Caught in the Light (29 page)

"I charge what the market will bear." His smile broadened. "And there is of course no VAT to worry about."

"Here." I handed him the money. "Let's get on with it."

"Do you want a receipt?"

"All we want is everything you told Quisden-Neve about Lawrence Byfield."

"Of course. And we're all busy people. I quite understand." He pocketed the cash and composed himself. "Well, now, this was an unusual assignment, I can't deny. Famous ancestors and unclaimed bequests are my normal province. Mr. Quisden-Neve had more abstruse requirements. They amounted essentially to everything I

could learn about Lawrence Byfield, whom he believed to have lived here during the eighteen twenties. The most difficult task was confirming that the man had indeed been a resident on the island. I eventually traced him through the poor rate registers. He held the lease of La Fauconnerie, a rather handsome property up on '

"We've seen it."

"Ah. Right. Along with the camera obscura?"

"Yes."

"Bernard Cresswell's done an excellent restoration job, don't you think?" He paused, expecting, I suppose, a chorus of enthusiasm. When none came, he merely raised his eyebrows and continued. "Good. Well, Byfield leased the house from March 1819 until his death in October 1824, during which time he installed a camera obscura in the dovecote and won something of a reputation in the community as an amateur scientist."

"He was trying to follow in her footsteps," Daphne whispered. The same thought had come to me. Rogue or not, Byfield had appreciated the potential importance of heliogenesis. A camera obscura was a good starting point. As to how much further he'd gone ... "What sort of reputation?"

"I can't really be more specific. He was a founding member of La Societe Scientifique de Guernesey. There was a brief obituary in their archives. I had to have it translated from the original French. I incur many such expenses in this line of work, let me tell you."

"How did he meet his death?" asked Daphne. "He'd still have been a relatively young man in 1824."

"Thirty-nine, according to evidence given at the inquest."

"Not natural causes, then?"

"By no means. Byfield was killed in a duel or as a consequence of one, perhaps I should say. He fought a Frenchman by the name of Paulmier on the sands at Vazon Bay. Sabres were the chosen weapons. Byfield suffered a minor injury from which he was expected to recover, but for some reason the bleeding couldn't be staunched."

"He bled to death."

"Yes."

I looked at Daphne. The illness from which Byfield had supposedly been convalescing when he came to Tollard Rising; the limp;

the minor injury; the unexpected death. Byfield was a haemophiliac the one Quisden-Neve had been looking for.

"Why was the duel fought?" asked Daphne.

"Not recorded, I'm afraid. Paulmier fled the island, fearing prosecution. The Procureur was known to be down on all that kind of Gallic excess. The seconds claimed not to have been told. Mr. Quisden-Neve asked me to look for a woman in the case and I did turn up a coincidental death which struck him as significant. The suicide of an unidentified Englishwoman a week before the duel. She threw herself off the harbour wall into a stormy sea and drowned."

"Oh God," murmured Daphne.

"It was suggested at the inquest that the events were connected, but an old friend of By field's who'd travelled from England to attend his funeral and stayed on for the inquest '

"Joslyn Esguard," I put in with fatalistic certainty.

"Yes. Esguard was the name."

"He did his best to disconnect them, did he?"

"As a matter of fact he did. He said, in evidence, that his friend had fought several duels back in England over gambling debts, and suggested that was almost certainly the cause on this occasion."

"Are you sure the woman was never identified?"

"We're talking about 1824. It's pure luck I turned up this much. Without the duel it wouldn't have been sensational enough to warrant such a detailed press report. The drowning was small beer."

"What else did you find out?"

"Nothing to speak of. Byfield died without issue and '

"Without legitimate issue, you mean?"

"Er, yes, quite. As you say. At all events, no widow or grieving relatives cropped up at the inquest. And La Fauconnerie was re-let. Byfield was buried in an unmarked grave at the town cemetery. I can give you the plot reference if you require it."

"That won't be necessary."

"What about the unidentified woman?" asked Daphne.

"How do you mean?"

"Where was she buried?"

"Oh, I couldn't say." Lefebvre shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

We reached the airport in time for a cup of tea in the cafeteria before Daphne went through to board her flight. We hadn't said much since leaving Lefebvre's office. The doleful implications of what he'd told us didn't seem to need spelling out. Marian had traced Byfield to Guernsey after seven years of searching, and found a man of straw not worth the hunting down. Perhaps she'd hoped all along that he really had been more than Jose's puppet. But perhaps he'd had enough decency to disabuse her on the point, to be honest with her for the first and last time. Hence her despairing dive from the harbour wall. And hence his quarrel with a short-tempered French swordsman. A second suicide, dressed up as a mart d'honneur. Leaving his old friend from England to sift through the wreckage -and to squirrel away certain facts for future use. Quisden-Neve had died with the last piece in the jigsaw close at hand. But for us it was only the first piece. And the picture it formed part of remained a mystery.

"Do you think Eris knows what happened to Marian?" I asked as the minutes ticked by.

"Knows or senses?" Daphne looked across at me, her voice barely audible above a toddler's temper tantrum at the table behind her. "It would at least explain what brought her here. In part."

"And the other part?"

"Something to do with Niall. It must be."

"I thought you were unconvinced he was on the island."

"I'm unconvinced by everything. Except the need for caution. I'll be back as soon as I can. By Sunday, hopefully. Until then '

"I'm to walk on eggshells?"

"Just tread carefully. Quisden-Neve got himself murdered, remember."

"I'm not about to forget."

"What is there worth killing for in this, Ian? I understand that least of all."

"It has to be Marian's photographs. They'd fetch a fortune. And people never like sharing fortunes. Especially not people like Niall Esguard."

"Stay out of his way, then."

"I will if I can. I'm not interested in finding the photographs. Only in finding Eris."

"That's what worries me. In the end, they could turn out to be the same thing."

It was a valid warning. But I was convinced, maybe because I needed to be, that Eris was in some kind of danger, and was only hiding from me to ensure I didn't get dragged into it as well. But, if there was any sacrificing to be done, I meant to be the one to do it. And staying out of Niall Esguard's way wasn't how to start.

For the time being, though, he was no easier to track down than Eris. They were both on the island. I didn't doubt that. But where? My only clue was a bright-yellow Lotus, driven in St. Peter Port just the day before. It should be possible to trace it, I reasoned. It really should.

After I'd seen Daphne off, I did the rounds of the airport car-hire desks. Lotuses weren't exactly their speciality, but I was told which dealer to go to in search of one, and their showroom was, like just about everything else on Guernsey, only a few miles away. It was still open when I arrived, and a salesman with the last half-hour of a Friday afternoon to while away gave me the benefit of his wisdom.

"Sounds like a mainland model. I certainly can't recall anything as exotic as that going through our books. It's not as conspicuous as you might think, actually. The millionaires like to be seen around in customized sports jobs, even though the speed limit here means you get a ticket for just changing into third. Most of the cars sit in air-conditioned garages up at Fort George conserving their second-hand value. What a waste, eh?"

Fort George was an estate of luxury residences laid out within the walls of the old British garrison on the headland south of St. Peter Port. I drove round it that evening, gazing at the hacienda-style roof lines and the manicured lawns, at the locked gates and the closed doors. It was no place to ask questions, let alone expect answers. Apart from anything else, there was no-one to ask. A pedestrian would have been more noticeable than a whole motorcade of Lotuses.

It should have occurred to me sooner, but the thought actually came to me there, prowling round the cul-de-sacs and corniches of Fort George. I was missing the point. If Eris had come to Guernsey to retrace Marian's footsteps, she had to have visited La Fauconnerie. But Daphne and I had left the house that morning in such a hurry we'd not even tried out Eris's picture on the owner.

I drove straight there. The camera obscura was closed, of course. The evening was drawing in. But the gate was unlocked. I went through and pulled the bell at the front door of the house.

A tall woman in an outsize cardigan and a long, paint-spattered dress answered. She had a mass of greying curled hair and a harassed expression. The sound of scales being played on a violin drifted out from the hallway, along with the tang of a spicy dinner.

"Mrs. Cresswell?" I ventured, using the name Lefebvre had dropped earlier and hoping I'd judged the relationship correctly.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to trouble you. I visited the camera obscura this morning. I wonder, could I ?"

"Someone about the camera, Bernard," she shouted behind her. "Can you have a word, please?"

"It's not actually '

But I was too late. Already the bearded figure of her husband was bearing down on me. "You again. Not more about bloody Byfield."

"Not exactly. Could I... step in for a moment?"

"Why not? Two pounds fifty isn't just for a camera obscura display. You get unfettered access to the house at any hour of the day or night thrown in."

"I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot this morning. The fact is I'm very worried about a friend of mine who's gone missing. She was last seen in St. Peter Port. Now, she happens to be very interested in photographic history, so she might have visited your camera obscura. I have a picture of her if you'd care to take a look."

"Working on the basis that we get so few visitors I'd be bound to remember her?"

"Bernard!" snapped his wife, who'd lingered behind him in the hallway, listening. "What's got into you? The poor man's only asking you to look. He needs our help."

"Yeh, sorry." Bernard grimaced apologetically. "A lot of bills come in at this time of year. It's the end-of-fiscal-year blues. Let's start again, shall we? Show me the picture."

I handed it to him and watched as he gave it a long, shamefaced stare of scrutiny. Mrs. Cresswell looked over his shoulder at the same time. Eventually, they both shook their heads.

"Are you sure?" I pressed. "Just hanging around the street outside, perhaps? Or driving by maybe in a yellow Lotus?"

"I don't think so," said Bernard.

"Nor me," added his wife.

"What about the violinist?" I signalled with my eyes. v

"Might as well ask, I suppose," agreed Bernard. "Jamie!" he bellowed up the stairs. The scales died at once. "Come down a sec."

Jamie, a solemn little boy of twelve or so, appeared at the top of the stairs and pattered down to join us.

"Recognize this lady?" prompted his father.

Jamie frowned at the picture in fierce concentration, then gave his verdict. "No."

"Never mind," I said, hardly sounding as if I meant it.

"Perhaps Niall knows her," Jamie remarked.

"Niall?"

"Our occasional lodger," Mrs. Cresswell explained, apparently oblivious to the shock that must have been written all over my face.

"Niall.. . Esguard?"

"No. Hudson, actually."

"Ah. I see. Sorry. I thought .. . but it's obviously not the same man." Except that it was. Obviously and undoubtedly.

"He comes over from England on business every few weeks. When he does, he lodges with us."

"Helps with those bills I was complaining about," said Bernard.

"Is he ... here now?"

"As it happens," Mrs. Cresswell replied. "Well, staying, I mean. But he's out at the minute."

"He'll probably be back soon," said Bernard. "If you want to leave the picture."

"Better not," I responded, retrieving it from his grasp. "Only copy." I grinned. "And if Mr. ... Hudson .. . doesn't live here permanently, well, there's no real point in bothering him."

I turned towards the door, trying not to break into a run. "Thanks for your help."

I sat in the car, several doors down from La Fauconnerie, as the dusk deepened and the street lamps came on, waiting and watching. Sooner or later Niall was bound to show up. And I was willing to wait and watch for as long as I had to. What I'd do when he did appear I wasn't sure. For the moment, all I wanted was to be certain it really was him.

What was he up to? I turned the question over in my mind as time slipped by and night slowly fell. The answer had to involve Marian's photographs. Did he believe there was a cache of them at La Fauconnerie? Or did he believe Byfield had mastered photography himself and produced some pictures of his own? Either way, lodging with the Cresswells gave him the chance to find out. He'd stolen the negatives Quisden-Neve had extorted out of Eris, but still he was greedy for more. Well, that was no surprise. He struck me as the greedy type.

Did he know Eris was on the island? Did she know he was, come to that? Had she heard about Quisden-Neve's murder and deduced who was responsible? If she had, it would explain why she was so shocked to see his twin brother on the pier. If only I could communicate with her in some way. If only I could make her understand help was at hand.

The passenger door was suddenly wrenched open and, before I could react, Niall Esguard had slid into the seat beside me. He was dressed in his trademark black and was grinning wolfishly.