A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(126)

He called out a hello that went unacknowledged. He stepped inside and found himself in a glassmaker’s workshop. It appeared to be the manufacturing place for two entirely different kinds of objects. One half of it was given to the precise fashioning of greenhouse and conservatory glass. The other half appeared devoted to glass as art. In this section large sacks of chemicals had been piled not far from an unlit furnace. Against this leaned long pipelike tubes for blowing, and on shelves what had been blown was arranged, decorative pieces that were richly coloured: huge plates on stands, stylised vases, modern sculptures. The objects were all more suited to a Conran restaurant in London than to a barn on Guernsey. St. James took them in with some surprise. Their condition—lovingly dustless and pristine—was a contrast to the condition of the furnace, the pipes, and the chemical sacks, all of which wore a thick coating of grime. The glassmaker himself was oblivious of the presence of anyone. He was working at a wide bench on the greenhouse-and-conservatory side of the barn. Above him hung the plans for a complicated conservatory. To either side of these and beneath them hung drawings of other projects even more elaborate. As he made a swift cut in the transparent sheet that lay across his bench, the man didn’t refer to any of these plans or drawings but rather to a simple paper napkin on which some dimensions looked to be scrawled.

This had to be Moullin, St. James thought, the father of one of Brouard’s beneficiaries. He called the man’s name, speaking louder this time. Moullin looked up. He removed wax earplugs from his ears, which explained why he hadn’t heard St. James’s approach but did little to explain why Sinatra had been serenading him.

He next went to the source of the music—a CD player—where Frank had gone on to Luck Be a Lady Tonight. Moullin cut him off mid-phrase. He reached for a large towel with whales spouting water upon it and covered the CD player, saying, “I use it so people know where to find me out here. But he gets on my nerves, so I use the plugs as well.”

“Instead of a different kind of music?”

“I hate it all, so it doesn’t matter. What can I do for you?”

St. James introduced himself and handed over his card. Moullin read it and flipped it onto the workbench, where it landed next to his napkin calculations. His face became immediately wary. He’d noted St. James’s occupation, obviously, and would have little inclination to believe that a forensic scientist from London had come calling with building a conservatory in mind. St. James said, “You appear to have had some damage to your garden. I wouldn’t think vandalism is a common problem here.”

“You come to inspect it?” Moullin asked. “Is that a job for the likes of you?”

“Have you phoned the police?”

“Didn’t need to.” Moullin took a metal tape measure from his pocket and used it against the sheet of glass he’d cut. He made a tick next to one of his calculations and carefully leaned the pane against a stack of a dozen or more others that he’d already seen to. “I did it myself,” he said. “It was time.”

“I see. Home improvement.”

“Life improvement. My girls started it when the wife left us.”

“You’ve more than one daughter?” St. James asked.

Moullin seemed to weigh the question before answering. “I’ve three.”

He turned and took up another sheet of glass. He put it on the bench and bent over it: a man not to be disturbed from his work. St. James took the opportunity to approach. He glanced at the plans and the drawings above the bench. The words Yates, Dobree Lodge, Le Vallon identified the site of the complicated conservatory. The other drawings, he saw, were for stylised windows. They belonged to G. O. Wartime Museum. St. James examined Henry Moullin at work before he said anything else. He was a thick-boned man who looked strong and fit. His hands were muscled, which was evident even beneath the plasters that at the moment were crosshatching them haphazardly.

“You’ve cut yourself, I see,” St. James said. “That must be an occupational hazard.”

“True enough.” Moullin sliced through the glass and then repeated the action, with an expertise that gave the lie to his remark.

“You make windows as well as conservatories?”

“The plans would indicate that.” He raised his head and tilted it towards the wall of drawings. “If it’s glass, I do it, Mr. St. James.”

“Would that be how you came to the attention of Guy Brouard?”

“It would.”

“You were intended to do the museum windows?” St. James gestured towards the drawings posted on the wall. “Or were these just on spec?”

“I did all the glasswork for the Brouards,” Moullin answered. “Took down the original greenhouses on the property, built the conservatory, replaced windows in the house. Like I said, if it’s glass, I do it. So that would be the case for the museum as well.”

“But you can’t be the only glazier on the island. Not with all the greenhouses I’ve seen. It wouldn’t be possible.”

“Not the only one,” Moullin acknowledged. “Just the best. Brouards knew that.”

“Which made you the logical one to employ for the wartime museum?”

“You might say that.”

“As I understand it, though, no one knew what the exact architecture was going to be on the building. Until the night of the party. So for you to make drawings in advance...Did you fit them to the local man’s plans?