A Place of Hiding

by Elizabeth George

  “When money's paid out, favours are owed?”

  “That's about it.” Holberry snapped his briefcase closed. “People tend to expect something in return when they hand out money, don't they? If we follow Brouard's cash round the island, I reckon we'll know sooner or later what that something was.”

  Chapter 8

  EARLY IN THE MORNING, Frank Ouseley made arrangements for one of the farmwives from Rue des Rocquettes to descend to the valley and look in on his father. He didn't intend to be gone from Moulin des Niaux more than three hours, but he really wasn't sure how long the funeral, the burial, and the reception would take. It was inconceivable that he should be absent from any part of the day's proceedings. But leaving his father on his own was too risky to contemplate. So he phoned round till he found a compassionate soul who said she'd bike down once or twice “with something sweet for the old dear. Dad likes his sweeties, doesn't he?”

  Nothing was necessary, Frank had assured her. But if she did truly wish to bring Dad a treat, he was partial to anything with apples in it.

  Fuji, Braeburn, Pippin? the good woman inquired.

  Really, it didn't make a difference.

  Indeed, truth to tell, she probably could have made something out of bedsheets and passed it off as apple strudel. His father had eaten worse in his time and had lived to make it a topic of general conversation. It seemed to Frank that as the end of his father's life approached, he talked more and more about the distant past. This was something Frank had welcomed several years previously when it had begun, since aside from his interest in the war in general and the occupation of Guernsey in particular, Graham Ouseley had always been admirably reticent about his own heroics during that terrible time. He'd spent most of Frank's youth deflecting personal questions, saying, “It wasn't about me, boy. It was about all of us,” and Frank had learned to cherish the fact that his father's ego needed no bolstering through reminiscences in which he himself played a key role. But as if he knew his time was drawing nigh and wished to leave a legacy of memory for his only son, Graham had started to talk in specifics. Once he had begun this process, it seemed there was no end to what Frank's father was able to remember from the war.

  This morning Graham had produced a monologue on the detector-van, a piece of equipment the Nazis had used upon the island to rout out the last of the short-wave radio transmitters that citizens were using to gather information from those labeled enemies, particularly the French and the English. “Last one faced the rifles at Fort George,” Graham informed him. “Poor sod from Luxembourg, he was. There're those who say the detector-van got him, but I say a quisling pointed the way. And we had those, damn 'em: Jerrybags and spies. Collaborators, Frank. Putting people in front of the firing squad without the blink of a sodding eyelash. God rot their souls.”

  After that, it was the V for Victory Campaign and all the places that the twenty-second letter of the alphabet not so mysteriously appeared on the island—rendered in chalk, in paint, and in still-wet concrete—to torment the Nazis.

  And finally it was G.I.F.T.—Guernsey Independent From Terror—Graham Ouseley's personal contribution to a population in peril. His year in prison had its origins in this underground newsletter. Along with three other islanders, for twenty-nine months he'd managed to produce it before the Gestapo came knocking at the cottage door. “I was betrayed,” Graham told his son. “Like them short-wave receivers. So don't you ever forget this, Frank: Put to the test, those whose blood runs yellow are afraid of getting cut. Always the same, that, when times are rough. People point fingers if there's something to be gained for themselves. But we shall make them squirm for it in the end. Long time in coming, but they shall pay.”

  Frank left his father still waxing on this subject, confiding it to the television as he settled into the first of his shows for the day. Frank told him that Mrs. Petit would be looking in on him within the hour and he explained to his father that he himself would be seeing to some pressing business in St. Peter Port. He didn't mention the funeral because he still hadn't mentioned Guy Brouard's death.

  Luckily, his father didn't ask the nature of the business. A surge of dramatic music from the telly caught his attention, and within a moment he'd submitted himself to a storyline involving two women, one man, some sort of terrier, and someone's scheming mother-in-law. Seeing this, Frank took his leave.

  As there was no synagogue on the island to accommodate what was a negligible Jewish population, and despite the fact that Guy Brouard was not a member of any Christian religion, his funeral service was held in the Town Church, not far from the harbour in St. Peter Port. In keeping with the importance of the deceased and the affection in which he was held by his fellow Guernseymen, the church of St. Martin—in whose parish Le Reposoir sat—was deemed too small to hold the number of expected mourners. Indeed, so dear had he become to the people of the island in his nearly ten years as a resident that no fewer than seven ministers of God took part in his funeral.

  Frank made it just in time, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the parking situation in the town. But the police had allocated both of the car parks on Albert Pier for the funeral goers, and while Frank was able to find a spot only at the far north end of the pier, by trotting all the way back to the church he managed to get inside just in advance of the coffin and the family.

  Adrian Brouard, he saw, had established himself as Chief Mourner. This was his right as Guy Brouard's eldest child and only son. Any friend of Guy's knew, however, that there had been no communication between the two men in at least three months, and what communication had preceded their estrangement had been characterised mostly by a battle of wills. The young man's mother must have had a hand in positioning Adrian directly behind the coffin, Frank concluded. And to make sure he stayed there, she'd positioned herself directly behind him. Poor little Ruth came third, and she was followed by Anaïs Abbott and her two children, who'd somehow managed to insinuate themselves into the family for this occasion. The only people Ruth herself had probably asked to accompany her behind her brother's coffin were the Duffys, but the position to which Valerie and Kevin had been relegated—trailing the Abbotts—didn't allow them to offer her any comfort. Frank hoped she was able to take some solace from the number of people who'd shown up to express their affection for her and for her brother: friend and benefactor to so many people.

  For most of his life, Frank himself had eschewed friendship. It was enough for him that he had his dad. From the moment his mother drowned at the reservoir, they'd clung to each other—father and son—and having been a witness to Graham's attempts first to rescue and then to revive his wife and then to the terrible guilt Graham had lived with for not having been quick enough at the first or competent enough at the second had bound Frank to his father inextricably. By the time he was forty years old, he'd known too much pain and sorrow, had Graham Ouseley, and Frank decided as a child that he would be the one to put an end to both. He had devoted most of his life to this effort, and when Guy Brouard had come along, the possibility of fellowship with another man for the first time laid itself in front of Frank like an apple from the serpent. He'd bitten at that apple like a victim of famine, never once recalling that a single bite was all condemnation ever took.

  The funeral seemed endless. Each minister had to speak his own piece in addition to the eulogy itself, which Adrian Brouard stumbled through, reading off three typed sheets of foolscap. The mourners sang hymns appropriate to the occasion, and a soloist hidden somewhere above them lifted her voice in an operatic farewell.

  Then it was over, at least the first part. The interment and the reception came next, both of them scheduled for Le Reposoir.

  The procession to the property was impressive. It strung all along the Quay, from Albert Pier to well beyond Victoria Marina. It slowly wound up Le Val des Terres beneath the thick winter-bare trees skirting along the steep-walled hillside. From there, it followed the road out of town, slicing between the wealth of Fort
George on the east with its sprawling modern houses protected behind their hedges and their electric gates and the common housing of the west: streets and avenues thickly built up in the nineteenth century, Georgian and Regency semi-detached dwellings, as well as terraces that had grown decidedly the worse for wear.

  Just before St. Peter Port gave way to St. Martin, the cortege turned towards the east. The cars coursed beneath the trees, along a narrow road that gave way to an even narrower lane. Along one side of this ran a high stone wall. Along the other rose an earthen bank from which grew a hedge, gnarled and knotted by the December cold.

  A break in the wall made way for two iron gates. These stood open and the hearse pulled onto the expansive grounds of Le Reposoir. The mourners followed, with Frank among them. He parked at the side of the drive and made his way along with everyone else in the general direction of the manor house.

  Within ten steps, his solitude came to an end. A voice next to him said, “This changes everything,” and he looked up to see that Bertrand Debiere had joined him.

  The architect looked like hell on diet pills. Always far too thin for his extreme height, he seemed to have lost a full stone since the night of the party at Le Reposoir. The whites of his eyes were crisscrossed with spider legs of crimson, and the bones of his cheeks—always prominent anyway—appeared to rise from his face like chicken eggs attempting to escape from beneath his skin.

  “Nobby,” Frank said with a nod of hello. He used the architect's nickname without a thought. He'd had him as a history student years before at the secondary modern school, and he'd never made it a habit to stand on ceremony when it came to anyone he'd formerly taught. “I didn't see you at the service.”

  Debiere gave no indication if he was bothered by Frank's use of his nickname. As he'd never been called anything else by his intimates, he probably hadn't noticed. He said, “Don't you agree?”

  “To what?”

  “To the original idea. To my idea. We'll have to return to it now, I dare say. Without Guy here, we can't expect Ruth to spearhead things. She won't know the first thing about this sort of building, and I can't imagine she'll want to learn. Can you?”

  “Ah. The museum,” Frank said.

  “It'll still go forward. Guy would want that. But as to the design, that'll have to change. I talked to him about it, but you probably know that already, don't you? I know you were thick as thieves, you and Guy, so he probably told you that I cornered him. That night, you know. Just the two of us. After the fireworks. I had a closer look at the elevation drawing and I could see—well, who couldn't if you know anything about architecture?—that this bloke from California had got everything wrong. You'd expect that from someone who designed without having a look at the site, wouldn't you? Pretty ego-driven, if you ask me. Nothing I would have done, and I told Guy that. I know I was starting to bring him round, Frank.”

  Nobby's voice was eager. Frank glanced at him as they followed the procession that was wending its way to the west side of the house. He didn't reply, although he could tell that Nobby was desperate for him to do so. The faint sheen on his upper lip betrayed him.

  The architect continued. “All those windows, Frank. As if there's a spectacular view at St. Saviour's that we're supposed to make use of, or something. He would have known there wasn't if he'd come to see the site in the first place. And think what that's going to do to the heating, all those great long windows. It'll cost a bloody fortune to keep the place open out of season when the weather's bad. I presume you want it open out of season, don't you? If it's for the island more than just for the tourists, then it has to be open when local people can get there, which they're not likely even to attempt in the middle of summer when the crowds are here. Don't you agree?”

  Frank knew he had to say something because maintaining silence in this situation would be odd, so he said, “Mind you don't put the cart first, Nobby. It's time to go easy, I expect.”

  “But you're an ally, aren't you?” Nobby demanded. “F-Frank, you are on m-my side in this?”

  The sudden stammering marked the level of his anxiety. It had done the same when he was a boy in school, called on in class and unable to bluff his way through a recitation. His speech problem had always made Nobby seem more vulnerable than the other boys, which was appealing, but at the same time it cursed him to truth at any cost, removing from him the ability that other people possessed to disguise what they were feeling.

  Frank said, “It's not a question of allies and enemies, Nobby. This whole business”—with a nod at the house to indicate what had gone on inside of it, the decisions taken and the dreams destroyed—“it's nothing to do with me. I didn't have the means to become involved. At least, not as you're thinking I might have been involved.”

  “B-but he'd settled on me. Frank you know he'd settled on m-me. On my design. My plan. And, l-l-listen. I've g-g-got to have that commi-com-commi-commission.” He spat the last word out. His entire face had grown shiny with the effort. His voice had become louder, and several mourners on the path to the grave site looked their way curiously.

  Frank stepped out of the procession and drew Nobby with him. The coffin was being carried past the side of the conservatory and in the direction of the sculpture garden northwest of the house. A grave site there would be more than suitable, Frank realised as he saw this, Guy surrounded in death by the artists he'd patronised during his life.

  His hand on Nobby's arm, Frank led him round the front of the conservatory and out of the view of those who were heading to the burial. “It's too soon to talk about all this,” he told his former student. “If there's been no allocation in his will, then—”

  “There's been no architect n-named in the will,” Nobby said. “You can depend on that.” He mopped a handkerchief against his face, and this movement seemed to help him bring his speech back under control. “Given enough time to think about things, Guy would have changed to the Guernsey plans, believe me, Frank. You know his loyalty was to the island. The idea that he'd choose a non-Guernsey architect is ridiculous. He would have seen that eventually. So now it's just a matter of our sitting down and drawing up a coherent reason why the choice of the architect has to be changed, and that can't be difficult, can it? Ten minutes with the plans and I can point out every problem he's got in his design. It's more than just the windows, Frank. This American didn't even understand the nature of the collection.”

  “But Guy already made the choice,” Frank said. “It dishonours his memory to alter it, Nobby. No, don't speak. Listen for a moment. I know you're disappointed. I know Guy's choice is one you don't like. But it was Guy's choice to make, and it's up to us to live with it now.”

  “Guy is dead.” Nobby punched every syllable into his palm as he said it. “So regardless of whatever he decided about the look of the place, we can now build the museum the way we see fit. And the way that's most practical and suitable. This is your project, Frank. It's always been your project. You have the exhibits. Guy just wanted to give you a place to house them.”

  He was very persuasive for all his oddity of appearance and speech. In any other circumstance Frank might have found himself being swayed to Nobby's way of thinking. But in the present circumstance, he had to remain firm. There would be hell to pay if he didn't.

  He said, “I just can't help you, Nobby. I'm sorry.”

  “But you could talk to Ruth. She'd listen to you.”

  “That might be the case, but I actually wouldn't know what to say.”

  “I'd prepare you in advance. I'd give you the words.”

  “If you have them, you must say them yourself.”

  “But she won't listen to me. Not the way she'd listen to you.”

  Frank held out his hands, empty, and said, “I'm sorry. Nobby, I'm sorry. What more can I say?”

  Nobby looked deflated, his last hope gone. “You can say you're sorry enough to do something to change things. But I suppose that's far too much for you, Frank.”

  It was a
ctually far too little, Frank thought. It was because things had changed that they were standing where they were standing right now.

  St. James saw the two men duck out of the procession heading towards the grave site. He recognised the intensity of their conversation, and he made a mental note to learn their identities. For the moment, however, he followed the rest of the mourners to the grave.

  Deborah walked beside him. Her reticence all morning told him that she was still smarting from their breakfast conversation, one of those senseless confrontations in which only one person clearly understands the topic under discussion. He hadn't been that person, unfortunately. He'd been talking about the wisdom of Deborah's ordering only mushrooms and grilled tomatoes for her morning meal while she'd appeared to be reviewing the course of their entire history together. At least, that was what he finally assumed after listening to his wife accuse him of “manhandling me in every way, Simon, as if I'm completely incapable of taking a single action on my own. Well, I'm tired of that. I'm an adult, and I wish you'd start treating me like one.”

  He'd blinked from her to the menu, wondering how they'd managed to get from a discussion of protein to an accusation of heartless domination. He'd foolishly said, “What are you talking about, Deborah?” And the fact that he hadn't followed her logic had set them on the path to disaster.

  It was disaster only in his eyes, though. In hers it was clearly a moment in which suspected but unnamable truths were finally being revealed about their marriage. He'd hoped she might share one or two of them with him during their drive to the funeral and the burial afterwards. But she hadn't done so, so he was relying upon the passage of a few hours to settle things down between them.