The Samurai Inheritance (6 page)

‘That would be lovely, sir,’ Jamie greeted Museum Direktor Muller. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

It was two years since Jamie had last been here, just after the museum reopened, but the man opposite him appeared about a decade younger. Then, the Herr Direktor had exhibited all the signs of a man under overwhelming stress: all twitching moustache and eyes darting nervously from a bony, pallid face. Now he exhibited the urbane air of a man in charge of his destiny. A man who knew the position of every bust and every mummy in his diverse collections. They waited until the coffee arrived and Muller took a delicate sip before opening the conversation.

‘First I must thank you for the generous donation to our funds,’ he said with a smile. ‘The state, of course, is bountiful, but conservation and research is expensive.’

Jamie returned the smile. ‘It was the least I could do after the help you provided on my previous commission,’ he acknowledged. ‘My client was most grateful for the return of the crown.’ In truth, the recovery of the Crown of Isis had brought him a modest cheque from the New York Police Department. The donation had come from the Princess Czartoryski Foundation finder’s fee for the Raphael. Nonetheless, contacts like Herr Direktor Muller were like plants: they required nurturing. A few thousand euros was money well spent now he could afford it, as his host’s genial cooperation confirmed.

‘And now you are here on another mysterious quest. I am intrigued. How can we be of assistance to you?’

Jamie hesitated. He’d been turning this conversation over in his mind since he’d landed at Tegel. It was all very well asking about Italian renaissance masterpieces and Egyptian crowns, but how did one broach the subject of a severed human head? There really was only one way. He took a deep breath and twisted his features into the apologetic grin that had seen him through a hundred dodgy negotiations.

‘The object I’m attempting to locate is a shrunken head that originated on the island of Bougainville.’ He saw the smile freeze on Herr Direktor Muller’s face but carried on without pausing for breath. ‘It would have been donated to the museum by an anthropologist named Adolfus Ribbe at some point between the years eighteen ninety-five and nineteen hundred. I’m aware it won’t be in any of your main collections, but I wondered if it might be hidden away somewhere in your basement?’ he ended lamely.

Muller stared at him, lips twisted in an expression that might have been puzzlement, disapproval or the precursor to a burst of hysterical laughter. The manicured hands rubbed at each other as though he were trying to rid them of some unwanted substance. Now Jamie thought of it, the idea seemed so outlandish he felt like running from the room. Before he could decide, the Herr Direktor remembered the cheque, composed himself and gave a sorrowful shake of his head.

‘I’m afraid that anything
hidden away
in my basement would have been consumed by American incendiary bombs in February nineteen forty-five, Herr Saintclair. To my certain knowledge we do not have an artefact of that nature within these walls …’

The news felt like a kick in the teeth, but why should he be surprised? It had always been a long shot. Still, something in Muller’s voice gave Jamie hope that it wasn’t a complete dead end.

‘But …?’

‘But there is another possibility. First …’ The Herr Direktor pushed a buzzer on his desk. He picked up a fountain pen to dash off a note on the pad by his right hand, the metal nib darting back and forth in neat, regimented lines across the pristine white paper. ‘Ribbe, you say? Have you any other details?’

Jamie mentioned that the anthropologist may have been based in Hamburg and the German added the information just as his secretary appeared in the doorway.

‘First we must discover if the artefact was ever donated to this museum. Fortunately, the archives for early contributions had been moved out of the building to the Zoo flak tower before the bombing and survived the war.’ Jamie knew the Zoo tower had been an enormous anti-aircraft bunker and bomb shelter out beyond Tiergarten. In addition to its more warlike function, it had accommodated the treasures of Berlin’s museums. When the Russians had captured it they’d been dissuaded from their usual wanton destruction by intelligence officers seeking information about Germany’s nuclear programme. ‘We have the originals in storage,’ the German continued. ‘For convenience the records have also been computerized so it should not take too long. In the meantime, perhaps I can explain why I am so certain there is no shrunken head in this museum?’

‘Of course.’ Jamie smiled, knowing this was his penance for wasting the Herr Direktor’s time with his foolishness.

‘Much has changed since your fellow Ribbe made his donation – if indeed he did. In those days studying the differences between various ethnic groups by examining their remains was a perfectly legitimate scientific pursuit.’ He paused and stroked his bottom lip with his index finger as if that would somehow provoke the correct words. ‘At one time most museums – including this one – would have had quite a collection of skulls, mainly for research purposes. These days they would never accept something of that nature, unless it had a specific value, such as giving an insight into ritual practices. In fact, we in the German Museums Association are already working on the details of a repatriation policy for the bulk of our human remains. The Museum of Medical History, for instance, has an extensive collection of skulls of the aboriginal peoples of Australia and Papua New Guinea, many of which will soon be returned.’

‘Then perhaps that’s where I should be looking?’ Jamie suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ the Herr Direktor took another sip of his coffee, ‘but we must ask ourselves what medical value a shrunken head would have? It would have gone through an extensive preservation process, which would leave it with little resemblance anatomically to its former self. For a scientist it would be like studying the badly stuffed remains of an animal. I doubt whether the medical museum would have accepted such a donation, unless it was for novelty value alone.’

‘Does this mean you’ll be repatriating all the Egyptian mummies I saw on the way up here?’

A thin smile creased Muller’s face. ‘You are joking, of course, but it is a legitimate question and one that requires addressing. In future we must recognize that these wonderful artefacts are human remains and can no longer be treated merely as objects. When we can, we must show the face behind the bandages, and tell the story of the person within.’

‘Is that something you can do?’ Jamie’s professional interest was piqued.

‘Of course.’ Muller spread his hands like a messiah spreading his message. ‘With the developing technologies at our disposal anything is possible—’

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation and the secretary entered to hand the direktor a computer printout. He scanned the contents and lifted his head to fix Jamie with an amused look that made the Englishman’s heart beat a little faster. ‘It seems your instincts were correct, Herr Saintclair, though you were fortunate Greta decided to search several years either side of our potential dates. In November of the year eighteen eighty-five, the museum purchased from Herr Adolfus Ribbe, lately returned from German New Guinea, “one canoe god – to be placed on the prow or stem of said vessel – seven fish spears in a variety of patterns, a model canoe – five feet in length, with foliage sail – various frond bowls, two clubs, four skulls of varying antiquity and … one shrunken head of a warrior chieftain”. You appear surprised.’

‘Frankly, Herr Direktor, I’m bloody astonished.’ Jamie grinned as Muller blinked at the bluntness of his reply. ‘When I first heard the words “shrunken head” I thought I had as much chance of finding it as winning the lottery.’

‘Of course, this does not mean it is here now,’ the museum boss cautioned. ‘The head would have remained in the Neues for just two years until the new Ethnological Museum in Stresemannstrasse opened its doors. Our entire collection moved there. It is now housed in a rather depressing modern building out at Dahlem, but I must warn you that the Stresemannstrasse site suffered even more gravely than this museum in the latter years of the war. Much of their collection was lost.’

But Jamie was barely listening.

Every hunt began with a first step. Against all the odds, the Bougainville head was more than just a fuzzy photograph taken more than a century earlier. It was a reality.

VII

The suburb of Dahlem is in the west of Berlin and one of the most affluent areas of the city. It lies near the Grunewald, the great playground of forests and lakes that draws Berliners in their tens of thousands each summer to swim and picnic. According to Herr Direktor Muller, the Ethnological Museum was in the centre of town close to the Free University of Berlin.

It took Max half an hour to reach the museum and he dropped Jamie off outside the gates of a modernist cube of a building set back from the road. The first thing that struck the Englishman was the enormous banners draped across the upper storey above the entrance. In turn they represented Africa, America, Oceania, Asia and Europe, and each continent was identified by the staring eyes, prominent nose and grinning mouth of a stylized head. For a moment he stood transfixed. Was this an omen? Could it really be that easy?

He carried the mood of optimism with him as he walked up the concrete stairs to the hallway where he’d arranged to meet the museum’s curator.

‘Herr Saintclair?’

‘Yes.’ He turned, pleasantly surprised to discover he was being addressed by a tall, slim figure wearing a powder-blue sweater and tight-fitting designer jeans that showed off her long legs to advantage. He guessed she was around his age – perhaps in her mid-thirties – and she had hair the colour and sheen of a raven’s plumage cut in a short bob. Chestnut eyes studied him appraisingly and there was an amused half-smile on her fine-boned features. The moment he set eyes on her he knew the first thing he said would make him sound like an idiot. Naturally, he obliged. ‘I’m here to see the curator, Herr Fischer.’

‘Perhaps you’ll put up with me instead?’ She offered her right hand and when he took it her grip was firm and dry. ‘I’m Herr Fischer’s deputy, Magda Ross. Dr Magda Ross.’ She spoke in a flat, precise English that in Jamie’s experience was peculiar to people who travelled widely, but with a slight accent that told him it was her native tongue. For some reason the perfume she wore took him back to a beach on the Norfolk coast and a night he’d long forgotten. The emphasis she placed on the word doctor made it a challenge, or possibly a warning, and he smiled.

‘You find something amusing?’ she asked.

‘Not at all,’ he lied. ‘I’m just surprised and pleased to find a fellow Brit here. My German is good, but it’s always easier to talk about a complex subject in one’s own language, don’t you think?’

She didn’t answer directly, but set off briskly in the direction of a door on the far side of the hall. ‘The Herr Direktor said you are interested in information about our Melanesian collection?’

‘If the island of Bougainville is in Melanesia, that is correct.’

She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I don’t believe it’s moved recently.’

Jamie reflected that a conversation with Dr Magda Ross was like being a knife-thrower’s assistant: you felt relatively safe until the next missile was launched.

They walked in silence through a series of long, wooden-floored corridors and wide rooms filled with glass cases. Eventually, a lift carried them to a larger chamber on the first floor, which was dominated by a series of full-size huts or houses with walls and roofs made of woven grass or leaves. At the far end a big outrigger canoe was displayed on a stand and glass cases around the walls held fearsome masks, tools and weapons.

Jamie studied the exhibits but could see no sign of his target. ‘The artefacts I’m interested in would have come to the museum from the Neues around a hundred and thirty years ago. Is it possible some of them would still be here, either on display or in storage?’

Magda Ross reached out to stroke an intricately carved hollowed log that appeared to be some kind of drum. ‘You have to understand that we lost a high percentage of our early collections during the war. It would depend on what the artefacts were and their constituent materials.’

Jamie reeled off the list Direktor Muller had given him: ‘Four skulls of varying antiquity and one shrunken head of a warrior chieftain.’

She frowned and walked to one of the cases. ‘This has been in our collection for over a hundred years.’ She pointed to what looked like an axe, with a stone blade and a polished wood handle. ‘It is originally from the Mount Takuan region of Bougainville Island.’ Some memory made her smile for the first time and the thought occurred to Jamie that she’d been nervous about meeting him. ‘I visited Bougainville about ten years ago when I was studying for my doctorate. It’s one of the most fascinating places in the world for an anthropologist, I …’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘Forgive me, I’m getting carried away. I’m not here to give you a lecture …’

‘Not at all.’ Jamie smiled back. ‘I’m interested in anything about the area. As you’ve probably noticed, my knowledge is a bit thin.’

‘When it comes to Melanesia, I’m what they call a geek,’ she confessed with a grin. ‘Anyway, to get back to the subject, the spears may still be on show, but I doubt the pots would have survived. These days, for reasons of sensitivity, we would never display objects like the skulls or the head. If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if we have any record of them.’

They walked side by side to a small open-plan office with views over the museum entrance. Magda waved Jamie to a chair and sat at a computer on what was obviously her personal desk. ‘If you’ll bear with me for a few moments …’

Jamie watched as her long fingers fluttered expertly over the keyboard. ‘I’m surprised your records survived if the bombing did so much damage to the museum,’ he said.

‘Fortunately they were stored somewhere they had a chance of surviving.’ She looked up and their eyes met almost by accident. Jamie had to fight off the sensation of being sucked into the centre of a whirlpool. A little voice in his head shouted a warning and he concentrated so hard on Fiona’s face he almost missed Magda Ross’s next words. She frowned at the incomprehension on his face. ‘I said that in those days we would have had to go to the other side of the city to access them. Now I just type a few letters and wait.’ A printer at the rear of the office began to chatter and she rose to collect the sheets as they emerged from the machine. She split them into two bundles and Jamie accepted one.