The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

explained. “And when I heard it on the radio, it seemed the perfect choice to close the service.”

It was Vicky Leandros singing Après toi. Luxembourg’s entry for the Eurovision Song Contest, which sounded to Ellen like a fairly crass choice. But when Marthe played the song, she had to admit that it did seem perfect. It could have been especially written for the occasion.

Even the clouds in what seemed to be an otherwise perpetually overcast sky parted briefly on the walk up the monumental steps to the chapel. This unpretentious rectangular edifice at the end of a long arcade lit up briefly in the sun as they entered, as if to welcome them. The service itself was a modest affair. Only Marthe and Dr Zellweger were there with Ellen. And she knew that this quiet departure would have been exactly the way Frank wanted it.

It was not until Ellen saw the coffin disappear behind the curtains to the melody of Après toi that she was overcome with emotion. She had said goodbye a year ago, had seen him fall before her feet without a word only recently, and now she was watching the final moment of his obliteration. After all that she had been through since Frank left their flat over twelve months ago and her slow acceptance of the likelihood that she would never see him again, this moment did not come with the eviscerating sense of loss she would have originally expected. But still it was the most bitter moment of her life. The tears were unrelenting. Marthe held her hand, squeezing it until the music eventually faded.

As they were leaving the chapel, and Ellen slowly regained her composure, Marthe and her husband tried to persuade Ellen that one of the cemetery vaults would be the ideal place for the urn. But Ellen had got it into her head that Frank’s ashes should be dispersed into the Rhine and left to journey their way north. It was a proposal that drew a look of disapproval from Dr Zellweger.

“It’s not the kind of thing that is encouraged here,” Marthe explained in a whisper. “But I think it’s a very romantic idea. We will go together when Urs is in work.”

Dr Zellweger remained silent as they walked back down the steps from the cemetery to the car. And the quietus cast over that day was punctuated by the sound of the car doors closing with a thud.

Apart from that brief moment of sunshine in the cemetery, the sky remained overcast for the rest of the week. But it remained dry. And when Ellen was driven into town a few days later to cast Frank’s ashes into the Rhine, she detected a sense of spring in the air.

As they were approaching the bridge, Marthe’s attention was caught by a voice behind her.

“Salü Marthe!”

Marthe span round. And Ellen’s gaze followed. They came face to face with a man Ellen estimated to be about forty. She found him strikingly handsome, with dark eyes that had an intensely magnetic attraction and an engaging smile that would have made her heart leap, had she not had Frank’s ashes in her arms.

“Salü Jack,” Marthe said, and gave the man her hand. “This is Mrs Goss from England,” she added, switching to English for Ellen’s benefit. “Ellen, this is Jack Hruby.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” the man said in perfect English and gave Ellen his hand. He was carrying an object wrapped in a blanket. It looked to her like a picture.

“How is Anna?” Martha asked

“She’s well. We just got back from Locarno. We had a wonderful time, together with Esther. I think it did Anna a lot of good. She even persuaded me finally to get rid of this painting,” he said, lifting the blanket-covered object.

“Where are you taking it?” Martha asked.

“A gallery has offered to take it off my hands.”

“Can I see it?”

Jack rolled back the blanket to reveal a painting of a woman with long tresses of red hair that fell down over an emerald green dress.

“Lola,” he said. “It’s an old painting my mother bought in an auction here many years ago.”

“She’s beautiful,” Ellen chipped in, and was mesmerised by the smile in his eyes when he looked up at her.

“You should offer it to Urs. He would love it,” Martha said, then added with a knowing smile: “and we could then move your own painting to a more suitable location.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jack replied, returning the smile.

This brief exchange intrigued Ellen. It gave further nourishment to her suspicion that Marthe was one of the women in the painting on the wall of her lounge.

“Look, why don’t you take it with you now,” he continued, and handed it to Marthe, “and see what Urs thinks. If he likes it, he should make me an offer. It’s an unknown artist from the Twenties, so it’s probably not worth much. The gallery offered me 400 francs.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” he added, turning to Ellen to give her his hand, and then headed off in the direction he had come from.

“Come on,” Marthe said to Ellen, the painting now tucked under her right arm. She then locked her left arm around Ellen’s right and they continued on their way.

When they reached the middle of the bridge, Ellen stopped and contemplated the river. Again, by what seemed to her to be the strangest of coincidences, the clouds briefly parted, allowing the sun to cast its sparkling light onto the water. All at once, a barge silently appeared from under the bridge, heading north. Ellen instantly thought of Frank’s mysterious words on Putney Bridge – ‘a boat, beneath a sunny sky’ – and smiled. Stooping down to take the urn from the bag she had been carrying, she felt Marthe’s cautionary hand on her arm.

Ellen looked up. The other side of Marthe, a few metres further along the bridge, stood an older woman, probably in her sixties, with a large scarf draped over her shoulders