A Place of Hiding

Paul shuffled his slippered feet in the gravel. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his flannel shirt and shot Deborah a wary look. He turned his head hastily and fixed his eyes on the gate some thirty yards away. Deborah had shut it behind her and she silently berated herself for having done so. He would feel trapped by her. As a result, he wouldn’t be very likely to speak.

She said, “The Victorians had the right idea. They made jewellery from dead people’s hair. Did you know that? It sounds macabre, but when you think about it, there was probably great comfort in having a brooch or a locket that contained a small part of someone they loved. It’s sad that we don’t do that any longer, because we still want something, and if a person dies and doesn’t leave us a part of them...what can we do but take what we can find?”

Paul stopped the movement of his feet. He stood perfectly still, like one of the sculptures, but a smudge of colour appeared on his cheek like a thumbprint against his fair skin.

Deborah said, “I’m wondering if that’s what happened with the painting you gave to Miss Brouard. I’m wondering if Mr. Brouard showed it to you because he meant to surprise his sister with it. Perhaps he said it was a secret that only the two of you would keep. So you knew that no one else was aware he had it.”

The smudges of colour flamed unevenly towards the boy’s ears. He glanced at Deborah, then away. His fingers clutched at the tail of his shirt, which hung limply out of his blue jeans at one side and which was just as worn.

Deborah said, “Then when Mr. Brouard died so suddenly, perhaps you thought you’d have that picture as a memento. Only he and you knew about it, after all. What would it hurt? Is that what happened?”

The boy flinched as if struck. He gave an inarticulate cry. Deborah said, “It’s all right. We’ve got the painting back. But what I wonder—”

He spun on his toe and fled. He shot down the steps and along the gravel path as Deborah rose from the stone bench and called his name. She thought she’d lost him, but midway across the garden he stopped next to a huge bronze nude of a squatting, heavily pregnant woman with a melancholy expression and great, pendulous breasts. He turned back to Deborah, and she saw him chew on his lower lip and watch her. She took a step forward. He didn’t move. She began to walk towards him the way one would approach a frightened fawn. When she was some ten yards from him, he took off again. But then he stopped at the garden gate and looked back at her another time. He pulled the gate open and left it open. He struck off to the east, but he didn’t run.

Deborah understood that she was meant to follow.





Chapter 26


St. James found Kevin Duffy round the side of the cottage, labouring in what appeared to be a dormant vegetable garden. He worked the earth with a heavy pitchfork but stopped what he was doing when he saw St. James.

He said, “Val’s gone to the big house. You’ll find her in the kitchen.”

“It’s you I’d like to talk to, actually,” St. James said. “Do you have a moment?”

Kevin’s gaze went to the canvas St. James was holding, but if he recognised it, he gave no sign. “Take your moment, then,” he said.

“Did you know Guy Brouard was your niece’s lover?”

“My nieces are six and eight years old, Mr. St. James. Guy Brouard was many things to many people. But pedophilia wasn’t among his interests.”

“Your wife’s niece, I mean. Cynthia Moullin,” St. James said. “Did you know Cynthia was having a relationship with Brouard?”

He didn’t answer, but his glance moved over to the manor house, which was answer enough.

“Did you speak to Brouard about it?” St. James asked. No answer again.

“What about the girl’s father?”

“I can’t help you with any of this,” Duffy said. “Is that all you’ve come to ask me?”

“No, actually,” St. James said. “I’ve come to ask you about this.” Carefully, he unrolled the old canvas. Kevin Duffy drove the tines of the pitchfork into the ground, but he left the implement standing upright in the soil. He approached St. James, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. He looked at the painting, and a deep breath whistled between his lips.

“Mr. Brouard apparently went to a great deal of trouble to get this back,” St. James said. “His sister tells me it’s been missing from the family since the nineteen-forties. She doesn’t know where it came from originally, she doesn’t know where it’s been since the war, and she doesn’t know how her brother got it back. I’m wondering if you can shed light on any of this.”

“Why would I—”

“You’ve two shelves of art books and videos in your sitting room, Mr. Duffy, and a degree in art history hanging on your wall. That suggests you might know more about this painting than the average groundskeeper.”

“I don’t know where it’s been,” he replied. “And I don’t know how he got it back.”