chapter sixteen

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona was chatting to Paul and Louisa in their sitting room when John called round.

‘Sorry to come without warning, but I thought you’d be keen to hear how I got on with Andre Bichard.’ He was grinning broadly as Louisa ushered him in.

‘No problem. Go ahead. I’m sure we’re all agog,’ Fiona said, making room for him on the sofa.

They listened intently as John described their meeting.

‘Fascinating stuff. Fills some of the gaps in what I’ve found in the archives.’ Fiona couldn’t help but smile. ‘Sounds quite a character, this Andre. Do you think he’s told you the truth?’

‘I don’t think he’s bright enough to make it up. And why bother? He knows there might be some kind of reward if we find Leo’s family, thanks to him, but otherwise, he’s nothing to gain.’ John sighed. ‘I felt sorry for him. He’s obviously picked up on the bitterness between his side of the family and Leo’s, and feels hard done by.’

Louisa chipped in.

‘You don’t think he could be the burglar? It’s possible he knew about the Renoir through the family connection.’

John shook his head.

‘No, it doesn’t fit the facts. I’d bet good money it was a professional job, someone who knew how to disable alarms and had the sense to wear gloves. This guy didn’t have any tech in the place that I could see and, if anything, lives trapped in the past, surrounded by rubbish. But I agree he could, in theory, know about the Renoir. Which means he could have told someone else.’ He looked thoughtful. Tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

Paul had disappeared to bring John a beer and now passed it over. The others were drinking wine, and for a moment no-one spoke as they sipped their drinks.

‘You know, if Andre’s right and Leo wasn’t a mixer, saw himself as superior to others, this might explain why someone shopped him to the Germans. Bit extreme, but times weren’t exactly normal, were they?’ Paul said.

‘The problem is, who knew he had a Jewish grandmother? Even Andre’s family didn’t know! With anti-Semitism spreading in Europe, it may have been kept private.’ John sipped his beer, his brow furrowed in thought.

‘And there were only a handful of Jews living in Guernsey at the beginning of the war, mainly foreign-born women. Leo’s background must have been almost unique. And, of course, in his mind, he wasn’t a Jew. His parents were Christians, and he was baptised as such. Poor man.’ Fiona shook her head.

‘Guess we’ll have to forget that question for the moment and focus on who knew about the Renoir. My gut tells me there’s a connection, so we may end up solving the two mysteries in one go.’ John finished his beer and stood. ‘Thanks for the drink, Paul. I’d better get off, or the wife will think I’m up to no good,’ he chuckled.

Paul and Louisa said their goodbyes and Fiona walked with him to the hall.

‘What’s next on the agenda?’ She held the door open.

‘I’m going to see Mrs Domaille tomorrow, which I hope will give us some more clues. Then the focus is on tracking down Leo’s family. By my reckoning, his widow could still be alive and then there’s the daughter, although if she’s married her name will be different, so…’ he shrugged.

‘I’ve every confidence in you, John. Look forward to your update.’ Fiona rubbed her forehead, suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness and buried emotions.

About to leave, John turned and studied her.

‘How are you coping? You look all in.’

‘It’s hard. One minute I’m excited about all the stuff we’re finding out, the next I’m remembering why we’re doing it. Then…then the pain returns,’ she gulped and found herself embraced in a gentle hug. Surprised, she held herself stiffly for a moment, then relaxed.

‘Not all policemen are as hard as nails, you know. Some of us have soft centres, and I have a daughter about your age. I wouldn’t want her to go through what you’re going through. I think you’re very brave.’ He let go, nodded and left.

Fiona closed the door, touched by John’s concern. It hit her that, in some ways, he reminded her of her father. A doctor, he was all bluff on the outside, but soft underneath. The thought made her wish he was still around, ready to comfort her when needed. She had been closer to him than her mother, who’d been pretty wrapped up in her work as a lawyer, and hard to talk to. Get close to. Whereas her father would stop whatever he was doing and listen, glasses pushed up on his head.

The memories began to force their way in, and Fiona fought to keep control. She called a quick goodnight to her friends and made for her room. Once the tears had dried up, she took deep, calming breaths as Paul had taught her and focused on Nigel. Lying in bed, she clutched his photo to her chest, willing him to connect. Closing her eyes, she became aware of his face, as if in a dream, and he was trying to talk to her.

‘Be…careful that…man wanted to know…where Renoir. Said didn’t know…what he meant. Don’t want him…coming after…you. Big, strong. Hurt me. Sorry, Sis. Love you…’ His face and voice faded, and Fiona was alone once more.

 

♦♦♦

 

John Ferguson wasn’t sure what to expect. In his experience, frail old ladies tended to be profoundly deaf and short-sighted and possessed butterfly memories. And if Mrs Domaille was one of these, then he wasn’t likely to learn much of value. Still, nothing ventured, he thought, as he stood in the hallway of the nursing home, admiring the display of spring flowers on the side-table.

‘Mr Ferguson? I understand you’d like to speak to Mrs Domaille?’ A woman wearing a smart blue nurse’s uniform bustled towards him, conveying a sense of having been interrupted from more important matters. He straightened up and offered a placatory smile.

‘Thank you, yes, er Sister,’ he said, catching sight of her badge. ‘Is she able to receive visitors?’

Her eyes bored into his.

‘She is, although only for short periods of time. May I ask what your relationship is to Mrs Domaille?’

‘Quite truthfully, none. But I’m…involved in the inquiry into the death of a man who purchased her late husband’s business from her, and hope she can help with some background information. I promise not to stay too long, Sister.’ He smiled again.

The nurse frowned.

‘Yes, I’d heard something about a sudden death, but had no idea about a connection with Mrs Domaille. I’m not sure she’ll be able to help you much, Mr Ferguson, but I can’t see any harm in letting you see her. She has good days and bad days, and today is one of the better ones.’ Turning on her heel, she added, ‘Follow me please,’ and marched down the corridor.

She stopped at a closed door and after a brief knock, went inside, signalling John to follow. A white-haired lady, muffled in blankets in spite of the heat blasting from the radiator, was propped up in a chair by the window. She turned her head towards the nurse and smiled.

‘Hello, Sister. Is it dinnertime already?’

‘No, Mrs Domaille, there’s someone here to see you, a Mr Ferguson. He’d like to talk to you about your husband’s antiques business if you’re feeling up to it.’

The old lady’s eyes, a watery blue behind thick lenses, swivelled towards him. A puzzled look crossed her pale, lined face. ‘Ferguson? Do I know you? The name isn’t familiar.’ Her voice wavered and John, worried she might refuse to speak to him, answered quickly, ‘We haven’t met before, Mrs Domaille, and there’s no reason to be concerned. I’d be glad of your help solving a mystery concerning your late husband’s business, that’s all. It won’t take long.’ He proffered his warmest smile and reached for a thin hand.

‘Oh. I suppose that’s all right. What do you think, Sister? Is it safe for me to talk to this man?’ She twisted her hands together, looking from John to the nurse.

‘Yes, perfectly safe. But you can always press your button if you need me.’ The nurse’s voice was gentle, so different to her brisk manner towards him and John breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Bring the chair close then; I’m a bit deaf.’ Mrs Domaille waved a hand towards a chair a few feet away, and he positioned it right next to hers. The nurse left, reminding him not to stay too long.

‘What does Ernest’s business have to do with you, Mr Ferguson? I sold it over a year ago to a nice young man and his sister. It’s them you need to talk to.’ She pulled her blanket tight around her thin body.

‘Yes, I know. And that’s where the problem lies, Mrs Domaille. The young man, Nigel, was found dead in the shop a few days ago and I’m helping in the investigation into his death.’ He hoped his old mate Woods never found out he’d said that, but still, it was the truth.

She gasped. ‘Oh, how awful! I’m sorry to hear that, he was so young and keen. But I still don’t see what it has to do with Ernest. He’s been dead near two years.’ Her hands pulled frantically at the blanket and John was concerned she’d start to panic.

‘We’re trying to trace whoever owned the business before Ernest as we think he may have left something in the shop. Do you know who that might be?’

Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, that’s before my time, I’m afraid. I didn’t meet Ernest until after the war; I was much younger, you see. He’d owned the business some years by then.’ Her gaze went off into the distance as if remembering the past.

‘And he never mentioned anything about the previous owner?’

‘I vaguely remember him saying he’d bought it for a song. Those were his very words.’ She said, pursing her lips. ‘Something about the owner having to leave suddenly. I was only a child when the Germans came, and I remember thousands of islanders leaving before the soldiers arrived. Always scared of them, I was. With their rifles and noisy boots. I was one of the few children left. My parents couldn’t bear to send me away, you see.’

At least she remembers the Occupation. That’s something, John thought.

‘So, you think the owner left with the other evacuees?’

‘No, that doesn’t sound right.’ She twisted the blanket, a puzzled look on her face. ‘I remember, I think Ernest said he was working for the owner when war broke out, but he was forced to leave later. Something to do with the Germans.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. The Germans took him away.’

‘Did he mention his name?’

She shook her head.

‘No, or if he did, I’ve forgotten it. Ernest never talked about that time, said it was best left in the past. Can’t say I blame him. I was only too glad to put it behind me too.’

‘Thank you,; you’ve been most helpful, Mrs Domaille. One last question before I leave you in peace. Did you know about the basement in the shop?’

‘Basement? I don’t know anything about a basement. But then, I hardly stepped foot in the business. Ernest never encouraged me neither, saw it as his domain, he did.’ Her voice trailed off, and he saw she was falling asleep.

‘I’ll be off then. I can see you’re tired. Thanks again, Mrs Domaille.’

She didn’t seem to hear him, and he crept from the room and closed the door. As he neared the main entrance, the sister emerged from another room.

‘Mr Ferguson, was Mrs Domaille able to help you?’

‘Yes, a little thanks. But she was tired, and I left her sleeping.’

John was about to move on when she continued, ‘Well, she’s not used to visitors. She’s been with us nine months, and you’re only her second visitor. And the first one, her son, has only been the once.’ She sniffed. ‘And he didn’t stay long. Poor woman.’

John stood still.

‘Mrs Domaille has a son? She never mentioned him. Odd. And he lives in Guernsey? I might need to contact him.’

‘I don’t think they’re close and she hadn’t said anything to us about him until he turned up here. I’m afraid I don’t have an address for him, but I got the impression he’d not lived here for some years.’

‘Thank you, Sister. I might want to call on Mrs Domaille another time, if I may.’

‘She may not remember you, Mr Ferguson. Early stages of dementia, you see. Today was a good day, but…’ she shrugged.

‘Understood. Well, thanks again and goodbye for now.’

John couldn’t help smiling as he left. His well-honed instincts told him he’d just learnt something important. Extremely important.