chapter ten

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona was still on a high from her discovery when John Ferguson called.

‘I popped in to see Inspector Woods and mentioned a possible reason for a burglary and he’s agreed to think about it. He was a bit miffed I wouldn’t share all the facts, but seemed to accept the issue of your safety. For the moment he’ll hold back on suggesting suicide to the coroner unless toxicology results suggest otherwise. So, that’s a result, I think.’

‘Thanks, it is. And I’ve had a result, too.’ Excitedly, she told him about the painting on the Art Loss Register. ‘I’ve emailed the listing to Sam for confirmation, but I’m convinced it’s the one we found.’

‘Well done. And does it mention who the painting belonged to?’

‘It was reported as stolen from a Guernsey home by the Germans during the Occupation.’

‘Blimey! You’d suspected that, hadn’t you? Do you have a name?’ John’s voice rose.

Fiona smiled, feeling pleased with herself.

‘A Mrs Bichard, who made the claim after the war, saying it belonged to her husband–’

‘Don’t tell me he’d been deported and didn’t return?’ John interrupted.

‘Yes. His property was commandeered, but she had evacuated before the Occupation. The Germans denied the claim, saying they had no record of it and it’s been an open case since. I’d guess her claim wasn’t taken seriously, as until then all Renoir’s Guernsey paintings were accounted for. Perhaps they thought she was trying it on. Otherwise, investigators would have dug deeper. You don’t let a Renoir just disappear!’

‘Guess not. So, we need to find this Mrs Bichard, assuming she’s still alive. Is there an address for her?’

‘No, and we don’t know if she returned to live here after the war. I had a quick look in the phone book, and there are about two columns of Bichards.’ She sighed. How would they trace someone after more than sixty years?

‘What puzzles me is how did the painting end up in the basement of your shop? There must be a connection between whoever owned the business during the war, Mr Bichard and possibly Mr Domaille. Which reminds me, I phoned the nursing home and was told the old lady is ill with a chest infection and can’t receive visitors until next week. Pity, as I think she could know something.’

‘Mmm. I could try the archives to see who owned the business during the war. Should be a record somewhere. And why was Bichard deported? He doesn’t sound Jewish. It should be in the records.’

‘Are you sure you’re happy to do that? If you tell me where to look, I could do it. After all, you’re paying me to investigate.’ He sounded dubious.

‘I know, but I’d rather be busy, John. Otherwise, I’ll dwell too much on Nigel.’ She didn’t tell him what had happened in the shop, thinking an ex-policeman wouldn’t hold with such ‘ghostly’ happenings.

‘Fair enough. Then I’ll start going through the Bichards on the island and, if necessary, check for the mainland. Oh, and I went to your house and noted where we could improve security. I’ll email you the suggestions, and you can let me know what you think.’

‘Thanks. Looks like we’re both going to be busy. Catch you later. Bye.’

Fiona stood and stretched. She’d been glued to the computer for long enough, and the spring sun was luring her outside. A few minutes later she’d locked up and was heading for the cliff path running alongside the garden’s boundary. With a shock, she realised she couldn’t remember the last time she had been out for a walk.

The warm sunshine felt good and deep breaths of salty air soon had her striding out towards Moulin Huet Bay. The yellow flowers of the gorse, shading pink campion and yellow celandine, made a bright contrast against the deep green of the grass and Fiona felt her spirits lift a little. Cliff walks had played a large part in her childhood and youth. Her parents considered them an integral part of the weekends and school holidays. They always started from Soldiers Bay, within easy reach of their home in Colborne Road. The path led them close to BlueBell Wood, a delightful sea of blue in spring and one of Fiona’s favourite places.

A bit too far to walk now, she thought but determined to make an effort another day while the bluebells were at their glorious best. There were times as a child, and even more so as a teenager, when neither she nor Nigel wanted to accompany their parents on the walks, preferring to stay slumped in front of the television. But their father would virtually drag them out, bribing them with the promise of a cream tea at Fermain Bay.

Bittersweet memories flitted in and out of her brain as Fiona kept going, determined to make it as far as Moulin Huet. It seemed appropriate to follow in Renoir’s footsteps, and with few people out and about mid-week, she would be able to imagine herself back in Victorian times when the fashion of bathing in the sea was gaining in popularity.

The route took her down and up the cliffs around Saint’s Bay and then high along those surrounding Moulin Huet. She let out a sigh of satisfaction as, eventually, she made her way down to the beach facing Cradle Rock, one of the rocks featured in Renoir’s paintings.

The beach was almost deserted as she’d hoped, and Fiona chose a spot to sit down, propped against one of the many rocks scattered around the bay. The view was not quite what Renoir had painted; he’d used a little artistic licence by including rocks from adjoining bays. But the essence was there, and Fiona closed her eyes to recall the painting found in the basement. The bright colours of the clothes, rocks and sea were in sharp contrast with what lay before her.

Opening her eyes again, she liked the softer tones of the reality. Although undeniably beautiful, Fiona wondered what had prompted Renoir to produce fifteen versions of the bay and not record other beautiful parts of the island. His life and work had featured in her degree studies, and the Guernsey connection had made him a special attraction for her. Added to which, his lodgings in St Peter Port were a short walk from her family home. So, perhaps, she now mused, there was some weird but indefinable reason why his painting ended up in her hands. Just then, Nigel’s distorted face floated into her mind, and her stomach clenched at the terrible price attached to their find.

 

The following day Fiona drove into Town and was lucky to park at the Mignon Plateau adjoining the archive building, saving herself a steep walk up the hill from a town centre car park. Her legs still ached from her cliff walk. A couple of hours later she left, happy to have achieved success in one of the searches, if not the other. And it slipped another piece into the jigsaw puzzle. It seemed a Leo Bichard had been the owner of the antiques shop throughout the war, having taken over from his father, Henry. Fiona hadn’t as yet found a reference to Leo’s deportation among the huge stack of documents kept by the States Administration during the Occupation, and planned to return another day.

She phoned John with the news.

‘I knew there had to be a connection! It’s beginning to make sense, isn’t it? If Ernest knew Leo, then he had the opportunity to get his hands on the Renoir.’ Fiona heard the excitement in his voice. She’d had the same thought.

‘Hopefully, Mrs Domaille will be able to throw more light on their association. In the meantime, I’ll try to find out why Leo was deported. Any joy with the local Bichards?’

‘Not so far. It’s going to take me a while to get through them all. If I were still in the force I’d rope in a constable or two,’ he chuckled. ‘To save my sanity, I’m taking time out to fix the security issues at your house, as you agreed in your email. Will give you an update later.’

After dinner that evening Fiona drove into Town and parked yards from the shop. Dusk cast a soft light over the old buildings and cobbled street, and for a moment she hesitated. Was it wise to be on her own with a murderous burglar on the loose? She knew John wouldn’t have approved, would have insisted on accompanying her. Which would have defeated the object, as she was sure Nigel wouldn’t make contact if a stranger were present. Telling herself it was unlikely the burglar would try again so soon, she unlocked the back door and switched off the alarm.

An almost eerie silence enfolded her as she reached for the light switch. Changing her mind, Fiona left the light off. Wouldn’t a ghost or spirit prefer the dark? Light filtered in through the windows and her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

‘Nigel? It’s me. I’d…I’d really like to talk to you. See you. It’s been so awful since…’ Her voice caught on a sob. The gnawing pain in her gut threatened to overwhelm her. She forced herself to breathe deeply and focus on her love for her brother. He wouldn’t want to have a weeping Minnie on his hands. An image of the wailing girl in the toilets in a Harry Potter film flashed into her mind. The girl had managed to tell Harry what had happened to her, how she died. It wasn’t real life, of course, just a story, but it helped her to focus. Fiona perched on the edge of the desk, Nigel’s desk, and concentrated on the last time she’d seen him alive. His big smile as he’d waved her off to the airport.

‘Nigel. Can you hear me?’

In response, she felt the same delicate, feather-like touch on her cheek, as the air around her cooled.

‘Fiona.’ The merest whisper. ‘Hear…you. Want to tell…But tired. So tired…’

Her heart pounded against her ribs. She tried to speak, but her throat was tight. She coughed.

‘Darling Nigel. I’m listening. Stay with me.’ Her eyes strained as she focused on where the voice had emerged. As she watched, the hazy outline of a man appeared.