Caught In the Light

by Robert Goddard

  Within minutes, I was back in the village. The pub was in darkness. Looking at my watch, I saw it was already past midnight. Conrad would be beside himself. I got into the car and drove away as quietly as I could. The night was neutral between past and present, a dark gulf of infinity that I seemed to speed through with neither starting point nor destination. Marian’s despair lingered in my memory like an unassuaged loss. I knew what she’d meant to do, and now it seemed so clear and simple in my mind that I could only do the same. Beyond a certain point, there’s no turning back, no possibility of returning to what you’ve left behind. She understood that. She made me understand it, too.

  I reached the main road and paused at the junction, staring at the sign ahead of me. The hotel lay to the right. A minute or so passed. Then a car came up behind me. The driver waited for a second, then sounded his horn. That’s when I made my decision. I turned left and drove away, tears filling my eyes as I accelerated.

  It was as simple as that, Daphne. A twitch of the indicator, a turn of the wheel. And it was done. I drove on through the night to London and dropped the car off not far from the flat. But I didn’t go home. That would have tested the strength of my resolution too soon. I have to face this in my own way, you see. I can’t be helped. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do. I’m not sure whether I’m fleeing her or following her. It’s one or the other. Or perhaps it’s both. Somewhere out there I’ll find her. Or I’ll lose her in whatever life I find instead. Don’t come looking for me. You’ve done all you can. Now it’s up to me. There has to be an answer. Hers or mine. There has to be some way of dealing with this. That’s all I’m really aiming for now. A way to go on. A future. Survival. My own life and nobody else’s. Freedom. What price, though? That’s the question. If I learn the answer, I’ll let you know. That’s a promise.

  NINE

  ‘TELL ME AGAIN why you think we’ll find her here,’ said Daphne as we stood on the foredeck of the Weymouth–Guernsey car ferry, moving into St Peter Port through a light Channel mist early the following morning.

  ‘There was a Guernsey stamp on the package she sent Dawn Esguard,’ I replied, my mouth tightened by the stubbornness with which I’d repeated the same line of reasoning over and over again. ‘And Niall’s been coming here a lot lately. Plus Nymanex are bound to have a base here because it’s a tax haven, so we can assume Conrad Nyman’s no stranger to the island. Too many coincidences not to mean something, I reckon.’

  ‘Unless Niall’s just following the same false trail as us. And Nyman’s just an innocent businessman.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to prove. One way or the other.’

  ‘And besides …’ She let the thought drift away behind us. But the echo of it remained. There was nowhere else to look.

  ‘You didn’t have to come,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ She looked at me, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I think I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because neither of us can give up while there’s still a chance.’

  ‘Even though you don’t think it’s much of one?’

  She nodded. ‘Even though.’

  Daphne was right, reluctant though I was to admit it. Guernsey was a small island, but that didn’t make it a hard place in which to hide. Tax havens are accustomed to privacy, if not downright secrecy. And Guernsey over a fine Easter weekend had also attracted its fair share of early-season holidaymakers. We’d found hotel rooms and ferry berths difficult to come by. Half the known yachting world seemed to have gathered in the harbour at St Peter Port and the town itself was crowded with tourists, trippers, shoppers and any number of people who might have their own very particular reasons for being there.

  Like Daphne and me, for instance. Though we’d joined forces, you couldn’t exactly say we’d opened our hearts to each other. We were both a little too ashamed of our failure to second-guess Eris in the past to manage complete honesty. If Daphne had been a more perceptive psychotherapist and I’d been a more attentive lover, Eris’s struggles with her real enemies, as well as her imaginary demons, could have ended long since in … what? There was the thorn I couldn’t dislodge from my flesh, any more than I suspected Daphne could. Marian Esguard was real. Had been, for sure. What was she now? Where was she now? She’d ridden away into the Somerset night and Eris had gone after her. That was all we really knew. And even that we hardly knew for sure.

  The scale and relative hopelessness of what our search involved soon became apparent. We had the Nymanex video still of Eris to show around, of course, but just how many shops, cafés, pubs and hotels could we try without driving ourselves into the ground? Over the next three days we went a long way towards finding out. And I doubt we made any real impression on the task we’d set ourselves. Even at the pub slap-bang opposite Nymanex’s discreet brass-plaqued office in St Peter Port’s financial district, nobody had heard of Conrad Nyman, far less Niall Esguard. And the picture of Eris drew only blank looks. We circled the narrow traffic-choked lanes of the island, hoping to hear or see something, to strike a chord, to jog a memory. But there was nothing. We were strangers looking for strangers, surrounded by people with better things to do.

  By Wednesday, we’d begun to lose patience with each other as well as with what we were doing. Nymanex’s office was open for business after the Easter break and, since it offered the only shred of a clue we had to follow, I called in and tried to make an appointment with Conrad Nyman, to test my suspicion that he was sometimes to be found there. It was pretty obvious the receptionist thought I was mad. ‘We’re just an outstation, sir. Mr Nyman’s based in London.’ Nor did Eris’s picture ring any bells.

  ‘Nobody knows her, Ian. Nobody’s seen her. It’s the same answer every time. If she was on Guernsey, I don’t think she stayed long.’

  ‘Then why is Niall here?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain that he is.’

  ‘He’s looking for her. Don’t you see, Daphne? He’s hunting her down. We have to get to her first.’

  ‘Fine. Just tell me how.’

  ‘By not giving up.’

  ‘Can we at least take a break? I need some air. Let’s drive to the coast. Stretch our legs.’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘No. We’ll go. I’m giving you sound professional advice, Ian. Step back from this for a few hours. I think we need some perspective. How about a seaside stroll? It could work wonders.’

  ‘You make it sound like a prescription.’

  ‘In your case, it is.’

  I went in the final analysis because I was too tired to think of anything better to do. We drove down to Icart Point on the south coast and walked a couple of bracing miles along the cliff path. The views stretched across the sea to Jersey and a hazy hint of Brittany beyond. Some perspective really was needed. But it wasn’t necessarily enough, as I was bound to admit.

  ‘We’re going to have to start considering an unpalatable possibility,’ Daphne ventured when we were most of the way back to the car.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe she really isn’t here. Maybe she never was.’

  I nodded grimly. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘How long do we go on looking?’

  ‘A few days more.’

  ‘All right. But then?’

  ‘You tell me, Daphne.’ I looked round at her. ‘You tell me.’

  But she couldn’t. We were out of options. Unless Eris chose to give us another, of course. All along, she’d opened the doors I’d walked through. Vienna. Tollard Rising. Guernsey. They’d served her purpose, for whatever reason. Perhaps this time it was different. Perhaps this time no doors were going to open. Nor ever again.

  The thought festered in the silence that fell between us. We started back towards St Peter Port as the warm afternoon petered into dusk, stopping halfway at the Fermain Tavern to try Eris’s picture and the usual questions on whoever was in the bar. But the place was empty and the barman couldn’t help. It was just anot
her waste of time and effort. We sat at a corner table to finish our drinks. Daphne picked up a discarded copy of the Guernsey Evening Press and leafed through it. I stared into space and waited for some inspired notion to hit me. None did. Several minutes slipped by. I drained my glass and looked at Daphne, and saw she was frowning intently at the newspaper in her hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something … odd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nyman told you he met Eris in Greenwich Park, didn’t he? Near the Royal Observatory. Where she’d been to see the camera obscura.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know there was one on Guernsey?’

  ‘No. Let me see.’

  She turned the page round towards me and pointed at a boxed advertisement. THE HARBOUR VIEW YOU WON’T HAVE SEEN BEFORE, ran the blurb. LA FAUCONNERIE CAMERA OBSCURA – AN EYE-OPENER RESTORED. ‘Another coincidence, do you think?’ asked Daphne as I glanced up at her.

  ‘Too much of one. Wouldn’t you say?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘This time, I would.’

  La Fauconnerie was a fine old Georgian house set in subtropical gardens on a lofty perch near the summit of the hill overlooking St Peter Port. From the street I could see a dovecote on a knoll off to one side behind the house, where it enjoyed an uninterrupted panorama of the town and shoreline. The shape and metallic texture of its cupola were distinctive, and confirmed the location of the camera obscura. I was all for calling on the owner that evening, but Daphne insisted we wait till the advertised hours of opening next day, which was undoubtedly wise, even if it was frustrating.

  Promptly, at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, we were back. The gates of the house stood open and signs pointed the way to the Fauconnerie Camera, as they called it. At closer quarters the house itself seemed less imposing than it had from the other side of the wall. Dilapidation was setting in. The gardens were likewise in need of care and attention, with overgrown borders and a tumbledown orangery. The converted dovecote was a different story, however. It looked to be in immaculate condition, the redundant perches gleaming white in contrast to the glimmering black cowl of the cupola that clearly held the mirror and lens of the camera.

  We’d reached a paved area round the door at the front of the dovecote before catching the attention of a powerfully built middle-aged man engaged in hammering new struts into a cucumber frame away to our right. He waved and strode over to greet us.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning through a ginger beard as thick as a hedge. ‘We don’t normally get any customers this early. Though it’s more or less perfect visibility.’ He gazed away to the east, where Castle Cornet at the mouth of the harbour, and the whale-backed silhouettes of Herm and Jethou beyond, stood out clearly in the sunshine. ‘No question about that.’

  ‘I had no idea there was a camera obscura on Guernsey,’ I remarked. ‘Until I spotted your advert in the paper.’

  ‘Only recently restored. Brand-new optics. But it was originally set up in the eighteen twenties, we think. It’s hard to be sure. We’re hoping to make quite a thing of it. If we can turn it into a tourist attraction we might be able to do up the house properly. Talking of which, it’s two pounds fifty per adult.’

  I handed over the money and he showed us in. The interior was a standard arrangement: a screen set on a circular table in the centre of the room, with blackout curtains all around and pulleys to adjust the lens. Our host fiddled with the angle and focus for a while, until we had a view of the yachts moored in the harbour pin-sharp on the screen, then he panned the camera to either side with a motorized unit and let us admire the strange and powerful trick of the device. Most of St Peter Port, the roofs and the roads, the cars and the people, the bobbing boats and the wheeling gulls, slid slowly past in the foreshortened eye of the lens above us.

  ‘If there’s anything you’re particularly interested in,’ he said, ‘you only have to—’

  ‘Who installed the original camera?’

  ‘Fellow called Byfield.’ I felt Daphne grasp my elbow in the darkness. ‘An Englishman. Don’t know much about him. Amateur astronomer, I suppose.’

  ‘He lived here?’

  ‘Yes. Not sure how long. But long enough to see the potential of this site. Amazing coverage of the coast, isn’t it?’

  ‘Breathtaking,’ murmured Daphne.

  ‘Did he do anything else?’ I persisted.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Anything … historically significant, perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of. Good view of Sark coming up, actually.’

  ‘Would anyone else know about him?’

  ‘Byfield? Don’t think so. Why should they? Like I told a chap yesterday—’

  ‘Someone else was asking about him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About Byfield?’

  ‘Look.’ Our host abruptly switched off the motor, pulled back the curtains and pushed the door open, admitting a flood of sunlight in which he blinked reproachfully at us. ‘It’s quite obvious the camera doesn’t interest you. It was the same with your friend.’

  ‘Not a friend.’

  ‘Well, whatever. The fact is I know next to nothing about Lawrence Byfield.’

  ‘Tell us about the other visitor who asked after him, then,’ suggested Daphne. ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘Yes. Well, that was the point really. He seemed to think his brother might have been sniffing around here a few months back. Late brother, apparently, though I never quite—’

  ‘Quisden-Neve?’

  ‘You obviously do know him. Yes, that’s the name. It meant nothing to me.’

  ‘Quisden-Neve’s brother is here?’

  ‘Well, he was yesterday.’

  ‘Maybe he saw your advert,’ said Daphne.

  ‘No. He already seemed to know more about La Fauconnerie than I do myself. He was surprised I’d never met his brother. Asked me over and over again in case I’d forgotten, though I’m not likely to have, am I, with a name like that?’

  ‘Do you happen to know where we can find him?’

  ‘Oh yes. He told me the hotel he was staying at. Just in case I remembered something about his brother. But I think he said he was leaving today, so—’

  The St Pierre Park was a modern multi-star hotel backing on to its own golf course just beyond the western outskirts of St Peter Port. We were there far sooner than the niggardly island speed limit allowed, hoping against hope that the sibling Quisden-Neve hadn’t checked out early. We were in luck – but only just. A man whose voice, bearing and washed-out blue eyes I recognized immediately was clearing reception as we entered. He looked like Montagu with the benefit of more exercise, less Pomerol and a plainer taste in clothes. But, then, he was in mourning. Day-Glo bow ties weren’t exactly appropriate. As I steered Daphne on to an interception course, I reminded her in an undertone to say nothing that implied I was the errant witness to his brother’s murder. We were going to have to tread carefully as well as swiftly.

  ‘Mr Quisden-Neve?’

  ‘Yes.’ He stopped and frowned at us, every crease of his expression calling up the spirit of the dead Montagu. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I knew your brother.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘My name’s Ian Jarrett.’

  ‘I don’t recall Monty mentioning you.’

  ‘I knew him only slightly. And recently. This is a friend of mine, by the way. Daphne Sanger.’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Even in bereavement, he summoned a flirtatious smile, and seemed to dally with the notion of kissing Daphne’s hand rather than merely shaking it. ‘Valentine Quisden-Neve.’

  ‘My condolences,’ said Daphne. ‘I never met your brother myself, but … you were close?’

  ‘Twins.’

  ‘Then I’m doubly sorry. Losing a twin …’

  ‘Is akin to losing a limb.’ He shook his head dolefully and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a plane to
catch. When you say you knew Monty …’

  ‘I met him not long ago … in connection with a mutual acquaintance.’

  ‘How very enigmatic. Monty would have approved. But I’m confused. You met him here, on Guernsey?’

  ‘No. Bath.’

  ‘Then why …’

  ‘We’ve just come from La Fauconnerie,’ said Daphne. ‘We know a little, a very little, about Lawrence Byfield.’

  ‘As it seems do you,’ I continued.

  ‘On the contrary. I know nothing.’ He looked at each of us in turn, then moved towards the exit. ‘May we talk on the hoof, as it were? I really must catch that plane. The funeral’s tomorrow. And there’s a great deal yet to be arranged. Tell me about the acquaintance you had in common with Monty, Mr Jarrett.’

  ‘A young woman called Eris Moberly,’ I explained, as we reached the open air and headed for the car park. ‘She’s gone missing. We’re trying to find her. She and Monty shared an interest in this man Byfield.’

  ‘Hence your visit to Guernsey?’

  ‘You could say that, though there are other—’ I broke off, aware I couldn’t afford to get in too deep. ‘Look, I was shocked to read of your brother’s death. The circumstances sounded quite awful. I’m just wondering—’

  ‘The circumstances weren’t half as awful as the theory the police have come up with. They think Monty may have been killed by some kind of homicidal rent boy. Rough trade, as I believe it’s called. The fact that his predilections went quite the other way is lost on them. A bachelor, found strangled in an InterCity toilet. QED, apparently. God help us all.’

  ‘What brought you to Guernsey, Mr Quisden-Neve?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘The conviction that Monty was murdered for some altogether more sinister reason. He’d been uncharacteristically secretive in recent months, even with me. “Got something a little hush-hush on, Val,” he’d say whenever I asked. “Could be my entrée to the big time.” Well, so much for that. He was obviously out of his league. But which league had he strayed into? That’s what I’d like to know. Since the police don’t seem to want to find out, I’ve decided to do their job for them, as best I can. I was at his flat on Saturday morning, sorting things out, when the post came. It included a reminder for an unpaid bill from a genealogical researcher here on Guernsey. Fellow called Lefebvre. Unlike the police, I’d wondered where Monty was going on the train. They assumed London, but his bag, along with whatever tickets he was carrying, was missing. And I was sure he meant to be away several days. His toothbrush and shaving tackle weren’t in the bathroom. Could it have been Guernsey? I phoned round the airlines and, bingo, there he was, booked on a flight from Heathrow to Guernsey last Thursday afternoon. I couldn’t contact Lefebvre until Tuesday, because of the damned holiday. He wouldn’t reveal what his bill was for over the phone, but in person it was a different story, especially when I paid him what he was owed. Settling debts never was Monty’s strong point, I’m afraid.’