A Place of Hiding

“They didn’t believe it necessarily had to lead to a job.”


Neither of the Duffys had questioned St. James’s advent or his right to make enquiries about the death of Guy Brouard. After he’d explained his profession to them and handed over his card for their perusal, they’d been willing enough to talk to him. They also didn’t question why he’d come with his wife, and St. James said nothing to indicate that the accused murderer was well known to Deborah. Valerie told them that she generally rose at six-thirty in the morning in order to see to Kevin’s breakfast before heading over to the manor house to prepare the Brouards’ meal. Mr. Brouard, she explained, liked to have a hot breakfast when he got back from the bay, so on this particular morning, she was up as usual despite the late night that had preceded it. Mr. Brouard had indicated he’d be swimming as he always did, and as good as his word, he passed by the window while she stood there with her tea. Not a half minute later, she saw a dark-cloaked figure follow him. Did this cloak possess a hood? St. James wanted to know. It did.

And was the hood up or down?

It was up, Valerie Duffy told him. But that hadn’t prevented her from seeing the face of the person who wore it, because she passed quite near to the shaft of light that came from the window and that made it easy to see her.

“It was the American lady,” Valerie said. “I’m sure of that. I got a glimpse of her hair.”

“No one else relatively the same size?” St. James asked. No one else, Valerie asserted.

“No one else blonde?” Deborah put in.

Valerie assured them she’d seen China River. And this was no surprise, she told them. China River had been thick enough with Mr. Brouard during her stay at Le Reposoir. Mr. Brouard was always charming to the ladies, of course, but even by his standards things had developed rapidly with the American woman.

St. James saw his wife frown at this, and he himself felt wary about taking Valerie Duffy at her word. There was something about the ease of her answers that was discomfiting. There was something more that couldn’t be ignored in the manner in which she avoided looking at her husband. Deborah was the one to say politely, “Did you happen to see any of this, Mr. Duffy?”

Kevin Duffy was standing in silence in the shadows. He leaned against one of the bookshelves with his tie loosened and his swarthy face unreadable. “Val’s generally up before I am in the morning,” he said shortly. By which, St. James supposed, they were to take it that he had seen nothing at all. Nonetheless, he said, “And on this particular day?”

“Same as always,” Kevin Duffy replied.

Deborah said, “Thick enough in what way?” to Valerie, and when the other woman looked at her blankly, she clarified. “You said China River and Mr. Brouard were thick enough? I was wondering in what way.”

“They went out and about. She quite liked the estate and wanted to photograph it. He wanted to watch. And then there was the rest of the island. He was keen to show her round.”

“What about her brother?” Deborah asked. “Didn’t he go with them?”

“Sometimes he did, other times he just hung about here. Or went off on his own. She seemed to like it that way, the American lady. It made things just the two of them. Her and Mr. Brouard. But that’s no real surprise. He was good with women.”

“Mr. Brouard was already involved, though, wasn’t he?” Deborah asked. “With Mrs. Abbott?”

“He was always involved somewhere and not always for long. Mrs. Abbott was just his latest. Then the American came along.”

“Anyone else?” St. James asked.

For some reason the very air seemed to stiffen momentarily at this question. Kevin Duffy shifted on his feet, and Valerie smoothed her skirt in a deliberate movement. She said, “No one as far as I know.”

St. James and Deborah exchanged a look. St. James saw on his wife’s face the recognition of another direction their enquiry needed to take, and he didn’t disagree. However, the fact that here before them was yet another witness to China River’s following Guy Brouard towards the Channel—and a far better witness than Ruth Brouard, considering the inconsequential distance between the cottage and the path to the bay—was something that couldn’t be ignored.

He said to Valerie, “Have you told DCI Le Gallez about any of this?”

“I’ve told him all of it.”

St. James wondered what, if anything, it meant that neither Le Gallez nor China River’s advocate had passed the information on to him. He said,