Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Ouch! Poor chap!’ said Joe.

  ‘Save your sympathy! We all know that this particular artist—who does have a genuine talent, as far as I can judge—agrees with that view in private. After a second bottle, he’s been heard to ask—in genuine mystification—how on earth the public can be taken in so easily by his artistic pretensions. But in an open exchange of views with the boss, he felt he had to stand up for himself and his art and he did. He’s famously persuasive. And—he ended up by selling a dozen or so examples of his “dog’s vomit” to our host, after prolonged haggling, before he flounced off in a well-timed huff.’ She smiled in satisfaction.

  ‘Followed by the cheers of the crowd?’

  ‘Oh, rather! We’re a mixed bunch but you’ll find there’s a certain group loyalty. We admire anyone spirited enough to put one over on the powers that be. When you think that those pictures are probably being snatched from the walls of a posh Parisian saleroom as we speak! For twenty times what the artist received! It’s a hard equation to work out and one’s never perfectly certain on which side one stands …’

  ‘But when x equals rather a lot of cash …?’

  She grinned. ‘That’s right, Commander! Always keep your eye on the x! It’s a new concept for many artists but they’re learning.’

  ‘I’m sad to hear you say so,’ said Joe. ‘I had hoped to fetch up in the company of high-minded creators of beauty … incorruptible visionaries …’

  Estelle gave him a hard look and sighed. ‘Another one of those who thinks you paint more effectively on an empty stomach? What nonsense! Would you detect more efficiently if they starved you for a week? Well, then!’

  ‘And the steward?’ Joe pressed on with his enquiries. ‘Which one is he?’

  ‘Go on—guess. You’re the detective.’

  Joe thought he had already spotted the man in charge. Sartorially, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the gathering in his casually tailored beige linen suit and open-necked shirt. A dark-haired, brown-eyed man in his late thirties, he was chatting amicably with the people about him and blended in with the group in all respects but one. He was the only man at the table who had monitored the comings and goings of the servants, with the discreet but all-seeing eye of a butler.

  Joe took a moment to scan the company and then whispered in Estelle’s ear: ‘Got him! Do you see the man who’s the spitting image of Albert Préjean? The film star?’

  ‘Albert who …? Oh, yes, I know who you mean! He played the pilot in Paris Qui Dort, didn’t he? Craggy good looks. A real heartbreaker. That’s a more perceptive insight than I think you realize.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. And I’m guessing that the gentleman who so resembles him is the man who sits at the lord’s right hand.’

  Estelle giggled. ‘He usually hovers behind his left shoulder. And you’re quite right. Well done! I’ll take you over to meet him after the meal. He’ll expect it. Oh, and may I warn you? He shakes hands with his left. Right arm badly burned. He was with the Aviation Militaire in the war. One of the Cigognes Squadron. Meanwhile, although he’s nattering away with Nathan in apparently complete absorption, he’s actually giving you an ever-so-discreet once-over. Smile for the seneschal, my dear! He likes handsome men.’

  Something in her tone alerted and annoyed Joe. He found he was torn between satisfying his curiosity and discouraging the girl’s loose gossip. He chose the safer path of distracting her. ‘Tell me two things, Estelle … what is the gentleman’s name and was he late down to lunch today?’

  ‘Late to lunch? What is this? My first interrogation?’ she gurgled. ‘How thrilling! I’ve no idea. I’m almost always the last to arrive so it’s hard to say. I don’t believe anyone came in after me … Let me think. Guy—that’s his name: Monsieur Guy de Pacy—was already here. He came in through the kitchen door over there. I heard him shouting at one of the staff before the door banged shut. Then he fixed his suave smile on and entered stage left. Something on your mind, Commander?’

  ‘Only the desperate hope there’ll be enough of this delicious stuff left for second helpings,’ he said. ‘And why not call me Joe?’

  ‘Here, have some bread to soak up the gravy, Joe. It’s quite all right to do that over here.’

  ‘Thank you, I shall. And thirdly I’m curious to know how you managed to get caught up with this stimulating company. Are you an artist?’ he asked.

  ‘Lord no! I’m an artist’s model. I take my clothes off in cold studios and sit or lie for hours on end while some oaf at an easel turns me into something he’s dreamed up—a stick insect, something on a butcher’s slab or, at best, an odalisque in a silken turban and a bangle commissioned for some wealthy client’s boudoir or bar. In the real world, Commander, you wouldn’t know me. You might recognize my family name but they no longer recognize me, I’m afraid.’ She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’m what’s known back home as “a bad lot”! Kicked out of school, banned from darkening any paternal doors ever again. I’ve been adrift in Europe for the last five years. And I’m having a wonderful time!’

  ‘And which of the company are you attached to—professionally, I mean?’ Joe thought it wise to enquire.

  ‘Nathan. The photographer. I came down from Paris with him. Nat’s a sweetie-pie! He’s not at all possessive and he’s perfectly ready to lend me out to one of the others.’ She nodded towards the gallery. ‘You’ll find two or three pictures where I’m just about recognizable … the girl and the unicorn on the beach … the concubine in red harem pants … the bride in Frederick’s fresco … But I prefer sitting for Nathan. He makes me laugh and he doesn’t … ogle. Not really possible, I suppose, when it’s all over in—literally—a flash! And at least with a photographer I can be pretty certain that the results look like me.’

  ‘They say the camera doesn’t lie,’ Joe offered.

  ‘And that’s another untruth! But it’s more honest than any painting could ever be. I love the black and white clarity of it all. And it’s quick. Click! The image is accurately caught for ever.’

  ‘But you can have some fun with it,’ Joe suggested with a smile. ‘I remember admiring a shot of the luscious Kiki de Montparnasse, taken from behind. Someone had painted the curving sound-holes of a violin—or was it a cello?—on her bare back.’

  ‘I know it! Wonderful! One of Man Ray’s. I tried to persuade Nat to do something similar but he laughed and told me I hadn’t got the waist and swelling hips for a cello. He suggested a flute might be more the thing.’

  The arrival of fresh steaming bowls of daube coincided with a swirling unrest among the children.

  Orlando leaned to Joe. ‘That’s good! It looks as though they’ve finished at the babies’ table. They gobble down their food and get restive so I usually dismiss them.’ He rose to his feet and selected a suitably paternal tone: ‘You may get down now, chaps, and go out to play. You’ve all been very good so you’re allowed sweets from the bowl in the pantry. Dorcas, my dear, you’d better supervise. They’re allowed two—one for each hand. And don’t get lost!’ he shouted after their retreating backs. ‘Chapel and ovens out of bounds, remember! Oh, and better make that Joe’s car as well.’

  Dorcas lingered behind, picking up discarded napkins and replacing used cutlery neatly on the dishes as she’d been taught. She directed an earnest stare in Joe’s direction.

  ‘Ovens?’ Joe asked, intrigued.

  ‘In the dungeons down below, where the children go to play hide and seek,’ Estelle explained, ‘there’s a series of perfectly hideous hidey-holes with doors.’ She shuddered. ‘The kids will tell you that they’re ovens where prisoners used to be shut in alive to cook to death. I think they’re really called oubliettes. You know—tiny cells where prisoners could be put out of the way and forgotten.’

  She caught Dorcas’s eye over the table and spoke in a voice meant to be heard by all. ‘So glad you’ve arrived at last, dear! It used to be my job to gather in the brood at the end of the day and do the roll-call. Never
was dorm-prefect material, I’m afraid. Not the mother hen type, either! I’m delighted to see I can now hand it over to a competent youngster who will keep a closer eye on them.’

  Dorcas gargled a gypsy oath and flung a knife down on to a dish with a clatter. Joe winced.

  Everyone looked up and stared, sensing a drama. Even two very young girls with abundant dark hair who’d been fluting like finches in a mixture of Russian and French fell silent. The strikingly handsome gentleman sitting between the two beauties Joe had already marked down as possibly Russian, of intimidating aspect and out of place at that table. He was somewhat older than the rest of the company and more formally dressed. His linen jacket was uncrumpled and his silk cravat impeccably draped. Joe looked for a flaw in this ageing Adonis and decided that the hair, slicked back over a well-shaped skull, was suspiciously dark over the ears and, in a year or two’s time, the jowls would have grown heavy.

  The Russian broke off an intense conversation in accented French with Guy de Pacy to glower at Dorcas. He took a monocle from his shirt pocket, fixed it into his right eye-socket, and with all the menace of Beerbohm Tree playing Svengali at the Haymarket, he affected to seek out the source of the interruption. Not much liking what he saw, he glowered again.

  Joe leaned behind Estelle and touched Orlando lightly on the shoulder. Orlando caught and responded to his enquiring look. ‘Monsieur Petrovsky. Ballet-meister. Or so he bills himself,’ he hissed.

  Oblivious of the Russian disapproval, Dorcas began to speak. In a voice whose chilling hauteur brought back memories of the girl’s formidable grandmother, she addressed her father. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Orlando, I won’t take up any child-herding duties on a formal basis … I may not be staying long. The Commander and I are working on a project. We may have to come and go … leave early … get back late … Our schedule must remain elastic. And, anyway, it’s a long time since I saw it as my job to go about extracting half-baked children from ovens at the end of the day.’

  Someone exclaimed, all turned wondering eyes on Orlando, waiting for his reaction to this statement of rebellion. Waiting for him to discharge the musket of paternal authority over her head.

  But the shot came from another quarter. Petrovsky’s voice boomed out: ‘Tell me, child, how old are you?’

  Grudgingly Dorcas replied: ‘I’m fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen? Indeed? May I recommend a few more years in bottle before you uncork your wisdom for the world?’

  The monocled eye swept the audience, gathering approval. The finches tittered dutifully. Joe had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d delivered the line. Or the first time they’d heard it.

  Orlando rose to his feet, distinguished and urbane. ‘I take your point, Dorcas old thing,’ he said calmly. ‘But, I say, darling daughter of mine, may I ask you not to speak to your father in your grandmama’s voice?’ He gave a histrionic shudder. ‘It gave me quite a turn! One termagant in a family is quite enough, thank you! Now, why don’t you come on over to the grown-ups’ table—where you ought to be—and we’ll discuss our domestic arrangements more discreetly? We don’t want to risk wearying the elderly with the frivolous concerns of youth.’

  Dorcas grinned. She came stalking over to Joe’s side and tapped Estelle on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas Joliffe. How do you do? May I ask you to move along a little, madam? There are things I have to discuss with my uncle Joe.’

  After a brief flare of surprise, Estelle shuffled peaceably along the bench and, as Dorcas inserted her skinny frame between them, Joe caught the model’s brown eyes crinkling in amusement over the top of the girl’s head. ‘Understood!’ said Estelle. ‘Look—do you think we could do a deal, Dorcas Old Thing? One day on, one day off for as long as you stay? I’m sure Nunky JoJo wouldn’t object. And considering half the junior contingent are Joliffes of one sort or another anyway, that’s better than a fair offer. I’m not kidding when I say it’s not my forte … All that “Cleaned your teeth? Washed your hands? Done your duty in the garde-robe?” They take no notice of me and it’s so boring! At least share the boredom with me! Otherwise it won’t get done at all.’

  Dorcas extended a hand and took the one being offered her. ‘Done!’ she said with satisfaction. And, surprisingly: ‘I’ll take tonight’s watch if you like? But you’ll have to brief me. What time do they go down? Eight? Not until eight? Estelle, you spoil them!’

  They dived into an easy domestic conversation, leaving Joe free to enjoy the apple tart and cheese and the quantities of wine poured from cooling earthenware pitchers. Joe thought he could safely scratch the kitchen from his list of facilities to check on. He learned a few more names and listened carefully to a series of thumbnail sketches of the people around the table from Orlando.

  ‘They’ll bring coffee in a moment and then we’ll break up into groups,’ Orlando explained, looking at his wristwatch. ‘We aim to be back at work by two—no siestas! But we like to circulate a bit. Exchange views and gossip, make plans for outings into the countryside by charabanc. You’ve no idea how inspiring it is to share and develop ideas. Gives you a certain confidence to know you’re not alone. We usually settle on some of those piles of cushions and furs they keep about the place in lieu of proper furniture. This crowd seems to rather go for the informal approach,’ he added apologetically.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Joe. ‘I can lounge like a sultan, given the chance. Just don’t expect me to talk art and make any sense.’

  There was a lull while the last of the dessert and cheese plates were carried off and one of the company took the opportunity to ask, ‘Have you asked him, Orlando? What’s he say?’

  Orlando shook his head. He seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, come on, man! You said he wouldn’t mind …’

  ‘Me?’ Joe asked warily, noticing he was the target of all eyes. ‘What won’t I mind?’

  ‘They have some mad idea that you should be asked, although in transit and on vacation, to offer a little professional advice. I didn’t want to impose but … oh, well, they’re so uneasy about it, someone’s bound to bring it up … Might as well be me. Fact is, Joe, we’ve got a little local difficulty.’

  ‘Little local difficulty!’ scoffed one of the women. ‘You call an invasion and sacking by a band of Vandals a “difficulty”?’ Her voice began to climb to a shriek. ‘And when they return? What words will you find to inform the police that we women have all been raped in our beds?’

  ‘Beds, eh? At least we’re to be violated in comfort,’ muttered Estelle to Dorcas who, to Joe’s dismay gave an appreciative giggle.

  Estelle leaned across the table and caught the eye of the speaker, a woman whom Joe might have described as a statuesque redhead—if the statue in question were portraying an Amazon queen. The lady now quivering with anticipated terror appeared to be perfectly capable of repelling a squad of eager Vikings single-handed. And, indeed, dressed for repelling. Joe studied her outfit and tried to repress his subversive thoughts. She was wearing a pair of mannish dungarees, paint-splattered, and the top half flattened an over-generous bosom like a breastplate.

  The elf-like Estelle squared up to her boldly. ‘Put a sock in it, Cecily!’ she said. ‘You’re spreading panic. It’s unfair on Dorcas to greet her with such rubbish. And anyhow—when Orlando says “local” he’s spot on! The drawbridge was up. No one could have got in here from outside after dark, you know that. It’s one of us who’s responsible. He’s probably listening to your hysterical squawks right now and laughing at you. Or we could listen to Guy—it’s most likely one of the live-in staff going on a drunken rampage. No more than that. I’m sure Guy will tell us when he’s discovered his—or their—identity.’

  ‘Orlando?’ said Joe, faintly. ‘Would you care to enlarge? I’m all ears.’

  ‘Better tell him, Pa,’ urged Dorcas. ‘He wouldn’t want to leave me anywhere Vandal-infested, you know.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Orlando heavily. ‘I do so hate a fuss but … it was reall
y rather disquieting …’

  Jeers, hisses and stamping feet urged him to recast his phrases. ‘Very well—it was dashed upsetting! We’re all agreed on that. Who was it who found her? Padraic? Padraic joined us last week on his way through Provence. Would you care to tell Joe what you discovered?’

  A slender man got to his feet and the party fell silent. He had the Irish good looks to go with his name: black hair flopping over his forehead, misty blue eyes and an air of melancholy. The voice that accompanied this romantic outward appearance, though soft, had the resonance of a tenor bell and every word was clear.

  ‘Padraic Connell, Commander. Writer, traveller, song-collector and, when I can no longer fight off the urge, second-rate poet.’

  Good Lord! The man even had that self-disparaging, lop-sided smile that women fell for. Joe glanced sideways to check its effect on Estelle and saw that both she and Dorcas were caught on the hook of his charm. Wide-eyed, mouths ever-so-slightly open, they were eager to hear more. Even the finches at the far end had fallen silent.

  ‘It was two days ago I made the heart-rending discovery.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I was going into the chapel to inspect the medieval fabric: the stones, the statues, the inscriptions—I’d been promised wonders. I’ve a fascination with the Courts of Love which were held in the castles hereabouts. You’ll have heard of the Courts of Love, Commander?’

  Joe didn’t confide that he’d encountered the notion only two hours before in a guidebook. He nodded silently, not wishing to interrupt the man’s flow.

  ‘Well, I’m wandering through this blessed land of Provence in the tracks of these lords and ladies who presided over the birth of a concept so essentially a part of our humanity we are living by it today. I speak of Romantic Love.’ He looked heavenwards for a second while he questioned himself. ‘Now was it the birth or was it simply the acknowledgement of an ideal of love which already existed? An ideal which transcended the boredom and the distasteful duties of noble wedlock?