Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe approached quietly and watched the scene until the bowl was empty. De Pacy got up, grunted and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘Brave lad!’ he murmured. ‘He’s a soldier like his father, Madame Dalbert.’ He turned to Joe and spoke in English. ‘I’m a bit lost. But I think you may be able to make some sense out of all this. All I can gather—and that mainly from Dorcas who came to fetch me—is that the poor lad spent the night trapped in the chapel and that you let him out just now. He’s terrified. He hasn’t told us anything. Doesn’t seem to be able to speak—although I know he can! He has a fine way with words for one so young and swears like a trooper. He refuses to talk to me. Perhaps you could—’

  ‘Why don’t you both move away and let me speak to him?’ said Dorcas. ‘You’re both big frightening men—he’s been told to keep out of your way. He won’t talk to you.’

  They went to stand behind Madame Dalbert while Dorcas approached him and took hold of his hand. ‘Awfully glad you’re back, Marius! We missed you.’ She spoke reassuringly in what Joe thought of as her ‘Provençal voice’. ‘We thought you’d gone to Granny’s but we searched all over the place just in case. Never thought of looking in the chapel. However did you manage to get in?’

  ‘It was all right. I was let in by a grown-up,’ muttered Marius.

  ‘Thought so. Which grown-up was that?’

  ‘Estelle. She found me running to the gateway and stopped me. Said I shouldn’t go down by myself, I’d be missed.’

  ‘Well, she was certainly right. You were missed. And then what did you do?’

  ‘She was a bit cross. I think I was in the way. She said she was meeting someone … And I’d better just come along with her and keep quiet and she’d take me back to the hall for supper when she’d finished.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything?’ asked Dorcas, remembering the conversation in the dormitory.

  ‘Yes. A brown case. A small one.’

  ‘And then what did you do?’

  ‘She opened the door and let me inside. She came in too. She looked at her watch. She told me she’d found the best ever hiding place and I could try it out. She put me in a sort of cupboard with a seat in it and a curtain hanging down.’

  ‘Sounds like a good hidey-hole …’

  ‘It worked! He never saw me!’

  ‘He? Who was that, Marius?’

  ‘The man.’

  ‘A man came in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘How did you know it was a man?’

  Marius frowned. ‘Trousers. Black trousers. And shoes.’

  ‘Did this person know Estelle?’

  ‘Yes. Estelle was laughing.’

  ‘Who was the other person, Marius? Did you recognize the voice?’

  Marius thought hard. ‘No. They were whispering. And, anyway, I didn’t know what they were saying.’

  ‘You mean they were talking English—as I do sometimes?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘How long were they in there … oh, you won’t be able to say in minutes, I know that, but did it seem a short time, a medium time or a very boring long time?’

  ‘I counted to a hundred,’ said Marius proudly and, turning to the audience behind, added, ‘I can count to a hundred! And I started again and got to twenty.’

  Joe felt gooseflesh prick his arms as he listened to the innocent boast. The child owed his life to numbers. If he hadn’t been able to count beyond ten or if he’d called out, ‘… ninety-nine, a hundred’ and jumped out, he wouldn’t have survived to be comforted with ice-cream.

  ‘That was brilliant, Marius!’ Dorcas gave him credit for his skill. ‘So, after a hundred and twenty, Estelle and her friend went out and left you there by yourself. They’d forgotten you were there, you kept so still and quiet?’

  ‘No! No! The man went out. Estelle stayed with me. She didn’t leave me.’ The boy seemed concerned that Estelle should bear no blame.

  ‘She stayed in the chapel with you?’ Dorcas made an effort to rein in her astonishment.

  ‘Yes. All night. She’d put on her nightie and gone to bed. On the big stone bed. She didn’t say goodnight. I think she’d forgotten me.’

  Puzzled, Dorcas glanced up at Joe. He nodded slowly, indicating that she should plough on.

  ‘So Estelle was there with you all night?’

  ‘Yes. I was glad she was there even though she was asleep. I wasn’t so frightened. I went and touched her hand and tried to wake her up but she wouldn’t. When it started to get dark I made a bed for myself by the door and went to sleep. But the noise woke me up. The wind. I started banging on the door with my clog. I really wanted someone to come and let me out. I was crying,’ he admitted. ‘I had a wee and drank some water from a jug …’ He pulled a face at the memory. ‘And then I went back to sleep again. Until the morning. Then I banged again and someone came.’

  He squirmed around and whispered to his mother, ‘Am I in trouble, Maman?’ with the certainty of one who knows he is definitely in the clear.

  ‘I’m trying to persuade Madame Dalbert to take her sons home and have the rest of the day off,’ said de Pacy.

  ‘I think we should ask Marius what he’d like to do,’ Joe suggested.

  ‘Oh, he wants to stay here,’ said Madame Dalbert. ‘He’s just longing to tell his story to René and the others! Aren’t you, my little monkey?’ She tickled him until he began to giggle.

  Her stoic good humour and the laughter melted the tension in the assembled crowd and Joe felt a wave of relief wash over them.

  ‘Then we should say three cheers for the hero of the hour,’ announced de Pacy, correctly interpreting the mood. ‘Hip, hip, hurrah!’ He led the responses with an uninhibited flourish of his silver spoon. Marius chuckled.

  ‘Excuse me? I’m looking for Monsieur de Pacy … Would you by any chance be he?’ enquired a chillingly polite voice as the last hurrah faded. ‘We were directed to the kitchens. Which would seem to be the centre of activity. In a manner of speaking, you could say I had an appointment. Let me present myself: Commissaire Jacquemin of the Brigade Criminelle, Paris.’ He allowed a moment for the import of this to sink in and then added: ‘And this is my assistant, Lieutenant Martineau of the Marseilles police. I apologize—we arrive a few minutes early.’

  He exchanged a knowing glance with his assistant.

  ‘Not at all, Jacquemin,’ said Joe, stepping forward to take the fire while de Pacy put his spoon away and regained his aplomb. ‘You arrive, in fact,’ he glanced briefly at his watch, ‘sixteen hours too late.’ He had been irritated by the Frenchman’s supercilious manner. ‘Monsieur de Pacy you have correctly identified. I am Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard, London. But you must explain yourself. We had been promised a local inspector … Isn’t that what we understood, de Pacy?’

  The steward was trying valiantly to disguise his bemusement and, like Joe, clearly resenting the cold stare of the French policeman. ‘Yes, indeed. An Inspector Audibert was so good as to offer his services. But we know the force is up to its ears in cases. We’ll just have to accept the attentions of whatever officers they feel able to spare us,’ he murmured, his smile taking the edge off his cynicism. ‘Sandilands, I know you have familiarized yourself with the circumstances of our little lapidary calamity—perhaps you will conduct your confrères to the chapel and introduce them to what remains of the Lady Aliénore?’

  He turned an anxious face to Joe and murmured: ‘Find Estelle at once and have her sent to me. That young lady has some explaining to do.’

  ‘Certainly I’d be glad to do that, but, de Pacy, before we proceed, there’s something you absolutely have to hear …’ Joe looked around at the alert faces, excited by the dramas they were witnessing and eager for more, and he decided on discretion. He spoke into de Pacy’s ear. ‘Regarding Estelle. Before you do anything else, I want you to have a word with Nathan in the hall. He was with me just now when we found Marius. T
ake Dorcas with you. I’ll conduct the—Commissaire, did he say?—over to inspect the scene in the chapel. And we’ll see you over there in a few minutes.’

  He changed into English. ‘Dorcas. There’s something you need to be told also—but not in front of little ears—if you know what I mean. Go with Guy to the hall, listen to what Nathan has to say and do what you can for the children. Try not to frighten them—they’ve had enough disturbance for one day. Jacquemin … Martineau … follow me.’

  They stood with Joe by the chapel door and, before entering, Jacquemin decided to establish a thing or two.

  ‘Sandilands—this rank of yours … Commander? … I’m not familiar with it.’

  A stickler for protocol, evidently.

  Joe reckoned that at any Interpol conference table, the adjutant whose job it was to care about precedence would probably assign a commander a seat at least one notch higher than a commissaire. Whereas the regional French Brigades had at least eighty-five commissaires whom Joe would have ranked with ‘superintendent’, the Metropolitan Police of London boasted only two commanders and these came immediately above chief superintendent. Early in his police career, Joe had been made up to the extraordinary rank of third commander with special duties, duties resulting from the changes in policing following the war. Resulting also from the changes in the criminals themselves.

  The humble bobby, and his not vastly less humble superior, was increasingly ill qualified to deal with the officer-class, battle-hardened men who had emerged from the war with an embittered view of society. They were wrong-footed by the country’s intelligentsia, moving ever towards the left; they were speechless before the reasoned arguments and threats of direct physical action of the suffragettes; left puffing behind on their bicycles by the new motoring thieves. The Commissioner had looked about him for a man who could head a strike squad of fast-moving, socially confident and clever young men to plug these gaps in the service. Joseph Sandilands had come to his attention. Glittering war record, something of a linguist, the man had played a diplomatic role in his years in France and would have no difficulty liaising with Special Branch. Above all he was pronounced, by one of his supporters, to be, ‘Quite the gentleman. Scottish, of course, but aren’t they all these days.’

  Far too young for the appointment, but he’d impressed the new and reforming Commissioner at interview. Sir Nevil had thought it wise to dub him, on acceptance of the offer, Commander. It had a certain naval ring to it that would fool some and impress others. A high rank indeed.

  ‘I understand it to be equal with your own rank, Jacquemin, as far as it’s possible to draw comparisons between our two so different forces,’ Joe said diplomatically.

  He knew that a man of Jacquemin’s kidney would lose no time in checking this information and he would be non-plussed by Joe’s response. But, for the moment, Joe wanted to get the best out of this peacock. Better not to set fire to his tail feathers.

  ‘Indeed? And—tell me—are you a guest here or are you on official British business? Interpol or the like?’ Jacquemin asked.

  ‘No official capacity whatsoever. I am a guest.’

  The response appeared to please the Commissaire. He did not go so far as to smile his pleasure but he smoothed down one side of his moustache in a quietly triumphant gesture.

  ‘Good. Good. And the scene of the depredation is to be found in this building, are you saying? Then you may safely leave us to investigate.’ He paused before the great door and Martineau set about opening it. ‘I’m not seriously expecting many answers from a broken statue but I’m sure we’ll arrive at a solution that will settle any remaining qualms. I’ll hand you an official and calming line that you may safely give out to the ladies.’

  He dismissed Joe with a curt nod.

  ‘Commissaire, before you enter, there’s something you should hear …’ Joe began, putting out a staying hand, but, presented abruptly with the policeman’s back, he shrugged his shoulders and watched the pair enter the chapel. He lit a cigarette and settled to wait for them to come out again.

  Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later they emerged, blinking into the sunlight, subdued and silent.

  ‘Sandilands!’ the Commissaire’s voice rang out on seeing him. ‘You’ve had your fun! Now bloody well get back in here and tell me what the hell’s going on!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Joe had been startled to hear the big gun of the Paris Brigade Criminelle announcing himself. He had no idea what this hero was doing down here so far from his own bailiwick or why he was supplanting the Marseille Inspector but could have wished the man a thousand miles away. Reports of Jacquemin and his policing methods had spread across the Channel and had been received with a certain admiring incredulity by some in authority at the Met.

  But not by Joe.

  The ‘shoot first and kick a confession out of them if they survive’ method of crime-solving favoured by the Frenchman was not to his taste. But the unknown Lieutenant? A local man, clearly, with the bold dark look of a Provençal. His presence could prove useful. With a bit of luck and a nudge in the right direction, the Commissaire might decide their problems were all a bit below his status or out of his purlieu, say farewell after lunch and leave the whole thing in the hands of this Martineau and the local Prefecture of Police.

  The scene in the chapel seemed unchanged when Joe entered. He looked around him suspiciously. You couldn’t always count on police officers home-bred or foreign to restrain themselves from meddling with a crime scene but these men knew their business apparently. Joe was impressed to see they had left their shoes by the door and were padding about in their socks. Joe did likewise. Without a word said, the three men went to stand by the tomb and bowed their heads in respect. Even in death, Estelle continued to weave her spell and draw the eye.

  Jacquemin broke the silence. ‘Your notes, Lieutenant, if you please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The officer flipped open his notebook. ‘I summarize: Date, time, place and all that … Three victims noted.’ He paused and offered: ‘Oh—and two suspects.’

  Joe intercepted a warning glance from Jacquemin and the young man, brought to heel, continued: ‘In date order of commission of crime:

  ‘First victim. Stone carving. Smashed by hammer or similar. Remains removed from original site and piled where shown on sketch. Provocatively displayed.

  ‘Second victim. One rabbit. Death from a broken neck estimated to have occurred a week before inspection. Provocatively displayed where shown on sketch.

  ‘Third victim. Young lady. Identity to be established. Fatal stab wound to heart. Weapon ancient dagger, still in wound. Estimated time of death—sixteen to twenty hours before time of inspection. Full rigor still evident. Body provocatively displayed.

  ‘Noteworthy feature: signs near door of temporary occupation by intruder. Flower vase containing suspected urine bears traces of fingerprints. Tramp/wanderer of some sort seeking shelter or setting up an ambush position?’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Now, Sandilands, perhaps you are in a position and of a mind to fill in some of our gaps … answer a few questions such as: Who? What? And why the bloody hell? We’re listening!’

  ‘She’s English and her name’s Estelle …’ he began.

  And concluded: ‘Well, there you are, gentlemen. That’s as much as I can tell you. You’ll probably find more personal information if you locate her belongings. She had a place in the women’s dormitory. Miss Makepeace will be able to show you. There’s clearly a meaning—a message—here that strangers such as ourselves are not able to make sense of at first sight. The element of display you’ve noted I don’t believe was intended for our eyes—transient visitors that we are.’

  ‘Yes, visitors. I understand the place to be full of visitors. Art school in progress or some such?’

  Joe reached into his pocket and brought out a sheet of paper. ‘Here, take this. I’ve made a copy. It’s a list of everyone who’s spent time under the castle roof since t
he beginning of the season. With a few details I’ve added myself as they became known to me.’

  ‘Thank you, Sandilands. Very useful.’

  ‘It’s incomplete. For more information you must refer to the steward or the lord himself when he returns.’

  ‘Returns? From where? How long’s he been gone?’

  ‘He left after lunch yesterday. He rode over to spend the afternoon and the night with his friend some ten miles away but declared he would be back in time to greet you. Perhaps we should open the door and declare we’re ready for business?’

  He opened the door and stepped out to catch sight of the lord walking across the courtyard from the great hall towards them, a motoring coat flung across his shoulders like a cape.

  He hailed Joe. ‘Sandilands! I return not a moment too soon! Guy tells me I must prepare myself for a pitiful and distressing sight. Perhaps you’d show me? And introduce me to our French policemen.’ He took off the coat on entering the building and threw it over a chair. ‘Jacquemin? Martineau? Do I have that right? Welcome to Silmont. Horse went lame. Had to leave him in Alphonse’s stable and accept a lift in his Delage. Now, gentlemen, what do we have?’

  He approached the tomb and began to falter as he took in the unearthly scene. At that moment the sun shifted its angle and a shaft of light, diffused through a pane of coloured glass, dusted Estelle’s cheeks with the rosy glow of life. The lord staggered, and for the second time that morning Joe found himself offering an arm in support. He did not brush it away but clung, trembling and panting. All animation drained from his features, his mouth tightened. In an automatic gesture, he put a steadying hand over his heart. He tried to speak but no word would come.