Лия Криз – The Amber Heart (страница 2)

"The expert," Polina corrected. "Polina Lebedeva. I'm expected."

"You are," said the woman without expression. "I'm Galina Stepanovna, the housekeeper. Come in. Rostislav Olegovich is in the study."

Inside, the house was even gloomier than outside. High moulded ceilings, dark oak panelling, heavy velvet curtains. A wide staircase with carved banisters led upstairs. It smelled of wax, old paper and, for some reason, lilies. Paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls: seascapes, ships in storms, sombre portraits.

And everywhere there was amber.

Amber vases on the mantelpiece. Amber candlesticks on side tables. In the corner of the hall, in a tall glass case, stood a real amber sailing ship, some seventy centimetres high, with tiny sails made of the thinnest plates. The lamplight passed through it, and the ship glowed from within in honeyed gold.

Polina stopped despite herself.

"Nineteenth century," she said quietly. "A Königsberg workshop. Good God, what craftsmanship."

Galina Stepanovna looked at her with mild surprise. For the first time, perhaps, with a little respect.

"Arkady Germanovich used to say the same thing," she said. "Word for word."

Rostislav Olegovich Zaretsky turned out to be exactly what Polina had imagined a wealthy collector's family lawyer would be. About fifty-five. Tall, trim, with distinguished silver hair and a neat little beard. An impeccable charcoal suit, a silk tie, amber cufflinks. A soft velvety voice, a warm handshake, attentive brown eyes behind thin gold-rimmed glasses.

"Polina Lvovna, at last!" He rose from behind a vast desk. "We were beginning to worry. They say the road's blocked?"

"A pine came down. I walked."

"Walked! With all your equipment!" He shook his head with genuine sympathy. "Galina Stepanovna, tea, please. And have the blue room made up for Polina Lvovna."

The housekeeper left without a word.

"Please, sit down." Zaretsky gestured to a leather armchair by the fire. "You probably know the situation in outline. Arkady Germanovich Stern died three weeks ago. His heart. He was seventy-eight. He collected amber for fifty years. It's the largest private collection in the country. More than four hundred pieces."

"I know. I've seen the catalogue."

"According to his wishes, the will is to be read only after an independent expert has completed a full valuation of the collection. He insisted on it. He said he didn't want his heirs fighting without knowing exactly what they were dividing." Zaretsky smiled sadly. "Though I'm afraid they'll fight anyway. The reading is set for six days from now. Do you have time?"

"If I work from morning till night, I'll manage."

"Excellent." He paused. "You know the centrepiece of the collection, of course."

"The Amber Heart," said Polina.

She knew. Everyone who worked with amber knew. A heart-shaped brooch, about six centimetres high. Baltic amber of the rarest transparent cherry-red hue, set in gold with tiny diamonds. The work of a St Petersburg jeweller in the 1890s. But the brooch's value lay neither in the gold nor in the diamonds. Inside the amber, at the very centre of the heart, a mosquito had been frozen forever. Tiny, perfectly preserved, wings outspread, as if it had been flying forty million years ago and stopped in mid-flight.

Legend had it that the brooch belonged to one of the Empress's ladies-in-waiting. By the estimates of auction houses, it was worth more than the rest of the collection put together.

"You'll see it tomorrow," said Zaretsky. "It's in the safe in the gallery. Arkady Germanovich hadn't shown it to anyone these last few years. Not even his children."

Dinner was served at eight. A long table in the dining room, a white tablecloth, silver, crystal. Candles in amber holders. And five people who clearly did not want to sit at the same table.

Zaretsky introduced them one by one.

Viktor Arkadyevich Stern, the elder son. Forty-five, heavy, red-faced, with a loud voice and an expensive watch on a hairy wrist. Owner of a chain of restaurants in Kaliningrad. He shook Polina's hand too hard and immediately forgot about her, returning to his glass of cognac.

Marina Arkadyevna, the daughter. Forty, though she looked younger. Thin, nervy, with huge lined eyes and a mane of red hair. An actress at the regional drama theatre. She smoked long thin cigarettes right at the table, and nobody dared object.

"A valuer," Marina drawled, studying Polina through the smoke. "How romantic. Going to work out what Daddy's inheritance is worth? Don't bother. It'll all go to her anyway."

She nodded towards the end of the table.

A young woman sat there. Twenty-nine at most. Fair hair gathered in a simple knot. A pale face without make-up, delicate features, large grey eyes. A black dress, too plain for this dining room. She sat very upright and looked at her plate.

"Yelizaveta Andreyevna," Zaretsky said gently. "Arkady Germanovich's widow."

"Liza," the young woman corrected quietly, and raised her eyes to Polina. "Just Liza. Welcome."

"Widow," Viktor repeated loudly, and snorted. "Nurse, more like. She was his nurse. Looked after Father after his heart attack. And six months later, bang, she's his wife. Neat, eh?"

"Vitya," Zaretsky said warningly.

"What, Vitya? Everyone knows! Fifty years between them! You think she loved him? An old man with a bad heart? She loved his amber!"

Liza went even paler but said nothing. Only her fingers, gripping her napkin, turned white.

"Uncle Vitya, that's enough," said the last person at the table.

It was a young man of about thirty-two. Thin, dishevelled, in a crumpled sweater and glasses. He sat beside Liza and looked as if he wanted the floor to swallow him.

"Denis," Zaretsky introduced him. "Arkady Germanovich's nephew. A photographer. He photographed the collection for the catalogue."

"Nice to meet you," Denis muttered without looking up.

Dinner passed in a heavy silence, broken only by Marina's barbs and Viktor's loud breathing. Galina Stepanovna served the courses and cleared the plates without a sound, her face as impenetrable as a statue's. Polina ate, barely tasting anything, and thought that there were too many people in this house who hated each other. And too much money for that hatred to stay harmless.

The blue room was on the first floor, at the end of a long corridor. A tall four-poster bed, an antique dressing table, a window overlooking the sea. Somewhere below, the waves were roaring.

Polina was unpacking when there was a quiet knock at the door.

Galina Stepanovna stood on the threshold with a tray. A cup of tea, a little dish of biscuits.

"You hardly ate at dinner," she said. "Arkady Germanovich always had tea brought to guests at night."

"Thank you."

The housekeeper set the tray on the table. But she didn't leave. She stood looking at the equipment laid out on the bed: lamps, loupes, the microscope.

"Can you really tell real amber from fake?" she asked suddenly.

"That's my job."

Galina Stepanovna was silent. Then she went to the door, looked out into the corridor, listened. Closed the door again.

"Polina Lvovna," she said very quietly. Her voice was strained, as if every word cost her effort. "I've been in this house thirty-two years. I knew Arkady Germanovich better than his own children did. And I'll tell you one thing. You'll be looking at the stones. That's good. But don't look only at the stones."

"What do you mean?"

The housekeeper shook her head.

"Not everything in this house is what it seems. And not everything that glitters is amber."

She left quickly, before Polina could ask a single question. The door closed without a sound.

Polina stood in the middle of the room for a long time. Then she went to the window.

The night was dark and moonless. Below, at the foot of the cliff, the line of surf showed white. And along the beach, right by the water's edge, a man was slowly walking with a torch. A dog ran beside him.

For some reason Polina was sure it was Gleb.

And for some reason it made her feel a little calmer.

Chapter 2. The Mosquito That Never Was

The gallery took up the entire east wing of the second floor.

It was a long narrow room with tall windows facing the sea. Along the walls stood glass display cases on carved oak legs, and in each one lay amber. Hundreds of pieces. Necklaces and bracelets, caskets and snuffboxes, figurines of animals and birds, chess sets, icons in amber frames, pipes, seals. And plain stones: unworked, shapeless, but so beautiful you couldn't take your eyes off them. Honey, lemon, milky white, nearly black. In some of them insects, leaves, air bubbles, drops of ancient water had been frozen.

The morning sun, rare in late October, beat against the windows, and the whole gallery glowed from within with warm golden light. As if Polina had stepped inside an enormous piece of amber.

She stopped on the threshold and forgot to breathe.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" someone said quietly behind her.