A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(180)

“See here. This boy’s been accused of stealing—”

Ruth held up her hand to stop the constable. She said, “I expect that’s a figment of my sister-in-law’s feverish imagination. If something’s missing, I don’t know what it is. I’d trust this boy anywhere in my house at any time. With all my possessions.” To prove her point, she returned the rucksack unopened to the boy, saying, “I’m only sorry for the inconvenience to everyone. Margaret’s terribly upset by my brother’s death. She’s not acting rationally just now.”

She thought that would put an end to everything, but she was wrong. Paul pushed the rucksack back at her, and when she said “Why, Paul, I don’t quite understand,” he unfastened its clasps and pulled out a cylindrical object: something that rolled into itself. Ruth looked from it to him, puzzled. Both of the constables got to their feet. Paul pressed the offering into Ruth’s hands and when she didn’t quite know what to do with it, he did it for her. He unrolled what he had and spread it upon her knees.

She looked at it. She said, “Oh my dear God,” and suddenly understood. Her vision blurred, and in an instant she forgave her brother everything: the secrets he’d kept and the lies he’d told. The uses to which he’d put other people. The need to be virile. The compulsion to seduce. Once again she was that little girl whose hand had been clutched in her elder brother’s. “N’aie pas peur,” he had said. “N’aie jamais peur. On rentrera à lamaison.”

One of the constables was speaking, and only dimly was Ruth aware of his voice. She dismissed a thousand memories from her mind and managed to say, “Paul didn’t steal this. He was keeping it for me. He meant me to have it all along. I dare say he was holding it till my birthday. Guy would have wanted to keep it safe. He would’ve known Paul would do that for him. I expect that’s what happened.”

More than that, she couldn’t say. She found she was overcome by emotion, staggered by the significance of what her brother had done—and the unimaginable trouble he had gone to—to honour her, their family, and its heritage. She murmured to the constables, “We’ve caused you great trouble. I apologise for that.” It was enough to encourage them to take their leave.

She remained on the sofa with Paul. He eased over next to her. He pointed to the building that the painter had depicted, to the tiny workmen who were labouring on it, to the ethereal woman who sat in the foreground, her eyes lowered to the enormous book in her lap. Her gown spread round her in folds of blue. Her hair swept back as if touched by a breeze. She was every bit as lovely as she’d been when Ruth had last seen her more than sixty years ago: ageless and untouched, frozen in time.

Ruth felt for Paul and took his hand in hers. She was shaking now, and she couldn’t speak. But she could act, and that was what she did. She brought his hand to her lips and then got to her feet. She motioned for him to come with her. She would take him upstairs so that he might see for himself and completely understand the nature of the extraordinary gift he’d just given her.

Valerie found the note upon her return from La Corbière. It was two words long, rendered in Kevin’s disciplined hand: Cherie’s recital. The fact that he’d written nothing more spoke of his displeasure. She felt a tiny stab. She’d forgotten about the little girl’s Christmas concert at the school. She’d been meant to go along with her husband to applaud the vocal efforts of their six-year-old niece, but in the apprehension of needing to know how far her responsibility went in the death of Guy Brouard, she’d been unaware of anything else. Kevin might even have reminded her about the concert at breakfast, but she wouldn’t have heard him. She was already laying her plans for the day: how and when she could slip down to the Shell House without being missed, what she would say to Henry when she got there.

When Kevin arrived home, she was making chicken stock, skimming fat from the top of a boiling pot. A new recipe for soup lay on the work top next to her. She’d cut it from a magazine in the hope that it might tempt Ruth to eat.

Kevin came in the door and stood watching her, his tie loosened and his waistcoat undone. He was overdressed for a Christmas pageant presented by the under-ten set, Valerie saw, and she felt a secondary stab at the sight of him: He looked good; she should have been with him. Kevin’s glance went to the note he’d left stuck upon the refrigerator. Valerie said, “I’m sorry. I forgot. Cherie did well?”

He nodded. He removed his tie and wrapped it round his hand, setting it on the table next to a bowl of unshelled walnuts. He took off his jacket and then his waistcoat. He pulled out a chair and sat.

“Mary Beth all right?” Valerie asked.

“Well as you’d expect, first Christmas without him.”

“Your first Christmas without him as well.”

“It’s different for me.”

“I suppose. Good the girls have you, though.”

A silence came between them. The chicken stock burbled. Tyres crunched on the gravel drive a short distance from the kitchen window. Valerie looked out and saw a police car leaving the grounds of the estate. She frowned at this, returned to the stock pot and added chopped celery. She threw in a handful of salt and waited for her husband to speak.

“Car was gone when I needed it to get into town,” he said. “I had to use Guy’s Mercedes.”