The Judas Tree Read Free

thing – an interior, full of light and colour, pinks, greys and greens. The subject too, was exactly to his taste: a conversation piece, Madame Melo and her little daughter in the salon of the actress’s house.
    A surge of possessive craving tightened his throat. He must have it, he must, to hang opposite his Sisley. It was a shocking price, of course, but he could well afford it, he was rich, far richer even than the good Leuschner had computed, having of course no access to that little black book, locked in the safe, with its fascinating rows of ciphers. And why, after all those years of sterile work and marital strife, should he not have everything he wanted? That snug profit he had recently made in Royal Dutch could not be put to better use. He wrote the cheque, shook hands with Leuschner and went off in triumph, with the pastel carefully tucked beneath his arm. Back at his villa, before Arturo announced lunch, he had time to hang it. Perfect … perfect … he exulted, standing back. He hoped Frida von Altishofer would admire it.

Chapter Two
    He had invited her for five o’clock and, as punctuality was to her an expression of good manners, at that hour precisely she arrived – not however as was customary, in her battered little cream-coloured Dauphine, but on foot. Actually her barracks of a house, the Schloss Seeburg, stood on the opposite shore of the lake, two kilometres across, and as she came into the drawing-room he reproached her for taking the boat, holding both her hands. It was a warm afternoon and the hill path to his villa was steep; he could have sent Arturo to fetch her.
    â€˜I don’t mind the little ferry.’ She smiled. ‘As you were so kindly driving me I thought not to bother with my car.’
    Her English, though stylised, was perfectly good, with just a faint, and indeed attractive, over-accentuation of certain syllables.
    â€˜Well, now you shall have tea. I have ordered it.’ He pressed the bell. ‘We’ll get nothing but watery vermouth at the party.’
    â€˜You are most thoughtful.’ She sat down gracefully, removing her gloves; she had strong supple Sogers, the nails polished but unvarnished. ‘I hope you won’t be too bored at the Kunsthaus.’
    While Arturo wheeled in the trolley and, with bows that were almost genuflections, served the tea, Moray studied her. In her youth she must have been very beautiful. The structure of her facial bones was perfect. Even now at forty-five, or six … well, perhaps even forty-seven, although her hair was greying and her skin beginning to show the faint crenellations and brownish stigmata of her years, she remained an attractive woman, with the upright striding figure of a believer in fresh air and exercise. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature, the pupils of a dark tawny yellowish green shot with black specks. ‘They are cat’s eyes.’ She had smiled once when he ventured a compliment. ‘But I do not scratch … or seldom only.’
    Yes, he reflected sympathetically, she had been through a lot, yet never spoke of it. She was horribly hard up and had not many clothes but those she possessed were good and she wore them with style. When they went walking together she usually appeared in a faded costume of russet brown, a rakish bersagliere hat, white knitted stockings and strong handsewn brogues of faded brown. Today she had on a simple but well cut fawn suit, shoes of the same shade, as were her gloves, and she was bareheaded. Taste, distinction, and perfect breeding were evident in every look and gesture – no need to tell himself again, she was a cultured woman of the highest class.
    â€˜Always what delicious tea you give me.’
    â€˜It’s Twining’s,’ he explained. ‘I had it specially blended for the hard Schwansee water.’
    She shook her head, half reproachfully.
    â€˜Really … you think of everything.’ She paused.