A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(80)

“Nobby,” Frank cut in. “It’s not that simple.”

Behind him, one of the boys screeched, and Nobby swung round to see that Bertrand Junior had removed his knitted cap and was pulling it soundly over his younger brother’s face. Nobby called sharply, “Bert, stop that at once. If you won’t play nicely, you’ll have to remain inside with Mummy.”

“But I was only—”

“Bertrand!”

The boy whipped the cap from his brother and began kicking the ball across the lawn. Norman trundled after him in hot pursuit. Nobby watched them for a moment before returning his attention to Frank. His expression, drained of its previous and all too brief relief, now looked wary.

“Not that simple?” he asked. “Why, Frank? What could be simpler?

You’re not saying you actually like the American’s design, are you? Over mine?”

“I’m not. No.”

“Then what?”

“It’s what’s implied in the will.”

“But you just said Ruth...” Nobby’s face returned to its hardness, a look Frank recognised from his adolescence, that anger he contained as one young bloke among many, the loner who wasn’t shown the friendship that might have made his road easier or at least less solitary. “What’s implied in the will, then?”

Frank had thought about this. He’d considered it from every angle on the drive from Le Reposoir to Fort Road. If Guy Brouard had intended the museum project to go forward, his will would have reflected that fact. No matter how or when he’d disposed of the rest of his property, he would have left an appropriate bequest earmarked for the wartime museum. He had not done so, which seemed to Frank to make his final wishes clear. He explained all this to Nobby Debiere, who listened with an expression of growing incredulity.

“Are you quite mad?” Nobby asked when Frank had finished his remarks. “What was the point of the party, then? The big announcement?

The champagne and fireworks? The momentous display of that bloody elevation drawing?”

“I can’t explain that. I can only look at the facts we have.”

“Part of those facts is what went on that night, Frank. And what he said. And how he acted.”

“Yes, but what did he actually say?” Frank persisted. “Did he talk about laying the foundation? About dates of completion? Isn’t it odd that he did neither? I think there’s only one reason for that.”

“Which is?”

“He didn’t intend to build the museum.”

Nobby stared at Frank while his children romped on the lawn behind him. In the distance, from the direction of Fort George, a figure in a blue track suit jogged onto the green with a dog on a lead. He released the animal and it bounded freely, ears flopping as it raced towards the trees. Nobby’s boys cried out happily, but their father didn’t turn as before. Instead, he looked beyond Frank to the houses along Fort Road, and particularly to his own: a large yellow building trimmed in white, with a garden behind it for the children to play in. Inside, Frank knew, Caroline Debiere was probably working on her novel, the long-dreamed-of novel Nobby had insisted his wife create, quitting her job as a staff writer for Architectural Review, which was what she’d been happily doing as a career before she and Nobby had met and had concocted for themselves a set of dreams that were now being dashed by the cold reality brought about by Guy Brouard’s death.

Nobby’s skin suffused with blood as he took in Frank’s words and their implication. “N-no inten-inten-in ten ti on...N-never? D-do you m-mean that b -bastard...” He stopped. He seemed to try forcing calm upon himself, but it didn’t appear to want to come. Frank helped him out. “I don’t mean he was having us all on. But I do think he changed his mind. For some reason. I think that’s what happened.”

“Wh-wh-what about the party, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wh-wh...” Nobby squeezed his eyes shut. He screwed up his face. He said the word just three times, as if it were an incantation that would free him of his affliction, and when he next spoke, his stammer was under control. He said once again, “What about the big announcement, Frank?

What about that drawing? He brought it out. You were there. He showed it to everyone. He...God. Why did he do i t?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. I don’t understand.”

Nobby examined him then. He took a step backwards as if to get a better look at Frank, his eyes narrowing and his features becoming more pinched than ever. “Joke’s on me, then, isn’t it?” he said. “Just like before.”

“What joke?”

“You and Brouard. Having a laugh at my expense. Wasn’t enough for you and the lads, then, was it? Don’t put Nobby in our group, Mr. Ouseley. He’ll get up in front of the class to recite and we’ll all look bad.”

“Don’t be absurd. Have you been listening to me?”

“Sure. I can see how it was done. Set him up, knock him down. Let him think he’s got the commission, and then pull the rug. The rules’re the same. Only the game is different.”

“Nobby,” Frank said, “hear what you’re saying. Do you actually think Guy set this up—set all this up—for the limited pleasure of humiliating you?”