A Place of Hiding

“And if you want to find his killer—which I think you do—you know we have to consider possibilities.”


She made no reply. But the misery she felt was compounded by the compassion in his face. She hated that: people’s sympathy. She always had done. Poor dear child having lost her family to the maw of the Nazis. We must be charitable. We must allow her her little moments of terror and grief.

“We have his killer.” Ruth made the declaration stonily. “I saw her that morning. We know who she is.”

St. James went his own direction, as if she’d said nothing. “He might have been making a payoff of some kind. Or an enormous purchase. Perhaps even an illegal purchase. Weapons? Drugs? Explosives?”

“Preposterous,” she said.

“If he sympathised with a cause—”

“Arabs? Algerians? Palestinians? The Irish?” she scoffed. “My brother was as politically inclined as a garden gnome, Mr. St. James.”

“Then the only conclusion is that he willingly gave the money to someone over time. And if that’s the case, we need to look at the potential recipients of a glut of cash.” He looked towards the doorway, as if considering what lay beyond it. “Where’s your nephew this morning, Miss Brouard?”

“This has nothing to do with Adrian.”

“Nonetheless...”

“I expect he’s driving his mother somewhere. She’s not familiar with the island. The roads are poorly marked. She’d need his help.”

“He’s been a frequent visitor to his father, then? Throughout the years? Familiar with—”

“This is not about Adrian!” She sounded shrill even to her own ears. Her bones felt pierced by a hundred spikes. She needed to be rid of this man, no matter his intentions towards her and her family. She needed to get to her medicine and to douse herself with enough to render her body unconscious, if that was even possible. She said, “Mr. St. James, you’ve come for some reason, I expect. I know this isn’t a social call.”

“I’ve been to see Henry Moullin,” he told her.

Caution swept over her. “Yes?”

“I didn’t know Mrs. Duffy is his sister.”

“There wouldn’t be a reason for anyone to tell you.”

He smiled briefly in acknowledgement of this point. He went on to tell her that he’d seen Henry’s drawings of the museum windows. He said they put him in mind of the architectural plans in Mr. Brouard’s possession. He wondered if he might have a look at them. Ruth was so relieved that the request was simple that she granted it at once without considering all the directions her doing so might actually take them. The plans were upstairs in Guy’s study, she told him. She would fetch them at once.

St. James told her he’d accompany her if she didn’t mind. He wanted to have another look at the model Bertrand Debiere had constructed for Mr. Brouard. He wouldn’t take long, he assured her. There was nothing for it but to agree. They were on the stairs before the Londoner spoke again.

“Henry Moullin,” he said, “appears to have his daughter Cynthia locked up inside the house. Have you any idea how long that’s been going on, Miss Brouard?”

Ruth continued climbing, pretending she hadn’t heard the question. St. James was unrelenting, however. He said, “Miss Brouard...?”

She answered quickly as she headed down the corridor towards her brother’s study, grateful for the muted day outside and the darkness of the passage, which would hide her expression. “I have no idea whatsoever,” she replied. “I make it a habit to stay out of the business of my fellow islanders, Mr. St. James.”

“So there wasn’t a ring logged in with the rest of his collection,” Cherokee River said to his sister. “But that doesn’t mean someone didn’t snatch it sometime without him knowing. He says Adrian, Steve Abbott, and the Fielder kid all have been there at one time or another.”

China shook her head. “The ring from the beach’s mine. I know it. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

“Don’t say that,” Cherokee said. “There’s going to be another explanation.”

They were in the flat at the Queen Margaret Apartments, gathered in the bedroom where Deborah and Cherokee had found China sitting at the window in a ladderback chair she’d brought from the kitchen. The room was extraordinarily cold, made so by the fact that the window was open, framing a view of Castle Cornet in the distance.

“Thought I’d better get used to looking at the world from a small square room with a single window,” China had explained wryly when they came upon her.