chapter three

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona was ecstatic. The tests had proved positive, and it looked as if she and Nigel would be celebrating. Once outside the professor’s office, she hit the button on her mobile, tapping her feet as she waited for him to pick up.

‘Come on, Nigel. Where are you?’ she muttered when the call went to voicemail. Leaving a message for him to get back asap, she clicked off, feeling deflated. Typical, you have something wonderful to tell someone, and they’re not there. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was time to head to Gatwick. Damn. If the signal was poor on the train, Nigel might not get through. Trying not to feel too disappointed, she headed for the station, hugging the news to herself as she relived their discovery on that fateful day.

‘Hey, let’s take a look, shall we?’ Nigel said, his eyes bright with excitement as he studied the trapdoor. It had been well hidden, only the faintest of gaps around the floorboards marked it out. ‘Give us a moment, would you, mate?’ He turned to the builder hovering in the background, who nodded as he moved away, looking as if he’d like to have stayed. Nigel grabbed a torch, its light illuminating wooden steps and a handrail.

‘I’ll go first.’ He went backwards on the steep steps.

Fiona peered down, trying to see what the torch illuminated. It looked deep, certainly more than head height. A musty smell caught her nostrils as dust motes floated upwards.

Nigel reached the bottom and splayed the torch, catching shelves displaying wrapped packages. Her pulse began to race at the thought of treasures they might find.

‘Okay, come on. Looks like someone’s stored spare stock – which we didn’t pay for!’ He chuckled.

Fiona joined him, watching as Nigel focussed the torch on the ceiling. A single bulb hung down, and he looked for the switch, finding it situated at the bottom of the steps. By some miracle, it worked, and a dim light offered relief from the darkness.

‘Wow! This is some space. Must be nearly the size of the shop floor.’ Fiona moved away slightly, and Nigel joined her as she took in the rows of shelving fixed to all the walls. Empty shelves bore marks in the dust where objects had once been stored. Only those nearest the steps were still in use.

‘I suppose it made sense to store smaller, more valuable items out of sight before burglar alarms were invented,’ Nigel mused. ‘But it’s odd Mrs Domaille didn’t say anything when we bought the business.’ He lifted up a rectangular package.

‘Perhaps she didn’t know. After all, it was her husband’s business, and women of her generation probably didn’t get involved.’ Fiona watched as Nigel started to unwrap layers of oilcloth. ‘Judging by their house and the business accounts they didn’t need her to work.’

‘Mmm.’ Nigel unwrapped the last layer, revealing a small painting. ‘Interesting. I wonder why this is down here? Looks like a Naftel or possibly a Toplis. I need better light to be sure. But why wasn’t it in the shop for sale?’ He lifted up another package of a similar size, again wrapped in dusty oilcloth. ‘Another local watercolour. Odd.’

Fiona pointed to other packages.

‘They seem to be mainly paintings, and you’re right, we need better lighting to see them properly. Why don’t we wait until the builders have left and take them upstairs to study them more closely? I think we’re talking a few thou each if they’re Naftel or Toplis, aren’t we?’

‘For sure. Valuable, but not too valuable to display if you have a decent burglar alarm. Though Ernest’s system wasn’t as good as ours, he’d have been covered by insurance. All rather odd. Right,’ he said, replacing the picture on the shelf, ‘let’s do as you suggest and bring them up later. Exciting, isn’t it?’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

‘It’s like Christmas, but instead of a stack of presents at the bottom of the tree, our pressies are left in the basement.’ She laughed.

A couple of hours later they carried all the wrapped packages upstairs. There were over a dozen of various sizes. They split the pile between them, carefully peeling off the layers of oilcloth.

‘I think these must have been down there donkey’s years. The cloth’s so old it’s become stiff and cracked. More and more mysterious.’ Nigel shook his head as he unwrapped yet another local landscape.

‘Seems like a private collector’s hoard, doesn’t it? Perhaps old Ernest bought it, but for some reason didn’t sell it on. Wanting to see if the values rose.’ Fiona peered at the signature of a painting. A Naftel. She started unwrapping one of the larger paintings, wrapped with even more sheets of oilcloth. As the last cloth fell away, a dazzle of bright colours met her eyes, and she gasped. ‘Oh, my God! It can’t be. Can it?’ She turned to Nigel and saw his eyes widen in shock.

They both stared at the scene of a family group painted against the unmistakable backdrop of Moulin Huet Bay, in Guernsey.

‘Well, it might not be genuine, but it certainly looks uncannily like others he painted on the island. Could it be a genuine Renoir?’

‘Is it signed?’ Fiona asked, her art historian’s pulse quickening at the idea of discovering a new Renoir, possibly worth millions.

‘Hard to see, it’s a bit dark in the corner where he usually signs.’ Nigel switched on the desk light and peered closely, Fiona’s head touching his.

‘Yes! It’s signed!’ Nigel punched the air, and Fiona squeezed his shoulder as she let out a whoop.

‘We’ll need to have it authenticated and find out its provenance. But how on earth did it end up here in the basement and who’s the owner?’ Fiona stood back, torn between professional detachment and the excitement of a potentially rare find.

Nigel pursed his lips. ‘Yes, it’s pretty odd. Legally, I doubt if we’re likely to have a claim. Although there’s always finders keepers.’ He grinned mischievously.

She laughed. ‘Not a hope in hell, brother. But there might be some reward. Anyway, imagine the kudos of finding an unknown Renoir?’ Scratching her head, Fiona added, ‘The obvious owner would be Ernest Domaille, but wouldn’t he have had the painting hung in his home, not buried under layers of dust in the basement? Doesn’t make sense. And surely his widow would have known if they owned such a valuable painting?’

‘Yep. So perhaps it’s not the real McCoy. Pity.’ Nigel sighed.

‘Hey, don’t give up yet. I’ll run it past my old professor, Sam. He’s an expert on the Impressionist artists, and I’m sure he’d be happy to take a look.’

‘Sounds good. In the meantime, we’d better put everything back in the basement. Should be safe enough.’

 

Ecstasy turned to worry. Fiona heard the answering machine at the house kick in once more and threw the mobile into her bag with an exasperated sigh. She heard the flight called, and she’d be home in less than two hours. Joining the queue, her earlier feelings of jubilation had completely dissipated to be replaced by the overriding fear that something was wrong. More than wrong.

The previous night she had stayed with a friend in London, and they were chatting after supper over a bottle of wine, when Fiona had choked on her drink, unable to swallow. At the time she dismissed it as one of those things, but once in bed, a sense of unease crept over her. Too late to phone, she sent Nigel a text, asking him to phone her in the morning, but he hadn’t. She knew he hated her fussing but wished he understood how hard it was for her. The whole reason for her moving to Guernsey with him was to provide much-needed support since his diagnosis. And when he didn’t answer her calls, she was bound to be worried. She chewed her lip while waiting to board, wishing he hadn’t been too stubborn to let their cleaner stay over.

‘For God’s sake, Fi, I can manage for one night on my own! I’m not a complete invalid, you know. Or at least, not yet.’ His face darkened with anger at the idea, and she backed off.

‘Sorry, I…I’ve been on edge since you ended up in hospital the other month. You gave me such a scare, and you don’t seem to be completely well yet.’ Fiona squeezed his arm and Nigel’s face softened.

‘I know, I know. Trouble with us being twins, eh? We’re wired to each other.’ He patted her hand, saying, ‘I’ll be okay, not planning on doing very much except a spot of paperwork. Not exactly rushed off my feet in the shop these days.’ He grinned. ‘Must be the gorgeous weather keeping everyone out of doors. No-one thinks about buying antiques when the beach beckons.’

 

Nigel’s car was in the drive when Fiona arrived home. She hadn’t expected anything else on a Sunday, as he usually pottered about at home or went for a brief walk if in the mood. But still, she felt uneasy as she grabbed her overnight bag and headed for the front door.

‘Nigel! I’m back. Where are you?’

Silence.

Leaving the bag in the hall, Fiona raced up the stairs, her heart skittering in her chest. Please God, don’t let him be unconscious like before…But when she pushed open his bedroom door, the bed was made up, and there was no sign of Nigel. Not sure whether to be relieved or more worried, Fiona searched all the rooms before ending in the empty kitchen. Filling a glass with water, she drank greedily, her throat dry from rising fear. Once more she tried Nigel’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Fiona rang the shop, but the answering machine kicked in. She would need to check for herself. Back in the car, she reversed out of the drive into Colborne Road and headed towards La Charotterie and Trinity Square. Lucky to find a parking space, she locked the car and ran the few yards to Contrée Mansell and their shop, ‘N & F Antiques’. Casting a quick glance at the bright gold lettering, she noted the shop was in darkness and walked around to the back. Her hands shook, and she dropped the keys. Scrabbling about on the stones to retrieve them, Fiona was glad of the still-present daylight. Gritting her teeth, she unlocked the door and stepped inside the dimly-lit room. As she switched on the light, she saw her brother hanging with a belt from a hook on the door.