Forbidden Legacy

By A. W. Lambert

When a remote farmhouse burglary results in the death of one of the two elderly sisters living there the police are led to believe only a few trinkets were stolen. But then the surviving sister seeks out Theo Stern and admits that during the raid a priceless painting was also taken. But why were the police kept in the dark? She confides all to Stern, swearing him to secrecy and begging for his help to retrieve the painting.

Stern's encounters danger at every turn when his investigations lead him from a wealthy, influential French banker with links to the French underworld to a vicious London abduction and a twenty year reign of unsolved crimes in the UK?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090954

Book preview

Prologue

3a.m. September 29 th , 2011

A century old farmhouse

North Norfolk, England

IN THE DARK STILLNESS of the early hours, the sudden, unexpected chime of a grandfather clock came like thunder to the ears of the creeping, black-clad intruder. Jerking to a halt, the figure stood rigidly still, pulse racing, until the last melancholy chime faded and an eerie silence again descended on the old house.

Christ! The startled, involuntary word came hissed from within the black hood.

The frail back door had been easy; no more than thirty seconds and it was open. Then, heavy boots discarded on the threshold, through the kitchen and into the hallway. Everything exactly as it had been explained. Everything except that damned nerve-jangling grandfather clock; a momentary, relieved smile from within the hood.

A millisecond’s flash from the tiny powerful pen torch and the intruder eventually moved again, edging cautiously across the blackened hallway toward the bottom of the staircase and the biggest challenge. The house was old, over a hundred years, and old stairs creaked. But this was no amateur; this had been done before, many times.

Total silence in old buildings was almost impossible, but there were ways to minimise the risk, to ease the pressure on ageing woodwork previously battered by a million footfalls. Clasping the banister rail for support, thickly stockinged feet finding the extreme outer edge of each stair, the figure made its way slowly up the first flight. On the lower landing, a quick flash of light to be certain of position, then cautiously on to the second flight. At the top, the final destination, a pause, eyes probing the darkened landing, ears alert for the slightest sound. Finally satisfied, a final flash of the thin, probing beam and there it was.

The descent, awkwardly clutching the prize, was slower, more precarious. No problems, though. Just one more step to the bottom of the first flight and...

A sudden slither of pale light and, Hello, is there someone there?

The unexpected words, spoken hesitantly, with trepidation.

Christ. The single, involuntary word grunted through the hood as the black-clad figure stumbled to a halt.

The door opened further, the dim glow from within the room outlining, ghostlike, a slight, stooped form. The tiny figure took a cautious step away from the door, out onto the landing.

Who is it? Who’s there?

The voice was thin, anxious. Female. Elderly.

The intruder had been briefed, knew who lived here, knew there was no real threat. But now she stood there, blocking the final flight of stairs, the only escape route. There was no alternative. The thin, powerful beam of light again broke the darkness. But not as before, not a short, furtive burst. Now with purpose, into the eyes of the little old lady standing confused at the top of the stairs. She raised her hand to shield her suddenly tortured eyes and as she did so, the intruder surged forward. No need for silence now. Just push her to one side and get the hell out of there.

One

It was Monday morning and an early September sun shone in a beautifully clear, never-ending Norfolk sky. As Cherry Hooker made her way along the Sheringham high street, she breathed deeply, savouring the early crisp air. Just for the moment such a lovely morning banished thoughts of the soon-to-be winter months and Cherry couldn’t help but feel good.

Arriving at the bakery, she pushed her way inside where instantly the sharp outside air was replaced by the warm, sweet aroma of baking bread and cakes. Easing her way between several early morning customers, she called a happy good morning to Dave, the owner of the shop and landlord of the rented office space above. Through the shop and past the throbbing ovens at the rear, the day’s bread and cakes simmering, she climbed the short flight of stairs leading up to the single half-glassed door, the words ‘Stern Investigations’ emblazoned across it.

Inside she threw her coat across the back of her chair and set about preparing the office for the day, first filling the kettle, knowing full well the boss’s immediate thought on arrival would be coffee. Then, after throwing open every window to release the stale weekend air, she settled at her desk and fired up the laptop.

There was little in the diary, but that meant nothing. In the six years Stern Investigations had existed, there had seldom been a slack week; something always came up. As the boss would put it, the muck would always hit the fan at some time. He was pretty well always right, too. But slack week or not, Cherry still had work to do. Several invoices and reports needed pulling together. Letting the kettle boil and switch itself off, she settled to the task.

When she heard the footsteps on the staircase outside, Cherry glanced down at her watch. Nine twenty-eight. The boss had spent the weekend with Annie. He was always late when he stayed over at Annie’s place. Cherry could feel a jibe coming on. Then a puzzled frown formed as she realised the steps were much lighter than the boss’s thumping, heavy tread. She left the desk and pulled open the door.

A lady was making her way carefully up the short, narrow staircase. She looked up and gave Cherry a smile. You take some finding, she said.

In the office, Cherry showed the woman to a chair, explaining Stern had yet to arrive but was expected shortly. He should be here any minute now, she said. He’s probably stopped off to interview a client. She bit her tongue at the white lie, but felt it better than admitting the boss had probably had a good weekend and had just had a lie-in with the love of his life.

The lady smiled. Not to worry, dear. I have plenty of time.

The footsteps that clumped up the stairs ten minutes later were recognisable and welcomed by Cherry, who had endured an uncomfortable silence. The lady refused coffee or tea and other than identifying herself and stating a requirement to see Stern, had been reluctant to talk to anybody but the boss.

Theo Stern bounced through the door and, without turning to look Cherry’s way, headed across the room pulling off his jacket as he went. Blimey, Hooker, it’s like the flippin’ arctic in here. He flung the jacket on the coat rack in the corner and swung round. Hope you’ve got the coffee on the... Mouth open, he stopped in his tracks.

Cherry tried to suppress the grin, without much success. Mr Stern, this is Miss Alice Petit, she breathed reverently. "Miss Petit has a problem and has been waiting very patiently for a little while." God, how she loved moments like this!

Stern recovered quickly. Miss Petit. He smiled broadly as he crossed the office, hand outstretched. So sorry to have kept you waiting. Immediately noting crooked, arthritic fingers, he took the woman’s hand gently. Why don’t we go through to my office and make ourselves comfortable? Maybe Miss Hooker could make us a cup of coffee. Do you take sugar?

Cherry left the desk and crossed the office to the small table holding the makings.

Certainly, Mr Stern, she cooed. Right away, sir.

As he headed for the door to his inner sanctum, Stern’s free hand balled into a threatening fist behind his back.

She was small, probably no more than five feet and sat poised, her back straight, arthritis-warped hands clasping a small hand bag in her lap. Stern guessed she was probably in her sixties. Her hair was greying and cut short in a severe style, framing a soft, but not unattractive face. She was wearing a beige-coloured, heavy worsted coat over a crisp white blouse buttoned to the neck, a glinting brooch sitting neatly in place. Her tiny feet protruding beneath were encased in black leather, stubby-heeled shoes. A pleasant fragrance, unfamiliar to Stern, gallantly combated the powerful mustiness of clothes held daily in ancient wardrobes and cupboards. But most noticeable of all were the bright, intelligent eyes, holding Stern, claiming his attention from the start.

Stern leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Miss Petit, it is my policy when interviewing a lady, particularly for the first time, to ask my assistant, Miss Hooker, to sit in. Have you any objection to that?

For a second, a tiny frown touched the lady’s forehead. It is essential that what I am about to tell you is held in strict confidence, Mr Stern. Before coming here today, I made extensive enquiries about you and your background. The result being I feel completely comfortable in this approach. However, I know nothing of your young lady assistant and have to admit reservations in that regard. The voice, though light, was strong, the words spoken eloquently, with utter confidence.

Stern shook his head. You need have no fears regarding Miss Hooker. Whatever your investigations revealed about me can, without the slightest doubt, also be applied to my assistant. I will personally guarantee that. He paused, eyeing the woman determinedly; letting the utter confidence in his words sink home. However, I will make one important point. If what you have to tell me indicates in any way a situation outside the law, I am duty bound to inform the police. You must recognise this before you say another word.

Smiling, she slowly shook her head. I’ve never committed a crime in my life, Mr Stern. I’m not about to do so now. A further short pause then, Call for your assistant and let’s get on, shall we?

With Cherry settled in the far corner of the office, Stern again turned to Miss Petit. So what can I do for you?

You may have read in the press about a burglary in a remote farmhouse out near Plumstead, she began.

Stern thought back, remembering. Two or three weeks back, he mused. I seem to remember there was a fatality.

Yes. Sadly my sister, Marie, was killed during the burglary.

Oh, I’m sorry.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. Life can be very cruel sometimes. We had lived in that house for a long time with never a problem. Then... Eyes clouding, she stopped for some moments fighting to regain composure. Finally, taking a deep breath, she continued. Neither of us had ever married. We both had careers, you see. She paused again, eyes dropping to her lap, a sad smile forming. You never know what you have missed until you suddenly look around and realise it’s all too late.

We all have moments in our past we regret, Stern soothed.

Yes, of course. She raised her head and looked back at Stern, eyes clearing. When we first moved into the house, we decided to split it into two halves, give ourselves our own space, so to speak. On the ground floor we had a central common area, a sitting room where we spent leisure time together when entertaining mutual friends, that sort of thing. Other than that, I lived downstairs and Marie lived on the first floor. Marie was much more active than I and the stairs never bothered her. I, on the other hand, found them difficult. She raised a hand. Arthritis, you see.

I understand.

There is an upper floor, she continued. Used mainly to store the mountains of stuff my sister and I have accumulated over the years.

So your sister lived and slept on the first floor?

Yes, her bedroom was at the head of the stairs. The police believe it was there she disturbed the burglar. They think there was possibly a scuffle and Marie fell, or maybe was pushed, down the stairs.

Did you hear anything? On the night, I mean.

Oh yes. It was I who found her. My bedroom is at the back of the house. With this horrid arthritis, I don’t sleep very well. I’m often awake during the night and when I do sleep, it’s pretty shallow; I wake easily. On that night, it was just after three; I know because just previously I’d heard the old grandfather clock in the hall chime. Then there was what sounded like a series of bumps. She gave a tiny smile. The old house makes all sorts of noises during the quiet of the night and most of them are familiar; I’ve lain awake and listened to them a million times. But this was different; I’d never heard anything like it. Of course, by the time I’d dragged myself out of bed and made my way through to the hallway, everything was quiet again. She paused, swallowing heavily. I found poor Marie at the bottom of the stairs. I turned on all the lights and dialled the emergency services, but I knew... My sister was already... The words dried in her throat.

Cherry moved uncomfortably in her chair. Miss Petit, can I get you a drink of water?

She shook her head. Thank you, no, she whispered. Just give me a moment. She took several deep breaths before again looking to Stern. The police were there very quickly. They discovered the back door had been forced.

The house is not alarmed? Stern asked.

No, I’m afraid not. When you live in a place for so long without trouble, you tend to become blasé.

What have the police had to say?

It’s been difficult, but they assume whoever it was came in through the back door and into the kitchen. That would have led them to the main hallway and the stairs. They think the intruder got as far as the first landing where Marie confronted them. Then, either she stumbled and fell, or the intruder pushed her down the stairs. The post mortem confirmed my sister’s neck was broken and though there was extensive bruising, the police don’t believe Marie was assaulted in any way. It seems all the damage was as a result of the fall.

Stern thought for some moments, then said, Was much taken?

There was a pause and Alice Petit’s sharp eyes flicked between Stern and Cherry before she finally answered. As far as the police are concerned, very little; just a few small, opportunistic items they think were collected as the thief passed through the house.

Stern noticed the hesitation, the eye movement when he posed the question. "You said, as far as the police are concerned. What did you mean?"

She pulled herself up in the chair, straightening her back even more, her narrow chin jutting determinedly forward. This was not what we planned, she said tightly. It’s too early, too early for anyone to know.

Stern glanced toward Cherry who, also confused, raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He looked back to Alice Petit. I don’t understand, Miss Petit. What wasn’t planned?

She said nothing for a long time, her fingers kneading the handle of her bag agitatedly. Finally she took a long drawn breath and sighed heavily, her eyes again focussing on Stern.

You should know, Mr Stern, that as well as being a very talented artist in her own right, my sister, before she retired of course, was a university lecturer. She taught art; her specialist subject was the Impressionists, in particular, Claude Monet. She stopped, her gaze passing between Stern and Cherry. Do either of you know anything about the great man?

Stern shook his head. I suspect, to my assistant, as to me, the name only registers as a well known artist, he admitted. Thirty years in the police force leave little time to study the arts. His eyes narrowed and he inclined his head questioningly. Unless, of course, it’s part of a case; maybe a stolen masterpiece?

Alice Petit studied Stern for several long moments before breaking eye contact. You are indeed a true policeman, Mr Stern.

It has been said, Stern said quietly. Now I think you’d better finish your story, don’t you?

Two

Alice Petit eased herself forward in the chair, her expression now resolute, resigned.

A very long time ago, my sister and I made a pact, she began. We decided it would be fun for us to leave our own legacy; something to be remembered by, something that would leave a mark. And we believed we had just what it took to do that. Again her gaze drifted between Stern and Cherry. But first, and you must forgive me for this, I need to enlighten you both. A little history lesson, if you like.

Stern shrugged. If it’s relevant.

Oh, you can be sure it certainly is that, Mr Stern.

Relaxing back in his chair, Stern raised his hands in a resigned gesture. Then we’re all ears.

I’ve already told you my sister lectured in art. It had been her passion since she was a little girl and from day one it was a foregone conclusion that, in some way or other, it would play a major part in her life. And it did; she lived and breathed art all her life and taught in a number of universities, both in this country and sometimes in Europe. Her most treasured period was her time at Cambridge; she adored the place. And there, as at all her placements, she was highly respected. Even after her retirement a few years back, she still lectured at schools and colleges, sometime evening classes in the local area. She also, from time to time, gave private tuition to youngsters studying at various colleges. However, there was a specific reason why she concentrated on the Impressionists, and in particular, Claude Monet. She gave a little smile. And here starts the history lesson. Claude Monet lived between eighteen forty and nineteen twenty-six, but the particular time relevant to us is the eighteen sixties. It was during this time he moved around, constantly searching for the effects of natural light, atmosphere, and colour in everything he painted. Sadly, very few of his paintings from that period survive today; one reason being he was frequently in debt and regularly destroyed his own paintings to prevent them being impounded by his creditors.

He knew the value of his work, then, Stern said.

He was in his late twenties, Mr Stern. Confident of making his mark and, I suspect, possessive of every brush stroke.

But he wasn’t famous at that time?

She shook her head. "Famous, no, but he was known. Two years before, he had painted something called ‘La femme à la robe verte’."

Stern held up a finger. Let me guess, something to do with a woman and a green dress, right?

Wow. Cherry gave a slow hand clap. I didn’t know you spoke French, boss. I’m impressed.

Stern shook his head. Don’t be. I only know a few words. He turned back to Alice Petit. Sorry to interrupt. Just showing off.

Alice Petit waved his apology away. "You’re correct, Mr Stern. Monet’s The Woman in the Green Dress was painted in eighteen sixty-six. That painting brought the great man some recognition, but not fame and certainly not wealth. He still struggled with debt. She paused, but only for a second. And that’s when the Petit family came in."

Stern frowned. Your family? In the eighteen sixties?

She nodded, a single slow bob of her head. In eighteen sixty-seven, to be precise.

Cherry whistled softly. That had to be your great, great... She gave up.

Not quite, dear. It was my great grandfather, Alain Petit.

You are of French descent then?

Yes, my father was French. He married an English lady who at the time was teaching in France. They had just the two daughters, my sister and me, and at my mother’s request moved to England in nineteen sixty-two. At that time, Marie was eighteen and I had just passed my sixteenth birthday.

That must have been a wrench for you both, Stern observed. Was there any particular reason for the move?

I don’t know, we never questioned it. Maybe mother just yearned for her homeland. Besides, it only took a short while for Marie and me to settle.

So did you move to the house you live in now?

No, we lived on the outskirts of London. My mother tragically died in nineteen seventy-eight, after which my father lost the will to carry on. He deteriorated slowly and died in nineteen eighty. A year later, using the money left to us, my sister and I moved to the house here in Norfolk. We’ve lived there ever since. She waved her hand dismissively. But back to my story. In eighteen sixty-seven, Claude Monet painted a picture of the beach at Sainte-Adresse, a place close to Le Havre. That picture, an oil on canvas, is now very famous and hangs in the Art Institute of Chicago in Illinois, USA. It measures seventy-five centimetres by one hundred and one centimetres. I can’t be precise about its value, but a conservative guess would be several million pounds.

Cherry’s hand went to her mouth. Good grief.

Stern chewed at his bottom lip. Seventy-five by a hundred? What’s that in old money? Something like eighteen inches by just over three feet. He held up his hands, fisherman like, measuring the space. A great deal of money for a piece of canvas.

Ah yes, but a very special piece of canvas, Alice Petit chided.

Stern dropped his hands. So it seems. And it’s this picture we’re interested in, is it?

Alice shook her head. No, not this one.

So what then?

Well, what all but a few people knew was during his visit to that beach on that particular day, Monet painted two pictures. The second one was a little smaller than the one in the USA, but no less a Monet.

And that hangs where?

Her face saddened. At this moment I wish I knew, she admitted softly. You see, as I said before, Monet had debts. Only a very few people knew of the second painting anyway, and as far as they knew... She paused. "Well, as far as all but one of those knew, it was destroyed by the artist to avoid his creditors."

But it wasn’t.

A slow shake of the head.

You said all but one?

I did, and this was where my great-grandfather came in. He owned a large hotel and was quite a wealthy man. He was also a friend and great admirer of the artist. At around the time the beach paintings were created, my great-grandfather learned of a particularly awkward debt owed by Monet. Family legend has it he stepped in and cleared the debt, insisting the great man accept it as a gift. He was adamant; he wanted nothing in return. But Monet was a proud man and would have none of it. He demanded Great-grandfather Petit accept the second painting as repayment for his generosity. My great-grandfather eventually succumbed to the artist’s insistence and accepted the painting. He hung it with great pride in his private office in the hotel. It was there for many years.

And in all that time nobody knew it was a Monet?

No, never. Though it was untitled, it was signed. So it was purposely hung high on the wall behind grandfather’s desk where it would be difficult to recognise the signature.

Stern sat for some time, a deep frown corrugating his forehead. Finally he said, D’you know, Miss Petit, I’m beginning to think I know where this is leading.

She held up her hand. Having researched your background, Mr Stern, I would be most disappointed if you didn’t. However, I think, as you yourself said earlier, it’s only right I should finish my story.

Nodding, Stern eased back in the old chair.

That picture hung untouched in Great-grandfather Petit’s office for over twenty years, she continued. On his death, it was bequeathed to my grandfather. But there was a codicil attached to the will. Great-grandfather stipulated, as long as a genuine heir existed, the painting had to be passed down the line. He also specified it should never be sold and, outside the family, it should never be spoken of, its existence never revealed.

Wow, some legacy. Cherry, now totally engrossed, couldn’t help the intrusion.

Maybe, Alice Petit agreed. But sadly of no benefit to anyone. Other than the current heir, no one would ever see it. Even the revelation of its existence was forbidden.

A forbidden legacy, Stern mused. And for all those years, the family adhered to his wish?

Yes, as far as is known, they did, and the painting has remained in the family from eighteen sixty-seven until the present day.

That’s what...? Frowning deeply, Cherry calculated. It’s over a hundred and forty years, she said at last.

That’s right, Stern broke in. He eased the old chair up to the desk, resting forward on folded arms. A hundred and forty years in the same family and now, for some reason, you decide not to tell the police a valuable painting has been stolen from your home. Why is that, Miss Petit?

What! Cherry spun to face Stern. Boss, what are you...? She stopped abruptly. She had seen the same look on his face before. She knew when to back off.

Alice Petit gave a sad, resigned smile. Like I said before, Mr Stern, you are a true policeman.

Was, Stern corrected. Not any more. But you have come to me for a reason. I would like to know what that reason is.

Of course. She shifted her position on the chair, collecting her thoughts. You will remember the proviso in Great-grandfather’s will; the painting should never be sold, its existence never even spoken of. And, as long as a genuine heir existed, it had to be passed down the line.

I remember.

Well, both my sister and I are spinsters. We have never married and have never given birth. We are the end of the line.

There is no one else? Brothers or sisters, cousins?

Alice Petit shook her head adamantly. My sister and I have known for some time. There is no one alive today who is a direct, in-line descendent. As a result, as I have already said, my sister and I decided it would be fun for us to leave our own legacy; something to be remembered by.

The painting?

Yes. We agreed to leave the painting to The National Gallery. We spoke of it many times, enjoying the thought of the chaos it would cause.

Sorry, can I just ask? Cherry broke in. Are you telling us this painting, probably worth millions, has been in your house since...

It has, for over thirty years. Since nineteen eighty, in fact.

And nobody knew?

No. She paused uncertainly. Or so we thought.