The Poellenberg Inheritance by Evelyn Anthony Page A

them. Finally it was the Prince who broke it. ‘If you found a lover, I should not object, provided he was of our blood. I thought I should tell you this. Now I’m going to bed.’
    And two years later, in 1942, her son Philip, the child of her one love affair, was born. She had met his father during a visit to Berlin. He was a Luftwaffe pilot, seven years younger than herself, a gay and charming young man, the son of her own second cousin. They shared the same Von Hessel blood, the same traditions. Together they would keep the line unsullied.
    She had known he would be killed; there was a sense of impermanence about him which broke her heart. The child she carried was born after his death in action over the English Channel. It was baptised in the chapel at Schloss Würtzen in the font where ten generations of the family had been christened.
    Philip Friedrich Augustus Franz, Prince Von Hessel, the bastard son of a dead man. The Princess stood in the chapel and accepted the congratulations of their friends. Her husband stood beside her. Nothing was ever said, it was never acknowledged that Philip was not his child. But he was content; the family had a second heir, the name would continue in spite of Heinrich. And by the same unspoken attitude he let his wife understand that there must be no more lovers.
    â€˜Philip,’ Margaret said, ‘I know I’m right. What that Englishman said on the telephone convinces me that we are getting near.’
    â€˜Did you know there was a daughter?’ Philip asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ his mother said. ‘There was one child, I had forgotten what the sex was. It was clever of Fisher to make contact with her so quickly. He says he’s sure she knows something but that unless he reveals our interest in the case she won’t tell him what it is. I gave my permission, because we have to know what Schwarz came to tell her.’
    â€˜Mother,’ Philip said, ‘Mother, is there any use trying to persuade you to call a halt, even now? You know how I feel about it; you know what Heinrich feels.’
    â€˜Heinrich has no right to feel anything,’ she said angrily. ‘If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t have lost the Salt.’
    â€˜One man is dead,’ her son said slowly. ‘Beaten to death, after all these years. Who killed him? Is there any connection between his death and that report about Bronsart being seen in Paris – Mother, I think we’re opening up something that should never be disturbed at all! Supposing that he is alive; now that we know Schwarz escaped and stayed in hiding all those years, it’s possible that Bronsart did the same. And if he’s coming into the open, he’s certain to be caught. If he comes to trial the whole story could come out! Please, Mother darling.’ He reached out and held her hand. There was a deep love and sympathy between them. ‘Please stop while there’s still time. Forget the Salt. Other people lost great treasures; what does it matter now, besides the other risk!’
    â€˜It matters to me.’ The proud eyes blazed in memory. ‘It matters to me that one of the most beautiful objects in the world was taken from us by a ruthless parvenu, seized and hidden so that he could creep out one day and claim it. No, Philip, I’m going to get it back! If he lives, he’ll lead us to it. And it’s coming back to the place where it belongs. It’s ours, my son. One day it will be yours; you know that. You know that you’ll own everything, be responsible for all our interests. The Poellenberg Salt belongs to you.’
    â€˜And Heinrich?’ her son asked quietly. ‘You talk as if he didn’t exist. I wish you wouldn’t.’
    â€˜You have a kind heart,’ she said. ‘You find something to pity about him. I find nothing. There is no excuse for what he became. He’s a degenerate; he has no will, no feelings, no interest in