had detonated.

A tall, gangly boy with short dark hair and glasses slipping down his nose stuck his head around the door and grinned at her.

Stephanie stood up, smoothing down the short vintage dress that she had changed into, and smiled back at the face of her old childhood friend. “Michael Morgan, how are ya?”

“My God. How did the airline allow you to bring so much stuff?” he exclaimed, looking around the room. Suitcases lay open with their contents spilling out, stacks of books sat haphazardly on the desk by the window, and a large pile of shoes at the entrance to the small walk-in wardrobe looked about ready to collapse.

“I didn’t bring it all this time,” she said a little defensively. “I left quite a lot of things at Dad’s house in London when I went back to New Zealand in February and he brought them down here.” Although, she had to admit, she had been rather surprised at just how much stuff she had accumulated.

Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Hey, your grandmother thought you might like a break from all of this, and I just have to take someone for a drive in the MG. I’ve finally got it running again,” he said. Michael’s pride and joy was a 1956 MG Roadster which he and his father had spent several years restoring.

“Great idea, I could do with a break. Give me a sec, eh?” Stephanie replied. She disappeared into her bathroom to fix her hair and makeup, leaving Michael looking through a box of books, which had just been delivered.

“You really are into this history stuff, aren’t you, Steph?” he called.

Stephanie stuck her head back around the doorframe, lipstick in hand. “Yeah. They’re all suggested pre-reading for my course.” She nodded towards the box.

Coming out of the bathroom, she rummaged through the shoe pile, selected a pair of purple wedges and slipped her feet into them. She grabbed a small bag off the desk and throwing the long strap over her head and across her body, said, “Let’s go.” She followed him down the stairs to the front door.

“Actually it will be nice to get out and see Carlswick again,” she said. “It’s been a while.” She hadn’t spent a lot of time in the village at all over the last two or three years, preferring to stay at her father’s house in London, when visiting England.

“Wow. This looks amazing,” Stephanie said as she ran her hand over the highly polished bonnet of the sky blue MG. The spokes of the chrome wire wheels shone in the sunlight. Michael beamed with pride and proceeded to wax lyrical on the quality of the engine and the original parts that they had managed to source.

Stephanie’s eyes must have glazed over, because he stopped talking after a couple of minutes and grinned sheepishly, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “Sorry, I’m boring you.”

Stephanie laughed. “Not at all,” she said. “Although you lost me at the bit about carburettors. I didn’t realise that you had become such a car guy.”

“I am assuming that is a compliment and not some sort of backhanded Kiwi insult?” he replied.

“It’s a compliment, mate. Now let’s go for a ride,” she said, opening the passenger door. “Ooh, hang on—I need to get something.” She ran back into the house and up the stairs to her room and returned carrying a scarf. “The last time I rode in a convertible, I didn’t tie my hair up and I ended up looking like a scarecrow when we stopped,” she said laughing, as she slid into the passenger seat. She pulled her mane of straight dark hair into a high ponytail and tied the scarf around her head, securing it in a knot at the back of her neck.

Michael hit the accelerator, and they sped down the driveway, waving to her grandmother, who was sitting on the terrace, enjoying the late afternoon sun.

Stephanie grinned as they raced along the lane towards the village. Michael’s family were neighbours of her grandmother’s and he had been Stephanie’s childhood playmate when she had visited each year. Apart from her best friend Anna, who lived in London, Stephanie didn’t have a lot of friends in the UK, so she was delighted that he still wanted to hang out.

Carlswick had originally been a fishing village, with a bustling harbour, until the estuary had silted up. Now the sea was ten kilometres away, but the pretty little village had survived thanks to the local farming community and in recent years the many lawyers, stockbrokers and successful musicians who had decided to make the area their home. The village comprised quaint stone buildings, which tumbled their way down either side of the hill to a green village square nestled at the bottom of the valley.

Michael slowed upon entering the village’s main street. Without warning, he spun the car around and brought it to a screeching stop in front of an old pub. Stephanie had to grab the door to stop being thrown around. “Whoa,” she shrieked, laughing. “A bit of warning next time.”

Michael’s entrance had the desired effect and no sooner had he turned the engine off, than a voice called, “Hey, Mikey.”

Stephanie turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the car park beside the pub, a group of girls were sitting at an outdoor table chatting to three guys, who were unloading amps, guitars and drums from a beat up Combie van. The shorter of the guys waved and started walking towards them.

“Looks like you’re about to meet the local rock gods—The Fury,” Michael said, as they got out of the car. “Y’know, they played all the summer music festivals and are on the cusp of the big time according to those in the know.”

Stephanie had heard of them. She’d also seen them play in London in January. Her friends in New Zealand would be so jealous to know that she was actually about to meet them. Removing her headscarf and throwing it on the seat, she quickly composed herself; she certainly didn’t want to appear star-struck. They’re probably completely full of themselves anyway, especially with an entourage hanging on their every movement, she thought, glancing towards the group of girls.

Michael came around to her side of the car. “I designed their official website,” he whispered.

Stephanie looked at him in surprise. The guy, who Stephanie now recognised as the band’s drummer, reached them, before she could respond. His blond hair was styled so that it stood straight up all over his head and he peered out over his small round sunglasses. “Hey, Mike—nice car. Who’s ya friend?” he asked, turning his attention to Stephanie.

“Hey. This is Stephanie,” mumbled Michael, a little put out that he was more interested in Stephanie than in the MG.

“Hi,” Stephanie said looking him straight in the eye, as she arranged her features into an expression of confusion. “And you are?”

“I, ah, I’m Jack,” he stuttered, obviously used to being recognised. He ran his hands through his blond spikes and straightened his shoulders, stretching himself in a way that reminded Stephanie of a cat who had just woken from a long nap.

She smiled to herself. “G’day, Jack,” she said. “Mike, I just need to pick up a couple of things from the newsagent. I won’t be long,” she said, indicating, with a flick of her head, to the shop three doors down.

He nodded. Stephanie turned and started walking along the footpath. She could feel herself being watched and glanced sideways, where the other two guys were leaning nonchalantly against the van, taking a break. One had short dark, dreadlocks and dark skin. He had a couple of the girls gazing up at him, hanging on his every word. Stephanie’s eyes met those of the other guy. James. He held her gaze for a moment and gave her a half smile, before turning and lifting another drum out of the van and carrying it in the side door of the pub.

No. How did I not recognise him on the train? Stephanie thought, pulling her gaze away and trying desperately to ignore the blush rising up her face. He must think I am such an idiot.

There was a crowd of people around Michael’s car when she came back from the newsagent several minutes later.

James separated from the group as she approached.

“Hello again, Stephanie,” he said.

“Hello again, James,” she blushed.

“So you know Mike?” he asked.

“Yeah, we go way back,” she replied, self-consciously chewing on her bottom lip. Should I say something about not recognising him earlier? she wondered.

“Huh. It’s strange that we’ve never met before, then. I’ve known him for years too,” James mused. “What’s your surname?”

“Cooper,” Stephanie replied.

The smile disappeared and his face fell. “Not a Wakefield Cooper?” he asked.

“One and the same,” Stephanie answered, studying him. Now that she knew who he was, she could see why he carried himself the way he did. Typical wannabe rock star—oozing confidence, she thought.

James sighed and his expression darkened. “So you don’t know that we’re not supposed to have anything to do with one another, then? My family hates yours.”

“Really?” Stephanie was surprised at the sudden change in the conversation. “Why? Did we win more prizes than you at the Royal County Show or something, eh?”

“Ha. That’s funny,” he said, the smile returning. “No, there’s some old feud. The Knoxes have had nothing to do with your family for years.”

Before Stephanie could ask him to elaborate, a pretty girl wrapped her arms around James’s waist and kissed him on the cheek. She glanced at Stephanie, giving her the kind of once over that girls everywhere recognise—assessment of a threat.

“Victoria. This is Stephanie. She’s from New Zealand,” James introduced them, not taking his eyes off Stephanie.

Stephanie smiled and said hi, as Victoria muttered, “well I guess that explains the outfit.”

Jeez, what have I done to deserve that? Stephanie thought, surprised and a little annoyed. Her next words flew out of her mouth before she could censor them. “Well, I guess London fashion hasn’t reached the country, yet.”

Victoria gave her a dirty look and tossing her long copper tresses, turned her back to talk to another girl who had joined them.

James raised his eyebrows at the catty exchange. He went to speak, and then stopped, looking as though he were waging an internal battle. “My band is playing at the pub here on Friday night—you should come,” he said, finally, almost reluctantly.

Stephanie shrugged. She’d suspected on the train that he was too good to be true. Of course, there would be a girlfriend hanging off his arm, she thought, disappointed. “Maybe. Are you any good?” she teased. Although she knew The Fury weren’t just good, they were great.

James’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but before he could answer, Michael called to her that they had to go.

She grinned at James’s expression, as she jumped into the passenger seat of the MG, hanging on for dear life as Michael roared off down the street.