A Place of Hiding

He charged in the direction of the corridor. The vegetable garden was walled but its gate gave onto the estate grounds. There were places to hide at Le Reposoir that he wagered neither of the Brouards were aware of, so he knew that if he made it to the fallow garden, he’d be completely safe. He dashed down the corridor to the sound of Viking Woman crying out, “Darling, are you all right?” And then, “Chase him, for God’s sake. Adrian! Get him.” But Paul was faster than both mother and son. The last thing he heard was “He’s got something in that pack!” before the door closed behind him and he fled with Taboo towards the garden gate. Deborah was surprised by the Talbot Valley. It looked like a miniature dale transported from Yorkshire, where she and Simon had honeymooned. A river had carved it eons in the past, and one side consisted of rolling green slopes where the fawn-coloured cattle of the island grazed, sheltered from sunlight and the occasional harsh weather by stands of oaks. The road coursed along its other side, a steep hill held back by granite walls. Along them grew ashes and elms and beyond them, the land rose to hilltop pastures. The area was as different to the rest of the island as Yorkshire was to the South Downs.

They were looking for a little lane called Les Niaux. Cherokee was relatively certain where it would be, having already paid a visit there. Nonetheless, he had a map spread out on his knees, and he acted as navigator for their journey. They nearly overshot the mark on their approach, but he said, “Here! Turn,” when they came upon an opening in a hedgerow. He added, “I swear. These streets look like our driveways at home.”

Calling the stretch of paved trail a street was certainly giving it more than its due. It dipped off the main road like the entrance to another dimension, one that was defined by thick vegetation, damp air, and the sight of water passing through the cracks in boulders nearby. Not fifty yards along this lane, an old water mill appeared to their right. It stood less than five yards off the road, topped by an old sluice from which greenery draped.

“This is it,” Cherokee said, folding the map and storing it in the glove compartment. “They live in the cottage at the end of the row. The rest . . .”—he gestured to the dwellings they passed as Deborah pulled the car into the wide yard in front of the water mill—“this is where he keeps all his war stuff.”

“He must have a lot of it,” Deborah said, for there were two other cottages besides the one which Cherokee indicated that Frank Ouseley used as his home.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Cherokee replied. “That’s Ouseley’s car. We could be in luck.”



Deborah knew they would need it. The presence of a ring on the beach where Guy Brouard had died—one identical to the ring China River had purchased, one that was also identical to the ring that was apparently now missing from her belongings—didn’t help the cause of her proclaimed innocence. She and Cherokee needed Frank Ouseley to recognise a description of that ring. Moreover, they needed him to realise that one just like it had been nicked from his collection. A log fire burned somewhere nearby. Deborah and Cherokee took in its scent as they approached the front door of Ouseley’s cottage. “Makes me think of the canyon,” Cherokee said. “Middle of winter there, you never even know you’re in Orange County. All the cabins and the fires. Snow on Saddleback Mountain sometimes. It’s the best.” He looked around. “I don’t think I knew that till now.”

“Second thoughts about living on a fishing boat, then?” Deborah said.

“Hell,” he said ruefully, “I had second thoughts about that after fifteen minutes in St. Peter Port gaol.” He paused at the square of concrete that served as the cottage’s front porch. “I know I’m to blame for all of this. I’ve put China where she is because it’s always been the fast and easy buck for me, and I know it. So I need to get her out of this mess. If I can’t do that...” He sighed, and his breath was a puff of fog in the air. “She’s scared, Debs. So am I. I guess that’s why I wanted to call Mom. She wouldn’t have helped much—she might even have made things worse—

but sti ll...”

“She’s still Mum,” Deborah finished for him. She squeezed his arm.

“It’s going to work out. It will. You’ll see.”

He covered her hand. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re...” He smiled.

“Never mind.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Were you thinking of making one of your moves on me, Cherokee?”

He laughed. “You betcha.”

They knocked on the door and then rang the bell. Despite the chatter of a television inside and the presence of a Peugeot outside, no one answered. Cherokee pointed out that Frank might be working among his immense collection, and he went to check the other two cottages as Deborah knocked on the door again. She heard a quavering voice call out,

“Hold your damn horses,” and she said to Cherokee, “Someone’s coming.” He rejoined her at the step and as he did so, keys and bolts operated on the other side of the door.

An old man swung it open. A very old man. His thick eyeglasses glinted at them, and with one frail hand he held himself upright against the wall. He seemed to keep himself steady through a combination of that wall and willpower, but it looked as if it cost him a tremendous effort. He should have been using a Zimmer frame or at least a cane, but he had neither with him.



“Well, here you be,” he said expansively. “Day early, aren’t you? Well, no matter, that. All to the good. Come in. Come in.”

Clearly, he was expecting someone else. Deborah herself had been expecting a much younger man. But Cherokee cleared that up for her when he said, “Is Frank here, Mr. Ouseley? We saw his car outside,” and made it evident that the old pensioner was Frank Ouseley’s father.

“It’s not Frank you’re wanting,” the man said. “It’s me. Graham. Frank’s gone to take that pie tin back to the Petit farm. ’F we’re lucky, she’ll do us another chicken and leek before the week’s over. Got my fingers crossed on that one, I have.”