A Question of Inheritance Read Free Page B

several copies of the book and began to stack them on a display table. She held one up to admire the cover, which depicted a Restoration beauty in a tight-waisted, low-cut crimson gown. ‘ Spoils of War . Good title. I shall tuck one away for myself; the perfect Christmas read.’
    ‘You don’t think the cover’s a bit vulgar?’ Freya said.
    ‘No. And her stories may be racy, like the cover, but never vulgar.’
    Which was praise as good as any glowing review, in Freya’s opinion.
    ‘I do wonder who she is. It’s a pseudonym, of course. I suspect they’re written by a vicar, with a remote parish in Lincolnshire.’
    ‘A vicar? Why?’
    ‘Because of the secrecy. It’s not natural for a bestselling author to remain so reticent; there must be a reason for it.’
    Freya had a reason. Apart from an innate sense of privacy, she knew that her diplomat father, a conventional man of whom she was very fond, would be horrified to find out how she supported herself. As would the rest of her family. And as for the rewards of fame, she wanted none of them.
    She looked at the clock again. ‘Lord, I must rush. Back to the family gathering. It’s not going to be the easiest of times. Mrs Partridge is in a state over them coming, so we’ve great preparations going on in the kitchen, and Georgia’s in a sulk. She likes being at the Castle and I think she’d started to feel settled and secure there. But she and Hugo would have to move in any case, if Sonia had inherited and sold the Castle.’ She pulled on her gloves and crammed a felt hat on her head. ‘I’ll try and get down tomorrow and tell you about it.’
    Scene 6
    Hugo thought about Orlov, aka Zherdev, as he went back to his office. Should he have come out with it to Sir Bernard? No. It was a poor photo, whose subject, if he was right, was a professional, accustomed to screen his face from any watching cameras. He might be mistaken; Zherdev could be someone else and clean as a whistle.
    Or he might not.
    Hugo’s mind went back to Berlin 1945. A ruined city, on the edge of chaos. The German civilian population was living in a state of borderline starvation with all kinds of occupying troops in Berlin who were involved in everything from organising the gangs of women clearing the rubble, to the de-Nazification of key scientists, to black market smuggling. There were rich pickings to be had in Berlin in those days.
    Food, drugs – the medicinal kind; tobacco, whisky.
    And art, which was how he’d met Orlov.
    The Russian had arranged a meeting through an intermediary and Hugo, wary but curious, had duly turned up at the bar that Orlov had specified.
    Orlov came swiftly to the point in excellent English. He had information to impart and had decided that Hugo was the best man to deal with it.
    ‘Let us understand one another. We do the same job, but we are essentially enemies. Our ideals are opposed. You believe in democracy; I know that the future lies with communism. However, there are some areas where we share values. I hate the Nazis, with a hatred as vast and deep as is my love for Mother Russia. I fought them in the war, and I am still fighting them now.’
    ‘The war is over.’
    ‘Please do not be flippant. I know that your detestation of Nazism and all it stands for is as strong as mine. That is why I’ve made contact with you. I want to tell you about some bronzes.’
    ‘Bronzes?’ What had bronzes – what kind of bronzes? – to do with him? Or with an MGB major, although Hugo was beginning to wonder if the man really was what he appeared to be.
    ‘Be patient. I am not here to waste your time. I’m talking about a collection of Italian bronzes. Unique works of art, which are exquisite and worth a fortune.’
    As they both knew, when the Russian army took Berlin, they removed anything that wasn’t nailed down and sent it back to the Soviet Union. This included everything from everyday objects, which admittedly were hard to find in the Soviet Union, to