chapter twenty-two

 

Guernsey 2011

Fiona arrived back from Herm late Monday afternoon, convinced the island had worked its magic on her. The image of Nigel as a boy on the beach stayed with her, a reminder of the many happy times they’d shared together. No-one could take those memories away, and it helped to erase the awful image of his poor, dead face.

She walked to the taxi rank and was soon on her way back to Icart. At the top of the Val de Terres, where it met Fort Road, she glanced briefly towards Colborne Road and her home and sighed. She was even less inclined to want to return there permanently after days spent looking at the sea. And heart and mind told her she needed to start afresh. The problem was the business. Could she consider going back? At the moment, no. But she needed an income. The V&A had paid her an advance for the book, but it wouldn’t last for much longer.

As she arrived at Louisa and Paul’s house, John phoned her with the update on his meeting with Mrs Domaille. Fiona listened carefully as he gave her Duncan’s description. It sounded like the man Nigel had described, and she experienced a flutter in her stomach. Should she tell John? Deciding to leave it until they met again on Wednesday, she went inside to receive a warm welcome from her friends, keen to know how the weekend had gone.

 

The seven o’clock plane from Guernsey to Gatwick wasn’t called the red-eye without reason. As Fiona looked around at their fellow passengers, she spotted a mix of bleary and red-eyed people stifling yawns. She was no brighter and nursed a cup of coffee as she sat next to John while they waited to board.

‘It feels strange, knowing we’ll be meeting all of Leo’s family except him. After all, it’s his story, isn’t it? Why all that’s happened has led us to this point,’ Fiona said, glancing at John.

‘He’s the central character, yes, but there’s another one. I suspect the person who stood to gain the most from Leo’s arrest was Ernest. And I’d bet good money he betrayed him and somehow took over the business. Also, I suspect his son knew about the hidden paintings, and that’s why he was so angry about the sale of the business.’ John turned towards her. ‘Adds up, doesn’t it?’

Fiona nodded.

‘I think you’re right. I’m hoping Mrs Bichard will be able to tell us more about what happened when she returned to Guernsey after the war. About Ernest, in particular. I–’ She was interrupted by the tannoy announcing the boarding of their flight, and she swallowed the rest of her coffee before they joined the queue. Fifteen minutes later they were airborne, tacitly agreeing to leave any further discussions about the case until they had more privacy.

Two hours later they were in a First Class carriage on a train from Liverpool Street to Sudbury, enjoying the comfort and peace of a virtually empty carriage.

‘John, I have something to say which you might find a bit off the wall, and you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.’ Fiona cleared her throat. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

His eyebrows rose.

‘Well, that’s quite a question! Is this to do with Nigel?’

‘Yes. So, do you?’

‘I’m not big on the afterlife stuff, and I’ve no experience with ghosts, but I know people who have, so,’ he shrugged. ‘Tell me more.’

She told him about her conversations with Nigel, including his description of his attacker. At this point, John’s eyebrows shot up higher, and he let out a short whistle.

‘That is interesting. Seems to point the finger at Duncan, doesn’t it? Of course, it’s not evidence we could use, but it makes it even more urgent we track this man down.’ He studied her for a minute. ‘Did you believe in ghosts before your brother died?’

Fiona shook her head.

‘Not entirely, although a friend of mine saw ghosts in a house she bought last year, verified by a vicar too, but I was a bit sceptical. I believe her now.’

‘Once I’m back in Guernsey I’ll focus on tracking down Duncan Domaille. And I always get my man,’ John said, with conviction.

 

They arrived at Sudbury station late morning, having arranged that Michael Collins would collect them. The tiny station, on the edge of town, was unmanned and there was no car park. As they strode out towards the road, there was no sign of a waiting car.

Pacing up and down, John said, ‘If he doesn’t arrive soon, you could return to the platform and take a seat. I’ll look out for him.’

‘I’m okay, been sitting down for hours. Did you exchange mobile numbers?’

‘Not with Michael, no. But his mother has my number if there’s a problem.’ John frowned.

Fiona’s hackles rose as the minutes ticked by. She and John had gone to the trouble, let alone the expense, to come there to give what she assumed to be a wealthy family, the opportunity to claim a picture worth millions. No doubt Michael, when he eventually turned up, would be driving some flash Rolls or similar. She tried not to think about what had happened to Nigel because of the damn painting.

Twenty-five minutes later a battered Land Rover skidded to a halt in front of them. By then Fiona was hot and thirsty and only gave the jeep a cursory glance. Surely that wasn’t their transport? A man climbed out, leaving the engine running. Her heart sank. It looked like he was coming for them.

‘Hello, are you Fiona and John? I’m desperately sorry to have kept you waiting, but the old girl had a hissy fit in one of the lanes and cut out. I’ve managed to get her going again, but can’t risk switching her off.’ While he said this, at top speed, he quickly shook their hands before picking up Fiona’s overnight bag and depositing it in the back of the jeep.

Wondering if, judging by the vehicle, they had sent the gardener, she allowed herself to be helped into the front passenger seat while John hopped into the back. She murmured a polite ‘Thank you,’ and he smiled and returned to the driver’s side.

‘I’m Michael, by the way. Did you have a good trip?’ he asked, putting the jeep into gear and setting off at a brisk rate.

‘Yes, thanks, after an early start.’ Her voice cool. So he wasn’t the gardener, but Teresa’s grandson. He did have a posh voice, she acknowledged. Like her friend Charlotte.

‘Oh, right. Well, my mother’s arranged a decent early lunch as she guessed you’d be hungry after all the travelling. It’s about twenty minutes from here to Oak Tree Farm if you can last out?’ He grinned at her.

‘Of course.’ Still cool.

John butted in to ask if his grandmother would be able to meet with them and Michael said she would. While the two men talked, Fiona observed Michael unnoticed. Tall with brown eyes and dark hair slightly too long, touching his collar. Dressed in well-worn jeans and an open-necked cotton shirt, he gave the impression of someone not bound to an office job. Hence her thinking he might be the gardener.

Finishing his chat with John, he turned his head towards her, catching her scrutiny, and she averted her eyes quickly. Michael didn’t comment, and Fiona fixed her gaze on the lush countryside as they sped by.

‘We must be near Constable country, aren’t we? Dedham can’t be far from here.’

He smiled. ‘You’re right. There’s a story in our family that Constable spent time as a guest in our house and included it in one of his paintings. Unfortunately, we’ve not been able to trace it. But it makes a nice story to hand down the generations.’

‘Yes. It seems as if both sides of your family have a connection with famous artists or their paintings.’ She glanced at him, but he kept his eyes on the road.

‘Indeed. I’m looking forward to what you tell us about the Renoir. My grandmother is what you’d call uber excited.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve not seen her so animated for years. I’m only concerned with her heart. It’s not the strongest.’ His face clouded.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but at least it’s good news we’re bringing.’

‘A bit like winning the lottery, eh?’ He flashed a smile, and she nodded. They lapsed into silence once more, and Fiona concentrated on the pretty cottages and houses flashing past, nestled under thatched roofs and surrounded by leafy trees and hedgerows bursting with colour. Open fields lay spread out on both sides of the road; some centred around an ancient oak spreading its branches, like a king laying claim to his land. She turned to see what John’s impression might be and saw he’d nodded off, his mouth wide open. She smiled. Michael caught her glance.

‘Won’t be long now. Food will wake him up. Are you travelling back today?’

‘I’m not, but John is. I’m staying with a friend in London for the night. I understand you live in London, do you travel much for work?’

‘I’m my own boss, so only travel when I want to or absolutely have to. My studio’s in my backyard, so hardly a commute.’

‘You’re an artist? How interesting, I studied art history and used to work at the V&A.’ Fiona perked up, allowing herself to thaw towards him.

‘Mainly I sculpt. Though I like to draw and paint for fun. Ah,’ he said, turning sharp right into a tree-lined drive, ‘we’re here. Welcome to Oak Tree Farm.’

Fiona heard John stir in the back as the jeep lurched onto the drive, edged by three-bar fencing which had seen better days. She caught a glimpse of a house in the distance as they swayed on the uneven surface. Horses grazed unconcerned in a field.

‘Sorry about the bumpy ride, the drive’s overdue for repair, like other parts of the property. A modern car wouldn’t cope as well as Sheila does.’ Michael gripped the steering wheel as he negotiated the potholes.

‘Sheila?’ John asked.

‘The jeep. Someone else’s name for her and it stuck.’ Michael grinned.

Fiona was struck speechless by the emerging house, now fully visible at the end of the drive.

‘What a beautiful house!’ Her eyes swept over cream-washed walls of a rambling L-shaped farmhouse, topped with a weathered red pantile roof, resplendent with numerous tall chimneys. Small-paned windows, like beady eyes, gazed back at her as Michael drew to a halt.

‘It is, isn’t it? We’re all rather fond of the old place, even though it’s showing its age a bit. Some bits go back to the fifteenth century, but luckily, most rooms have tall ceilings, or I’d have a stooped back by now,’ he chuckled, stepping out of the jeep.

Fiona followed suit, mesmerised by the house basking peacefully in the sun. John jumped down to join her.

‘Nice place your grandmother has, Michael. Been in the family long?’

‘Centuries. Hard to believe nowadays, but it’s true. The Spalls have farmed here forever, though the land’s been sold off now. Down to five acres.’ His jaw tightened, and Fiona saw a flash of anger cross his face. What had happened to bring the family so low? John had said Andre Bichard mentioned Teresa came from a posh family, and she’d assumed that meant wealthy. Must have been a fairly recent change of fortunes.

Michael flung his arms wide, ushering them towards to the huge oak door.

‘Come on in, and meet my family. And have lunch,’ he added with a lazy smile.

They entered a wide, dual aspect dining hall with beamed ceiling and walls and featuring a walk-in inglenook fireplace. Dishes and plates of food covered an old oak dining table. Fiona was aware of the hollowness in her stomach. It had been a meagre, early breakfast. As they walked across the herringbone patterned brick floor, Michael called out, ‘Ma, we’re here!’ A door leading into what looked like an inner hall opened, and a woman came through, pushing a wheelchair holding an old lady. Leo’s widow.

Michael moved forward, dropping a kiss on the old lady’s head. ‘Let me introduce you all. My mother,’ he motioned to the woman behind the wheelchair, ‘Mrs Judith Collins, and my grandmother, Mrs Teresa Bichard,’ squeezing the old lady’s shoulder, ‘please meet Fiona Torode and John Ferguson. And it’s my fault we’re so late, Sheila had a tantrum, and I’d left my phone behind and couldn’t let you know. Sorry, everyone.’

His grandmother reached out a hand to first Fiona and then John.

‘So glad you could come, and I do appreciate you making the journey. As you can see, I’m not able to travel far these days, but I’ve been most anxious to meet you and hear the story in detail. But first, you must have some refreshment. Please, be seated.’ She motioned towards the dining table as Fiona murmured, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Judith looked about to say something, then clamped her mouth shut and steered the wheelchair to the head of the table. Judith sat on her left, Michael on her right and Fiona was ushered into a chair next to Michael while John sat by Judith.

The initial polite conversation about their journey drifted into silence as they helped themselves to the food; a cold collation of new potatoes, a homemade quiche, various salads, cooked chicken pieces and a big plate of crusty bread. Yummy. Fiona studied the women as she ate. Mrs Bichard, although painfully thin and frail, had a brightness about her face that could almost make you imagine her as the young woman with whom Leo fell in love. Her eyes held a sparkle, and her smile was wide and warm in the barely lined face, and she held herself erect in the wheelchair, as if in defiance of her ageing body.

Mrs Collins, on the other hand, although bearing a strong resemblance to her mother, with her fair colouring and high cheekbones, had deep lines on her forehead and around her thin mouth. Fiona guessed at deep unhappiness and wondered where her husband was. Michael hadn’t mentioned him, and it seemed impolite to ask. Fiona overheard Judith asking John about the Renoir, but was tartly reminded by her mother they’d agreed not discuss it until after lunch. Judith’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Not much love lost between those two, Fiona thought.

Michael became embroiled in a debate with Teresa about whether or not the Land Rover would survive much longer. ‘Cost of a replacement’ was mentioned. Looking around more closely, she noticed the furniture and furnishings were past their best, and a general air of neglect hung over what once must have been a glorious room. Curtains with ragged edges, rugs with worn patches and chipped tableware. Again, she wondered about the decline in their fortunes and now understood Teresa’s excitement about the return of the Renoir.

Lost in these thoughts, she didn’t hear Michael ask her a question until he tapped her arm.

‘Sorry? Did you say something?’ She felt the heat rise in her face as he grinned at her.

‘I asked if you wanted more to eat as I see your plate’s empty. Can I pass you anything? Or get you more coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine. It was delicious, thank you, Mrs Bichard.’ She smiled at the old lady.

‘Oh, don’t thank me, Judith prepared all the food. She has a talent for preparing tasty meals from the poorest of ingredients, don’t you, darling?’

Judith flushed, and Fiona sensed the underlying tension behind the words and experienced a twinge of sympathy for the woman.

‘I also enjoyed the meal, thank you, Mrs Collins,’ John said, smiling at his neighbour.

Michael stood. ‘If everyone has finished, I’ll help you clear the table, Ma, and then we can get down to business.’

With nods of agreement all round, Fiona half stood to offer to assist, but Michael pushed her down, saying as a guest she wasn’t allowed to help. He and Judith piled plates and dishes onto trays and left, leaving the three of them at the table.

‘I think we’ll retire to the drawing room where the chairs are more comfortable. And I do find this room rather dreary; the drawing room is much brighter.’ Teresa smiled.

At this point, Michael and his mother returned, and Teresa informed them of the move. Michael took hold of the wheelchair, and the others followed him through to the inner hall. They passed several closed doors and a carved heavy oak staircase before arriving at an open door leading into the drawing room. Fiona had to agree with Teresa, this room was not only enormous, with sofas and chairs facing another large inglenook fireplace, but it enjoyed a triple aspect over the gardens, allowing a mass of light to reflect off pale painted walls. Light oak beams rather than dark added to the overall impression of lightness.

‘What a wonderful room.’ Fiona’s eyes widened as she gazed around, albeit noting how shabby the furniture was. But at least the chairs looked comfortable.

‘Thank you, my dear. It’s always been my favourite room, even as a child. It seemed even bigger to me when I was small, and my parents told me it was where I learnt to walk. Plenty of floor space.’ Teresa chuckled as Michael set the wheelchair next to a large, high back chair before giving her his arm to help her stand and move a couple of steps to the chair.

‘That’s better, thank you. I can pretend I’m not as infirm when I’m in this chair.’ She gave him a big smile and waved to the others to make themselves comfortable.

Fiona settled on a sofa next to John, and Michael and his mother sat together on another, all facing Teresa.

‘Shall I explain, or will you?’ she asked John, suddenly shy of being the focus of attention.

‘I will if you wish.’ Clearing his throat, he told the story of the discovery of paintings in the basement of the shop by Fiona and Nigel, and the suspicion that one was a genuine Renoir. He went on to say how Fiona had gone to London to have it verified by Professor Wright and his conclusion that it was undoubtedly a Renoir. At this point, Teresa asked Michael to fetch a folder from a side console. She lifted out a photograph and handed it to Fiona.

‘This is a photograph my husband took of his painting before the war. Naturally, it’s not in colour, but does it correspond to the one you found?’

Fiona studied the photo, then compared it with the photocopy John pulled out of his briefcase. Even allowing for the lack of colour it was clearly the same picture. Nodding her head, she handed them both to Teresa. Michael and Judith leaned forward expectantly.

Teresa let out a sigh.

‘Yes, it’s the same. Oh, I can’t begin to thank you and your brother for finding this and for tracking us down.’ Tears glistened in the old lady’s eyes, and Judith went and stood by her, patting her shoulder.

Michael gave Fiona a questioning look.

‘Where is your brother? As Grandmama says, we owe him our thanks too.’

‘I’m afraid Fiona’s brother was killed in a burglary at the shop recently. We think the killer was looking for that painting.’ John squeezed her hand as she fought to keep control of her emotions.

Teresa’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror, a response reflected in the faces of both Judith and Michael.

‘Dear God! I’d no idea, I’m so sorry, Fiona. Please accept my condolences. I’d never have asked you to make the journey here if I’d known about your loss.’ Teresa, visibly shaken, seemed to shrink in her chair.

Michael leaned forward, his face puckered in a frown.

‘I’m equally sorry, particularly if you think finding our painting led to your brother’s death. Can you tell us what happened?’ His voice was gentle, and Fiona felt her eyes prick. John must have sensed her distress and intervened.

‘If I may answer for Fiona, I’ll explain what happened and how I came to be involved.’ He proceeded to relay the whole story, occasionally looking at her for confirmation, as she sat mutely by his side. When she and John had discussed how much to tell the family, they had concluded it was better to wait and see when they met. She knew it would have to come out about the burglary and Nigel’s death eventually, but had hoped to put it off until they found the killer. She watched as the faces of the family registered various degrees of shock, sorrow and curiosity as John relayed all they knew to date. When he finished, the room was silent for moments afterwards.

Teresa, Judith and Michael exchanged glances, as if deciding who should talk and what they should say.

Eventually, Teresa spoke, her voice cracked.

‘My dear, we are all saddened and humbled by what John has told us, and I, for one, consider you both brave and unselfish in undertaking the task you’ve set yourself. This painting,’ she waved the old photo in her hand, ‘may be returning to us, the rightful owners, but it comes stained with your poor brother’s blood, and possibly that of my husband.’ Teresa paused, taking what sounded like a painful breath and Fiona reached to grip her hand. This woman had suffered great loss, too. Their eyes met in acknowledgement.

‘You believe your husband was betrayed for what he possessed, not for being a Jew?’

‘I wasn’t sure at the time what to think. Remember I only found out what happened to Leo after the war ended and I was able to travel to Guernsey. His Red Cross messages had stopped years before, and I had no idea why. I went to our house and found it in a terrible state. Soldiers had used it.’ She shuddered. ‘Then I called in on our old housekeeper, Elsie, and she told me of his arrest and deportation.’ She looked up, her eyes bright. ‘I was shocked he’d been accused of being a Jew, which was untrue. And knew he was unlikely to return after the…camps were found. A friend, Clem Le Page, confirmed the details to me later. He was, I think, ashamed that the then government hadn’t been able to save him.’

‘How awful, I’m sorry. Did you visit the shop at all?’

‘Yes, and found Ernest now owned it.’

John and Fiona exchanged a brief look. She cleared her throat.

‘Did you know Ernest? We assumed he’d bought the business from your husband, but didn’t know if they had any previous connection.’

‘Oh yes, he worked for Leo and before him, his father, Henry. I met him before the war. He seemed a good worker and Leo trusted him, but I…I didn’t take to him. Something in his eyes.’ Teresa looked down at her hands, twisted together.

Fiona’s mind raced at the implication of Teresa’s words and opened her mouth to ask a question, but John beat her to it.

‘From what you say, it seems possible, in fact, highly likely, that Ernest knew about the paintings and other valuables in the basement. What exactly did he tell you when you met?’ Fiona caught his sense of excitement. The pieces of the jigsaw were sliding into place.

Teresa frowned.

‘Let me think. Ah, yes, I remember. He showed me a piece of paper confirming the sale of the business from Leo to himself, at a particularly low price and dated before Leo’s arrest. Ernest said the value was negligible as the shop was closed from the day of the Occupation. I did find it strange Leo had entered such an agreement but could hardly challenge it. There appeared little in the way of stock when I saw it.’

‘Did you know about the basement?’

‘I…I don’t think so. If Leo had ever told me about it, I’d forgotten.’ She looked from John to Fiona and sighed. ‘The business was the least of my concerns after learning of my husband’s fate.’ The old lady removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘I could no longer see myself living in our home after its violation. Or anywhere in Guernsey.’ She sniffed. ‘We’d been so happy during the few years we had together, and I saw my only choice was to return to England and my parents.’

Fiona’s heart contracted at the thought of what Teresa had endured. It was bad enough to lose a loved brother, but a husband and the father of your child.

‘It’s looking more likely that Ernest hatched a scheme to keep the hidden valuables for himself. Which leads to the conclusion he was the informer. But did Leo have Jewish blood? We’ve found a descendant of Leo’s uncle who knew nothing of it.’

Teresa lifted her head, looking at her daughter and grandson.

‘His French grandmother was a Jew by blood, but she married a Gentile and converted to Christianity. Their daughter, Leo’s mother, was brought up a Christian and married Henry Bichard, also a Christian. In normal times, Leo would not have been accounted a Jew and he certainly never thought of himself as such. But in the eyes of the Nazis, it appears it was enough to condemn him.’ Tears now fell unchecked, and Judith moved to her side, holding her bony shoulders as Michael knelt beside her, taking her hands in his.

Again, John and Fiona exchanged glances, and she inclined her head in answer to his unspoken question.

Teresa’s tears slowed, and she removed her hands from Michael’s, giving him an affectionate pat. Addressing Fiona and John, she said, ‘You must think me a silly old woman to cry about something which happened so long ago, but the finding of Leo’s precious painting has brought back so many memories.’

‘Of course, we understand. May I ask you something?’ She nodded, and John continued, ‘Is it possible that Ernest knew about your husband’s family history? About the French grandmother being a Jew?’

‘I’ve no idea. Leo made it clear to me it wasn’t something the family spoke about. Not quite a skeleton in the cupboard, but a guarded secret. And with Guernsey being a small island…’ she spread her hands.

‘Quite.’ John coughed. ‘Another important question concerns the provenance of the Renoir. Do you know how it came to be in Leo’s possession?’

By now Fiona was virtually on the edge of the sofa. So much had been learnt already and this, for her, was the burning question.

‘Yes, of course.’