A Place of Hiding

“Guy liked the ladies, and as Carmel and Adrian weren’t a couple...Darling, perhaps he was even more taken with Carmel than you thought. You were amused by it; I remember that. ‘Dad’s picked Carmel as his Flavour of the Month’ you called it. I remember we laughed at the pun. But is there a chance that your father might have been fonder of her than you thought? You did tell me she spoke of it as something of a lark, but perhaps to Guy there was something more significant...? It wouldn’t have been exactly like him to buy someone’s affection, but that’s because he’d never had to. And in her case...Darling, what do you think?”


Margaret held her breath. She knew she’d spoken at too great a length, but there was no help for it. He had to be given the clues to how he was to portray the relationship between his father and the woman he himself had been meant to marry. All he had to do now was pick up the thread, say “Oh yes, Dad and Carmel. What a laugh that was. You need to talk to her if you’re looking for where his money went,” but he said none of it.

Instead, he said to the man from London, “It wouldn’t be Carmel. They hardly knew each other. Dad wasn’t interested. She wasn’t his type.”

In spite of herself, Margaret said, “But you told me...”

He glanced at her. “I don’t think I did. You assumed. And why not? It was so logical, wasn’t it?”

Margaret could see that the other two had no idea what Mother and son were talking about, but they were definitely interested in finding out. She was so flummoxed by the news her son was giving her, however, that she couldn’t sift through it quickly enough to decide how much damage would come from having in front of them the conversation she needed to have with Adrian. God. How much more had he lied about? And if she so much as breathed the word lie in the presence of these Londoners, what on earth would they do with it? Where would they take it?

She said, “I jumped to conclusions. Your father always...Well, you know how he was round women. I assumed...I must have misunderstood...You did say she took it as a lark, though, didn’t you? Perhaps you were talking about someone else and I merely thought you meant Carmel...?”

He smiled sardonically, actually enjoying the spectacle of his mother back-pedaling from what she’d only just claimed. He let her dangle in the wind of her declarations for a moment longer before he interceded. He said to the others, “I don’t know about anyone in England, but Dad was having it off with someone on the island. I don’t know who it was, but my aunt knows.”

“She told you?”

“I heard them arguing about it. All I can tell you is it’s someone young, because Ruth threatened to tell her father. She said if that’s the only way she could stop Dad from carrying on with a girl, she’d do it.” He smiled without humour and added, “He was a piece of work, my dad. I’m not surprised someone finally killed him.”

Margaret closed her eyes, fervently wished something would transport her from the room, and cursed her son.





Chapter 25


St. James and his wife didn’t have to go in search of Ruth Brouard. She found them herself. She came to the drawing room, fairly glowing excitement. She said, “Mr. St. James, what very good fortune. I phoned your hotel, and they said you’d come here.” She ignored her sister-in-law and her nephew, asking St. James to come with her, please, because everything was suddenly crystal clear and she meant him to know all about it straightaway.

“Shall I...?” Deborah asked with a nod towards the outside of the house.

She was to come as well, Ruth told her when she learned her identity. Margaret Chamberlain protested, saying, “What’s this all about, Ruth?

If it’s to do with Adrian’s inheritance—”

But Ruth continued to ignore her, going so far as to shut the door as she was speaking and then saying to St. James, “You’ll have to forgive Margaret. She’s rather...” She shrugged meaningfully, going on to add,

“Do come with me. I’m in Guy’s study.”

Once there, she wasted no time with preambles. “I know what he did with the money,” she told them. “Here. Look. See for yourself.”

Across her brother’s desk, St. James saw, an oil painting lay. It was some twenty-four inches high and eighteen inches wide, and it was weighted on its ends by volumes from the bookshelves. Ruth touched it tentatively, as if it were a devotional object. She said, “Guy finally brought it home.”

“What is it?” Deborah asked, standing near to Ruth and gazing down at the picture.