Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Well done!’ said Joe, amused. ‘You’ve saved me hours if not days of research!’

  ‘Delighted to be of help, old chap. When you find the paper in question, you’ll have to search with a fine-tooth comb because the story I recall, to everyone’s disappointment, only made one appearance. I expect further reports were instantly suppressed by the powers of … well, shall we just say—those with an interest. But even they couldn’t censor the tittle-tattle!’

  The priest’s housekeeper showed Joe into Father Pierre’s study. ‘Commander Sandilands, Father,’ she murmured and left them together.

  ‘Good of you to see me, Father,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve just spent an hour with Alphonse Lacroix who gave me your name as one who might possibly be able to help me.’

  ‘Sit down. Sit down. You’re very welcome. But—help an English policeman?’ He looked again at the card he held in his hand. ‘A Scotland Yard Commander? Are you sure you want to see me?’

  Joe assessed the age of the priest. The unlined, waxen features were difficult to read but he decided that he must be in late middle age and probably a contemporary of Lacroix and his friends. Joe repeated the half-truths he had given earlier to the bridge group with such success and concluded: ‘So—I would be enormously grateful to hear where I might find this Father Ignace.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you,’ came the cold response. ‘The man you seek does not exist.’

  ‘I have it on very good authority that he does, or did, in the years before the war. If you are unable to give this matter your personal attention, could you at least direct me to the division of the Church which keeps records of the priesthood? I should like to look him up.’

  ‘There is no record of such a man available to you, Commander. You will find his name on no church roll.’

  To Joe’s surprise, the priest got to his feet, walked to the door and opened it. ‘You must excuse me, Commander. I recall that I have an engagement with a parishioner. My housekeeper will show you out. I suggest you waste no more of your time looking for a phantom priest. There is no Father Ignace.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was five o’clock before Joe wearily parked his car between the Hispano-Suiza and a matched pair of Citroën police cars and presented himself again in the great hall. Someone must have been watching for him at the door. The cry went up at once: ‘He’s here!’

  He was assailed without warning from all sides by distraught, angry and demanding voices. Hands tugged at his sleeves, someone trod on his foot. Joe hated mobs. Did twenty people constitute a mob? he wondered. Yes. If they were angry, vociferous and without a leader.

  ‘It’s a disgrace!’

  ‘Someone must do something!’

  ‘This’ll show us what Scotland Yard’s made of!’ Joe thought he caught Petrovsky’s subversive rumble.

  The cacophony was quelled by a firm and totally reasonable plea delivered over their heads by Orlando to ‘let the poor bloke have a cup of tea, for God’s sake—before you tear him apart!’

  A cup was instantly at his elbow, held out by Jane Makepeace. In a co-ordinated move with Orlando, she managed to cut Joe from the herd and settle him at one end of the table, sitting between them, next to the teapot. The crowd did not disperse but seethed about, looking likely to invade his peace at any moment. He guessed he was immune from them as long as he clutched his teacup in his hand.

  ‘Am I hearing this aright?’ Joe asked, unbelieving. ‘That lot are falling over themselves to tell me that an arrest has been made? Who’s been arrested? And on what charge?’

  ‘Much as I hate to echo the sentiments of the crowd,’ gritted Jane, ‘especially this crowd—Joe, you’ve got to do something!’

  ‘They have a point,’ added Orlando. ‘Think of the fellow least likely to have done it, the one we all love the most—they’ve collared him for it!’

  ‘They, and by that I mean the senior Frenchman—Jacquemin, is it?—have arrested Frederick Ashwell. Freddie! For the murder of Estelle. That’s as much as we know. They’ve got him in there now—in Guy’s … in the steward’s office. That poor young boy! They’ve been grilling him for over an hour. It’s ludicrous! Fred wouldn’t swat a fly if it settled on his cream bun!’

  ‘I’ve watched him catch a wasp that was being a nuisance and let it go in the lavender muttering “brother wasp”!’ huffed Orlando.

  ‘He’s a baby—only just out of the Slade!’ Jane’s face was pink with indignation. Her dark eyes flashed with spirit and she tugged anxiously at a lock of silky hair. Joe wondered why he hadn’t noticed at first sight what a very pretty woman she was.

  ‘Is there anything you can do, Joe?’

  He drained his cup of tea, set it down on the table and got to his feet. Time for Sir Lancelot to parade again. Joe steeled himself. Unflustered and commanding, he turned his battered side to the crowd and eyed them with what he hoped was a repressive glare. It worked a treat on new recruits and old stagers alike. It had signally failed with a tiger but it seemed to be working now with the excitable bunch in front of him. They fell silent.

  ‘Don’t worry! I’m sure there’s something I can do, Jane.’ His voice was directed over her head at the crowd. ‘I’ll go directly to Jacquemin and sort this out. I’m expecting to find we’re hearing an unconfirmed rumour. What we need is information. When we have the facts we can take the appropriate action.’

  Mutters of agreement started to go up on hearing his stressed words. Heads nodded support and they began to move aside, making a way through for him.

  ‘Could you find Guy, tell him I’m back and ask him to attend with me? There may be useful evidence he can supply—’ he started to say.

  Jane replied lugubriously: ‘He’s tried! He’s as angry as we are. But they wouldn’t listen to him. The Commissaire threw Guy out of his own office! He’s stormed off in a temper. I’ll try to find him.’

  The rebellious grumbles started up again at the mention of Jacquemin’s overbearing behaviour to the steward. De Pacy was a popular man also in that company. Joe heard anti-French suggestions of an inventive nature being proposed by Ernest Fenton and seconded by Derek Whittlesford and thought the sooner he could bring young Frederick out of the office all in one piece or, for choice, selected body parts of the Commissaire in shreds, the better.

  He approached de Pacy’s office, nodding to left and right, feeling like a matador entering the ring. The door was, as before, flanked by two sentinels. The puzzled footmen had been replaced by two flint-eyed policemen from Avignon who seemed prepared to block his way. Joe showed his warrant card and informed them that he was expected. He knocked firmly once and walked straight inside.

  He addressed the seated Commissaire from the doorway. ‘Excellent news, Jacquemin! Lord Silmont’s day passed exactly as advertised. No variation. No aberration. Three impeccable witnesses. I’ll let you have my report this evening.’

  ‘Good. Good. Always a pleasure to hear our lords and masters are in the clear,’ he drawled. ‘Now, what may I do for you?’

  ‘Fill me in. Where’ve we got to? Have you found her passport? Contacted her next of kin?’

  ‘Of course.’ He pointed to a battered navy Vuitton suitcase behind the door. ‘That’s hers. We packed all her belongings in there. Nothing of interest or value. Mostly clothes. Her parents—named in her passport—were alerted by the force in Avignon and instructions sought. Some difficulties there,’ he commented. ‘Her father would appear to be some sort of dignitary in the Church with an address in Canterbury.’

  He passed a scrap of paper over the desk to Joe. ‘Anything known?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘They declined to travel down to view the body or pick up her things. We’ve been asked to dispose of them as we think fit.’

  Joe grunted. ‘There’s parental affection for you! No more than Estelle would have expected, I think. Has her body been taken care of?’

  ‘It’s gone to Avignon, sir,’ said Martineau,
eager and deferential. ‘Top priority! We’ll hear back tomorrow—’

  ‘That will be all, Lieutenant,’ said Jacquemin frostily with a nod indicating the presence of an interviewee in the room.

  Joe affected to notice for the first time the blond young man standing, hands cuffed behind his back and swaying slightly, opposite the Commissaire. ‘Ah! Freddie, my boy!’ he said jovially and went to pat him encouragingly on the back. ‘Helping out the PJ, are you? Good boy! But don’t stand on ceremony—have a seat, won’t you?’ Joe pulled a chair over and pushed Frederick on to it.

  Frederick turned an anguished face to Joe. His long lashes were damp, his cheeks streaked with orange and green paint and trails of facial effluvia. Joe thought, with a stab of pity, that the young man looked like a pagan villager in The Rite of Spring a minute before the end of the last act, collapsing in a heap and dying of physical and emotional exhaustion. Embarrassed, Freddie twisted his neck and wiped his nose on his lapel.

  ‘Strange fact I’ve discovered, Jacquemin, about artists,’ said Joe conversationally. ‘They never keep a clean handkerchief about them. Dishclouts of the most dubious provenance in every pocket but not a scrap of cotton to blow your nose on. Here, Freddie, have a good toot!’ He held out his own cotton square and waited pointedly until Jacquemin nodded to Martineau to remove the handcuffs.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, Joe!’ Freddie burst out. ‘Estelle! She’s dead! Murdered, they’re saying. Why? And these fellows think I killed her! Me!’ He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. ‘Idiots!’ he snarled, gaining courage from Joe’s hand on his shoulder. And, losing all control: ‘Arseholes! I loved her! I loved her!’ he screamed again. Jacquemin sighed. ‘We all heard that, I think? Write it down, Martineau. In English and French. You’d be surprised how often that confession leads to the more serious one we’re looking for. You’ve arrived, once again, Commander, at the moment critique. In at the kill, eh?’

  ‘Explain yourself, Jacquemin.’ Joe’s tone was easy but menacing. He’d guessed from the Commissaire’s failure to throw him out at once on his arrogant British bum that he had, during Joe’s absence, made that essential phone call to establish Joe’s bona fides and check on his rank. The Yard, if consulted, would have confirmed his high office in the force and most likely—since the enquiry came from France—would have mentioned the role he was playing in establishing Interpol, based in their own city of Lyon. A politically difficult moment. Jacquemin must by now know that he was outranked and outplayed by Commander Sandilands.

  So why was he not hopping mad? Why wasn’t he reminding Joe that, however elevated he might be back home, here he was without any authority? His equanimity was alarming.

  ‘My colleague, Lieutenant Martineau of the local police force, was just about to inform this young person that, following his confession, he is to be taken away to Avignon, there to face the examining magistrate and answer a charge of murder.’

  ‘I heard him just now confess that he loved Estelle. No more than that. If loving Estelle is a crime, man, you can slip the cuffs on at least five gentlemen baying for your blood out there. Six if you count yours truly.’ Joe stuck out his hands cynically in the receptive position. ‘She was a lovable girl. Her death has left us all distraught. We want to see the guilty man behind bars and soon. But a sacrificial goat shoved off a cliff satisfies no one. And makes the rest of the herd more difficult to handle.’

  ‘We don’t yet have Ashwell’s confession in so many words,’ said Jacquemin. ‘But we do have it in paint.’ He enjoyed Joe’s puzzlement for a moment and went on: ‘His crime is emblazoned on a wall. Painted two metres high in glorious colour and minute detail. And it’s not merely a faithful portrayal of the crime after the event … oh, no … what we have is a statement of intent. We have a blue-print—an all-colours-of-the-rainbow print—for murder.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s even signed and dated it! I invite you to come and have a look.’

  He smiled wolfishly at Ashwell. ‘And we’ll take the great designer along with us to explain his theory and procedure, shall we? His modus operandi, I think we’d call it in the trade.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The small group left the office and headed off back through the hall towards the courtyard. The two French officers, with Frederick walking between them, followed by Joe and one of the gendarmes, raised a few questioning eyebrows but no one tried to bar their way. There was a moment of farce when Jacquemin was on the point of making the wrong turning and the prisoner had to tug the Commissaire by the sleeve and steer him on to the right path.

  They emerged into warm late afternoon sunlight. Jacquemin had his bearings now and strode out for the north-facing cloister, a cool and airy spot, sheltered from wind and sun by its width and the arcaded aspect it presented to the courtyard.

  ‘Outdoors?’ the Commissaire mused. ‘I have to ask: is this a sensible place to create a work of art?’

  ‘It’s not intended to be permanent,’ said Frederick. ‘I’m experimenting with what is rapidly becoming a lost skill. Lord Silmont, as you know, is an art lover in the true sense and I have found him very ready to support endeavours which may not seem immediately attractive to those who only view art in the saleroom. He understands the need for experimentation. I’ve changed the plaster formula and the schemes for the painting several times already.’

  ‘What’s all this mess?’ Jacquemin wanted to know. He kicked with his foot at a slew of discarded crayons and scraps of paper that littered the paved floor.

  ‘The children,’ said Frederick. ‘They gather here in the shade and watch me work. They’ve been trying out their own ideas. They ran off in a hurry when little Marius burst out of the chapel.’ He bent down and started to gather up the remains of his impromptu art school.

  ‘Oh, leave it, for goodness sake! Now—starting on the left? Good. Explain this … this …’

  ‘Delectable fresco?’ supplied Joe kindly. ‘It’s stunning! Chagal would admire. But first, tell us, Fred, why is one of the four leaves—would you call them leaves, these sections?—covered over?’

  ‘There’s an illustration for each of the acts—they follow on each other like chapters in a story—and that’s the last one. Act 4, you could say, the finale. I only finished yesterday. I do one section at a time. One a day. My giornata, it’s called in the trade. Fresco means fresh. You’ve got to finish your picture while the stucco is still damp so that the paint you apply bonds with the plaster. No time for second thoughts or touching up. You have to go at it! In this weather I sprinkle my surfaces evening and morning with water and, to control the rate of drying, I drape a length of fabric over it when I’ve finished. I find it keeps the circulation of air to the minimum. I’m just feeling my way, you understand … using whatever seems to work. Guided by some useful instruction books the lord’s lent me. In Italian. I say—anyone here know any Italian—’

  ‘We start here,’ Jacquemin interrupted.

  ‘Ah yes. Now, this one here, the first, is, naturally, the scenery for the opening act of the ballet …’

  Fred was getting into his stride, almost losing sight of the reason he was here. ‘There’s been a deplorable audience reaction to some modern ballets—The Rite of Spring, Petroushka, Firebird. Ignorant idiots who thought they were coming to swoon to a performance of Nutcracker or hum along with The Yeomen of the Guard were disappointed. Some hissed and walked out in a marked manner, some got into arguments with others more avant-garde. Fisticuffs broke out in the aisles. Right from the opening bars! In The Rite of Spring a riot ensued. Police were called. Many customers took a dislike to the set. A brilliant design by Nicholas Roerich. The man’s an archaeologist as well as a painter—he knew his stuff. But the design was lacking in the colour the audience wanted. From the title they were expecting yellows and greens and choruses of pink-cheeked virgins crowned with may-blossom. What they were presented with was sombre: shadowy purples and moss greens and glacier white, wonderfully evoking the awakening Steppes of Asi
a at the moment they begin to shake off winter. Bags of drama! But not comforting. Not the background for a jolly night out. What’s more, the maidens were a disappointment. Clearly from rural Russia not Ruritania—grey-clad scarecrows with painted pagan faces—’

  ‘I think the audience response may have had more to do with the musical score,’ Jacquemin cut him short. ‘It was the first notes of the bassoon, I understand, that got them on their feet. Monsieur Stravinsky can clear a concert hall faster than the fire brigade. Let us hope that the composer Petrovsky has in mind is more in tune with French ears. Now, guide us over your landscape will you, young man. By the shortest route.’

  Frederick waved his arm and began to tell the story Joe had heard from Martineau in the chapel. The two men pulled surprised faces at each other behind Jacquemin’s back.

  The Devil’s Bride was intended to intrigue an audience newly eager to rediscover and celebrate its roots, the painter told them. And what rich roots! The ancient Provençal tongue had been recently resurrected by the poet Mistral; folk tales going back to the Roman occupation and still being passed down by word of mouth in the villages had been discovered and preserved in print. In music too, discoveries had been made. Folk songs, shepherd’s chants, gypsy tunes and love songs from the time of the troubadours had been coaxed from elderly inhabitants with long memories.

  The story, the music, the setting, all were rooted in this soil, Frederick explained to the accompaniment of enthusiastic nods from Martineau, but the work would have an appeal for the whole world. If they could only find a costume designer with the genius of Léon Bakst, they would have a runaway success. There would be tours to America as well as the capitals of Europe.