Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Ah! Bulldog Drummond races south, pistol in his hip pocket, ready for a shoot-out with Le Bossu Masqué,’ commented a lazily teasing voice. Dorcas gave a showy yawn to indicate she was open to conversation. ‘Only one thing wrong. Pulling a face like that, you really ought to be driving a Sports Bentley. You don’t cut much of a dash in a Morris.’

  ‘Two things wrong. My female companion—that’s you— ought to be bound and gagged and wriggling helplessly on the back seat with her head in a bag.’

  ‘Le Bossu’s wicked accomplice whom you’ve taken hostage?’

  ‘Very likely. Female of the species being what she is and all that …’

  Dorcas looked about her. ‘Oy! Didn’t I ask you to be sure and tell me when we got to Valence?’

  ‘I was just about to wake you, though I can’t imagine why I should bother. It’s not much of a place and we’re driving straight by it.’

  ‘Family tradition! Father always marks our passage through the town by shouting, “A Valence, le Midi commence!” Though at the speed my family plods along in a horse-drawn caravan we have more time to enjoy the moment. Listen, Joe! In a minute or so, if you slow down a bit, you’ll hear them. The cicadas. The sound of Provence.’

  Joe smiled. She was right. In a strange way, everything behind them was of the north: green and quiet. The snow-clad Alps still funnelled their cold breath down the valley of the river the road was following. But the land ahead was tilted towards the sun. The atmosphere grew suddenly more brilliant, the rush of air warmer. The vegetation was changing and he welcomed the sight of the first outlying umbrella pines and the narrow dark fingers of cypress trees leaning gently before the wind, beckoning them on. Soon there would be olives fluttering the silvery underside of their leaves at him.

  He took his foot off the accelerator and, hearing his first cicada, decided to stand in for her absent father, Orlando. The girl had little enough in the way of family life; the least he could do was reinforce the few happy memories she chose to share with him. ‘Le Midi commence!’ he shouted. ‘Here comes the South!’

  Satisfied, the ritual complete, Dorcas breathed in the changing perfumes and asked for the umpteenth time: ‘Are we nearly there, Joe?’ to annoy him.

  He decided to bore her back to sleep again with a recitation of distances, speeds and map references but a rush of good humour cut him short. ‘No! Miles to go before bedtime. Big place, Provence. I was planning to spend the night in Avignon then set off into the hills straight after breakfast to track down your pa. Silmont? That’s the place we have to find. Outskirts of the Lubéron hills. Olive-silvery Silmont?’ he speculated. ‘I wonder if there’ll be vines growing there? And lavender. Honeysuckle. All those herbs … wild thyme … rosemary … oregano,’ he murmured. ‘Dorcas?’

  She was feigning sleep again. Botany also was a bore, clearly.

  Joe fought down a spurt of irritation with the child’s father. As a friend, Orlando Joliffe came in for a good measure of regard, even affection, from Joe. Joe found—and was surprised to find—that he admired his skills as an artist but he also enjoyed the man’s company. He appreciated his intelligence and his worldly ways. When Joe made himself evaluate the relationship which would have been frowned on in his own staid professional circle, he came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was in Orlando a quality of raffish insouciance, a childlike delight in sensual indulgence that struck a chord in Joe’s being, that spoke to something long buried under layers of Quaker respectability.

  Yes, as a drinking companion there was none better but, judged as a father, Orlando failed on all counts to satisfy. He wasn’t uncaring exactly but careless, ready to leave the upbringing of his four motherless children to anyone he could persuade or pay or blackmail into attending to their needs. When Joe’s sister, in dire emergency, had shown neighbourly concern and rashly offered to take Dorcas under her wing, Orlando had accepted with shaming alacrity.

  Lovely, good-hearted Lydia! Joe felt a pang of guilt whenever he thought of his sister’s involvement with the wretched Orlando’s family circus.

  It had all been Joe’s fault.

  In a moment of concern for the family’s situation, he’d handed over Lydia’s telephone number. ‘This here’s my sister’s number. You’ll see she lives close by. She has children of her own and she’s a trained nurse. You can depend on her. Give her a ring if there should be an immediate problem and you can’t raise me.’

  And Dorcas had taken him at his word. With life-changing results for several people, not least poor Lydia.

  Appalled by the circumstances of the children’s hand-to-mouth, bohemian existence Lydia had swept them all away to the safety of her own comfortable home. Dorcas had stayed on longer than the rest, and, with her uncivilized ways of going on, she’d become a project for Lydia, her upbringing a social duty. ‘Give me that girl for two years and I’ll have her fit to present to the Queen at a Buckingham Palace reception,’ she’d been unwise enough to declare in Orlando’s hearing. He’d hurried to take her up on the offer and Dorcas had become a fixture in the household. And Joe had acquired ‘a niece’.

  Months had passed but ‘Auntie’ Lydia was still a long way short of her target, Joe reckoned. As his brother-in-law commented, ‘Buckingham Palace be blowed! I wouldn’t trust that scallywag to behave herself at a Lyon’s Corner Café.’

  But then, on their journey through France, the child had surprised Joe. Lydia’s training and preparation had not been in vain, it seemed. Dorcas had put on gloves and—alarmingly—silk stockings and behaved impeccably for the family at the Champagne Château Houdart where they’d stayed near Rheims. He glanced at the shiny dark head with its newly acquired and very fashionable fringed bob and smiled a smile that was both sad and tender. The wretched girl, he did believe, had fallen in love. With the highly suitable and totally admirable son of the house. Aged all of sixteen, Georges Houdart had seemed equally smitten and the two had been inseparable for the length of their stay.

  It was all too premature, Joe feared. A scene from Romeo and Juliet in preparation? Joe grinned as he happily dismissed the thought. These two were old beyond their years; they’d both, in their different ways, grown up taking too much, too early, on young shoulders. But this too had happened on his watch. Perhaps he should have a word with Orlando when they finally tracked him down? Issue some sort of warning? Urge a belated paternal concern? ‘Well, here’s your daughter back, old man. No—no trouble at all … In fact she’s been most helpful. And here she is—delivered safe and sound in wind and limb, as you see, but—have a care—there may be unseen wounds in the region of the heart …’ No. Joe knew it would be a waste of time. He’d wait and report back to Lydia when he returned to Surrey. Lydia would know whether to speak out or be silent.

  With her uncomfortable ability to intercept and respond to his thoughts, Dorcas, eyes still closed, was muttering: ‘Do you think Orlando’ll notice I’ve changed a bit? So many things to tell him when we get to him.’

  ‘Yes, lots to tell Orlando,’ Joe agreed. ‘But I was wondering, Dorcas, when—if, indeed, ever—you were going to come clean with me and confess all. Would this be a good moment to tell me what you need to tell me?’

  Her eyes popped open and he felt an undignified rush of triumph to see he’d surprised her.

  ‘Whatever are you talking about? Confess? To you? You’re a policeman not a priest!’

  He grinned. ‘I think it’s entirely possible that you’ll be needing me in both capacities before we go much farther. Do you want me to spell it out? Would it ease your confession if I were to say: I know what you’re up to!’

  Joe left a space for the inevitable outburst of denial to run its course but there was a long silence.

  ‘When did you guess?’ Her voice was suddenly uncertain.

  ‘I don’t guess. I work things out. It’s what I do. But, to answer your question: it occurred to me before we left Surrey. All that nonsense about not wanting to go to Scotland with Lydia’s
family for the holidays? You were given every chance to come south with your father and his menagerie when he set off at the start of the summer but you refused. And I had noticed you’d been devouring Walter Scott’s novels one after the other and you’d got together a whole collection of hill-walking clothes from Lillywhite’s—from boots to tam-o’-shanter and everything in between. You were looking forward to Scotland but the moment you discovered that—just for once—I wasn’t going north with Lydia but motoring down to spend a month in Antibes with an old army mate, you changed your plans. You used every possible means of persuading my sister to talk me into bringing you along with me. Out went the woollies—sandals and shorts were chucked into a bag. Walter Scott was put back on the library shelves and Alphonse Daudet and something coyly entitled So You’re Going to Provence? were done up with string and put out ready for the journey. Not one of my most challenging puzzles, Dorcas! For some reason, you wanted to be here with me in Provence. Am I getting this right? Say something!’

  She nodded dumbly, unable to come up with a riposte. Joe paused, giving her time to make her own explanation.

  She turned on him angrily. ‘Crikey! You must be a difficult man to live with! Sneaking about looking in wardrobes … checking labels! Going through my books! You’ve a nerve!’

  Again, he waited.

  ‘Well, all right.’ She took a moment to collect her thoughts, considering him through eyes narrowed in speculation. He knew the signs and prepared himself to hear one of her easy fabrications but her confession when it came was halting and clumsy, the pain in her voice undeniable. ‘Yes. It seemed too good a chance to waste. I’ve been trying for years, Joe. Every time we’ve come south with my father, for as long as I can remember, I’ve tried. With no co-operation from Orlando. He doesn’t want me to succeed. He really doesn’t. I’ve searched and searched from Orange down to Les Saintes Maries on the coast. I’ve talked with gypsies and men of the road … I’ve checked every new grave in every cemetery. No luck. There’s a limit to what a child can do even down here where there’s more freedom to come and go and talk to anyone you meet. Life’s not so … so corseted … as it is in England. But even so, it’s not easy. And now I’m getting older …’ Dorcas looked uncomfortable for a moment, ‘there will be places I can’t go to, people I just can’t interview without running a risk … I’m sure you can imagine. Gigolos and white slavers and bogeymen of that description. I know how the world works … I’m not stupid!’

  ‘So you thought you’d latch on to a sympathetic chap who can go unchallenged into these dangerous and shady places and ask the right questions on your behalf—’

  ‘A nosy fellow with a good right hook!’ she interrupted. ‘And one who speaks French of a sort? That’s always useful.’

  ‘Mmm … these valuable attributes come at a price.’ Joe nodded sagely. ‘I warn you there’ll be a forfeit to pay. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ She accepted without thought, not bothering to ask what the fee would be. She knew he was just making pompous noises and he knew that she would break any agreement that proved not to suit her anyway.

  He pushed on with his pretence: ‘So long as you’re hiring my detective services, I think I should insist on a clear client’s instruction from you. I wouldn’t want to discover you were expecting me to track down that silver bangle you dropped down a drain in Arles the year before last.’

  Dorcas smiled. ‘No. I want you to find something much more precious, Joe. Something I lost thirteen years ago. I want you to find my mother.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Well, according to the innkeeper, this village is indeed the one we’re looking for—Silmont. He gave me a very old-fashioned look when I asked for directions to the château. Made verging-on-the-rude remarks about the acuity of my eyesight and brought my English common sense into question.’ Joe waved a hand towards the end of the village street and grinned sheepishly. ‘Can’t say I blame him! It’s obvious enough, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Like standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square and asking someone where Nelson’s statue is. How embarrassing!’

  ‘Is this what you were expecting, Dorcas?’

  She was sitting in the passenger seat where he’d left her, parked outside the Hôtel de la Poste. Clearly she was taken aback, as he was himself. ‘It’s not what I’d pictured. No, not at all. But then … you never know with Pa.’

  ‘All his geese are swans?’

  ‘Yes. People and places. You know … every vagabond he meets round a campfire is really an undiscovered genius violin player, every pretty waitress in a café is the twin of Kiki de Montparnasse … any house in the country is a château. I’ve learned never to expect too much. But …’

  ‘But this? What are we to make of this? If we’ve got the right place. It seems, for once, to be a true bill. The word “château” doesn’t go far enough. It can, indeed, mean any grand house in the country but this is a château-fort, no less! A castle. With all its imposing bits and pieces in place. Impressive! I’m impressed. Overwhelmed might be nearer the mark. Pass me the guidebook from the glove locker, will you? I think we should spend a minute or two getting this place in focus. Something so grand and ancient—it’s bound to get a mention.’

  They spent silent moments looking down at the guide and up at the outcrop of rock, a quarter of a mile distant at the end of the village street. The crag reared up in front of them, proudly bearing the weight of limestone masonry that grew imperceptibly from the rock itself to take the form of an imposing fortress.

  ‘It’s not a bit like the Château Houdart, is it?’ Dorcas murmured. ‘That was welcoming, lived-in, looked pretty on a wine label. This is a jolly scary place, Joe!’

  ‘Machicolations, crenellations, canonniered arrow slits …’ Joe muttered. ‘Blimey! It’s got the lot. Put your tin hat on, Dorcas! And hope they’ve not boiled the oil up yet. A l’attaque! Yes?’

  He put the car in gear and moved off slowly.

  ‘Is this the usual style of accommodation for one of your father’s artistic jamborees?’ he asked cheerfully to dispel her gathering gloom as they wound upwards under intimidating walls. Joe always tried to avoid speaking in a dismissive tone when discussing Orlando’s activities. Privately, he considered it the height of indulgence, an embarrassing bohemian flourish, this habit of congregating together with a coven of fellow artists to spend the summer months daubing away in each other’s company, stealing mistresses from one other, squabbling and boozing, conspiring to exchange one outrageous ‘ism’ for a newer one. Fauvism, Cubism, Dadaism, Futurism, and now, he heard, Surrealism was all the go. Well, that at least seemed to make sense.

  ‘No. It is a bit grand. But his crowd will gather wherever some art-lover, some patron is kind enough—and rich enough—to offer them accommodation for a season.’

  They looked up again at the château and Joe voiced the thought: ‘Some accommodation! I do wonder who the generous host might be? Any information on him? I shall need to know to whom I should address my bread-and-butter note …’

  Dorcas shook her head. ‘No idea. You’ll have to ask. But the artists always pay their rent! In kind, of course. You know—they leave some of their best work behind as a thank-you. They’re very productive. And artists are very generous. Did you know that Van Gogh never sold a painting in his life? He gave away more than a thousand of them.’ And, again, she hurried to defend her father and his chosen occupation: ‘But some of Orlando’s pals are getting quite well known in art circles. They’re being offered really high prices for their work in the Paris salerooms. Fortunes have been made. If anyone offers you a canvas while you’re here, Joe—don’t refuse it, will you?’

  He promised he would accept anything he might be offered by any of the inmates with a convincing show of pleasure. And pleasure might be just what he experienced, he corrected himself, remembering the one or two attractive and unusual pictures Dorcas had herself been given by her father’s friends. He’d noted—and instantly cov
eted—one portrait of a dark-haired girl who could be no one but Dorcas, standing barefoot and windblown on a Mediterranean beach. The ugly scrawled signature at the bottom would have been unknown at the time of painting but Pablo Picasso was, these days, a name to be reckoned with in the saleroom.

  After a noisy grind upwards in bottom gear, they arrived at a flat turning space in front of the entrance to the castle. Joe paused and put the handbrake on, reluctant at the last moment to commit himself to crossing the drawbridge.

  The watcher at the summit of the north-east tower grunted in surprise. What was this? It could only be the brat arriving at last. In the company of the Englishman. But a hesitant Englishman? Circumspect and careful?

  Lips curled in derision as the dark man jumped lithely from the car, bossily pointed a staying finger at his companion and proceeded to stroll over and subject the drawbridge to an unhurried examination. The underside was checked, the hauling mechanism inspected, the central planks stamped upon by a hefty English brogue and finally the man did what he should have done in the first place: he walked across and noted the presence in the courtyard of two vehicles heavier than his own tin-can conveyance.

  ‘Get on with it, man!’ the watcher yearned to cry out. ‘You’re already a week late and unwelcome at that! The way is clear before you—just deliver your package and get out. While you can.’ But curiosity took the place of impatience. This was surely a display of untypical behaviour? One would have looked for an arrogant charge across the bridge followed by the squeal of brakes and an uninhibited: ‘Halloooo the château! Anyone at home?’

  The castle, over the centuries, had seen its share of English invaders and they’d never knocked politely. Roving gangs of masterless men for the most part, men for whom murdering, robbing and rape were a way of life. The dregs of crusading armies, they had deserted their cause to range unchallenged over a defenceless Europe.