Chapter 18
Still puzzling over the conversation she had overheard, Stephanie caught the District Line to Embankment and joined the crowds of people spilling out of the station. She walked up the road past Charing Cross, dodged black cabs to cross The Strand and walked the block to Trafalgar Square passing St. Martin-in-the-Fields church. It was a lovely summer’s day and a large number of tourists were milling around in the square, enjoying the sunshine. The National Gallery, located in a magnificent Georgian building, was on the northern side of the square. Stephanie made her way up the front steps and through the imposing double doors.
She left her suitcase in the coat check room in the basement and climbed the wide marble staircase to the second floor, which housed the gallery’s early 20th century collection. Her attention was taken by Monet’s Bathers at La Grenouillère, when she noticed a woman enter the room and speak briefly to the gallery assistant seated adjacent to the doorway, watching the visitors.
“Excuse me?” she called as she hurried towards them. Why do librarians and people who worked in art galleries all adhere to the same dowdy uniform of navy skirts, flat rubber-soled shoes accessorised with glasses hanging around their necks? she wondered idly.
Stephanie noticed that they both wore photo ID which introduced one as Dr Margot Pierce and the gallery assistant as Caroline Jones.
“Hi. I’m working on a project about lost artworks during World War II and I was hoping to find someone to talk to about the missing so-called Degenerate Art works,” Stephanie asked politely, as she approached.
Caroline nodded. “Sure.”
Stephanie pulled a notebook out of her bag and continued. “Now I know from my research that any sort of art work that didn’t meet the Nazis’ criteria of what a good painting, for example, should be, was considered degenerate. And that all such art work was confiscated and some pieces were incorporated into a travelling exhibition designed to ridicule the work and influence the cultural views of the German people,” she said.
“That’s correct,” Caroline said pleasantly.
“What would have happened to the art after the exhibition?” Stephanie asked.
“Well, I believe anything of value was sold at auction outside of Germany before the war, and everything else was destroyed,” she answered.
Stephanie thought back to Sophie’s diary. Her meeting with Hoffman had mentioned that art was being destroyed. It also mentioned art being stolen from Jewish families.
“What about the more famous pieces that were forcibly taken from German and Jewish families?” she asked.
“Same thing,” Caroline said
“So who would have bought them?”
“Other museums and galleries and wealthy collectors,” Caroline answered.
Stephanie’s mind was racing. This made sense. The Nazis had sold the pieces they had stolen to help fund their war. It seemed unlikely that Hoffman was selling degenerate or stolen art for the Nazis, but perhaps he was doing his own deals on the side? she thought.
“So, some galleries and individuals potentially still have stolen Nazi art in their collections?” Stephanie asked.
“Most definitely. If the provenance couldn’t be established after the war, they remained where they were,” Caroline agreed.
Dr Pierce interrupted. “I don’t like what you are insinuating, young lady.”
“Oh no. I didn’t mean, the National Gallery,” Stephanie said, her eyes wide.
“Mmm,” said Dr Pierce, sounding unconvinced. She looked at her watch. “Was there anything else?” she asked frostily.
“No. Thank you for your time,” Stephanie said as her mobile chimed with a text. “Actually there was one thing – how do you establish, what did you call it, provenance?”
“Dealers and the larger galleries have research departments that have set procedures for reviewing documentary evidence such as bills of sale and photographs. There are a number of journals and publications that assist in proving the legal ownership of an art object,” Caroline replied.
“So with stolen art, there would be a break in that documentary chain,” Stephanie said.
Caroline nodded and Stephanie thanked them again for their time. She flicked her mobile open and saw the text was from Michael.
Michael: Hey, hacked the secure section of Knoxes website!
Stephanie: Michael! :-o
Michael: Interesting client list. From a supposed mafia boss to the Nat Gallery!
Stephanie: That’s where I am right now.
Michael: Some woman from there is mentioned a lot.
Stephanie: Who?
Michael: Dr Margot Pierce.
Stephanie: That’s who I am talking to!
Michael: Get the hell out of there – u don’t want anyone letting Knox know u r snooping, especially after yesterday! Call me. U owe me an explanation!!
Stephanie hurried towards the stairs, glancing over her shoulder. Dr Pierce was standing in the centre of the room staring at her. Stephanie took the stairs two at a time back to the lobby. Jeez, Michael obviously didn’t buy the prank theory.
Dr Pierce watched her go and then hurried to a nearby office and closed the door. She picked up the phone and dialled a number.
“I have had a young Australian woman here this afternoon enquiring about missing Nazi art in galleries and private collections,” she said quietly into the telephone.
“No, not any one specifically, but I thought it odd, given the current situation.”
She walked over to the window and looked down into Trafalgar Square.
“Yes, she has just left,” she said pausing to listen. “Yes, that’s right, dark hair, late teens. She is heading towards Charing Cross now.”
“Okay. Goodbye.” She pressed ‘end’ on the handset, replaced the phone on the desk and continued watching until Stephanie had walked out of sight.
Stephanie hurried back towards the underground station, wheeling her bag behind her. There was no way the woman would link her queries with Alex. Was there? She felt the back of her neck prickle as though someone was watching her. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder. People were going about their business, taking no notice of her. Stop being paranoid, she thought, annoyed for letting her imagination get the better of her. She joined a stream of people walking down the road from Charing Cross to Embankment, where she caught the District Line, changing at Earls Court for Parsons Green.
Anna’s flat was on the south side of the Green. Stephanie walked past the White Horse Hotel where a few groups of people had gathered under the umbrellas to enjoy a lunch time drink. She crossed the road, walking up the front steps to a red door on the end of the row of terraced houses. She rang the buzzer for the top floor flat.
“Yes?” A voice crackled through the intercom.
“Hi, it’s me,” Stephanie said.
“Come on up.” The door clicked as Anna unlocked it remotely from upstairs. Stephanie pushed it open and pulled her bag into the entrance hall. She carried it up the stairs which were carpeted in a plush red with swirling patterns. The walls were wood panelled. The effect would have been dark and forbidding, had it not been for the large picture window on the landing at the top of the stairs, which looked back out over the Green. She continued up another flight to the top of the building where a smaller window overlooked the tree tops.
Anna was waiting at the door of her flat and threw her arms around Stephanie. Anna was gorgeous. Tall and slim with long auburn hair which curled as it hit her shoulders and spilled down her back. She had sparkling blue eyes, luminous skin and a very pretty smile. Stephanie returned her hug. Anna’s family lived in the same apartment complex in Chelsea as Stephanie’s father. Being the same age, Anna and Stephanie had quickly become firm friends from the age of four.
The flat was light and spacious. The walls were painted white and the floorboards had been polished and shone. The living room, kitchen and dining area were all one and the doors on the far side of the room led to two b
edrooms and a bathroom.
It wasn’t the sort of flat that a jobbing actress should have been able to afford, however, Anna’s father had bought it for her, as he couldn’t bear the thought of his only daughter living in squalor.
“So are you going to tell me who or what’s been keeping you so busy?” Anna asked filling the kettle.
“It’s a long story, but….” Over a pot of tea, Stephanie filled Anna in on meeting James, Sophie’s journal, the feud and the mysterious painting in the Knox library, the reappearance of Sam and finally the brick through her car window.
“Wow – you have been busy. I don’t know what to say. But I don’t like the thought that you are being threatened. Do you really think it could be James?” Anna asked, frowning.
Stephanie hesitated. She had no real evidence to link James, but she was feeling increasingly suspicious, and slightly afraid of him.
“Don’t know. I keep telling myself it’s probably just a prank. James has an ex-girlfriend who has taken a dislike to me. Although I am also wondering if the Knoxes – ” She broke off shaking her head. “I want a night off all that tonight.”
“Well that’s good, because I have a great night planned. We’ll grab a bite at that little Italian by the Tube and then we are heading into the West End to see a band. Hey – I have to say I told you that you and Sam had unfinished business,” Anna teased.
Stephanie shook her head. “No way.”
“Actually, Anna, there’s something else I haven’t told you,” she said hesitantly, unsure how to start.
“Yeah?”
“When I went to visit Dad today, he had a foreign military type guy with him and they were discussing the Knoxes and talking about me,” she said. Saying it out loud, she felt a strange twinge in her chest.
Anna looked surprised. “What did they say?”
“Just that Dad had made sure that I wasn’t hanging out with James anymore and they don’t want me at a ‘location’ when something happens. What do think is going on, Anna?” she asked.
Anna shook her head, curls bouncing. “No idea – that is really strange. What have you stumbled into?”