Page 69 of All I Want for Christmas

She blinked. What did this have to do with Trier? Had he bought it as a gift? For his mother, perhaps?...She frowned, her grip closing around the necklace as something stirred in her brain. A memory.

A memory...of an image. She lifted her hand and stared at the necklace more closely.

‘What is it?’ Max asked.

‘...I feel like I’ve seen this before.’ Her voice was barely more than a murmur as she sank into her mind, sifting and dredging through all the material she had waded through in the past ten days. So many photographs, slides, etchings, studies...

‘Wait,’ she whispered. It was a command to herself, she wasn’t talking to him, but he stayed where he was nonetheless as she suddenly stirred. ‘I need...’

She ran back down the aisle towards her worktable at the end and opened up her file of notes. It was pathetically paltry still, little more than a timeline of Trier’s movements during 1918–1920; a list of names of the women in his officially recognized works...but the colour printout Otto had given her was still folded in half. She opened it, staring down at the portrait. It was like peering through muddied bottle glass – the ultraviolet light could only reveal so much through such thick materials as board backing, and the colours were an indistinct, brownish smudge. There were only contrasts of tones and shades from which to work, but against the woman’s neck, partially obscured by the high neck of her blouse (or dress), there was the suggestion of a delicate necklace. Darcy might have assumed seed pearls from the shape and size of them, but the brightness of a singular bead at the throat indicated a tangible difference in material or colour.

Darcy looked again at the necklace in her hand. She set it down on the printout. The scale was off, of course, but...

She looked at Max, who had come to stand by her. ‘Do you think it is?’

He squinted, leaning down for a better look. ‘I mean, it could be...Hard to say for sure without any colour reference, but the gold bead does make it quite distinctive.’

Darcy looked down the corridor. Was Viggo at his desk? ‘Viggo?’ she called, grabbing the necklace and printout and running down the room. ‘You need to see this!’

The archivist, who was working at the computer in the east wing, peered round a shelf. ‘What is it? Have you found something?’

‘This necklace just turned up.’ She hurried over to him, showing him the image and beads. ‘See this here,’ she said, pointing out the bright gold bead. ‘Do you think this could be the same necklace?’

Viggo repositioned his glasses on the end of his nose and scrutinized the image, just as she and Max had done. He took the necklace from her, running his fingers over the small red beads almost meditatively, a small frown beginning to furrow his brow as he straightened slowly.

‘Do you recognize it?’ she asked, watching him. ‘Have you seen it before?’ There had been no identifying information on the envelope; nothing to indicate to whom it had belonged – or been intended to belong – nor who had ever worn it.

But if it was the woman in the portrait’s...it was athingthey could link to her. The first sign that she had been in Trier’s life.

Darcy felt hope spring for the first time. Finally, was this something to work with?

Viggo was still thinking hard, staring at the shelf opposite but not seeing it. He wasn’t here, downstairs in the dim light, below the gallery where tourists trod; he was...

‘...Upstairs.’

‘What?’ Darcy asked, but he was already moving towards the staircase. She went after him, followed by Max. Viggo used the security card on his lanyard to open the door, and they emerged into the bright daylight. The galleries were as full as ever but Viggo moved like an old cat, sure-footed and silent, through the crowds, knowing exactly where he was headed.

Darcy felt her heart pound. They had their first clue! Something to give to Otto and Margit.

Viggo led them towards the Madsen Heritage room where he had been working the other morning. He walked over to a corner where some black-and-white images of the family were displayed and stopped in front of one, peering at it closely, then pulling back with a satisfied nod.

Darcy went closer, her gaze travelling over the foursome depicted. She recognized the younger Madsen men immediately – Frederik and Casper in summer linens, playing croquet – but the two women, a blonde and brunette, were unknown to her.July 1921, said the plaque beside it.

‘Who are they?’ she asked, her gaze already fixed on the dark-haired woman’s throat.

Viggo pointed with great deliberation. ‘Sofia, Frederik’s wife,’ he said, pointing to the blonde woman. ‘And Lilja, Casper’s.’

Darcy stared at Lilja Madsen. She was wearing a loose white cotton dress with pintucks and dark embroidery on the skirt, and a neckline that cut straight across the clavicle, dropping to little capped sleeves. She was thin, her long hairworn down but for a pearl comb holding back the front strands. A dark, beaded necklace could clearly be seen at her slender neck, the gold nugget winking brightly at her throat.

Darcy pressed her hand to her mouth. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. After days and days of no progress, suddenly they had it? Just like that? The riddle had been unlocked with a string of red beads and a photograph that had been hanging on the wall above them all this time?

She gave an astonished laugh, locking eyes with Max, who had brought up the rear. He looked as disbelieving as her. ‘Can you believe it?’ she asked him.

‘...No.’ He looked stunned, his customary self-assurance absent for once as the situation developed at pace.

Darcy looked back at the photograph, studying the details of a face that had been little more than an impression till now. A silhouette and the attitude of her deportment – the tucking down of her chin, the slight angle at which she held her head – had been the only indicators of this woman’s demeanour and from those, she had been expecting a sophisticated society lady. But the woman in this photograph was far younger than she had expected; in fact, she looked little more than a girl. She had delicate, fine features but there was something in her eyes that was somehow challenging. She was holding the croquet stick with careless insouciance, as if the outcome of the game was of no consequence to her. Or perhaps she had already won, or lost? ‘She’s really hiswife? She looks so young!’

‘Different times,’ Viggo shrugged.

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