The Silver Castle by Nancy Buckingham Page B

bottom. Their clothes were strewn about, and they were both naked. The authorities concluded that they had taken their lives by mutual consent. But we in the family, who knew Valencienne better than outsiders, are convinced that no man could have meant that much to her. Your father decided to kill himself, Gail, and he couldn’t bear to leave Valencienne behind. Believe me, that’s the truth.”
    My breath came harshly, as if a hand was pressed against my throat. After a little pause, Raimund added, “I said that I would let you make your own judgement, Gail, but now I have made it for you.”
    “Was there no note left? No message?” I asked huskily.
    “Yes, there was a message. Your father telephoned Anton about half-past seven that evening. He called him on his private line at the office—Anton was staying late as he often does. He said that Benedict seemed in a terribly excited state and he couldn’t really make out what he was talking about ... things like wanting to end it all, that he couldn’t bear any more. Apparently he would not listen to reason and just raved on. After he rang off, Anton decided he’d better try and see him and find out what it was all about. First of all he telephoned the Schloss to check if Benedict was there, then he asked around in the village. But without success. Anton drove up to the chalet and waited there for a while before finally giving up and going home. Valencienne had gone out before dinner and when she didn’t arrive home that night nobody thought much of it ... it wasn’t the first time she had stayed out. But next morning a fishing boat spotted the launch ... it was lying in fairly shallow water which barely covered the top of the mast. And in the cabin they found the two bodies.”
    I had been sitting very still and tense, but now I began to shake uncontrollably. Raimund slid his arm around my shoulders and held me against him.
    “Please don’t take it so hard, Gail. I only told you all this because you insisted on knowing. And it is still possible that we’ve got it wrong somewhere.”
    “It’s what everyone believes, isn’t it? You and your mother, Anton ... everybody. I realise now why people look at me the way they do, and why they won’t even talk to me if they can help it.”
    “You can’t say that about Mama and me,” he said reproachfully.
    “I know, and that’s what I can’t understand—why you’re so kind to me. How can your mother still speak so highly of my father, believing what she does of him?”
    “It would be unfair of us to hold anything against you, Gail....”
    “Anton does,” I said bleakly.
    “But he’s so close to it, isn’t he? He’ll come around, though, you will see. Naturally it came as a shock to him to find that you were Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter.”
    “Yes,” I said, “it must have been a ghastly moment. I don’t blame him for hating me, for feeling so bitter.”
    But to understand didn’t soften the hurt. I still felt a surge of pain, remembering how his face had suddenly changed, becoming granite hard, remembering the chill of scorn in his voice.
    Raimund was saying, “For Mama, it was almost as if the sun went out of her life when your father ... died. As I told you, after the accident left her crippled, Benedict became enormously important to her. She built him up into a sort of god, convinced that one day his name would be numbered among the great artists of this century.”
    “I can understand that his death meant a great loss to her,” I said. “But the way it happened ... involving your family likethat, her own stepson’s wife. Why isn’t she completely shattered and disillusioned?”
    Raimund said, after a lengthy pause, “That’s a difficult question. I suppose it’s just that to her Benedict Sherbrooke was a man of genius, which meant that ordinary standards of behaviour did not apply. So whatever the man may have done in his personal life, his paintings will remain forever as a monument