A Place of Hiding (44 page)

“Can't afford to make too many errors in your line of work,” St. James noted. “I suppose that could get expensive.”

“Well, you're something of a distraction, aren't you?” Moullin rejoined. “So if there's nothing else, I've work to do and not a hell of a lot of time to do it.”

“I understand why Mr. Brouard left money to a boy called Paul Fielder,” St. James said. “Brouard was a mentor to him, through an established organisation on the island. GAYT. Have you heard of it? So they had a formal arrangement for their relationship. Is that how your daughter met him as well?”

“Cyn had no relationship with him,” Henry Moullin said, “GAYT or otherwise.” And despite his earlier words, he apparently decided to work no more. He began returning his cutting tools and measures to their appropriate storage places, and he grabbed up a whiskbroom and swept the workbench clear of minuscule fragments of glass. “He had his fancies, and that's what it was with Cyn. One fancy today, another tomorrow. A bit of I can do this, I can do that, and I can do whatever I want because I've the funds to play Father Christmas Come to Guernsey if I decide to do it. Cyn just got lucky. Like musical chairs with her in the right spot when the tune dried up. Another day, it might've been one of her sisters. Another month and it probably would've been. That was it. He knew her better than the other girls because she'd be on the grounds when I was working. Or she'd stop by to visit her aunt.”

“Her aunt?”

“Val Duffy. My sister. She helps out with the girls.”

“How?”

“What do you mean,
how
?” Moullin demanded, and it was clear that the man was reaching his limit. “Girls need a woman in their lives. Do you want the ABC's on why, or can you figure it out for yourself? Cyn'd go over there and the two of them would talk.
Girl
business this was, all right?”

“Changes in her body? Problems with boys?”

“I don't know. I kept my nose where it's meant to be, which is on my face and not in their affairs. I just blessed my stars that Cyn had a woman she could talk to and that woman was my sister.”

“A sister who'd let you know if there was something amiss?”

“There was nothing amiss.”

“But he had his fancies.”

“What?”

“Brouard. You said he had his fancies. Was Cynthia one of them?”

Moullin's face purpled. He took a step towards St. James. “God
damn.
I ought to—” He stopped himself. It looked like an effort. “We're speaking of a
girl,
” he said. “Not a full-grown woman. A girl.”

“Old men have fancied young girls before.”

“You're twisting my words.”

“Then untwist them for me.”

Moullin took a moment. He stepped away. He looked across the room to his creative glass pieces. “Like I said. He had fancies. Something caught his eye, he shook fairy dust on it. He made it feel special. Then something else caught his eye and he moved the fairy dust over to that. It's the way he was.”

“Fairy dust being money?”

Moullin shook his head. “Not always.”

“Then what?”

“Belief,” he said.

“What sort of belief?”

“Belief in yourself. He was good that way. Problem was, you started thinking there might be something to his belief if you got lucky.”

“Like money.”

“A promise. Like someone was saying, Here's how I can help you if you work hard enough but you've got to do that first—the hard work itself—and then we'll see what we will see. Only no one ever
said
it, did they, not exactly. But somehow the thought got planted in your mind.”

“In yours as well?”

On a sigh, Moullin said, “In mine as well.”

St. James considered what he'd learned about Guy Brouard, about the secrets he kept, about his plans for the future, about what each individual had apparently believed about the man himself and about those plans. Perhaps, St. James thought, these aspects of the dead man—which might otherwise have been merely reflections of a wealthy entrepreneur's caprice—were instead symptoms of larger and more injurious behaviour: a bizarre power game. In this game, an influential man no longer at the helm of a successful business retained a form of control over individuals, with the exercise of that control being the ultimate objective of the game. People became chess pieces and the board was their lives. And the principal player was Guy Brouard.

Would that be enough to drive someone to kill?

St. James supposed that the answer to that question lay in what each person actually did as a result of Brouard's professed belief in him. He glanced round the barn once more and saw some of the answer in the glass pieces that were diligently cared for and the furnace and blowing pipes that were not. “I expect he made you believe in yourself as an artist,” he noted. “Is that what happened? Did he encourage you to live your dream?”

Moullin abruptly began walking towards the door of the barn, where he snapped off the lights and stood silhouetted by the day outside. He was a hulking figure there, described not only by the bulky clothes he wore but also by his bull-like strength. St. James reckoned that he'd had little trouble destroying his daughters' handiwork in the garden.

He followed him. Outside, Moullin shoved the barn door closed and padlocked it through a thick metal hasp. He said, “Making people think larger than what they were was what he did. If they chose to take steps they might've not taken without him coaxing them . . . Well, I s'pose that's just their own affair. No skin off anyone else's arse, is it, if someone extends himself and takes a risk.”

“People generally don't extend themselves without some idea of the venture's success,” St. James said.

Henry Moullin looked over to the garden where the smashed shells dusted the lawn like snow. “He was good at ideas. Having them and giving them. The rest of us . . . we were good at belief.”

“Did you know about the terms of Mr. Brouard's will?” St. James asked. “Did your daughter know?”

“Did we kill him, you mean? Quick to douse his lights before he changed his mind?” Moullin dug his hand into his pocket. He brought out a heavy-looking set of keys. He began to walk along the drive towards the house, crunching through the gravel and the shells. James walked at his side, not because he expected Moullin to expatiate on the topic he himself had brought up but because he'd caught a glimpse of something among the man's keys and he wanted to make sure it was what he thought it was.

“The will,” he said. “Did you know about its terms?”

Moullin didn't reply till he'd reached the front porch and had inserted his key in the door's deadbolt lock. He turned to reply.

“We didn't know a thing about anyone's will,” Moullin said. “Good day to you.”

He turned back to the door and let himself inside, and the lock on the door snapped smartly behind him. But St. James had seen what he wanted to see. A small pierced stone hung from the ring holding Henry Moullin's keys.

St. James stepped away from the house. He wasn't such a fool as to think he'd heard all there was to hear from Henry Moullin, but he knew he'd taken matters as far as he could just then. Still, he stood for a moment on his way back down the drive and considered the Shell House: its curtains drawn against the daylight, its door locked, its garden ruined. He pondered what it meant to have fancies. He dwelled on the influence it gave one person to be privy to another person's dreams.

As he stood there, not particularly focused on anything, movement from the house caught his eye. He sought it out and saw it at a small window.

Inside the house, a figure at the glass flicked the curtains into place. But not before St. James caught a glimpse of fair hair and saw a gauzy shape fade from view. In other circumstances he might have thought he was looking at a ghost. But the unmistakable body of a female very much corporeal was backlit briefly by a light within the room.

Chapter 18

P
AUL
F
IELDER WAS MIGHTILY
relieved to see Valerie Duffy charging across the lawn. Her black coat flapped open as she ran, and the fact that she hadn't buttoned it told him she was on his side.

“See here,” she cried as the police constable seized Paul by the shoulder and Taboo seized the policeman by the leg. “What are you doing to him? This's our Paul. He belongs here.”

“Why's he not identifying himself, then?” The constable had a walrus moustache, Paul observed, and a bit of his breakfast cereal still hung from it, quivering when he talked. Paul watched this flake in some fascination as it swayed to and fro like a climber dangling from a perilous cliff.

“I'm
telling
you who he is,” Valerie Duffy said. “He's called Paul Fielder and he belongs here. Taboo, stop that. Let the nasty man go.” She found the dog's collar and dragged him off the constable's leg.

“I ought to have you both in for assault.” The man released Paul with a shove that thrust him towards Valerie. This set Taboo barking again.

Paul flung himself to his knees by the dog and buried his face in the smelly fur of his neck. Taboo gave off barking at this. He continued to growl, however.

“Next time,” the walrus moustache said, “you identify yourself when you're spoken to, boy. You don't, I'll have you in the nick so fast . . . That dog'll be put down as well. Should be anyway for what he did. Just look at these trousers. He's ripped a damn hole. You see that? Might've been my
leg.
Flesh, boy. Blood. He had his shots? Where're his documents? I'll have them off you right now.”

“Don't be a mad fool, Trev Addison,” Valerie said, and her voice was sharp. “Yes, I know who you are. I was at school with your brother. And you know well's I, you do, that no one walks round with their dog's papers on them. Now, you've had a fright and so has the boy. The dog as well. Let's leave it at that and not make things worse.”

The use of his name seemed to do something to settle the constable, Paul saw, because he looked from Paul to the dog and to Valerie, and then he adjusted his uniform and brushed his trousers. He said, “We've got our orders.”

“You do,” Valerie said, “and we mean to let you follow them. Come with me, though, and let's get those trousers repaired. I can do it for you in a wink and we can let the rest go.”

Trev Addison glanced along the edge of the drive where one of his colleagues was thrusting back shrubbery, bent over to the task. It looked like tiresome work that anyone might have wanted to take ten minutes away from. He said reluctantly, “I don't know as I ought . . .”

“Come on with you,” Valerie said. “You can have a cup of tea.”

“In a wink, you say?”

“I've two grown sons, Trev. I can make repairs faster than you can drink that tea.”

He said, “All right, then,” and to Paul, “Mind you stay out of the way, hear? Police business's going on in these grounds.”

Valerie told Paul, “You go to the kitchen in the big house, love. Make yourself a cocoa. There're fresh ginger biscuits, as well.” She gave him a nod and set off back across the lawn with Trev Addison following behind her.

Paul waited, rooted to the spot, till they disappeared back inside the Duffys' cottage. He found that his heart had been pounding like thunderbolts, and he rested his forehead against Taboo's back. The musty, damp dog scent of him was as welcome and familiar as the touch of his mother's hand on his cheek whenever he'd been feverish as a child.

When his heart at last slowed, he raised his head and scrubbed at his face. When the policeman had grabbed him, his rucksack had been shaken loose from his shoulders and it now lay on the ground in a heap. He scooped it up and trotted towards the house.

He went round the back, as usual. There was much activity going on. Paul had never seen so many policemen in one location before—aside from on the telly—and he paused just beyond the conservatory and tried to sort out what they were doing. Searching, yes. He could tell that much. But he couldn't imagine what for. It seemed to him that someone must have lost something valuable the day of the funeral, when everyone returned to
Le Reposoir
for the burial service and the reception afterwards. Yet while that seemed likely, it
didn't
seem likely that half the police force would be looking for that something. It would have had to belong to someone awfully important, and the most important person on the island was the one who had died. So who else . . . ? Paul didn't know and couldn't reckon. He went into the house.

He used the conservatory door, which was unlocked as always. Taboo pattered along behind him, his nails
snick
ing against the bricks that comprised the conservatory's floor. It was pleasantly warm and humid inside, and the dripping of water from the irrigation system made a hypnotising rhythm that Paul would have liked to sit and listen to for a while. But he couldn't do that because he'd been told to make himself cocoa. And above all else when it came to
Le Reposoir,
Paul liked to do exactly as he'd been told. That was how he kept the privilege of coming to the estate just that: a treasured privilege.

Do right by me, I'll do right by you. That's the basis of what's important, my Prince.

Which was another reason Paul knew what he was supposed to do. Not only with regard to the cocoa and the ginger biscuits, but with regard to the inheritance as well. His parents had come up to his room when the advocate left them and had knocked on his door. His dad had said, “Paulie, we're going to need to talk about this, son,” and his mother had said, “You're a rich lad, love. Just think what you can do with all that money.” He'd let them in and they'd spoken to him and to each other, but although he'd seen their lips moving well enough and had heard the occasional word or phrase, he'd already worked out what he was meant to do. He'd come directly to
Le Reposoir
to set about doing it.

He wondered if Miss Ruth was in the house. He hadn't thought to see if her car was outside. She was the person he'd come calling upon. If she wasn't there, he intended to wait.

He took himself to the kitchen: along the stone hall, through the doorway, and down another corridor. The house was silent, although a creaking of the floor above his head told him Miss Ruth was probably at home. Still, he was wise enough to know that he oughtn't to creep round someone else's house looking for them, even if he'd come to see them especially. So when he got to the kitchen, he ducked inside. He'd have his cocoa and biscuits and by the time he was done, Valerie would be there and she would usher him upstairs to see Miss Ruth.

Paul had been in the kitchen of
Le Reposoir
enough times to know where everything was. He settled Taboo beneath the work table in the centre of the room, put the rucksack next to him for his head, and went to the pantry.

Like the rest of
Le Reposoir,
it was a magical place, filled with smells he wasn't able to identify, as well as boxes and tins of foodstuffs he'd never heard of. He always loved it when Valerie sent him into the pantry to fetch something for her in the midst of her cooking if he was hanging about. He always liked to prolong the experience as much as possible, breathing in the mixture of extracts, spices, herbs, and other cooking ingredients. That took him to a spot in the universe that was utterly unlike the one he knew.

He lingered there now. He uncapped a row of bottles and lifted them to smell one by one.
Vanilla,
he read on one label.
Orange, almond, lemon.
The fragrances were so heady that when he inhaled, he could feel the scent take up residence behind his eyes.

From the extracts he went on to the spices, taking in the cinnamon first. When he got to the ginger, he took a pinch no bigger than the edge of his littlest fingernail. He placed it on his tongue and felt his mouth water. He smiled and went on to the nutmeg, the cumin, the curry, the cloves. Afterwards came the herbs, then the vinegars, then the oils. And from there he mingled with the flour, the sugar, the rice, and the beans. He picked up boxes and read their backs. He held packets of pastas against his cheek and rubbed their cellophane wrappers on his skin. He'd never seen such abundance as he saw here. It was a wonder to him.

He sighed at last with satiated pleasure and rooted out the cocoa tin. He carried it to the work top and fetched milk from the fridge. From above the cooker, he took down a pan and he carefully measured out one mug of milk and no more, which he even more carefully poured into the pan to heat. This moment represented the first time ever he'd been allowed to use the kitchen, and he meant to make Valerie Duffy proud of the diligence he employed to enact the rare privilege.

He lit the burner and sought out a spoon to measure the cocoa. The ginger biscuits were on the work table, still fresh from the oven on their cooling racks. He pinched one for Taboo and fed it to the dog. He took two for himself and stuffed one into his mouth. The other he wanted to savour with his cocoa.

A clock bonged somewhere within the house. As if accompanying it, footsteps moved along a corridor directly above him. A door opened, a light snapped on, and someone began descending the back staircase into the kitchen.

Paul smiled. Miss Ruth. With Valerie not there, she'd need to get her own mid-morning coffee if she wanted it. And it was there, steaming in the glass carafe. Paul fetched another mug, a spoon, and the sugar for her, making everything ready. He imagined the conversation to come: her eyes widening in surprise, her lips rounding to an O
,
her murmured “Paul, my
dearest
boy” when she understood exactly what he meant to do.

He bent down and eased the rucksack from beneath Taboo's head. The dog looked up, tilting his ears towards the staircase. A low growl rumbled deep within his throat. A yip followed this, then a full-fledged bark. Someone said, “What on
earth
. . . ?” from the stairs.

That voice didn't belong to Miss Ruth. A Viking-sized woman came round the corner. She saw Paul and demanded, “Who the
hell
are you? How'd you get in? What are you doing here? Where's Mrs. Duffy?”

Far too many questions at once, and Paul was caught with a ginger biscuit in his hand. He felt his eyes go as round as Miss Ruth's lips would have done, and his eyebrows shot up in the direction of his hairline. At that same instant, Taboo darted out from beneath the table, barking like a Doberman and baring his teeth. His legs were splayed out and his ears were back. He didn't ever like people talking harsh.

Viking Woman backed away. Taboo advanced on her before Paul had a chance to catch him by his collar. She started shrieking, “Get him away, get him, God damn it,
get
him!” as if she thought the dog actually meant to do her harm.

Her shouting only made Taboo bark louder. And just at that moment, the milk that was heating on the stove boiled over.

It was too much at once—the dog, the woman, the milk, the biscuit in his hand that
looked
like he'd pinched it, only he hadn't, because Valerie had told him to have one, and even if he had taken
three,
which was two more than she'd said he could take, that was fine, really, that was all right, that wasn't a crime.

Fsssshhhhh.
The milk frothed onto the burner beneath the pan. The smell of it as it hit the direct heat burst into the air like a covey of birds. Taboo barked. The woman shouted. Paul was a pillar of concrete.

“You stupid boy!” Viking Woman's voice sounded like metal on metal. “Don't just stand there, for God's sake,” and the milk burned behind him. She backed towards the wall. She turned her head as if she didn't want to see her own destruction at the teeth of an animal who was in truth more terrified than she was, but instead of fainting or trying to get away, she began shouting “Adrian! Adrian! For God's sake, Adrian!” and because her attention was no longer on him or on the dog, Paul felt his limbs unfreeze and move on their own.

He darted forward and grabbed Taboo, dropping his rucksack to the floor. He pulled the dog over to the cooker and fumbled for the controls that would douse the heat beneath the milk. In the meantime, the dog still barked, the woman still shouted, and someone came clattering down the back stairs.

Paul lifted the pan from the cooker to take it to the sink, but with one hand on the dog who was trying to escape, he didn't have the right balance. He lost the proper grip. The scalded mess ended up on the floor, and Taboo ended up where he'd been at first: inches away from the Viking woman, looking like he meant to have her for elevenses. Paul dived after him and dragged him off. Taboo continued to bark like a demon.

Adrian Brouard crashed into the room. He said into the uproar, “What the
devil
. . . ?” and then, “Taboo! That's enough! Shut up!”

Viking Woman cried, “You
know
this creature?” and Paul wasn't sure if she meant himself or the dog.

Not that it mattered, because Adrian Brouard knew them both. He said, “This is Paul Fielder, Dad's—”

“This?”
The woman turned her gaze on Paul. “This filthy
little . . .” She seemed to be at a loss for a term that would suit the interloper in the kitchen.

Adrian said, “This.” He'd come downstairs in only the bottoms of his pyjamas and his slippers, as if he'd been caught in the act of finally dressing for the day. Paul couldn't imagine not being up and about and busy with something at this hour.

Seize the day, my Prince. One never knows if there'll be another.

Paul's eyes smarted with tears. He could
hear
the voice. He could feel his presence as strongly as if he'd strode into the room. He would have solved this problem in an instant: one hand out to Taboo and the other to Paul and What have we here? in his soothing voice.

“Shut that animal up,” Adrian said to Paul, although Taboo's barking had subsided to a growl. “If he bites my mother, you'll be in trouble.”