The Silver Castle Read Online Free Page A

me about my father?”
    “I will explain, but do sit down ... over by the fire where it’s warm. Would a glass of amontillado suit your English taste?”
    “Thank you.” I waited for her to pour my sherry, then carried it to a sofa drawn up to the wide stone hearth where pine logs burned. Frau Kreuder brought her wheelchair close and raised her own glass of wine.
    “Prost.”
    Ireplied to the toast, and we sipped our drinks. Then she said, “When Ernst telephoned to tell me he had met you at the ‘Wilhelm Tell,’ I decided to send Karl to the chalet at once.”
    “Ernst?”
    “Yes, he was the man who directed you. Ernst Schiller is my son-in-law, and he knew how interested I would be to meet Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter.” She glanced across at my hands. “You are not yet married, I see, but was I right in assuming that you call yourself Sherbrooke? I could not be sure.”
    “As a matter of fact,” I said, “all through my childhood I was known as Gail Wade, my stepfather’s name. But after he died— my mother had been dead for some years—I decided to revert to Gail Sherbrooke.”
    I allowed it to sound a mere whim of mine whereas it had cost me a questioning of my conscience, since I’d felt somehow that I was being disloyal to the man who had brought me up. I’d finally convinced myself that Gail Sherbrooke had a nicer rhythm to it than Gail Wade for someone in my profession, and besides it was the name on my birth certificate. But I’d been left with the lingering belief that it was an altogether deeper urge, a reaching for my roots, my identity, that had prompted me to make the change.
    “I’m glad you did.” She smiled. “Tell me about yourself. What is it you do for a living? Looking at your hands, at those long sensitive fingers, can I guess that it is something artistic?”
    “Well yes ... I’m an illustrator. I’ve done quite a lot of advertising work, but my latest job was a series of drawings for a children’s book.”
    “How nice.” She said it with formal politeness, while she fingered the silver filigree bracelet around her wrist. “Your father, of course, would never commercialise his art in any way. But then he possessed such talent it would have been a sin for him to make any compromise. Not, alas, that the art world gave Benedict Sherbrooke the recognition he deserved. His work was shamefully ignored.”
    I couldn’t decide whether to be pleased about her praise of my father, or annoyed by her implied criticism of me. But I didn’t stop to examine my ambiguous feelings. I was on the threshold of hearing what I had come to Switzerland to learn.
    “As far as I know, Frau Kreuder, nobody in Britain had ever heard of my father’s work until last week.”
    “Last week?” Her eyes flew wide with eager interest. “What is this? What has happened?”
    When I explained about it being reported in The Times that a painting of my father’s had changed hands at Waterman’s for £2050, she clapped her hands with joy.
    “But this is wonderful news. I always knew that his work would one day be recognised. This is the beginning, and soon the world will acknowledge him for the genius he was.” She broke off abruptly. The charming hostess smile remained intact, but a hint of scorn came through in her voice as she went on, “So that explains what brought you to Switzerland. And doubtless you are wondering why you found no paintings of your father’s at the chalet. Well, I can put your mind at rest. There are a great many of them, all safely put away in one of the attics here. I offered to store Benedict’s canvases for him because the chalet wasn’t suitable—it was too damp for one thing, and there was no room. After his death, I had the few remaining paintings brought here too, for safe keeping.”
    “How good of you,” I said. “I’m greatly looking forward to seeing them.”
    “Whenever you please, of course. They are your property, my dear Miss Sherbrooke, to do with