A Place of Hiding

In the centre of the room, a walnut table stood, upon it the detailed model of a building set into a landscape that comprised the passing roadway in front of it, the garden behind it, even the miniature trees and shrubbery that the gardens would grow. The model was so detailed that it included both doors and windows and along the front of it what would eventually be carved into the facing stonework had been neatly applied by a skilled hand. Graham Ouseley Wartime Museum was incised into the frieze.

“Graham Ouseley.” St. James stepped back from the model. It was low to the ground in the manner of a bunker, save for its entrance, which swept up dramatically like something designed by Le Corbusier.

“Yes,” Ruth murmured. “He’s a Guernseyman. Quite old. In his nineties. A local hero from the Occupation.” She offered nothing more, but it was clear she was waiting. She’d read St. James’s name and profession on the card he’d handed her and she’d immediately agreed to talk to him. But she obviously was going to wait to see what he wanted before volunteering any more information.

“Is this the local architect’s version?” St. James asked. “I understand he built a model for your brother.”

“Yes,” Ruth told him. “This was done by a man from St. Peter Port, but his plan wasn’t the one Guy finally chose.”

“I wonder why. It looks suitable, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea. My brother didn’t tell me.”

“Must have been a disappointment to the local man. He appears to have gone to a lot of work.” St. James bent to the model again. Ruth Brouard stirred on her seat, shifting her torso as if seeking a more comfortable position, adjusting her glasses, and folding her small hands into her lap. “Mr. St. James,” she said, “how may I help you? You said you’ve come about Guy’s death. As your business is forensics...Have you news to give me? Is that why you’re here? I was told that further studies of his organs were going to be made.” She faltered, apparently over the difficulty of referring to her brother in parts instead of as a whole. She lowered her head and after a moment, she went on with “I was told there would be studies of my brother’s organs and tissues. Other things as well. In England, I was told. As you’re from London, perhaps you’ve come to give me information. Although if something’s been uncovered—something unexpected—surely Mr. Le Gallez would have come to tell me himself, wouldn’t he?”

“He knows I’m here but he hasn’t sent me,” St. James told her. Then he carefully explained the mission that had brought him to Guernsey in the first place. He concluded with “Miss River’s advocate told me that you were the witness whose evidence DCI Le Gallez is building his case on. I’ve come to ask you about that evidence.”

She looked away from him. “Miss River,” she said.

“She and her brother were guests here for several days prior to the murder, I understand.”

“And she’s asked you to help her escape blame for what’s happened to Guy?”

“I’ve not met her yet,” St. James said. “I’ve not spoken to her.”

“Then, why...?”

“My wife and she are old friends.”

“And your wife can’t believe that her old friend has murdered my brother.”

“There’s the question of motive,” St. James said. “How well did Miss River come to know your brother? Is there a chance she could have known him prior to this visit? Her brother doesn’t give any indication of that, but he himself might not know. Do you?”

“If she’s ever been to England, possibly. She could have known Guy. But only there. Guy’s never been to America. That I know of.”

“That you know of ?”

“He might have gone at one time or another and not told me, but I can’t think why. Or when, even. If he did, it would have been long ago. Since we’ve been here, on Guernsey, no. He would have told me. When he traveled in the past nine years, which was rarely once he retired, he always let me know where he could be reached. He was good that way. He was good in many ways, in fact.”

“Giving no person a reason to kill him? No person other than China River, who also appears to have had no reason?”

“I can’t explain it.”

St. James moved away from the model of the museum and joined Ruth Brouard, sitting in the second armchair with a small round table between them. A picture stood on this table and he picked it up: an extended Jewish family gathered round a dining table, the men in yarmulkes, their women standing behind them, open booklets in their hands. Two children were among them, a young girl and boy. The girl wore spectacles, the boy striped braces. A patriarch stood at the head of the group, poised to break a large matzo into pieces. Behind him, a sideboard held a silver epergne and burning candles each of which shed an elongated glow on a painting on the wall, while next to him stood the woman who was obviously his wife, her head cocked towards his.

“Your family?” he said to Ruth Brouard.

“We lived in Paris,” she replied. “Before Auschwitz.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Believe me. You can’t be sorry enough.”

St. James agreed with that. “No one can.”