A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(67)
You just keep your eyes focused on what’s important, my Prince. As to the rest of it? Let it go if it’s not in the way of your dreams. This was why he could repair his bike while his brother mocked him, challenging him either to fight or to cry. Paul closed his ears and concentrated. One tyre to patch, one chain to clean. He could have caught the bus into town, but he didn’t think of that until he had the bike back together and was halfway to the church. At that point, though, he was beyond berating himself for dimwittedness. He’d wanted so fiercely to be there for Mr. Guy’s farewell that the sole thought he was even capable of producing when a bus trundled by him on the northern Number Five route and reminded him of what might have been was how easy it would be to ride out in front of the vehicle and put an end to everything.
That was when he finally cried, in sheer frustration and in desperation. He cried for the present in which his every aim appeared to be thwarted, and he cried for the future, which looked bleak and empty. Despite seeing that not a single car remained near the Town Church, he hiked his rucksack higher on his shoulders and went inside anyway. First, though, he scooped up Taboo. He took the dog with him inside although he knew he was out of order in a very big way for this. But he didn’t care. Mr. Guy had been Taboo’s friend as well and anyway, he wasn’t about to leave the animal out on the square not understanding what was going on. So he carried him inside where the scent of flowers and burnt candles was still in the air and a banner saying Requiescat in Pace still stood to the right of the pulpit. But those were the only signs that a funeral had taken place in St. Peter Port Church. After wandering the length of the centre aisle and trying to pretend he’d been one of the mourners, Paul left the building and returned to his bike. He headed south towards LeReposoir.
He’d put on what went for his best clothes that morning, wishing he’d not run off from Valerie Duffy on the previous day when she’d made the offer of one of Kevin’s old shirts. As a result, all he had was a pair of black trousers with bleach spots on them, his single pair of broken-down shoes, and a flannel shirt that his father used to wear on the colder days inside the meat market. Around the neck of this shirt, he’d looped a knitted tie that also belonged to his dad. And over it all he’d worn his mother’s red anorak. He looked a wretched sight, and he knew it, but it was the best he could do. Everything he had on was either grimy or sweated through when he got to the Brouard estate. For this reason, he pushed his bike behind an enormous camellia bush just inside the wall, and he ducked off the drive and walked up to the house beneath the trees instead of in the open, with Taboo trotting along beside him.
Ahead of him, Paul saw that people were coming out of the house in dribs and drabs, and as he paused to try to suss out what was happening, the hearse that had held Mr. Guy’s coffin came his way, slowly passed by him where he stood half-hidden to the east of the drive, and turned out of the gates to make the journey back to town. Paul followed its route with his gaze before turning back to the house and understanding that he’d missed the burial as well. He’d missed everything.
He felt his whole body tightening and surging at once, as something tried to escape him as fiercely as he tried to keep it imprisoned. He took off his rucksack and clutched it to his chest, and he tried to believe that what he had shared with Mr. Guy had not been obliterated in the work of one moment but instead had been sanctified, blessed forever through the means of a message Mr. Guy left behind.
This, my Prince, is a special place, a you-and-I place. How good are you at keeping secrets, Paul?
Better than good, Paul Fielder vowed. Better than being able to hear his brother’s taunts without listening to them. Better than being able to bear the searing fires of this loss without disintegrating completely. Better, in fact, than anything.
Ruth Brouard took St. James upstairs to her brother’s study. This, he found, was in the northwest corner, and it overlooked an oval lawn and the conservatory in one direction and a semicircle of outbuildings that appeared to be old stables in the other direction. Beyond each of these, the estate spread out: more gardens, distant paddocks, fields, and woodland. St. James saw that the theme of sculpture beginning in the walled garden in which the murdered man had been buried extended to the rest of his estate as well. Here and there, a geometric form done in marble or bronze or granite or wood appeared among the trees and the plants that grew unrestrained across the land.
“Your brother was a patron of the arts.” St. James turned from the window as Ruth Brouard quietly shut the door behind them.
“My brother,” she replied, “was a patron of everything.”
She didn’t appear well, St. James decided. Her movements were studied and her voice sounded drained. She walked to an armchair and lowered herself into it. Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed in what might have developed into a wince had she not been so careful to keep her face like a mask.
In the centre of the room, a walnut table stood, upon it the detailed model of a building set into a landscape that comprised the passing roadway in front of it, the garden behind it, even the miniature trees and shrubbery that the gardens would grow. The model was so detailed that it included both doors and windows and along the front of it what would eventually be carved into the facing stonework had been neatly applied by a skilled hand. Graham Ouseley Wartime Museum was incised into the frieze.
“Graham Ouseley.” St. James stepped back from the model. It was low to the ground in the manner of a bunker, save for its entrance, which swept up dramatically like something designed by Le Corbusier.