A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(136)

“Henry’s good with glass” was her reply. “That brought them together in the first place. Mr. Brouard needed someone to do the conservatory here. It’s large, complicated. An off-the-peg conservatory wouldn’t do. He needed someone for the greenhouses as well. And the windows when it came down to it. I told him about Henry. They spoke to each other and found common ground. Henry’s worked for him ever since.”

“Is that how Cynthia came to Mr. Brouard’s attention?”

“Lots of people came to Mr. Brouard’s attention,” Valerie said patiently. “Paul Fielder. Frank Ouseley. Nobby Debiere. Henry and Cynthia. He even sent Jemima Abbott to modeling school in London and gave her mum a helping hand when she needed it. He took an interest. He invested in people. That was his way.”

“People usually expect a return on their investments,” St. James pointed out. “And not always a financial one.”

“Then you’d be wise to ask each of them what Mr. Brouard was expecting in return,” she said pointedly. “And p’rhaps you can start with Nobby Debiere.” She balled up her duster and returned it to the pocket of her apron. She moved back in the direction of the front door. There she scooped up the linen she’d deposited on the floor, and she balanced it on her hip and faced St. James. “If there’s nothing else...”

“Why Nobby Debiere?” St. James asked her. “That’s the architect, isn’t it? Did Mr. Brouard ask something special from him?”

“If he did, Nobby wasn’t looking too inclined to give it to him on the night before he died,” Valerie announced. “They were arguing by the duck pond after the fireworks. ‘I won’t let you ruin me,’ Nobby was saying. Now, I wonder what he meant by that?”

This was too obvious an effort to direct him away from her own relations. St. James wasn’t about to let matters go so easily. He said, “How long have you and your husband worked for the Brouards, Mrs. Duffy?”

“Since the first.” She shifted the bed linen from one arm to the other and looked at her watch meaningfully.

“So you were familiar with their habits.”

She made no immediate reply to this, but her eyes narrowed a millimetre as she sorted through the possibilities that were implied by this statement. “Habits,” she said.

“Like Mr. Brouard’s morning swim, for example.”

“Everyone knew about his swim.”

“About his ritual drink as well? The ginkgo and green tea? Where was that kept, by the way?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Where?”

“In the pantry cupboard.”

“And you work in the kitchen.”

“Are you suggesting that I...?”

“Where your niece came to chat? Where your brother—at work on the conservatory, perhaps—came to chat as well?”

“Everyone friendly with Mr. Brouard would’ve been in and out of the kitchen. This isn’t a formal house. We don’t make pretty distinctions between those who work behind the green baize door and those who loll round in front of it. We don’t have a green baize door or anything that could possibly signify one. The Brouards aren’t like that, and they never were. Which was why—” She stopped herself. She gripped the sheets more firmly.

“Which was why...?” St. James repeated quietly.

“I’ve work to do,” she said. “But if you wouldn’t mind a suggestion?”

She didn’t wait for him to welcome whatever thoughts she wished to share. “Our family matters have no bearing on Mr. Brouard’s death, Mr. St. James. But I expect if you dig around a bit more, you’ll find someone else’s family matters do.”





Chapter 19


Frank hadn’t been able to take the pie tin to Betty Petit and effect a return to Moulin des Niaux with anything close to the alacrity he’d been hoping for. The childless and widowed farmwife had few visitors and when one dropped by, coffee and fresh brioches were called for. The one factor that enabled Frank to make his escape in under an hour was his father. Can’tleave Dad alone for long served him well when he needed it to do so.

When he made his turn into the mill yard, the first thing he saw was the Escort parked next to his Peugeot, a large Harlequin sticker plastered across its rear window identifying it as an island rental. He looked immediately to the cottage, where the front door hung open. He frowned at this and began to hurry towards it.

At the threshold, he called out, “Dad?” and“Hullo?” but a moment sufficed to tell him no one was there. Only one place, then, was the alternative. Frank beat a hasty path to the first of the cottages where their war memorabilia were stored.

As he passed the small sitting room window what he saw within made his head fill with the sound of rushing water. The River woman’s brother was standing at one side of the filing cabinet with a redheaded woman at his side. The top drawer gaped open and Frank’s father stood before it. Graham Ouseley clutched onto the side of this drawer with one hand to keep himself upright. With the other hand he wrestled with a batch of documents that he was trying to prise out.

Frank moved without pause. Three strides took him to the cottage door, and he threw it open. Its swollen wood shrieked against the old floor. “What the hell,” he said sharply. “What the hell’re you doing? Dad!