chapter nine

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona’s hands shook as she unlocked the back door to the shop. It was less than forty-eight hours since she’d found Nigel and the image still burned brightly in her brain. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open, triggering the alarm. Fumbling with the key code, it was a while before the strident noise stopped. Turning around she eyed the office last seen full of police. Although in a mess, with drawers and cupboards left open, there was nothing to indicate the horror of what had happened.

Sinking into the battered chair, Fiona hugged herself, trying to stop the shakes taking over her body. As they slowly subsided, she began to tidy up, closing drawers and cupboards. Reaching down to close the last one, she spotted a business card caught under the desk. Picking it up, she saw the name and address were that of an Australian lawyer. Puzzled, she was about to bin it when she heard a whisper so soft she couldn’t make out the word or words. Jerking her head up she looked around. No-one. But she could have sworn…It came again, and this time it was clearer – ‘Fiona’. She gasped. ‘Nigel, is that you? Oh! Can you hear me?’ Her heart pumped fast as she strained to hear while looking for any sign of his presence. The temperature dropped, and she felt a feathery touch on her cheek. Lifting up her hand she found nothing. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Oh, how I miss you! Please, talk to me, Nigel.’ Tears pricked at Fiona’s eyes as she willed Nigel to show himself. Unconsciously, she held her breath. Then the doorbell sounded, and she let go. Ken. Great timing. Shoving the card into a drawer, she went to the front door.

‘Miss Torode, how do you do? Ken Turner.’

A large man in his early sixties, dressed in a tweed suit and bow tie and sporting a bushy moustache, he smiled as held out his hand.

‘Please, come in.’ She ushered him inside, feeling dwarfed by his presence.

‘Thank you.’ He looked around the shop, and she tried to see it through his eyes. Large desks and tables, either oak or mahogany, jostled for space with upholstered chairs and sofas, making it difficult to weave a path towards the back and the office. Every available surface held ornaments, glassware and the occasional leather-bound book. She saw it as organised clutter. Nigel had been the buyer for most of the stock, although odd pieces remained from the original stock. For the most part, it wasn’t to Fiona’s taste, but it sold. Her own love was the array of paintings on the walls, predominantly local oils and watercolours.

Ken’s eyes swivelled back to her. They shone with a passion she recognised. Nigel’s eyes had had the same look. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out.

‘How strange to be back here. And only eighteen months after old Ernest died. I see you’ve updated the stock and spruced the place up a bit. Excellent.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I told Ernest it needed doing, but he was what you might call careful with his money and refused to consider it.’

‘Indeed. Well, Mr Turner, shall I show you round properly before I explain the sales and purchase systems? We record everything on computer spreadsheets, but if you’re not used to computers–’

‘Ah, I might be a bit of a dinosaur in some ways, Miss Torode, and Ernest loathed computers, but I’ve embraced them. I have a PC at home, you see, and put all the household expenditure on Excel. So it shouldn’t be a problem.’ He twirled his moustache.

‘Oh, that’s a relief. Right, let’s make a start.’

Fiona was keen to get through the necessary explanations speedily, hoping Nigel would make his presence felt again. Fortunately, Ken was quick to learn, and they returned to the shop to discuss the stock. He proved his knowledge by accurately dating and valuing items without reading their sale tickets. They agreed he would start that Saturday and close on Mondays to give him a day off.

‘I’m looking forward to coming back, though naturally, I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.’ He frowned. ‘I now realise how much I’ve missed being in the shop among these beautiful objets,’ Ken said, waving his arms perilously close to an original art nouveau vase.

She managed a brief smile as she handed over a set of keys and reminded him of the alarm code.

After locking the front door, Fiona headed for the office, her heart hammering in her chest.

‘Nigel? Are you there? Ken’s gone. Please, please show me you’re here.’ Standing in the middle of the office, she held her breath, wanting Nigel to speak. Or to feel his touch again. But there was nothing.

Her brother was gone.

 

As they sat around the dinner table that evening, Fiona described her meeting with John and their proposed plan of action.

‘I thought you’d get on well with him, he’s lovely, isn’t he?’ Louisa said, and Fiona agreed.

‘He’s made me feel more positive about discovering the truth.’ She paused, wondering how much to tell them. ‘Something odd happened in the shop. I…thought I heard someone call my name. I think it was Nigel. And I felt something touch my face.’ Her hand went up instinctively to her cheek as she waited for her friends’ reaction. Would they think she’d lost it?

‘How did it make you feel?’ Paul’s expression was gentle, caring. Louisa’s gaze was calm.

‘Scared, at first. Then I got goosebumps, hoping it was Nigel, and we could communicate.’ Her throat tightened as she relived the wonderful moment when her beloved brother seemed so close. Able to touch. ‘I suppose you think I imagined it.’ A touch of defiance in her voice.

‘Not at all. I think it’s quite possible Nigel wants to make contact. You two were especially close, and his spirit will be in torment, both from leaving you and dying so violently.’ Paul held her hand in his and, once again, she experienced a warmth, a sense of peace, flow through her.

‘I agree with Paul. Although I haven’t personally experienced anything like this, Jeanne and Natalie have, so I think you should be open to it.’

‘Yes, I remember Natalie saying how her house was haunted, although it’s clear now. Guess I’d never given it much thought before. What happens after death, I mean.’ Which was true. When their parents died, Fiona assumed that was it, end of their lives and then – nothing. But if she had sensed Nigel’s presence, then perhaps there was an afterlife.

‘Will you go back to the shop? See if his spirit’s still around? I’d be happy to go with you if you’d rather not be alone.’

‘Thanks for the offer, Paul, but it’s better if I go on my own. I won’t be scared, in fact, the opposite. I’m desperate to have some contact with Nigel. Perhaps even hear his voice once more.’

 

Fiona’s first task the next morning was to contact Sam and ask about being granted access to the lost art registers. By adding her as a research student, she was provided with the necessary log-in details to begin her search. They both agreed the best starting point was the Art Loss Register set up specifically to trace art lost during WWII. Scrolling through the files provided a welcome distraction from the heaviness engulfing her, taking her back to her previous life working at London’s V&A museum, a job she’d adored. As a curator in the Fine Art department, Fiona had been ideally placed to undertake research and had contributed to several courses run by the museum. The decision to leave and return to Guernsey had been the hardest of her life.

‘You’re buying an antiques business in Guernsey? But why? I thought you loved living in London as much as I do.’ Fiona stared in shock at her brother. He’d managed a small antiques shop in Bloomsbury for years and seemed happy, only returning, like her, to Guernsey for holidays.

‘Ah, well, there’s something I need to tell you, Sis,’ he said, as they sat in a quiet corner of a trendy wine bar in Soho. He’d phoned her at work, saying he needed to see her. Soon as.

She cradled the large glass of Pinot Grigio he’d thrust into her hand as she arrived. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’

For once Nigel looked unsure of himself, shifting in his seat and avoiding her eye. After taking a large swallow of his beer, he said, ‘I’ve got MS.’

‘What! Oh, no! I can’t believe it, you…you look so well.’ She grabbed his hand and felt it tremble in hers. Moving closer Fiona leaned in for a hug, and they clung together until some wag walking past called out, ‘You two should get a room!’ Nigel released her gently, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

‘And before you ask, I’ve had a second opinion and loads of tests, so there’s no doubt, I’m afraid. To be honest, I’ve known for a couple of months, but didn’t know how to tell you.’ He sat back and took another sip of beer.

‘Two months! Oh, Nigel, you should have told me. We tell each other everything, remember?’ Which they had, from childhood. No secrets, that was the rule. Except now. Her initial shock gave way to fear, fear for her brother and what he faced, and fear for herself if the worst was to happen. She had to grip her glass to stop her hands shaking.

‘You were busy at work with that course you’d set up, and I wanted time to think it through, look at my options. Assuming I had any.’ For a moment his face clouded and her heart ached for him.

‘What exactly have you been told? What about treatments?’ Surely there was something to be done. Was there a cure? Her mind raced.

‘I’ve got what’s called Relapsing Remitting MS and can experience relapses months or even years apart. So far I’ve not been too bad. I’d been having balance problems, had pain in my legs, was clumsy and my hands shook,’ he said, clutching his glass. ‘My doctor referred me for tests and,’ he grimaced, ‘I was told it was MS.’

‘And the treatment?’ Fiona felt sick as she imagined her brother ending up in a wheelchair, like a distant aunt of theirs had. Although she had been much older.

‘Oh, there are drugs to control the symptoms, and it’s best if I avoid stress and rest as much as possible, but no cure. I could carry on for years, living a reasonably active life, or…’ He shrugged.

‘And going to Guernsey will help? How?’

‘Yes, for sure. The pace of life is so much slower than here, less pollution and I can live in our family home instead of paying out huge rents for a tiny flat here. But, I’m not sure I can do it alone, Sis.’ He stroked her cheek, a habit he had when he needed a favour.

The penny dropped.

‘You want me to come with you? Leave my job?’ For a moment her instinct was to say no, no way. But then she looked at Nigel’s drawn face and knew there was no choice.

‘Of course I’ll come. Now tell me more about this antiques business.’

 

Continuing to scroll through the lists, Fiona wished they’d never bought the bloody business from old Mrs Domaille. It had seemed the perfect solution at the time, but if they hadn’t bought it, then Nigel would still be alive. Struggling with his MS, yes, but alive. Her vision blurred and she had to wipe her eyes before continuing her search. Life was full of ‘if only’. If only their parents had been driving ten minutes earlier on that section of the motorway, they’d still be alive, too. Taking a deep breath, Fiona forced herself to focus on the screen where an image jumped out at her, accompanied by the description ‘Tissaud Family at Moulin Huet – Renoir’. She’d found it!