A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(232)

He did not read them. He merely stopped, placed the cardboard box of his father’s ashes on the ground, and opened it to remove the plastic bag. He descended the steps to the first of the terraces. Here were buried the brave men of the island who had given their lives in World War I. They lay beneath old elms in precise lines that were marked by holly and pyracantha. Frank passed them by and continued downward. He knew the point in the graveyard at which he would begin his solitary ceremony. The headstones there marked graves more recent than World War I, each of them identical to the other. They were simple white stone with the single decoration of a cross whose shape would have identified them unmistakably had not the names carved into them done so. Frank descended to this group of graves. There were one hundred and eleven of them, so one hundred and eleven times would he dip his hand into the bag of ashes and one hundred and eleven times would he let what remained of his father drift through his fingers and settle on the final resting places of those German men who had come to occupy—and who had died upon—the island of Guernsey.

He began the process. At first it was hideous to him: his living flesh coming into contact with his father’s incinerated remains. When the first bone fragment grazed against his palm, he shuddered and felt his stomach heave. He paused then and steeled his nerves to the rest of it. He read each name, the dates of birth and of death, as he consigned his father to the company of those he’d chosen as comrades.

He saw that some of them had been mere boys, nineteen-and twentyyear-olds who may well have been away from their homes for the very first time. He wondered how they’d experienced this small place that was Guernsey after the large land from which they’d come. Had it seemed like an outposting to another planet? Or had it been a blessed rescue from bloody combat on the front lines? How must it have felt to them to have had such power and to have been simultaneously so utterly despised?

But not by all, of course. That was the tragedy of that place and that time. Not everyone had seen them as an enemy to be scorned. Frank moved mechanically among the graves, descending tier after tier until he had emptied the plastic sack entirely. When he was done, he walked to the marker at the bottom of the cemetery and he stood for a moment, looking back up the hill at the rows of graves, at the way he had come.

He saw that, although he’d left a small handful of his father’s ashes on every German soldier’s resting place, no sign of them remained. The ashes had settled into the ivy, the holly, and the creeper that grew in patches upon the graves, and there transformed into mere dust, a thin skin lying like an ephemeral mist that would not survive the first gust of wind. That wind would come. It would bring with it rain. This would swell the streams which would gush from the hillsides down into the valleys and from there to the sea. Some of the dust that was his father would join it. The rest would remain, part of the earth that covered the dead. Part of the earth that gave succour to the living.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


As always, I am indebted to a number of people who assisted me during the creation of this novel. On the lovely Channel Island of Guernsey, I must thank Inspector Trevor Coleman of the States Police, the kindly people of the Citizens Advice Bureau, and Mr. R. L. Heaume, the director of the German Occupation Museum in Forest.

In the UK, I am continually in the debt of Sue Fletcher, my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, as well as her wonderful and resourceful assistant, Swati Gamble. I extend my thanks additionally to Kate Brandice of the American embassy.

In France, the generosity of my regular translator, Marie-Claude Ferrer, enabled me to create some of the dialogue in the novel, while Veronika Kreuzhage in Germany provided me with the necessary translations related to the World War II artifacts. In the United States, Professor Jonathan Petropolous aided my understanding of the Nazi “repatriation of art,” both in person and through his invaluable book The Faustian Bargain. Dr. Tom Ruben graciously supplied me with medical information when necessary, Bill Hull helped me to understand the architect’s profession, and my fellow writer Robert Crais allowed me to pick his brains about money-laundering. I’m extremely grateful to Susan Berner for being willing to read an early draft of this novel, and I’m additionally grateful to my husband, Tom McCabe, for his patience and his respect of the time it takes to put a novel together. Lastly, of course, I could not have even begun this book without the constant presence, assistance, and good cheer of my assistant, Dannielle Azoulay. Books which I found helpful during the creation of this novel were the aforementioned The Faustian Bargain by Jonathan Petropolous, TheSilent War by Frank Falla, Living with the Enemy by Roy McLoughlin, Buildings in the Town and Parish of St. Peter Port by C.E.B. Brett, Folklore ofGuernsey by Marie De Garis, Landscape of the Channel Islands by Nigel Jee, Utrecht Painters of the Dutch Golden Age by Christopher Brown, and Vermeer and Painting in Delft by Alex Rüger. Finally a word about St. Barbara. Students of art history will know that while the painting I describe in this novel does not exist, the drawing which I attribute to Pieter de Hooch certainly does. It is, however, not by Pieter de Hooch at all but by Jan van Eyck. My purpose in callously altering its creator had to do with the period of time during which it was drawn and during which van Eyck painted. Had he actually painted St.Barbara, he would have composed his masterpiece on oak board, as was the practice at that time. For purposes of my novel, I needed canvas, which did not come into widespread use until a later period. I hope I’ll be forgiven for this manhandling of art history. There will, naturally, be errors in the book. These are mine alone and not attributable to any of the fine people who helped me.