A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(79)

Frank climbed out of the car into a light cold wind. He struggled into his overcoat and then crossed over to the green. The trees that edged its far side were quite bare of leaves in this higher, more exposed spot on the island. Against the grey sky their branches moved like the arms of supplicants, and birds huddled in them as if watching the ball players down below.

Frank tried to prepare his opening remarks as he approached Bertrand Debiere and his sons. Nobby didn’t see him at first, which was just as well, because Frank knew that his face was probably communicating what his tongue was reluctant to reveal.

The two little boys were crowing with pleasure at having their father’s undivided attention. Nobby’s face, so often pinched with anxiety, was momentarily relaxed as he played with them, kicking the ball gently in their direction and calling out encouragement as they tried to kick it back. The elder boy, Frank knew, was six years old and would be tall like his father and probably as ungainly. The younger was only four and joyful, running about in circles and flapping his arms when the ball was directed towards his brother. They were called Bertrand Junior and Norman, probably not the best names for boys in this day and age, but they wouldn’t be aware of that till they learned it at school and started praying for nicknames that signaled more acceptance than that which their father had received at the hands of his own schoolmates.

This was, Frank realised, a large part of why he’d come to call on his former pupil: Nobby’s passage through adolescence had been rough. Frank hadn’t done as much as he could have done to smooth the way. Bertrand Junior was the first one to see him. He stopped in mid-kick and stared at Frank, his yellow knitted cap pulled low on his face so that his hair was covered and only his eyes were visible. For his part, Norman used the moment to drop to the grass and roll about like a dog off the lead. He shouted, “Rain, rain, rain,” for some reason and danced his legs in the air. Nobby turned in the direction his older boy was looking. Seeing Frank, he caught the ball that Bertrand Junior finally managed to kick and he tossed it back to his son, saying, “Keep an eye on your little brother, Bert,” and walked to join Frank as Bertrand Junior promptly fell upon Norman and began to tickle him round his neck.

Nobby nodded at Frank and said, “They’re about as good at sport as I was. Norman shows some promise, but he’s got the attention span of a gnat. They’re good boys, though. Especially at school. Bert does his sums and reads like a whiz. It’s too soon to know about Norman.”

Frank knew this fact would mean much to Nobby, who’d been burdened equally by learning problems and by the fact that his parents had assumed these problems were the result of being the only son—and hence slower to develop—in a family of girls.

“They’ve inherited that from their mum,” Nobby said. “Lucky little sods. Bert,” he called, “don’t be so rough with him.”

“Right, Dad,” the boy called back.

Frank saw how Nobby swelled with pride at the words, but mostly at Dad, which he knew meant everything to Nobby Debiere. Precisely because his family was the centre of his universe had Nobby got himself into the position he was squirming in at this moment. Their needs—real and imagined—had long been paramount to him.

Aside from his words about his sons, the architect didn’t speak more to Frank as he joined him. Once he turned from the boys, his face grew hard, as if he were steeling himself for what he knew was coming, and an expectant animosity shone from his eyes. Frank found himself wanting to begin by saying that he himself couldn’t possibly be held to account for decisions that Nobby had impulsively taken, but the fact was that he did feel a certain amount of responsibility for Nobby. He knew it grew from his failure to be more of a friend to the man when he’d been a mere boy sitting at a desk in his classroom and suffering the abuse of a child who was a little too slow and a little too odd.

He said, “I’ve come from Le Reposoir, Nobby. They’ve gone over the will.”

Nobby waited, silent. A muscle moved in his cheek.

“I think it was Adrian’s mother who insisted it be done,” Frank continued. “She does seem to be taking part in a drama the rest of us know very little about.”

Nobby said, “And?” He managed to look indifferent, which Frank knew he was not.

“It’s a bit odd, I’m afraid. Not straightforward as one might expect, all things considered.” Frank went on to explain the simple terms of the will: the bank account, the portfolio, Adrian Brouard and his sisters, the two island adolescents. Nobby frowned. “But what’s he done with...? The estate must be vast. It’s got to go far beyond one account and a stock portfolio. How’s he got round that?”

“Ruth,” Frank said.

“He can’t have left Le Reposoir to her.”

“No. Of course not. The law would have blocked him. So leaving it to her was out of the question.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. A legal manoeuvre of some sort. He would have found one. And she would have gone along with whatever he wanted.”

At this, Nobby’s spine seemed to melt marginally, and his eyelids relaxed. He said, “That’s a good thing, then, isn’t it? Ruth knows what his plans were, what he wanted done. She’ll go forward with the project. When she begins, it’ll be no small problem to sit with her and have a look at those drawings and plans from California. To make her see he’s chosen the worst possible design. Completely inappropriate for the site, not to mention for this part of the world. Not the least cost effective with regard to maintenance. As to the expense of building, it—”