A Place of Hiding

“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


Paul Fielder 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.