A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(111)

Mave Fielder asked the first one. She licked dry lips, glanced at her husband nervously, and readjusted the baby on her hip. She said, “How much...?”

Ah, Mr. Forrest said. Well, they didn’t quite know yet. There were bank statements, brokerage statements, and outstanding bills to be gone through—a forensic accountant was already at it—and when that was done, they would have the correct figure. But he was willing to hazard a guess...although he wouldn’t want them to depend upon it or to do anything in expectation of it, he added hastily.

“D’you want to know, Paulie?” his father asked him. “Or would you rather wait till they have the exact amount?”

“I expect he wants to know straightaway,” Mave Fielder said. “I’d want to know, wouldn’t you, Ol?”

“It’s Paulie’s to say. What about it, son?”

Paul looked at their faces, all shining and smiling. He knew the answer he was meant to give. He wanted to give it because of what it would mean to them to hear good news. So he nodded then, a quick bob of his head, an acknowledgement of a future that had suddenly expanded beyond anything any of them had dreamed. They couldn’t be absolutely certain till all the accounting was done, Mr. Forrest told them, but as Mr. Brouard had been a shrewd-as-thedickens businessman, it was safe to say that Paul Fielder’s share of the estate would likely be in the vicinity of seven hundred thousand pounds.

“Jesus died on the cross,” Mave Fielder breathed.

“Seven hundred...” Ol Fielder shook his head as if clearing it. Then his face—so sad for so long with a failed man’s sadness—lit with an unshakable smile. “Seven hundred thousand pounds? Seven hundred...!

Think of it! Paulie, son. Think of what you can do. ”

Paul mouthed the words seven hundred thousand, but they were incomprehensible to him. He felt rooted to the spot and quite overcome by the sense of duty that now fell upon him.

Think of what you can do.

This reminded him of Mr. Guy, of words spoken as they stood on the very top of the manor house at Le Reposoir, gazing out upon trees unfurling in springtime April splendour and garden after garden coming back to life.

To whom much is given, even more is expected, my Prince. Knowing this keeps one’s life in balance. But living by it is the real test. Could you do that, son, if you were in that position? How would you begin to go about it?

Paul didn’t know. He hadn’t known then and he didn’t know now. But he had the glimmer of an idea because Mr. Guy had given him that. Not directly, because Mr. Guy didn’t do things directly, as Paul had discovered. But he had it all the same.

He left his parents and Mr. Forrest talking about the whens and the splendid wherefores of his miraculous inheritance. He returned to his bedroom, where, under the bed, he’d shoved his rucksack for safekeeping. He knelt—bum in the air and hands on the floor—to root it out, and as he did so, he heard the scrabble of Taboo’s claws on the lino in the hallway. The dog came snuffling in to join him.

This reminded Paul to close the door, and for good measure he shoved one of the room’s two bureaus in front of it. Taboo leaped up on his bed, circling for a spot to lie on that smelled most of Paul, and when he’d found it, he sank down contentedly and watched his master bring forth the rucksack, wipe the slut’s wool from it, and unfasten its plastic buckles. Paul sat next to the dog. Taboo placed his head on Paul’s leg. Paul knew he was meant to scratch the dog’s ears, and he did so, but he gave the duty short shrift. There were other concerns that had to take precedence over loving his animal this morning.

He didn’t know what to make of what he had. When he’d first unrolled it, he’d seen it wasn’t exactly the kind of pirate’s treasure map he’d expected, but still, he’d known it was a map of some kind because Mr. Guy wouldn’t have put it there for him to find had it been anything else. He’d recalled then, as he’d studied his find, that Mr. Guy had often spoken in riddles: where a duck rejected by the rest of the flock stood for Paul and his mates at school, or a car sending out plumes of nasty black exhaust stood for a body hopelessly polluted with bad food, cigarettes, and lack of exercise. That was Mr. Guy’s way because he didn’t like to preach at anyone. What Paul hadn’t anticipated, however, was that Mr. Guy’s approach to helpful conversation might bleed over to messages he’d left behind as well.

The woman before him held a quill. Wasn’t it a quill? It looked like a quill. She had a book open upon her lap. Behind her rose a building tall and vast and beneath it labourers worked on its construction. It looked like a cathedral to Paul. And she looked like...He couldn’t say. Downcast, perhaps. Infinitely sad. She was writing in the book as if documenting...What? Her thoughts? The work? What was being done behind her? What was being done? A building being raised. A woman with a book and a quill and a building being raised, all of it comprising a final message to Paul from Mr. Guy.

You know many things you think you don’t know, son. You can do anything you want.

But with this? What was there to be done? The only buildings associated with Mr. Guy that Paul knew about were his hotels, his home at LeReposoir, and the museum he and Mr. Ouseley talked of constructing. The only women associated with Mr. Guy that Paul knew about were Ana?s Abbott and Mr. Guy’s sister. It seemed unlikely that the message Mr. Guy wanted Paul to have had anything to do with Ana?s Abbott. And it seemed even more unlikely that Mr. Guy would send him a hidden message about one of his hotels or even his house. Which left Mr. Guy’s sister and Mr. Ouseley’s museum as the core of the message. Which had to be what the message itself meant.