The Eden Inheritance by Janet Tanner

to what I can absorb at one sitting.’
    â€˜What are these photographs?’ She leaned over the desk again, pulling the box file towards her, partly from genuine interest and partly in an effort to prolong the late-night encounter. She wasn’t ready to go to bed yet and she didn’t want to miss the chance to be with Guy either. Tomorrow she had to go back to Paris and he would leave for England and then, it seemed, for the other side of the world, and she didn’t know how long it would be before she saw him again. His visits were too few and far between for her liking.
    â€˜Just pictures of the treasures. Haven’t you seen them before?’
    â€˜No, I don’t think so.’ She began leafing through them, leaning so close that the curtain of her hair brushed his face. Realising what she was doing he moved away slightly.
    â€˜So this is the famous triptych,’ she said, pretending not to have noticed his withdrawal.
    â€˜Yes. Scenes from the life of the Maid of Orleans. Pretty impressive, isn’t it?’
    â€˜I suppose so – if you like that kind of thing.’ She went on poring over the photographs, examining one after the other. ‘ Silver candlesticks – they must be worth a pretty penny …’
    â€˜It’s not the monetary value that counts, though, is it? It’s their sentimental and historical value.’
    â€˜â€¦ a little clock – Louise XIV, isn’t it? – bronze statuette of Ceres … good grief, the place must have been quite bare when he’d finished taking what he wanted!’
    â€˜Yes, I think Grandpapa bought a good deal to take the place of what was looted. Except for the triptych, of course. He’s never replaced that.’
    â€˜Wait a minute, these aren’t all of artefacts,’ Lise said, a note of unaccustomed excitement creeping into her voice. ‘Who are these people?’
    â€˜What people?’
    â€˜Here – look. These people.’
    She pushed a photograph towards him. A small group, standing on the forecourt of the château beside the fountain. Guy inspected it.
    â€˜Well, that’s Grandpapa obviously, and that looks like my father and your mother. But I don’t know who the other man is …’ He looked more closely at the stranger, trying to identify him. It certainly wasn’t his Uncle Christian, he was too tall and too fair to be a de Savigny.
    â€˜Perhaps it was one of my mother’s boyfriends,’ Lise suggested. ‘He’s very good-looking.’
    â€˜Perhaps.’ But Guy was doubtful. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck had begun to tingle. ‘I’m wondering if it might be him … von Rheinhardt.’
    â€˜Oh surely not! They wouldn’t have had their photograph taken with him, would they? And he’s not in uniform.’
    â€˜No, but he lived at the château, remember, and he was a frequent visitor in the days before he turned the family out and took it over for his HQ. He might not always have worn his uniform then – when he had a day off duty, for instance.’
    â€˜I still can’t believe it.’ Lise went on turning over photographs. ‘Look, here’s one of you, Guy. Oh, weren’t you sweet? You must be only about a year old. Get those chubby knees!’
    â€˜Cheeky!’ but he didn’t feel like laughing, and a moment later he heard her draw her breath in sharply.
    â€˜You were right, Guy. Isn’t that the same man? Only this time he is in uniform!’
    She pushed the photograph towards him. Guy picked it up and for the first time looked at the image of the man who was his quarry, knowing with almost complete certainty that it must be him.
    The photograph had been taken more in close-up than the first, every detail of the face was clear, though the original black and white had faded to give a brownish tint. Guy looked at it and felt something closing up inside him as