A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(185)

Anything that made Adrian look guilty of anything had to be dealt with at once. Margaret said, “Mr. St. James, I can assure you that if Guy sent money to England, he didn’t send it to Adrian.”

“No?” St. James sounded as pleasant as she herself was attempting to sound, but she didn’t miss the look he exchanged with his wife, nor did she misinterpret what it meant. At the least, they thought it curious that she was speaking for an adult son who appeared perfectly capable of speaking for himself. At worst, they thought her an interfering bitch. Well, let them think what they would. She had more important concerns than how she appeared to two strangers.

“I expect my son would have told me about it. He tells me everything,” she said. “Since he didn’t tell me about his father sending him money, Guy didn’t send him money. There you have it.”

St. James said, “Indeed,” and looked at Adrian. “Mr. Brouard? Perhaps for reasons other than business?”

“You’ve already asked that,” Margaret pointed out.

“I don’t think he’s actually answered,” St. James’s wife said politely.

“Not completely, that is.”

And she was exactly the sort of woman Margaret particularly loathed: sitting there so placidly, all tumbling hair and perfect skin. She was probably delighted to be seen and not heard, like a Victorian wife who’d learned to lie back and contemplate England.

Margaret said, “See here,” and Adrian interrupted. “I didn’t have money off my dad,” he said. “For any reason.”

Margaret said, “There. Now, if there’s nothing else, we have a great deal to do before I leave.” She started to rise.

St. James’s next question stopped her. “Is there anyone else, then, Mr. Brouard? Anyone else you know of in England whom he might have wanted to help out in some way? Someone who might be associated with a group called International Access?”

This was the limit. They’d given the bloody man what he wanted. Now what they wanted was his departure. “If Guy was sending his money anywhere,” Margaret said archly, “there was probably a woman involved. I, for one, suggest you look into that. Adrian? Darling? Will you help me with my suitcases? Surely it’s time we left.”

“Any woman in particular?” St. James asked. “I’m aware of his relationship with Mrs. Abbott, but as she’s here on Guernsey...Is there someone in England we should be talking to?”

They would, Margaret saw, have to give him the name if they were to be rid of him. And far better that the name should come from them than that this man should dig it up for himself and use it later to tar her son. From them it could still sound innocent. From anyone else it would sound as if they had something to hide. She said to Adrian, attempting to make her tone casual if not slightly impatient in order to let the interlopers know they were imposing upon her time, “Oh...There was that young woman who came with you to visit your father last year. Your little chessplaying friend. What was her name? Carol? Carmen? No. Carmel. That was it. Carmel Fitzgerald. Guy was quite taken with her, wasn’t he? They even had something of a fling together, as I recall. Once your father knew you and she weren’t...well, you know. Wasn’t that her name, Adrian?”

“Dad and Carmel—”

Margaret kept going, to make certain the St. Jameses understood.

“Guy liked the ladies, and as Carmel and Adrian weren’t a couple...Darling, perhaps he was even more taken with Carmel than you thought. You were amused by it; I remember that. ‘Dad’s picked Carmel as his Flavour of the Month’ you called it. I remember we laughed at the pun. But is there a chance that your father might have been fonder of her than you thought? You did tell me she spoke of it as something of a lark, but perhaps to Guy there was something more significant...? It wouldn’t have been exactly like him to buy someone’s affection, but that’s because he’d never had to. And in her case...Darling, what do you think?”

Margaret held her breath. She knew she’d spoken at too great a length, but there was no help for it. He had to be given the clues to how he was to portray the relationship between his father and the woman he himself had been meant to marry. All he had to do now was pick up the thread, say “Oh yes, Dad and Carmel. What a laugh that was. You need to talk to her if you’re looking for where his money went,” but he said none of it.

Instead, he said to the man from London, “It wouldn’t be Carmel. They hardly knew each other. Dad wasn’t interested. She wasn’t his type.”

In spite of herself, Margaret said, “But you told me...”

He glanced at her. “I don’t think I did. You assumed. And why not? It was so logical, wasn’t it?”

Margaret could see that the other two had no idea what Mother and son were talking about, but they were definitely interested in finding out. She was so flummoxed by the news her son was giving her, however, that she couldn’t sift through it quickly enough to decide how much damage would come from having in front of them the conversation she needed to have with Adrian. God. How much more had he lied about? And if she so much as breathed the word lie in the presence of these Londoners, what on earth would they do with it? Where would they take it?

She said, “I jumped to conclusions. Your father always...Well, you know how he was round women. I assumed...I must have misunderstood...You did say she took it as a lark, though, didn’t you? Perhaps you were talking about someone else and I merely thought you meant Carmel...?”