A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(198)

Frank knew that his former pupil had not phoned him for a cooking lesson, but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer in the overheated kitchen. So he took over, seeking out a colander into which he dumped the peas, then covering them and the odious fish fingers with foil while the chips were cooking. This done, he opened the kitchen window and said, “What did you want to see me about, Nobby?” to the other man, who’d gone to set the table for his sons.

“She’s in town,” he said.

“You mentioned that.”

“She’s applying for a job. Ask me where.”

“All right. Where?”

Nobby gave a laugh, utterly devoid of humour. “Citizens Advice Bureau. Ask me doing what.”

“Nobby...” Frank was tired.

“Writing their bloody pamphlets,” Nobby said with another laugh, this one high and sounding wild. “She’s gone from Architectural Review to Citizens Advice. Credit that to me. I told her to resign. Write your novel, I told her. Go after your dream. Just like I did.”

“I’m sorry it happened,” Frank said. “You can’t possibly know how sorry.”

“I don’t expect I can. But here’s the real kick in the arse: It was all for nothing. Right from the first. Have you realised that? Or did you know it all along?”

Frank frowned. “How? What was...?”

Nobby had been wearing one of his wife’s aprons, and he took this off and laid it on the back of a kitchen chair. He looked crazily as if he were enjoying their conversation, and his enjoyment increased with what he next revealed. The plans that Guy had arranged to have delivered from America were false, he said. He’d seen them himself, and they weren’t legitimate. From what he could tell, they weren’t even plans for a museum. So what did Frank Ouseley think of that?

“He didn’t intend to build a museum,” Nobby informed him. “It was all a game of build-’em-up-knock-’em-down. And we were the nine pins. You, me, Henry Moullin, and anyone else who would’ve been involved. Puff up our expectations with his big plans and then watch us squirm and beg as we get deflated: That was the story. The game went only as far as me, though. Then Guy got chopped and the rest of you were left hanging and wondering how to get the project up and running without him here to give his ‘blessing.’ But I wanted you to know. No sense in my being the only one to have reaped the benefit of Guy’s unusual sense of humour.”

Frank struggled to digest this information. It ran contrary to everything he’d known about Guy and everything he’d experienced as the man’s friend. Guy’s death and the terms of his will had put paid to the museum. But that there had never been the intention of building it...Frank couldn’t afford to think that now. Or ever, for that matter. The cost was too great.

He said, “The plans...The plans that the Americans delivered...?”

“Phony as hell,” Nobby said pleasantly. “I saw them. A bloke from London brought them here. I don’t know who drew them or what they’re for, but what they aren’t for is a museum down the lane from St. Saviour’s Church.”

“But he had to have...” What? Frank wondered. He had to have what? Known that someone would look closely at the plans? When? That night? He’d unveiled a skilled drawing of a building which he’d declared was the selected design, but no one had thought to ask him about the plans themselves. “He must have been duped,” Frank said. “Because he did intend to build that museum.”

“With what money?” Nobby asked. “As you pointed out, his will didn’t leave a penny towards building anything, Frank, and he didn’t give Ruth the high sign that she was to fund it if something happened to him. No. Guy wasn’t anyone’s dupe. But we were. The lot of us. We played right along.”

“There’s got to be some sort of mistake. A misunderstanding. Perhaps he’d made a bad investment recently and lost the funds he intended to build with. He wouldn’t have wanted to admit to that...He wouldn’t have wanted to lose face in the community, so he carried on as if nothing had changed so no one would know...”

“You think so?” Nobby made no effort to hide the incredulity in his voice. “You actually think so?”

“How else can you explain...? Wheels had already been set in motion, Nobby. He would have felt responsible. You’d left your job and set yourself up. Henry had invested in his glassmaking. There were stories in the paper and expectations in people’s minds. He would have to confess or pretend to carry on if he’d lost that money, hoping that people would lose interest over time if he dragged his feet long enough.”

At the table, Nobby crossed his arms. “That’s what you actually think?” His tone suggested that the former student had become the present master. “Yes. Indeed. I can see how you might need to hold on to that belief.”

Frank thought he saw the sudden realisation flash on Nobby’s face: the fact that he himself—possessor of thousands of items of ostensibly beloved wartime memorabilia—did not want that material ever to see the light of day. And while that was indeed the truth of the matter, there was no way Nobby Debiere could have known it. The matter was too complicated for him to be able to suss out. As far as he knew, Frank Ouseley was just another disappointed member of the group who’d hung their hats on a scheme that had come to nothing.