Blood Will Out (9 page)

Liz thought briefly about asking how Elodie knew Jim Landers wanted more, since he wasn't one to express emotion. But only briefly. She got up, and started to pull on her fleece jacket. “I've got to go. We're still dealing with the suicide, and the trouble with hermits is they don't socialize with anyone. Talk about loneliness!”

“Is loneliness the same as aloneness, I wonder. No next of kin, I suppose. Is that the problem?”

“Yes.” Liz paused, then said, “I lost my train of thought back there, but I remember it now. I thought there wasn't much Gastineau moolah left to fight over. Is there?”

“Quite a bit in what the Americans call real estate. As well as piracy, it is how the family originally made themselves rich and powerful, with houses and land here, in France and in England. But they have sold off most of what they had over the years and kept only the town and the country house. The house out in Forest is worth a few million, because it is open market, apart from a small cottage in the grounds — and there are acres of grounds. There would be any number of potential buyers for the land alone. There have already been heavy hints dropped by Maxwell and Lorrimer, but so far Rory isn't budging. And as long as he was unmarried, Marie was happy. Any heir has to be legit, apparently, to inherit, and males always take precedence.”

“Wow. Quite Jane Austen, isn't it.”

“With more than a touch of one of the Brontë sisters —
Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, perhaps. Baroque and Gothic, rather than
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
-ish.”

“Oooh,
heavy
.”

Just as both women started to laugh, an unearthly howl rose outside somewhere in the garden.

“Oh my God.” Liz clasped her throat, an instinctive gesture she would think about afterwards. “What the —?”

“Relax.” Elodie got up and leaned over the sofa to pull one of the curtains slightly aside. The night garden was lit by a full moon in a cloudless sky, as beautiful and unreal as a stage set. “I'd know that sound anywhere. Gandalf must have let Stoker out when he got home, and he has sought out his mortal enemy, Mudge.”

“Ill met by moonlight,” said Liz, coming over to join Elodie at the window. “That was Titania meeting Oberon, wasn't it, and holding on to the little boy.”

“Yes. An orphan. The son of someone dear to her, but she, being mortal, died.” The sadness in Elodie's expression filled the room.
Maybe
, thought Liz,
she has opened a can of worms, but for herself as much as for anyone else
.

“What role are you auditioning for in
Blood Play
, El?”

“None,” her aunt replied. “I've already told Raymond I will be script assistant, but that I want no part in this.” Elodie turned back to Liz. “There's an old German saying I once heard, and I've thought about it quite a bit over the past few hours. Can't remember the German, but it goes something like this:
Don't paint the Devil on the wall
.”

Elodie pulled the curtains together, shutting out the moonshine.

The bloodcurdling screams faded and died away.

“Just One of Those Things.” “From This Moment On.” Slowing into “All the Things You Are” and “You Go to My Head.” Behind, alongside, echoing sometimes, Al Brown gradually unfolding and developing the melody as Moretti began to like what he heard, to trust what he heard, and to give him space.
It's hard to play slow
drifted into his mind. The words of Miles Davis, master of slow tempo magic. Even playing “Tempus Fugit” he could make time stand still.

They took the tempo up before they finished the set. “Lady Be Good,” “I'm Beginning to See the Light,” “Lover.” The small crowd in the Grand Saracen whooped and begged for more. They gave them “You Rascal You.”

People began to filter downstairs from the restaurant, and Ronnie Bedini came down to help serve the drinks. Whenever he turned to look beyond the edge of the small stage, Moretti could see her dark eyes fixed on the tall, beautiful Latvian girl who served the drinks in the downstairs bar. Trouble? He hoped he was wrong. Deb seemed happy with her current lover.

“You've done this before,” Moretti said to Al Brown as they walked back through the quiet streets to the Triumph.

“I have. How did you get into playing jazz piano?”

“I learned to play the piano at my mother's knee. Then, when I was about fifteen I picked up a record of Thelonius Monk. It was scratched and damaged but that was it.”

“For me, it was Django, of course. You have a drummer?”

“And a bass. They're good.”

“Great,” said Al Brown.

J
ust
on the outskirts of St. Peter Port, the Priaulx Library began life in much the same way as so many splendid homes in Guernsey; it was built in the eighteenth century on the profits of brandy running and contraband. The Priaulx family bought it from Peter Mourant, the smuggler, and Osmond Priaulx bequeathed it and his vast library to his beloved island. It stands just above the statue of Queen Victoria, who would probably not have been amused by its history, and close to Victor Hugo on his massive plinth, granite cloak blowing perpetually in the wind, whose sympathies would certainly have been with those law-breaking toilers of the sea.

Ed Moretti and Police Constable Bernie Mauger walked the short distance from Hospital Lane to the library, cutting through Candie Gardens, which had originally belonged to the house and which were part of Osmond Priaulx's gift. It was a beautiful morning, and PC Mauger was humming to himself as he walked, happy to be part of Moretti's investigation. He wasn't sure why they were going to all this trouble about an old hermit's suicide, but his was not to reason why. He was just chuffed to be along for the ride, unlike both plainclothes and uniform back at the station, who were grumbling about Hanley allowing Moretti so much leeway.

“‘The solace of my life,' Osmond Priaulx called his books,” said Moretti, as much for himself as for PC Mauger.

“Didn't know that, sir, but I remember my dad telling me that, when they renovated the roof a few years back, they found all kinds of weird stuff left there by the roofers who'd done the job a hundred years before. Supposed to stop evil happening, or something.”

“Interesting. Did they leave them there?”

“Don't know, sir, but most likely. Could have been unlucky to move them, right?”

Moretti looked at the constable to see if he was being ironic, but there was no sign of levity on his broad, placid face.

“What is it we're looking for, sir?”

“I don't know.” PC Mauger looked at Moretti, puzzled. “But I can tell you where to make a start. Ask for the records in the archive between about 1950 and the present day. Concentrate on the fifties, sixties and seventies, and on any news item with the name ‘Dorey.' And don't forget the classifieds.”

PC Mauger's frown deepened on his wall of a forehead and he shook his head in dismay. “Dorey,” he repeated. “You've been off the island a while, haven't you, sir. Had you forgotten it's one of the commonest surnames here?”

“No, and I wish he was called something else, but he isn't. What I want you to look for is family stuff — scandals, feuds, any unlikely news items about court cases, legal disputes, that kind of thing. Meanwhile, I'll be getting a copy of his family tree, birth certificate, and so on. Oh, and look out for anything to do with marriages either here or on the mainland.”

“Right, sir. Is it about wills and such? Who gets what's left? Wouldn't have thought there was much, not with him living out there in that shack.”

Those were Moretti's thoughts also. What could Gus Dorey still have in his life that had brought about his death? As far as they knew, only some pricey books, and they had been left untouched. Irene Edwards said he had cataracts, and since reading was unmistakably his passion, probably the only joy left in his life, losing that passion might be cause enough for suicide. The solace of his life, as it had been to Osmond Priaulx.

Passion. All passion spent perhaps, but once there had been a passion in his life.

My darling
.

Moretti realized PC Mauger was speaking to him.

“Do you want me to come and tell you whenever I find anything that might be something, sir?”

“Only if something comes up that strikes you as really unusual. Otherwise, make a note of anything and everything Dorey-related in that time period.”

PC Mauger's puzzlement turned into resignation. Still, it was better than traffic duty.

Moretti and Bernie Mauger were greeted at the Priaulx by the head librarian, Lydia Machon.

“Your sergeant told me you were coming, and why,” she said. “That poor old man. It was in the paper this morning.”

It was the first time Moretti had met Lydia Machon, the head librarian. Slim, tall, with silver-white hair framing her face and dark eyes, she looked to be in her late fifties, and there was an air of quiet intelligence about her.

“Did you know him, or any of his family, Mrs. Machon?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I am between generations, as you might say. He was considerably older than me, and I think he lived off the island for many years. And there is no younger generation, I imagine. I used to pass his place, of course, when I was out there, walking my dogs, but I never saw him.”

“Did you ever see anyone around, anyone going in or out?”

“No, never. It always looked deserted, but I assumed he was inside.”

“PC Mauger will be looking at the newspaper archives and I will take a look at your records of births, marriages and deaths.”

“Come this way, Constable Mauger. The newspaper archives are upstairs, in the Harris Room.”

Bernie Mauger followed the head librarian up the curving staircase with its polished banisters, his hefty frame swallowing her up from view, and Moretti took a look around.

He must have been in here as a child, he supposed, but he had no recollection of doing so. He only knew the remark about the solace of books because he had looked up something about the library on the computer that morning. There it was, in Latin, inscribed on a brass plaque above the fireplace in what had later been the dining room of one of the island's bailiffs — Peter Carey, scion of one of the great island families. The bailiff is the head of the island parliament, the States of Guernsey, one of the most powerful figures on the island, but since Peter Carey's day, the position occupied a much reduced legislative role. His death was noted with uncommonly grim immediacy on another brass plaque:
Peter Carey died in this room
.

Over the fireplace was a portrait of Osmond Priaulx, his likeness still present in the house with his books, as was the urn with his ashes. There were some nice pieces of furniture in the room, but the dominant feature was the bookshelving that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. In spite of the dark wood of the panelling, the rooms were not sombre, with huge windows letting in the sunlight.

Words, words, words, as Falla had said. Now they needed some deeds. Bernie Mauger was no great intellect, but he was thorough and conscientious, good with computers, and could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. At the moment, only the chief officer, Falla, Al Brown and Irene Edwards knew about the possibly assisted suicide, and Moretti hoped to keep it that way until Falla had had a chance to talk to a few people. He had asked the
Guernsey Press
to add something to the announcement of the hermit's death:
The police are asking for information about Mr. Dorey's heirs or descendants.

“Detective Inspector.” Lydia Machon had returned. “Our births, marriages and deaths archives are over here.” She looked at him questioningly. “Knowing why you were coming, I looked up his birth certificate, but were you hoping for more? A will, perhaps?”

“Anything that would help us resolve the property question, that kind of thing. Do you hold wills?”

“Not current ones, no, but it will certainly be interesting to see if anyone comes forward to claim the land.”

“Any particular reason?”

Moretti felt his heart beat faster, the reaction of the hunter seeing the spoor on the trail ahead, where before there had been not a track in sight. Lydia Machon's expression was difficult to interpret, but she appeared to be wavering about continuing with her observation.

“My husband, Cyril Machon, was a lawyer. He was quite a bit older than me and he died a few years ago. He and his family stayed on the island during the war, and once, when I asked about the shack near the Common, he told me that the house that had been there was burned down toward the end of the war. He was still a child when it happened, but he remembered his father saying, ‘Dorey got what was coming to him.' No one rebuilt there or laid claim to the land until Gus Dorey put up his shack.” Lydia Machon hesitated, then added, “Inspector Moretti, I have learned in this job to keep my counsel, but I see no harm in telling you what my husband told me some years ago.”

“Did he say anything else you can remember? Anything about the son?”

“I only remember he was surprised at the son's return after so many years.”

“What year was this, do you remember?”

“I will never forget. It was 1995. By then my husband was a sick man and did not make it through the year.”

Lydia Machon suddenly became brisk and businesslike. “I took the liberty of printing up the birth certificate for you, and you can take it with you, Inspector. Here it is.” She handed Moretti a piece of paper from a desk near the fireplace.

“You are sure this is the right Gus Dorey?” Moretti asked, taking it from her. “I imagine your records are full of Doreys.”

Lydia Machon laughed. “Chock full of them, yes, but the address is the correct one for the property. I made sure of that. Oh, by the way, I checked and he was the only child. I'll leave you to it. The microfiches are on this floor.”

Moretti looked at the piece of paper he held in his hand, on which was recorded the birth of Gus Dorey who came back to be a hermit on his father's land, only to hang, or be hanged, on a rope at the age of eighty-one.
Born June 21st, 1931.
Born at the summer solstice. Mother, Agnes Mahy; father, Augustus Dorey. Did he, like his father, get what was coming to him?

Moretti sat down and started to look at the microfiches Lydia Machon had left for him. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for, the year of the death of Augustus Dorey, Senior. Nineteen-ninety-five, the year his son came back and built himself a home near Pleinmont Common on his family's land. So, no return of the prodigal son, no fatted calf, but the passing of the prodigal father.

It took a little longer to find the death certificate of Agnes Dorey, because Moretti didn't have Lydia Machon's memory of grief to narrow the gap and pinpoint a year, but Agnes had predeceased her husband by twenty years.

“Sir.” It was Bernie Mauger, beaming, jolting him out of the past. “Found something interesting, sir. Come and take a look.”

Moretti followed in Bernie Mauger's substantial wake upstairs to where the newspaper archives were housed. The constable pulled out the chair for Moretti and brought over another chair. In this part of the library there were one or two people working at tables, and they looked up briefly as Moretti arrived. Up on the screen was an issue of the
Guernsey Press
, somewhat the worse for wear, the printing faded. Moretti scrolled up and found the date. Sunday, April 12, 1953. Just over sixty years ago. He moved the article back on to the centre of the screen. It was quite brief.

Police were called to an altercation in Forest during the evening hours of Saturday, April 11. General Roland Gastineau reported an unprovoked attack on his son, Roland Gastineau, by Gus Dorey, a student. There were no serious injuries, and the general declined to press charges.

“Well done, PC Mauger, good hunting.” Moretti could feel his heartbeat accelerate again. “Copy it, and be sure to move on to another screen. Don't leave it up, okay?”

“Right, sir. Doesn't do to mess around with this lot, does it?”

“No. I'm going back to take another look at the births, marriages and deaths around this date. Then I'm leaving you to it. See if you can find if there was any follow-up to the story.”

Bernie Mauger was right. It didn't do to mess around with
les messux
, but it looked as if he was going to have to do just that. And the longer PC Mauger thought that was the reason for discretion, the better.

Besides, he really didn't know if Gus Dorey's fisticuffs with the General's son had anything to do with anything. But, for some reason, Gus Dorey had come back to the island and got into a fight with a member of a family with clout. And that, in itself, was interesting.

Liz Falla was having a busy morning. She had set herself up in Moretti's office and had told the desk sergeant to send up anyone who wanted to give information about the death of Gus Dorey. Sergeant Bennett looked disbelieving.

“Even all the usual old farts and crones who come in to waste our time?”

“Especially all the usual old farts and crones who come in to waste our time.”

“I'm splitting my sides, DS Falla.”

The sergeant's laughter followed her up the stairs.

An hour or so later, she was seriously thinking of rescinding her request. The outpouring of aimless reminiscing and fabricated nonsense purporting to be the truth from the handful of people who came in, and from a couple of phone calls, was making it difficult for her to keep her cool. Some of the vituperation about Gus Dorey, Senior, was unpleasant and, in many cases, self-righteous and self-serving.

But the vituperation was, possibly, useful. It was the repeated story, the hopefully factual version embedded in the overblown oratory and purple prose that Liz recorded in her notebook after the storyteller had left the office or put down the phone. Just about every person who came in was middle-aged and beyond, but too young to have been directly involved in the incidents they recalled, which had generally been passed on by another generation. If the stories were to be believed, Gus Dorey, Senior, had collaborated in every possible way with the Nazis, from informing about wireless sets to selling goods on the black market, to handing over escaped prisoners. There was enough of an overlap between stories to give credence to some of it, at least.

However, to Liz's follow-up question after she had let them have their say, “Yes, but what do you know about his son?” her informants had little to add. The only useful information was that he and his mother had not been on the island during the war, but had left when so many were evacuated.