chapter thirty-seven

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona dressed with care. She hated black so chose a midi-length navy skirt and pale grey blouse with a linen navy jacket. It was the kind of outfit she wore when working at the V&A, but not needed as a partner in an antiques business, more used to organising collections and deliveries of goods. Her face had gained colour from spending time on the beach, and she applied the minimum of make-up; a touch of eyeshadow, mascara and pink lipstick. Her freshly washed hair settled in curls around her head as she checked her reflection.

Sunglasses. Inspector Woods had phoned earlier to say there might be more spectators than usual thanks to the piece in the newspaper that morning and he expected the media to be present. She picked up her sunglasses, large enough to hide behind even though the day was cloudy.

‘This might not be the most appropriate thing to say under the circumstances, but I think you look lovely,’ Michael greeted her as she arrived downstairs. He was dressed more casually in black jeans and a crisp white cotton shirt.

‘Thanks, I thought I’d better make an effort even though I’m not expected to be called as a witness. Oh, is that today’s Press?’ she pointed to the paper on the worktop.

‘Yes, John dropped it in while you were changing. Thought we’d like to see it before we left for the inquest. He had to shoot off, but sent his regards.’

Fiona’s hands trembled as she picked up the paper. The headline screamed, ‘Man arrested for the murder of local antiques shop owner’ and underneath was a picture of the shop with her and Nigel standing in front, smiling at the camera, taken for the article published when they took over the business. Her heart squeezed at the sight of her brother’s smiling face, unaware of the horror that lay ahead. Further down the page, after the police statement was a picture of a Renoir painting similar to the one found, accompanied by John’s account. The story flowed onto the inside page. Looking up, she saw Michael watching her.

‘You okay?’

She pushed the paper away as if it were dirty.

‘Fine. It’s just a shock seeing it in print. Silly, I know, but until now only a few people knew what happened and now…’ she shrugged, aware she couldn’t stay under the radar anymore.

Michael eyed the clock.

‘The taxi will be here in a minute, are you ready? Remember I’ll be sticking to you like glue, and you don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. Except the Magistrate.’ He grinned encouragingly, and she managed a half-smile. She could do this. She wasn’t alone.

In the back of the taxi next to Michael, she thought about the time they had spent together yesterday. His kiss had surprised her but in a good way. The touch of his lips had sparked a frisson of desire in her, leaving her confused. Did he fancy her, or was he just sorry for her? He hadn’t kissed her again, seemed a bit quiet, but then so was she. The afternoon had been pleasant enough, but something had changed, and they both knew it.

As anticipated there was a small crowd of people hovering on the steps of The Royal Court and Fiona spotted a woman with a microphone standing by a man with a television camera. Fixing her sunglasses firmly on her nose, she waited for Michael to open the door of the taxi and, holding onto her arm, escort her towards the entrance. Keeping her head down, she let him brush away the questions fired at them as they headed for the door. Inside she found Inspector Woods waiting with a couple of officers.

‘We’re through here,’ he said, pointing to a door along from the reception. ‘No more questions!’ he called to the insistent reporters. ‘We’re here for an inquest, remember. Please wait until afterwards when Mr Collins,’ he indicated Michael, ‘and I will answer a few questions.’ The reporters drew back, and the trio continued down the corridor, the police officers watching for any further nuisance. Fiona found herself pushed gently through the door by the inspector, who pointed out where she was to sit. Michael joined her, grabbing her hand.

‘Okay?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, glancing around the courtroom. Nearby were seats for the public, and many were filled. The inspector sat to one side with a large folder in front of him. The magistrate arrived, and the proceedings began. Fiona listened as the purpose of the inquest was confirmed to all those present, and the magistrate asked the inspector to offer his report. He stood to read it out, presenting Fiona’s witness statement as part of the evidence, followed by the toxicology report and the autopsy report.

The magistrate asked him further questions before summing up. It then took a matter of minutes for him to utter the words, ‘Unlawful killing,’ and to offer her the court’s condolences. It was over. She felt numb and didn’t move until Michael pulled at her arm, whispering, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

The inspector directed them to a back exit while he went out to answer questions from the reporters. Michael escorted her to the entrance of the St James Assembly Hall where they were meeting later in the café. He then returned the short distance to the court to face the reporters.

Fiona took the stairs to the top floor and found a seat by the window to catch the spectacular views over the harbour and islands. She ordered a coffee and finally allowed herself to reflect on what had happened. She wasn’t unused to media attention, having held interviews on behalf of the V&A in the past, and the more recent promotion for their business, but this was different. It was as if people wanted to know her innermost thoughts and feelings, to tear away her carefully prepared carapace and see the grief underneath. How dare they! It was her grief, not theirs. Her pain and she’d be damned if she let them try to make capital of it. Anger bubbled up inside until it began to dawn on her the anger was misdirected. It wasn’t the prurient curiosity of the public or the media that fuelled her anger; it was the man who had killed her brother. Duncan Domaille. Her hands gripped the cup as she imagined what she wished could be his fate. In her mind, he deserved to hang the way he had killed Nigel, but she knew that wouldn’t happen. And she knew she would never forgive him. Slowly, the anger drained away, leaving her empty, as if the air had been sucked out of her body. She jumped as a hand touched her arm.

‘Hey, it’s only me. You looked miles away. Everything okay?’ Michael’s eyes were wary, and she felt guilty. After all, he’d borne the brunt of the reporters. He sat next to her.

‘I…I realised how angry I am and I have to let it go. It’s not going to be easy.’ She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.

‘No, it won’t, and I understand. I’ve been there, but not for the same reason. Don’t let it destroy you, Fiona, or the bastard will have won.’ A waitress hovered into view, and he ordered a coffee. ‘We’ve managed to satisfy the reporters for the moment, although it’s clear they’d like to know more than we’re saying. I get the impression violent crime is a rarity here.’

‘It is, hence the headlines when it does happen.’

Michael’s coffee arrived, and he waited until they were alone again before saying, ‘They loved the story about the Renoir and were disappointed neither of us wants to give many details, but they were very polite, saying if in the future we changed our minds, blah di blah.’

Fiona nodded, shocked by her earlier anger at the reporters who were only doing their job.

‘What do you want to do this afternoon? Go home and chill out or…?’

‘Home, I think. I need to make some calls and then chill before we go to Louisa’s for dinner. You don’t have to stay with me; you can borrow the car and go for a drive.’ Secretly, she wanted to be on her own for a while, to try and get her head sorted.

‘Are you sure? Only if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to explore a bit more.’

‘Fine by me.’ She smiled inwardly; sure he couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel. It was a man thing.

 

Monday morning dawned cloudy, but dry and warm and Fiona was glad about the lack of sun. Somehow, it wouldn’t have seemed right to bury Nigel on a bright, sunny day, the kind that called people to the beach. Apart from going through the house with the vac and duster, aided by Michael, and some paperwork, she had spent a relaxing weekend. She had sent a cheque to John, with some cash for Andre Bichard, feeling grateful to the man who’d led them to Teresa. There was still loads to do, like sorting out Nigel’s clothes and possessions, but she decided to wait until after Michael had left, anticipating the emotional maelstrom that might be unleashed. Today Fiona wanted, needed, to be brave. Much had happened in the weeks since her brother’s death and what she craved most were peace and calm. Friends had suggested she take a holiday and the idea was appealing. But not immediately.

After showering Fiona pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. She would change later for the funeral at twelve-thirty. Padding downstairs she found Michael was not yet up so went into the garden with a cup of coffee. The early morning dew moistened the grass and shrubs, and she had to wipe the chair with a tissue before sitting. Birds sang to each other as they did every morning, the avian equivalent to switching on the radio for a mix of news and music, Nigel had said, laughing, one morning a lifetime ago.

‘Can you hear the birds, Nigel? I wonder if they’re singing a special song for you. You were always the one to make sure they had food in the winter when we were children. And they’d even eat out of your hands.’ She sighed, the memory so clear in her head it was painful. Taking a sip of coffee, she tried to close her mind to the memories pushing into her consciousness. One day, she would welcome them, even be able to laugh at the humorous memories which surfaced. But not today. Fiona envied people like the Irish who held riotous wakes for their deceased loved ones, but it wasn’t her style. She would honour her brother in her own way and knew he would understand and approve.

As she continued to listen to the birdsong, a single feather fell nearby, landing on a rose bush. She walked over to pick it up. Large and white, like a seagull’s, but she couldn’t see any in the sky. Something popped into her head, ‘A feather is a sign from an angel, watching over you’.

‘Is this from you, Nigel? Thank you.’ She held it gently in her hand and felt tears prick her eyes. Sniffing, she rubbed her hand roughly across her face, and her nostrils filled with the intense perfume from the rose bush. Fiona bent to support a flower in her hand. Her mother had planted the bush, and it had continued to thrive over the years. A red hybrid tea rose of an unknown variety, it had long been a favourite of Fiona’s, and she knew it was the perfect flower to place on Nigel’s coffin as it was lowered into the ground.

She went inside for the secateurs and cut a stem with a newly-opened flower head, popping it in a glass of water for later. The feather she placed by Nigel’s photo in her study. Coming out, she met Michael at the bottom of the stairs, dressed, like her, in jeans and T-shirt.

‘Morning. You’re up early, everything okay?’

‘Yes, I happened to wake earlier than usual, and I’ve been in the garden. The birds were in full song, and it was lovely just sitting there listening.’ She kept her head averted, not wanting to share what else had occurred.

‘I bet. We don’t have many birds where I live, lack of trees. I’d noticed how plentiful they are here.’ He moved towards the kitchen, asking, ‘Have you eaten?’

‘No, but I’m ready for something now.’

‘You sit down, and I’ll do it.’

She was happy to sit and watch him make the toast, pour juice and brew the coffee. His movements were quick and assured, and she could imagine him in the studio, crafting a sculpture. Soon, toast, juice and coffee were placed on the table, and she helped herself.

‘I was just thinking; I’d be interested to see that sculpture you sketched out at Moulin Huet when you’ve finished it. And bronze or marble would be ideal mediums.’

He laughed.

‘They would, but bloody expensive! I’ll have to see how much the Renoir sells for.’ He must have seen her raise her eyebrows. ‘Oh, Grandmama has promised me a generous portion of the proceeds, so…’ he shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m pleased for you, and you deserve it. Have you had any feedback from Christie’s yet?’

‘They’ve contacted a couple of potential buyers who have expressed an interest and will have a viewing when they’re in London. Roger did point out it could be weeks or even months, but he remains upbeat about a sale before too long.’

Michael had the tact not to mention the commission she would receive after a sale, for which she was grateful. It seemed like blood money to her but knew she’d be foolish to refuse it. Who could predict the future and when she might be glad of a financial cushion? The thought brought her back to the present and the impending funeral. Finishing the toast, she stood.

‘Colette will be here soon with the refreshments for the…wake. I’d better clear the dining table and ensure everything’s ready.’

‘Hey, don’t worry, it’ll take a minute to clear, and we did a check last night, remember? The rooms are fine, and anyway, people are likely to go outside if it stays dry. All we have to do is tidy away the breakfast things and then change. I think I told you Colette’s bringing a spare suit of Nick’s?’ She nodded. Michael had only brought casual clothes with him, and Nick had kindly offered to lend him a grey suit, both being of a similar size. Together with Paul and Andy, they had volunteered to be pallbearers and Fiona was pleased to accept.

‘Are you still up for giving the eulogy?’ Michael asked.

‘I…I think so. Paul’s offered to take over if I make an idiot of myself, but I’d like to try. It’s not that long, anyway.’ Fiona bit her lip, remembering how brave Nigel had been reading the eulogy for her parents. She had been a tearful mess, but dear, wonderful Nigel had given the performance of his life, holding back his grief until after the last mourner had left. They had collapsed into each other’s arms and cried until they could cry no more. And she was determined not to let him down now.

The doorbell announced Colette’s arrival and Fiona went to let her in while Michael tidied the kitchen. Colette, usually a bubbly, chatty girl, was subdued but still gave Fiona a warm hug before bringing in her supplies and setting out the items that wouldn’t spoil. The rest went into the fridge until the mourners arrived. Between them, they set out glasses and bottles of wine and spirits, together with cups and saucers for tea and coffee drinkers.

‘There, that’s all done. I’ll shoot off from the chapel as soon as I can, so will be here when you get back. Oh, Michael, I nearly forgot the suit. It’s in the car.’ Colette rushed outside, followed by Michael, who came back carrying a suit in a dry-cleaning bag. They looked at each other for a moment, and he said, softly, ‘Time to get changed.’

She nodded and went upstairs to her room. After slipping out of her clothes, she pulled on the outfit she’d worn for the inquest before carefully applying her make-up. Her hand shook as she put on the lipstick and had to steady herself. Standing back from the mirror, she picked up her handbag and popped in tissues and the typed eulogy. There was no hat.

Michael was waiting for her in the kitchen. She hardly recognised him in a suit and tie, thinking he looked quite dashing.

‘The car’s due in five minutes. Would you like a little Dutch courage?’ He held up a bottle of brandy.

‘Yes, please.’ She smiled in spite of herself. It was if he could read her mind. The brandy coursed through her, bringing a fiery boost to her nerves.

‘Good, it’s brought some colour to your cheeks. And I think that’s the cars arriving. Ready?’

Putting his hand under her elbow, he steered her to the front door. Fiona caught her breath at the sight of the sleek black hearse carrying the coffin, topped with her wreath of red, white and gold flowers forming the Guernsey flag. She had asked for no flowers from other mourners, asking for donations to the MS Society instead. Clutching the single rose, she walked past the coffin, and with moist eyes, took a seat in the second car. Michael sat beside her, gripping her hand. The hearse moved off, and they followed behind, driving at a sombre, stately pace.

The journey was not long; taking them up Prince Albert Road, along Mount Row and then right into King’s Road, leading to Route Isabelle and Le Foulon. Fiona noted the courtesy shown by other drivers and saw the few men wearing hats doff them as they passed. She had to dab at her eyes occasionally, drawing on all her strength to stay calm.

‘You’re doing very well,’ Michael whispered, with an encouraging smile.

The hearse approached the stone arch at the entrance to the cemetery, slowing down even further. Angela, the funeral director, stepped out of the hearse, taking up her position in front of it carrying a long black cane. She set a slow walking pace for the cars to follow, looking dignified in a dark grey skirt, tall black boots, black coat and a black silk top hat. As they neared the chapel entrance, Fiona spotted a crowd of people outside, none of whom she recognised, along with the group of her friends and acquaintances. Then she saw the vicar standing next to Nick, Paul and Andy waiting for the coffin. Their driver stopped and opened her door, and she walked towards the vicar with Michael by her side.

‘Good afternoon, Fiona. We have quite a crowd here, I believe not only those who knew Nigel, but others who had heard of his tragic death and wanted to pay their respects,’ the vicar nodded towards the crowd waiting quietly to the side. ‘It will be a tight fit, but I pray we can seat everyone.’ He shook her hand and smiled.

‘Thank you.’ She nodded towards the waiting pallbearers before her friends gathered around her, ready to enter the chapel. They exchanged quick, muted greetings before Angela gently ushered her inside, her friends forming a tight-knit group around her.

She took a seat in the front row, and as there were no other family members present, friends filled the rest of the seats, flowing over to the other rows. Empty seats at the front were reserved for the pallbearers. On all the seats had been placed the Order of Service and Fiona gripped her copy as Louisa sat on one side of her and Jeanne on the other, with Charlotte further along.

‘What a super photo of Nigel,’ said Jeanne, breaking the ice.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Hope he’d approve of my choice and…everything.’ Fiona managed to reply, as a lump formed in her throat. How on earth was she going to be able to give the eulogy if she struggled to talk to her friend? Wishing she had a flask of that wonderful brandy to hand, she tried taking deep breaths instead.

‘He’d be very proud of you, Fiona, just as we all are. And look at how full the chapel is now. They’re not just paying their respects to Nigel, you know, but to you as well.’ Louisa tilted her head, and Fiona followed her, seeing the chapel was full. She was both awed and scared. Even more faces focusing on her. Her face must have registered her fear, as Louisa said, ‘Don’t worry about how many are here. Just talk to us, your friends, as if we were the only ones present.’

She had no more time to think about it as the organ started up, indicating the arrival of the coffin, preceded by the vicar. Everyone stood as the service began.

 

Forty minutes later, Fiona followed the coffin as it was borne away in preparation for the internment. She was strangely calm and had read the eulogy without mishap, although tears had threatened more than once. As she had paused, towards the middle, she knew with absolute certainty that Nigel was standing beside her in the pulpit. Turning her head slightly, she saw him, as clear and as solid as the congregation. He was smiling and looked happy. Her heart skipped a beat, and she wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Nigel whispered, ‘Thanks, Sis, you did me proud. Mum and Dad are waiting. Time to say goodbye.’ She felt a light touch on her cheek, like a kiss, and he was gone.

It took her a moment to compose herself before continuing her speech, experiencing a calmness which stayed with her as she took her seat to a spontaneous round of applause. Even the vicar joined in before leading them in the final hymn.

As Fiona stood at the chapel door, the mourners filed past, offering their condolences one by one. She thanked them for coming, the sea of strangers surging past. Then the friends and acquaintances staying for the internment came out, offering hugs, handshakes and kisses as appropriate. Together they followed the coffin, led by the vicar to the grave. Fiona remained calm, hugging to herself the last image of her brother and his words. It wasn’t until the vicar had intoned the final prayers that her composure cracked and as she threw the rose onto the lowered coffin tears seeped out of her eyes. Michael, on her left, must have noticed and gave her arm a squeeze.

‘You’re doing brilliantly, but it’s okay to cry.’

She nodded, reaching into her bag for a tissue. It was time to leave her beloved twin in his new resting place.