chapter twelve

 

Guernsey 2011

 

‘Oh, I can see you!’ She reached out towards his insubstantial body, and he mirrored her, their fingers seeming to touch, but there was only air. Tears of joy pricked at her eyes, blurring the image further.

His expression was a mix of sorrow and – what? – frustration? He seemed to draw up all his energy before saying, ‘Big man…basement…grabbed me…chair…office. ’ His voice was faint, kept fading in and out, as if on the end of a long-distance telephone call.

Her pulse quickened at his words.

‘What happened next, my love?’ Fiona’s voice sank to a whisper, matching Nigel’s. She could see his strength waning, his body fading in front of her.

‘He…know…Renoir…’ Nigel’s body disappeared, and Fiona crumpled into a heap on the floor, hugging herself as the held-back tears fell freely. She cried out, ‘We’ll get him, Nigel, we’ll get him, I promise. May he rot in hell for what he did.’

Slowly she calmed down, conscious that time was marching on and Louisa and Paul would be anxious about her. Dragging herself upright, Fiona switched on the light to drive away any remaining shadows. Drained, she reset the alarm before leaving. She needed to be with her friends.

 

When Fiona arrived back at Icart, Paul took one look at her face and wordlessly poured her a small brandy and pushed her gently into a seat.

‘Take your time. Looks like you and Nigel made contact?’

She nodded and took a sip of the burning liquid. It still felt unreal. Could she really have been having a conversation with a ghost? Her dead brother? But he told her something of what happened! It must have been real. After a few more sips she told Paul and Louisa everything.

Paul’s face remained calm, but Louisa’s mouth fell open.

‘Oh my God! That’s…that’s incredible! No wonder you looked so pale. As if you’d…’ she stopped, her hand covering her mouth.

‘Seen a ghost? Yes, well I had.’ Fiona gave a short laugh, hysteria threatening to take over. ‘I’m glad I did, but it, it hurt.’ She gripped the glass tighter, determined not to fall apart. At least not in front of her friends.

They sat facing her and now Paul moved to kneel in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Gently he released her grip on the glass, handing it to Louisa. He took Fiona’s hands in his and held them as his eyes locked onto hers. Something like a current of electricity flowed into her arms and through her body. In its wake, it left a sense of calm, of relaxation and her eyes grew heavy and slowly closed. Colours swirled in her brain, like her childhood kaleidoscope, and she found herself mesmerised by the ebb and flow of patterns. Gradually, the colours dissolved and all she could see was a bright golden light, and the feeling of calmness grew stronger. She wanted it to last forever, to lose herself in the light’s comfort.

‘Fiona, are you okay?’

She opened her eyes reluctantly and saw Paul’s face close to hers, his eyes searching hers. She smiled. ‘Fine, thanks. Whatever you just did, was wonderful. Nigel said you were a healer.’

‘Whether I am or not, I’m glad you feel better.’

Louisa asked if she needed any more brandy, but she shook her head.

‘You know, it might help if you spoke to Natalie. She went through quite a full-on experience with her ghost and may be able to offer some reassurance,’ Louisa said.

‘I might do that. It would be good to catch up, anyway. Everyone’s been very kind, leaving messages for me, and I should make an effort to reply.’ She sighed, suddenly overwhelmed with feelings of guilt.

‘Hey! Don’t beat yourself up! Everyone understands you’re going through a tough time and want you to know they’re there for you once you’re ready.’ Louisa squeezed her.

‘Thanks, I guess you’re right.’ She yawned. ‘Time for bed, it’s been quite a day. Night, night, you two.’

Fiona looked forward to a good night’s sleep. As her head hit the pillow, all she could see was the ghostly image of her brother in the office. Tears slid silently down her cheeks.

 

Feeling calmer the following morning, Fiona phoned Natalie, and they arranged to meet at Natalie’s cottage on Saturday morning. She also contacted other friends who’d tried to get in touch and expressed her thanks for their condolences. By the time she’d finished, she felt both humbled and strengthened by their support. She wasn’t alone after all.

 

The archives beckoned, and Fiona once again found herself immersed in the harrowing events of the German Occupation. Her grandparents had died when she and Nigel were young children, so she’d not had a chance to ask them about their wartime experiences and had only a patchy knowledge of what it had been like for the locals left on the island. Ploughing through the transcripts of documents left behind by the then States Controlling Committee and the local police was a tedious and, at times, sobering, experience and she was beginning to wonder how much longer she could go on when the name ‘Leo Bichard’ appeared on the page. She jotted down all the relevant details. At last, she was beginning to understand what had happened all those years ago. And it didn’t make for good reading.

 

John was waiting for her at the house in Colborne Road. He had been supervising the installation of the extra security devices when she had called to tell him about her research. After showing her the security improvements, they sat in the garden while she gave him more details.

‘It’s such a sad story, John. It seems poor Leo was betrayed by an anonymous informer, who told the Germans that Leo’s French, maternal grandmother had been a Jew. Can you imagine anything so mean? So vile?’ She stood up and paced about, filled with rising anger on behalf of the unfortunate Leo.

‘It does sound a horrible thing to do, I agree. Perhaps Leo had made an enemy of “anonymous” in some way. Did many locals act as informers in the war?’

‘There were some who did, yes. Probably earned some brownie points from the Germans for their trouble.’ Fiona continued pacing, hating to admit any of her fellow islanders could have behaved in such a way. She knew her grandparents would have been more honourable. Distracted, she started dead-heading nearby flowers in the abundant herbaceous border, once her mother’s pride and joy.

‘So, what else did you find out?’ John asked, bringing her back.

She smiled. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Well, after Leo was arrested, he was sent with other Jews to a concentration camp in Germany in 1942. None came back,’ she sighed. ‘All his property was confiscated, except the family business, which somehow slipped under the radar as it had been closed down at the time the Germans arrived. Someone must have taken over after the war, but the name isn’t recorded. I guess it must have been Domaille. I’m hoping his widow will be able to throw some light on that when you eventually get to see her.’ She sat down on the garden chair next to John, flicking an errant flower head off her jeans.

‘You’ve done well, Fiona. We’ve a good place to start, and I’ll press on with searching for any surviving Bichards on the island. Even a distant relation might know something about Leo’s widow.’ John beamed at her, and a thought struck her.

‘I might be clutching at straws, but how about if Leo’s French grandparents had met Renoir, which is feasible time-wise, and bought the painting from him? It could explain how it came to be on the island.’ She leaned forward, excited at the prospect.

‘Yes, that makes sense. Leo, not wanting the Germans to commandeer his art collection, hides it in the basement of his shop. Smart move. Except that someone must have found out. And surely Leo wouldn’t have left such valuable stuff there without telling someone? And why didn’t they tell the widow when she turned up after the war? That’s what any decent person would have done, surely?’

‘Except not everyone is decent, as we said earlier.’ She sat back, pushing a hand through her curls.

‘No, that’s true. But whatever did happen, it’s becoming clear the Renoir did belong to Leo, and his widow would, understandably, have accused the Germans of theft. The poor woman seems to have lost so much!’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘What a can of worms we’ve opened! Did they have any children?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. As the wife left before the occupation, it’s likely she went with children. Thousands of children were evacuated, and many mothers went with them. What a horrible choice to make!’ She bit her lip.

‘Once we find out what happened to Mrs Bichard, we’ll have more pieces of the jigsaw. If they had a child or children, there’s a good chance an heir’s kicking about somewhere. About to inherit a bloody valuable painting!’ John rubbed his hands together as if he were the one due to inherit something worth millions.

‘Hoping for a reward, John?’ Fiona grinned.

‘Not really, but it always feels good to return property to its rightful owner. Mind you, it’s usually something more mundane, like a phone or a wallet. I’ve never been involved with anything worth millions before.’

‘Nor me, except for my work. And I want to find the rightful owner of this painting. It might make Nigel’s death seem a bit less pointless. Something that’s hard to believe at the moment.’