chapter seventeen

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona woke feeling rotten after a night spent tossing and turning as she relived childhood memories. Flashbacks of her and Nigel playing on the beach in Fermain Bay, their parents recumbent on towels nearby, before they’d all troop up to the café for sandwiches or snacks. It had been their favourite beach, and Fiona remembered hot, sunny days laughing with her brother as they competed to build the best sandcastle ever. Even her mother had loosened up and joined in, siding with Fiona while her father partnered Nigel. Weekends and school holidays had been magical. Not that she’d realised it at the time, just took them for granted as children do.

Each time she’d surfaced from a dream memory, Fiona felt the full force of her loss. Her aloneness. The only one left of four. Her inward cry of, ‘It’s not fair!’ did nothing to assuage the pain ripping her apart. By the time the early morning sun beckoned she would have given anything for temporary oblivion. Knowing her father wouldn’t have approved of sleeping pills or antidepressants for grief, Fiona had resisted asking her doctor for help. She had to face it and go through to the other side, an attitude encouraged by Paul and Louisa with their much-needed support.

After a long drench in the shower, she felt marginally better, but with no real purpose for the day. Louisa was in the kitchen alone and, after quick good mornings, poured her a mug of coffee.

‘Bad night?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Yep. Lots of memories floating around. But I did make contact with Nigel if you can call it that.’ She explained about the voice in her head, how Nigel wanted to warn her.

Louisa’s eyes widened.

‘Wow! Are you going to tell John? It might help with identifying the killer.’

‘I’m not sure. It does sound a bit off the wall to say my dead brother has sent me a warning. Don’t want him thinking I’m a bit, you know,’ she said, twirling a finger at her head.

‘Tricky. Perhaps if you leave it for now and see what potential suspects turn up. That Andre was a big guy, wasn’t he? Though John didn’t think he was very bright.’ Louisa munched on her toast.

‘Yes, I wondered about him, too.’ Fiona pushed a hand through her hair, feeling unsure what to do. She didn’t want John giving up the case thinking she was flaky. ‘I’ll leave it for now. Can’t hurt. In the meantime, I’ve got to focus on something to do. The police haven’t got back to me about the toxicology report, so I can’t arrange a funeral, and I’m at a loose end.’

Louisa started loading the dishwasher.

‘Why don’t you call Charlotte? You know she’s wanted to see you since hearing the news and seeing her and the baby might cheer you up a bit. James is quite a little character, isn’t he?’ She closed the door of the dishwasher and smiled at Fiona as she headed to the door.

‘He is, and I haven’t seen them for weeks. Good idea, I’ll ring her. See you later.’

 

As Fiona drove through the elaborate iron gates of Charlotte and Andy’s Victorian villa, she couldn’t help grinning. The impressive entrance and drive, leading to the stuccoed villa, shouted ‘class’, a description that also fitted Charlotte herself. A relative newcomer to the island after falling in love with Andy, a local architect, it was known that Charlotte originated from landed gentry in England, but she had no airs and graces and was fun to be with. And she had excellent taste in property, Fiona thought, parking at the side of the freshly painted house, oozing period charm. The gardens encircled the house, nestled among trees near Le Guet, with commanding views over Cobo Bay. Fiona stood for a moment admiring the vista of golden beaches and deep blue sea. A spring breeze carried the smell of the sea upwards, and she took a deep breath.

‘There you are! I heard your car arrive, but then you disappeared.’ Charlotte appeared around the corner from the front and threw her arms around her. Fiona gave herself up to the embrace, glad of any hugs offered.

Charlotte released her, saying, ‘You’re looking peaky, my dear. Not surprising under the circumstances, but let’s see if we can put some colour in those cheeks. Lunch is ready, prepared by my own fair hands, and a bottle is chilling nicely. Shall we eat out or in?’ Charlotte tilted her head, causing her hair to fall in thick waves around her face.

‘Oh, inside will be fine, it’s a little cool today,’ she said, swept up by her friend’s energy. Having a baby didn’t seem to have slowed her down.

‘We’ll compromise and eat in the conservatory, shall we? James will be awake any minute, and he loves being in there. Such a good view of the garden and the sea.’ Charlotte led the way into the hallway, leaving Fiona to admire again the restored mahogany staircase which, according to Charlotte, had been in a terrible state when they bought the house. And apparently, the rest had been in poor condition as well, having been owned and lived in by an elderly gentleman who no longer had the means to maintain it. Fiona loved this style of house, all corniced ceilings, marble fireplaces and solid panelled doors. The 1930s home she and Nigel had inherited from their parents was solid, well-built, but without the flourishes.

Charlotte turned into the huge drawing room which led to the newly added Victorian style conservatory. It was like walking into something from a glossy magazine such as World of Interiors. Fiona gasped at the brightly coloured Moroccan divans and chairs spread around the conservatory, as wide as the house and, she guessed, fifteen feet deep. All was colour and light, the view of lush gardens falling away to the coast the icing on the cake.

‘How gorgeous! You’d barely started building when I was last here. And I love the Moroccan theme.’ She grinned. ‘What did Andy say about that?’

‘Oh, he was a little unsure to begin with, he’d have gone for a neutral modern look, but he loves it now,’ Charlotte said, laughing. ‘I think he imagines himself as some sheikh, lounging on divans, surrounded by his harem, composed solely of the housekeeper and myself. Not much of a harem! But I think he’s happy.’ She smiled her warm, wide smile.

‘How could he not be? He’s got a gorgeous wife, beautiful home and handsome son – what more could a man want?’ They both giggled.

‘We’re both happy, and James is such a good baby. I’ve been very lucky. Now, I’ll ask Mrs B to serve lunch in the conservatory, meantime I’ll fetch the wine.’ Charlotte bustled off to the kitchen leaving Fiona to plop herself down on a squashy blue and yellow divan from where she could admire the view. Quite different from Louisa’s the garden sloped away into a wooded area leading down to Cobo, with its expansive sandy beach now dotted with rocks at low tide, with a few walkers hugging the sea wall. The wind was keeping potential sunbathers away. For the first time since the death of her parents, Fiona considered the idea of selling the family home and moving near to the coast to catch the sea views. And since Nigel’s death, the memories would be more poignant. Perhaps it was time to move on…

‘Here we are. I thought Prosecco would go down well with the seafood salad I prepared. One of the joys of no longer breastfeeding is being able to imbibe without guilt!’ Charlotte beamed as she poured two glasses, offering one to Fiona.

‘Thanks.’ Fiona took a sip. ‘Lovely.’

‘There’s something decadent about a glass of anything bubbly in the middle of the day, don’t you think?’ Charlotte settled herself on a divan with a contented sigh. ‘Not that I can drink much, as young Master James will want his lunch soon and I should be working on my book later.’ She tasted the wine and leaned forward. ‘And what are your plans for later?’

‘Ah, that’s the problem. I’m at a loose end until…until I can organise the funeral. And I can’t just keep going out for walks or imposing on friends.’ Fiona sighed.

‘None of us would see it as an imposition. We’re here to love and support you and I, for one, cherish your company. So, enough said!’ Charlotte wagged an elegant finger at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Thanks. I’ll try not to become a nuisance. You mentioned your new novel, how’s it coming along?’

‘Let’s just say, it’s progressing slowly. I’m lucky in that my publisher isn’t pushing me yet, allowing me extra time after having the baby. But I am enjoying it. Victorian Guernsey is a far cry from eighteenth-century England and the wars with the French of my first book, and Victor Hugo is ripe for a fictional story about his stay here.’ She chuckled. ‘Bit of a lady’s man, wasn’t he?’

‘So I understand. But what a genius!’ They became caught in an animated conversation about Hugo while Mrs B, Charlotte’s daily housekeeper, began laying out food on the small dining table in the conservatory. Once she had finished, they took their seats and began piling their plates with crab, smoked salmon, prawns and a mixed salad accompanied with crusty French bread.

Between mouthfuls of food, they carried on a conversation about books and writing.

‘I’ve had to let the V&A know that my book’s delayed, and they’ve been very understanding. Have they broached it with you yet?’ Fiona was commissioned by the museum to write a history of the V&A, and published by Charlotte’s company, Townsend Publishers, based in Bloomsbury. One of those coincidences that happen rarely, but had brought the two women closer together. So much so, that Charlotte had invited Fiona to stay in her London house in Bloomsbury a couple of times when she was over undertaking research. The house was also handy for trips to her old uni, UCL.

‘I’m not sure. Tony hasn’t said anything yet, but I only get a weekly update from him. He’s proving to be an excellent MD of the firm and I hardly ever need to get involved. Allows me to concentrate on James and my writing. Oh, and Andy of course!’ She giggled an infectious deep, throaty laugh that made Fiona’s mouth twitch. Her friend really was the tonic she needed.

A heartfelt wail transmitted by the baby alarm stopped Fiona from replying, and Charlotte, with a quick, ‘Excuse me,’ accompanied by a grin, left the room. Fiona chewed her food, gazing at the trees stirring in the wind, growing in strength and whipping up white caps on the waves. She could sit here all day watching…

Charlotte swept in carrying a wriggling James and followed by Mrs B holding a high chair which she set at the table.

‘Here, let me hold him for a minute. It’s been a while since my last cuddle.’ Fiona reached out for the baby, who, after a moment’s hesitation, beamed at her and lifted his arms.

‘He’s taken to you, Fiona, he doesn’t let everyone hold him, the little monkey. Right, be good for Fiona while I go and fetch your lunch.’ Charlotte dropped a kiss on James’s head and rushed off.

Fiona sat him on her lap, and James studied her with his big brown eyes. He’d grown since she last saw him and, at eight months, was becoming quite a sturdy little boy.

‘He’s getting more like Andy by the day, don’t you think?’ asked Charlotte, returning with something gloopy in a bowl. She settled James in his chair and began spooning him what looked like green blancmange, but was probably blended vegetables.

‘He’s certainly got his eyes. Whoever he takes after, he’s bound to be gorgeous with such good-looking parents.’ Fiona smiled, enjoying the simple domesticity of a mother and child.

Charlotte blushed.

‘That’s sweet of you to say. Certainly, the grandparents are besotted by him.’ She laughed, planting a kiss on her son’s sticky face.

‘How is your mother these days? Been over lately?’

‘She’s doing very well, thank you. Came over a couple of weeks ago for some treatment at La Folie and everyone seemed pleased with her continued progress. Apparently, the cancer’s still in remission, which is all we can hope for.’ She paused to wipe James’s sticky hands after he’d tried to use them to scoop up the food. ‘Silly boy, look at the mess you’re in!’ His answer was to gurgle in delight and wave his chubby hands in the air.

‘That’s great news. Did she spend much time here with you?’ Fiona had only met Lady Townsend once, at James’s christening, and found her a bit intimidating, so unlike Charlotte who had an easy manner with everyone.

Her friend laughed.

‘She practically took root here! I’m convinced most of her trips are more to do with spending time with James than needing treatment at the centre. But I don’t mind; I want him to see as much of her as possible because one never knows…’ Her voice trailed off and Fiona caught the tremor in her voice. Charlotte gasped. ‘Oh, that was crass of me! After all you’ve been through, I’m so sorry.’ She patted Fiona’s arm, her expression remorseful.

‘Don’t worry, you’re right about not knowing what’s around the corner, and I’m glad you and James are seeing more of your mother.’ Fiona pushed down any maudlin thoughts trying to take over and asked after Andy.

Charlotte’s eyes lit up.

‘He’s fine. Absolutely throws himself into the role of doting father when he’s around and has had to take on more staff at work he’s so busy.’ She went on to describe Andy’s latest project, and they continued chatting while James finished his lunch. Later, Charlotte suggested Fiona stay for the afternoon, and they could all go for a walk with James, and she was happy to agree. After all, there was nothing to rush back for.

♦♦♦

John was buried in the Priaulx Library; the island’s go-to place for old island records as well as books. Fortunately, it was a pleasant place to be, ensconced in a quiet, book-lined room while scrolling through microfiched parish records. John was searching for a record of the marriage of Leo and Teresa, but nothing showed up. He wasn’t surprised, it was more likely they had married in her home town, but it was disappointing. He then went on to check births, and here he struck lucky. Judith Bichard’s birth was registered by her father as being 30th August 1939. His address was Le Vielle Maison, Route des Talbots, St Andrew. John rubbed his eyes, tired from staring at the small screen. Time for some fresh air before heading for the office and the computer.

He left the library to walk through Candie Gardens, and the invigorating sight and scent of the abundant spring flowers encouraged him to detour to the Victoria Café and sit outside with a coffee. The gardens lay spread out before him, sloping down steeply towards St Julian’s Avenue and the main Town, with the harbour and islands on the horizon. Sipping his coffee, John considered his next step. He had two main objectives. One, to trace Leo’s descendants and rightful heir or heirs to the Renoir and other valuables and two, to find the person who killed Nigel Torode. Ideally, he’d like to nab the killer asap, but as yet there was little to suggest a likely suspect. Except for Ernest’s mysterious son who may or may not prove of interest.

As yet he hadn’t been back to see Mrs Domaille. He’d phoned the home and told she had another infection and couldn’t have visitors. John didn’t even have the son’s name… He hit his forehead. ‘Come on, Ferguson, use your brains! Check the register!’ he said out loud, to the obvious consternation of the couple at the next table. Flashing them a smile, he finished his coffee and returned to the Priaulx.

Half an hour later, John had found what he was looking for and strode once more through the gardens, heading straight to St Julian’s Avenue before cutting across the road to Hospital Lane and the police station. He wanted to ask Woods a favour.

‘So you think this guy, Duncan Domaille, might be involved in Nigel Torode’s death? Bit of a long-shot, isn’t it?’ Woods eyed him warily from across the desk in his office, looking none too pleased. He’d always made it clear he favoured a suicide verdict, thought it highly unlikely such a murder could happen in peaceful Guernsey.

‘There’s a chance, Ron. After all, he’s the son of the old owner of the shop where the death took place, and I gather he was estranged from his parents. All I’m asking is for you to check him out for me, see if he has a record or anything. And to see if he shows up on the electoral roll.’ John crossed his legs, trying to look as if it was no big deal whether or not Ron helped. But his gut instinct told him it was important.

‘Huh. All right, I’ll set someone onto it. Shouldn’t take too long. Give you a ring later, shall I? Don’t want you cluttering up my office longer than necessary.’ Woods was overtaken by a fit of coughing and waved at John to go. Reluctant to do so, he had no choice but stand and leave. At least he could do some internet searching while he waited.

It took him five minutes to reach his office in Le Pollet, picking up a takeaway coffee on the way. While the computer booted up, John checked his notes. According to Judith’s birth records, Teresa Spall was her mother’s maiden name. Family from Suffolk. How many Spalls lived in Suffolk? Sounded like a local name, so perhaps not too many. John began tapping the keyboard as he downed his coffee.

By later that afternoon John’s eyes were sore and itchy from screen watching, but he’d found what he wanted. And more. He was reaching for the phone to call Fiona when it rang.

‘It’s Ron. Got some interesting information about your Duncan Domaille.’