Blood Will Out

by Jill Downie

  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 g
oing 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.

  Then the silver fox walked into the office, unannounced.

  Reginald Hamelin was a senior member of one of the most prestigious law firms on the island. His nickname referred to his magnificent and carefully maintained head of hair, his cunning in his chosen fields of law — property and matrimony — and his unpleasant behaviour when cornered. More or less retired for some time, he was brought out of mothballs for certain clients. He was still a powerful man, because he knew everyone who was anyone and, more significantly, what was hidden behind closed doors, in the back of family closets and, if there were bodies, where they were buried.

  “Ah, it’s the very attractive Detective Constable Falla.”

  An elegantly manicured hand was extended across Moretti’s desk.

  “Detective Sergeant. Good morning, advocate Hamelin.” Liz Falla took the proffered hand briefly and indicated the chair on the other side of the desk. “How can I help you?”

  Reginald Hamelin surveyed the seat offered as though it might need sterilizing, then sat down, slowly. He gave Liz the warm, charming smile she had seen in court just before he skewered a witness on the stand, or challenged opposing counsel.

  “You have been elevated, Detective Sergeant. Felicitations. Well-deserved, I am sure. I am not sure you can help me, but I happened to be in town on other business and, after seeing the news of Dorey’s death in this morning’s paper, I thought I’d drop in. Where is your superior officer?”

  Well, well, well, as her superior officer liked to say.

  “Not available at the moment, sir — or did you mean Chief Officer Hanley?” Liz made as if to pick up the phone, and out came the well-tended hand, swiftly.

  It was an open secret that Hamelin and Hanley disliked each other. The chief officer had unexpectedly resisted an attempt by Hamelin to get rid of an inexperienced young constable, still on probation, who had misguidedly given the silver fox a traffic ticket, and then added insult to injury by declaring that he did not care who Hamelin was, he had mounted the pavement with excessive speed, and was driving dangerously.

  “Moretti. Detective Inspector Moretti.” Hamelin bared his teeth, straining for charm, and failing. “But you will have to do.”

  Liz Falla bared her own teeth in response, and waited.

  Chapter Ten

  “The war again?” said Liz.

  Al Brown looked at Liz Falla and raised his eyebrows.

  “The war again?” he echoed.

  Liz was sitting next to Moretti on the other side of the table at Emidio’s. It was eleven o’clock at night, and Deb had opened the doors to them and produced lasagna, and red wine, along with a large loaf of crusty bread. At this hour of the night, with the place to themselves, the feeling was of the tumultuous past of the building, rather than its mundane present. Beyond the huge plate-glass window installed in the opening to the harbour, where the privateers had hauled up their casks of brandy from the sailing ships below, the foghorn wailed softly, persistently, guiding present-day buccaneers through the mists and fog of a September night.

  “I’ll leave you to it. You know where the dishwasher is. And the till. Clean up and lock up,” she told Moretti.

  She turned off most of the lights, leaving their booth in its own pool of light, and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later they heard the heavy back door bang shut behind her. Moretti pulled out his mobile and turned it off, and Liz and Al followed suit.

  “Not the war, this time,” said Moretti.

  Back at the office, he and Falla had to wait for Al to spring himself free from the enthusiastic clutches of Chief Officer Hanley, who was anxious to hear how he would be applying his Met training to the case. It gave them both a chance to compare notes about the wartime offences of Gus Dorey, Senior, and share the information with Al Brown on the way to the restaurant. Al confined himself to comments about Moretti’s Triumph, the model, the year, its four seats as compared to other Triumphs, but his comparative silence spoke volumes.

  Moretti topped up Al Brown’s glass.

  “You look like you need this,” he said. “What Falla means is the occupation of the island in the last war, and what was said about the hermit’s father. But this time I don’t think so.”

  “That’s what advocate Hamelin wants us to believe,” said Liz. “All he basically said was to let sleeping dogs lie, to leave well alone, because the father is long gone, and why sully the son’s memory?”

  “Since when did Hamelin ever care about sullying?” Briefly, Moretti explained the silver fox for Al’s benefit, and then told Al and Falla what he and Bernie Mauger had found at the Priaulx. “Besides, nothing was said about the suicide in the report.”

  “Hamelin still has an ear to the ground, Guv, and I doubt Gord Martel has kept quiet,” Liz reminded Moretti. “I’m sure all kinds of people know by now the hermit hanged himself.”

  “Come on, Falla. The silver fox doesn’t slink in to Hospital Lane just because a poor old man takes his own life. I hoped a lawyer might come forward with information, but this is something else. No one risked helping Gus Dorey to hang himself because of what his father did in the war.”

  “Not revenge?” Liz took another helping of lasagna and tore off a chunk of bread. “You once said that war casts long shadows.”

  “True, but Gus Dorey had been in his hideaway many years, and no one had touched him. It doesn’t make sense. Something more recent triggered this. Did you find anything helpful, or unusual, Al?”

  “All kinds of stu
ff that was unusual, perhaps. For instance, he liked writing out passages from books, sometimes just quotations, and putting them back in one of the books.” Al Brown took a mouthful of wine, and closed his eyes. “Nothing like chianti with lasagna in my opinion, and this is a nice one.” He picked up the bottle and looked at the label as he spoke. “And he did a lot of underlining. I’m trying to put his jottings in some sort of order, see if there’s any pattern.”

  “Pattern?”

  “I haven’t shared this with the chief officer yet, but I’m not a big fan of some modern police methods.”

  In his position as superior officer, Moretti resisted smiling, but Falla did not feel the need.

  “Still, there was some interesting research about patterns of behaviour in one of my courses that might come in useful. Dorey seems to have been a compulsive note-taker, but only if he cared passionately about something — language, class prejudice, for instance — but what really grabs my attention is that most of his notes have to do with love. Not disappointed love, or love betrayed, which you might expect from a recluse, but love shared, love returned. Sometimes he underlined, not in the valuable books, and sometimes he wrote the same quotation out more than once, and those are the ones I’m most interested in.”

  Al Brown smiled across the table at Liz, who smiled back at him.

  “For instance?” For some reason Moretti suddenly felt the need of a cigarette. He touched the lighter he always carried in his pocket, his talisman. His pattern.

  “There is only one quotation in French, and so far I have found it three times.” Al pulled out his notebook. “My French is pretty rusty, but it translates something like this, ‘A happy memory is perhaps on this earth closer to real happiness than happiness itself.’”

  “I think that’s from a poem by Alfred de Musset,” Moretti said. “Interesting.”

  Liz’s thoughts turned to her late-night conversation with Elodie. Three primal elements, she thought, not two. Sex, death and love.