‘Not when Trudi bought it,’ Jean countered.
‘No, but it would still have cost a fortune, relatively speaking, and the upkeep must be a huge drain. There’s a few acres of land to tend and—’ He paused and whistled. ‘Well just look at the place. How many bedrooms do you think there are?’
‘At least a dozen.’
‘At least,’ Tayte agreed.
The house, arranged on three floors, was painted white, which made it stand out all the more amidst the lush greenery of the landscaped gardens it was set in. A balcony ran around half of the top floor, where Tayte imagined the master bedroom was. He couldn’t think why someone Trudi’s age would choose to run such a sizeable estate all by herself. By all accounts she had no other family to share it with than Ingrid Keller, but he imagined she lived with her husband when she wasn’t caring for Johann Langner. It was another indicator to Tayte that Trudi didn’t need the money. She could have made a fortune from the sale, but clearly she didn’t need to sell.
They were greeted at the front door by a smart young woman in a black dress, whom Tayte supposed was the person he’d spoken to when he called the house earlier. When the young woman greeted them, the familiarity in her voice, and her awkwardness with the English language, confirmed it. She led them through a marble-pillared hallway to a bright sitting room at the back of the house, which looked down over a wooded area and what appeared to be a recreational parkland. In the distance, Tayte could see Munich’s Olympic park with its various domes sprawled over the landscape like vast Bedouin tents.
‘Very nice indeed,’ Tayte said as they sat down and waited for their host to join them.
Trudi Strobel didn’t keep them waiting long. She came into the room alone, dressed in a light-green gown and cardigan, aided by the fanciest looking walking stick Tayte had ever seen. It had a gold filigree handle over polished ebony, the gold tracery weaving between colourful enamelwork that extended partway down the cane. Tayte knew from seeing Trudi’s vital records that she was ninety-two years old. She was tall and slim, but without appearing frail. Her grey-white hair was impeccably styled and set, and her skin, though lined with the inevitability of old age, had a quality to it that belied her years. Tayte and Jean stood up as she approached them, and Tayte thought she appeared as elegant in her demeanour now as he supposed she had been in her youth.
‘Mr Tayte,’ she said, coldly and without the slightest hint of a smile. She made no suggestion that she wanted to shake Tayte’s hand. ‘I can’t say it’s a pleasure.’
If Trudi had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth then it showed in the plummy way she spoke. There was a haughtiness to her tone and very little trace of the German nuances evident in the accents of most of the people Tayte had spoken to since arriving in Munich. He imagined she’d received the finest education money could buy.
Trudi turned to Jean. She tilted her head back and raised her glasses slightly to peer beneath them, giving the impression that she was looking down her nose at her. Then as if Jean wasn’t worthy of being addressed herself, she turned back to Tayte and said, ‘And who is this?’
‘This is my partner, Professor Jean Summer,’ Tayte said. He could see from the glance Jean gave him that she was glad he’d got the ‘professor’ part in.
‘A professor?’ Trudi said, studying Jean more closely, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Royal history,’ Jean said. ‘Particularly the constitutional history of England, specialising in the Plantagenet dynasty.’
Trudi didn’t continue the conversation. She made a slight but disdainful sound in her throat as she turned away and sat in a chair that looked uncomfortably upright. ‘Well, sit down,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
No refreshments were offered, so Tayte got straight to the point. ‘Firstly, I’d like to apologise to you for the manner in which this interview has come about.’
‘You mean how you threatened me?’
‘Yes,’ Tayte conceded. ‘And I’m sorry it had to come to that. It’s not my usual style at all.’
Trudi made a point of eyeing Tayte up and down, from his perennially ruffled black hair to the comfortable, if bordering on worn out, beige loafers on his feet, as if to suggest that style of any kind wasn’t really something Tayte gave much thought to. She made him feel so uncomfortable that he found himself trying to press the creases out of his jacket with the palms of his hands.