Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  A winding staircase led to a first-floor office with a stout oak door, the twin of the one in Petrovsky’s apartment. The manservant knocked gently and entered. Joe hung back and heard him say: ‘Excuse me, sir. I’ve got that Englishman with me. The policeman.’

  And the gruff response: ‘Tell him I’ll see him. Just give me a minute, will you, Félix.’

  There was the sound of furniture creaking, foot-stamping and nose-blowing, and Guy de Pacy appeared in the doorway, rubbing an unshaven face. ‘Thank you, Félix. That’ll be all.’ Even red-eyed and black-bristled, he cut an impressive figure, Joe thought.

  Joe went in and took the chair being pointed out to him. ‘Forgive the squalor,’ mumbled de Pacy, making a careless gesture around the room..

  Joe looked for the squalor and saw that it consisted of one jacket flung around a chair back. Everything else was neat and comfortable, a working room supplied with arm-chairs and bookshelves. A phonograph standing in a corner was giving out a moody piece of Mahler that Joe thought he recognized. Kindertotenlieder. De Pacy hurried to lift the needle arm and turn the record off.

  ‘Now—where in hell did you get to this morning?’ de Pacy said, beginning to stride about the room. ‘I was looking to you to exercise some control over your fellow countrymen. Have you walked through the great hall? I peered in this morning and decided to leave them to it. Jacquemin thought it would be a good idea to keep the lot of them herded in together. Mad notion! He’ll find he’s got more corpses on his hands than he knows what to do with. By the end of the day, we’ll be looking at the Black Hole of Calcutta! And I’m quite sure I don’t care a button!’

  The steward was talking in his bluff tone to fill a gap and distract Joe from an examination of his emotion-racked face.

  Joe decided to have none of his nonsense.

  ‘I was in Avignon,’ he said. ‘At the morgue. She didn’t suffer, Guy, the pathologist assures me. She could hardly have been aware of what was happening to her. She looked very peaceful. I paid my last respects to Estelle and her baby.’

  De Pacy uttered a strangled cry and went to collapse on the other chair, turning his face from Joe.

  ‘How the hell …?’

  ‘It’s not usual to make the sign of the cross twice over a body. Not unless, perhaps, you understand a second tiny life to have been lost also.’

  ‘My child,’ said de Pacy. ‘And I was only aware of his existence for one day. I say his because Estelle was quite certain that we would have a son. It might well have been a girl. Would they have been able to tell?’

  The naive question wrung Joe’s heart and made him feel uneasy. Responding with kindness to the man’s grief: ‘It’s thought you would have had a son,’ he lied. Somehow he judged the devious answer would bring comfort to this military man.

  The vision of Estelle in her blue Worth dinner gown came back to Joe with a memory of her perfume and the elation he’d sensed in her. Elation not chemically achieved as he’d thought, by cocaine, but by love. Orlando had had it right. She was in love. And Joe was looking at the object of her affections. Dishevelled and sniffling, de Pacy slumped in his chair and it was suddenly hard to see in this man the hero Estelle had clearly fallen for.

  ‘She loved you very much, Guy,’ Joe said quietly.

  ‘How do you know?’ The drooping head shot up. Far from distressing him further as Joe had feared, it seemed he’d triggered in de Pacy an eagerness to hear his reassurances.

  ‘I was with her on that last night. The night she wore her blue gown. She took me on to the roof … No! In all innocence, I assure you, old man! To give evidence. To tell me what she’d observed from up there on the night of the statue-smashing. She had an assignation—with you, I think—and she dashed off to keep it. But not before I’d got the clear impression that here was a woman in love. Not a sight I’ve had any personal experience of, I confess. Something similar but not like this. Once seen, never forgotten. You have been a fortunate man, Guy, to have known such affection.’

  A watery smile rewarded his insights. ‘That was the last night we spent together. It was the night she told me. That she was having a child and that it was mine. You won’t understand the feeling, Joe. News like that turns your life around. It can be devastating … It can be elevating. It made me twice the man I was. I was damn nearly destroyed by the war …’

  To Joe’s dismay, he began to peel away the grey kid glove from his right hand to show a twisted claw from which the skin had been burned away. The two men looked at it silently. De Pacy with revulsion, Joe with politely concealed embarrassment. In his tight London world, men did not go about revealing their war wounds. And, he suspected, in de Pacy’s world also. He was being granted a sight of the depths of despair to which the man had sunk over the past two days and he steeled himself for further revelations.

  ‘This isn’t pretty but, by God, it’s nothing compared with the state of my soul or whatever you like to call that inner spark.’ De Pacy gave a bitter smile. ‘I’m not a religious man, Sandilands, but I find myself using their vocabulary. I’m talking about that bit of us that is truly who we are. Is that the soul? Mine was atrophied like this claw. And then, one night, Estelle kissed my hand and burst into tears over it. And suddenly, what had been a bit of an unexpected fling for me became something far more serious. I knew I loved her. I asked her to marry me and she agreed. The future was suddenly in focus.’ He looked about him wildly. ‘I was ready to leave this suffocating place behind us, the years of servitude and subordination, and take off with her wherever she wanted to go. I’d even have gone with her to England. I have resources of my own. We’d have managed.’

  He looked Joe in the eye. ‘How did he find out, Joe? How in hell did my cousin know? We were so careful. It started out as a flirtation and then an indulgence and, before we’d realized it, we were in it up to our necks and there was no going back. At my age! But then they say that love, like the measles, catches you harder the older you are. And I had a bad case! I knew he’d disapprove. Send her away. Find a way to hurt her. We decided to affect a cooling off and put on a show of dislike for the audience. We’d spend our days staring coldly at each other and our nights in each other’s arms. Estelle flirted with the other men—even you came in for a little attention—to put everyone on the wrong track and I pretended I didn’t mind. I was sure Bertrand was fooled.’

  ‘You were so afraid of your cousin finding out?’

  ‘Yes. Bloody mad Silmont! He hated her, discovered what we had become to each other and killed her because of it. Why did he have to kill her? She didn’t want any of this … his possessions … not any of it.’ He waved his arms around. ‘But I am his heir. He wouldn’t risk her presence, her influence over me contaminating the estate. If I’d married her, I’d have been—in his eyes—bringing back an infection into the family.’

  ‘You say you are his heir. Tell me, de Pacy—it may all be different in France—but what’s to prevent him, on a whim, changing his will and leaving his worldly goods elsewhere? In England, cats’ homes and donkey sanctuaries are known to thrive on last-minute changes of mind by vindictive old maniacs.’

  De Pacy glanced briefly at a file on a top shelf and smiled. ‘Don’t be concerned. All arrangements are made and will be executed according to the law. And should there be any awkwardness about possessions I could call on the testimony of a specialist in Paris whom I insisted my cousin consult some time ago. The demented have no more legal powers than they have in your country. He knows this. He knows Silmont will be mine. He couldn’t bear the thought that a golden-haired, foreign and—I admit it—promiscuous girl, the image of Aliénore, should share it with me. That her son might inherit one day.

  ‘I’m warning you, Sandilands—he’s not going to get away with it! If you don’t take his rotting carcase away from here, I’ll finish him off myself. But—don’t be concerned! I’ll kill him cleverly … neatly. You won’t be called on to arrest me.’

  ‘No need for that, Guy
. No need for violence of any kind. Calm down! Your cousin didn’t murder Estelle. I have myself confirmed his alibi. He it was who smashed the statue as a prelude, indeed, to offering up Estelle as some mad sacrifice to the full moon. But he was thwarted. His plans went awry. He was in a paroxysm of fury when he returned from his bridge-playing session to find someone had beaten him to it. And using the very method he’d planned himself.’

  ‘You’re sure of this, Sandilands?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Then, if I am to accept this … and I suppose I must … what are we to understand? That someone in this household has been aware of everything from the beginning?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe quietly. ‘You’re right. Someone here has been close enough to Silmont to wriggle inside his diseased brain and follow his sick thoughts to their conclusion. There’s some human spirochete about—someone in our company who’s as mad as he is.’

  ‘Hideous thought, indeed, Sandilands.’

  Joe got to his feet and prepared to leave. He gestured to the phonograph. ‘I’ll leave you in peace with your grief,’ he said. ‘“Wenn dein Mütterlein”, wasn’t it, the song I interrupted? … Oh, light of your father’s life—a joy lost too soon. I don’t have that quite right—but near enough, I think. My condolences, de Pacy.’

  De Pacy looked uncomfortable as he murmured his thanks. ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ he persisted, walking to the door with Joe.

  ‘I’m almost certain. But I do nothing without firm proof. And this I hope to have in my possession,’ he smiled and continued, ‘before nightfall. Or I risk the grave displeasure of Lady Moon and her devoted acolyte!’

  De Pacy groaned. ‘Much longer in this madhouse, Sandilands, and you’ll be as barmy as the rest of us. Hang on to what’s left of your wits, man!’

  Joe walked swiftly down the stairs to the reception room where the manservant was standing waiting by the door.

  ‘Thank you, Félix, I’ll find my own way back.’ And he added, in a spirit of mischief: ‘I think you may extinguish the candles now. And—leave the door open for a blast of air, would you? One could choke on the funereal fug in here.’

  Joe stepped outside into the sunshine, seized on his sanity with both hands and breathed in a deep, clean lungful of the breeze blowing from the pine-clad hills.

  Chapter Thirty

  Joe stood for a moment, trying to shake off his bleak mood, and was surprisingly uplifted to spot a familiar figure in a red-striped dress striding over the drawbridge and heading towards him.

  ‘Dorcas!’ he shouted and went to meet her. On impulse he seized her and swung her round his head like an infant. ‘You arrive in time to save my sanity, child!’

  ‘Gracious, Joe,’ she said, wriggling to the ground. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Other people’s madness is what! I’m reeling from a double dose. And your fresh face is just the antidote I need. Shall we fire up the old Morris, climb aboard and leave them all behind to kill each other off? I think it might be a kindness in the long run.’

  ‘Oh, I see! No arrests yet, then? I was hoping you’d have someone in a dungeon by now and be sounding the all-clear for the boys to come back.’

  ‘Not yet. But I do know who planned and carried out Estelle’s murder. My hands are tied in the matter. I can only report my suspicions to Jacquemin and leave the heavy stuff to him. But, tell me, miss—what are you doing up here? Have you deserted your charges?’

  Dorcas smiled. ‘That officer who’s been asked to guard us all was an inspired choice! He’s a country boy and he’s set himself to chopping logs, repairing the out-house roof, feeding the chickens. The boys follow him everywhere, adoring. They have no father, you know, though they remember him. And their grandmother’s a widow too.’

  ‘And how are you getting along with the old girl?’

  A broader smile greeted the question. ‘She’s wonderful—compared with the granny fate dealt me! She’s their father’s mother and took them all in when Monsieur Dalbert died—belatedly—of wounds he got during the war, three years ago. She’s well able to keep the boys safe and entertained. It’s a small house and I thought I might be in the way but I think I made myself useful.’

  As they spoke, they were making their way over to the great hall. ‘Look, Dorcas,’ Joe said hurriedly. ‘I’ve been busy but not so busy I’ve forgotten about your … er … commission. In fact I was in Avignon this morning in pursuit of your instruction, searching the archives of the local paper.’

  ‘With any success?’

  ‘Yes. Great progress! I have your mother’s name. I know the name of her village. It’s just a few miles down the valley. I thought I’d go and make some enquiries this afternoon if Jacquemin can spare me. We’re close, Dorcas. Very close.’

  Dorcas stopped, turned and looked him straight in the eye. This honest gaze, he’d discovered, was usually followed by a whopping lie and he prepared himself to hear one. ‘Listen, Joe. For once, I’m going to say something sensible. Something you’ll want to hear. I’ve been thinking. You have far too much on your plate. Truly important things. It would be selfish of me to expect you to go on searching on my behalf and I want you to stop now. That’s really what I’ve come up for … to tell you this.’

  Joe listened on, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I want you to forget what I told you and that I ever asked you to find my mother. I’ve thought about it some more and I’ve come to a conclusion—that if I did find her, it would all be a mess. She mightn’t want to see me. After all, she did go off and leave me to be brought up by Nanny Tilling, didn’t she? She almost certainly wouldn’t want to see Orlando again. I expect his annoying ways were what drove her away in the first place.’

  ‘You’re not telling me everything, are you, Dorcas?’

  She began to find the toes of his shoes especially interesting and was no longer able to meet his eye. Was she about to tell the truth or sink to a lower level of fibbing? ‘I think I don’t want to find her, after all. Seeing the boys—the Dalbert family—close up … well, it made me think a bit. These villages—they’re all much the same. If we found her perhaps I’d have to spend some time with her and whatever family she has. It would only be polite, wouldn’t it? I mean—“Hello, I’m the daughter you left behind thirteen years ago … Well, I could just stay a few minutes to get reacquainted …” It wouldn’t do. Would you think me a spoilt little twerp, Joe, if I said my heart would sink at the thought of living here? It’s not my place. It seemed to me that I had two choices and each ruled out the other one. I can’t have two lives in two different countries. And I’d die if I didn’t have Orlando and my brothers and Rosie and Aunt Lydia. And, before you say it—why didn’t I think of this before?

  ‘Well, I did. Of course I did. But staying here—it’s changed the balance somehow. And I think I’ve done a bit of growing up. There are other people in this equation with me, Joe, and I can’t cancel out their thoughts and feelings. They’re every bit as important as mine. I’m selfish but I’ve seen the error of my ways. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

  ‘They do say you should be careful what you wish for …’ he replied. ‘It’s not my place to offer advice or tell you what to do. I was enjoying the chase, I must admit, but I abide by your wishes. And don’t worry about the time. No charge! Consider instructions revoked. Sandilands off watch. Now go and find your family. The children are driving poor Orlando round the twist!’

  She heaved a sigh of relief and started to skip away.

  Oddly, she hadn’t even asked him to tell her what her mother’s name was.

  He hoped his quick compliance with her wishes at least hadn’t raised her suspicions. He called her back: ‘Dorcas! I forgot to say—it’s good to have my assistant back. I’ve been missing you!’

  She turned a suspicious face on him. ‘What do you want, Joe?’

  ‘Well, if you’re offering, there is one small thing. Could you, before you get involved with the circus y
ou’ll find in the great hall, just sneak upstairs? There’ll be no one about. There’s something I want you to check for me …’

  Jacquemin was all smiles and efficiency when Joe returned. He patted the neat pile of pathologist’s notes in front of him on the desk with satisfaction.

  ‘Well! All just as we expected. And the bonus of a motive for murder. Blackmail. It’s a blackmail attempt that turned sour. Someone didn’t want to be revealed as the father of this child. Or to pay Miss Smeeth to keep her mouth shut. A child conceived—let’s say—at the beginning to the middle of June. Eight weeks gone out of a forty-week pregnancy.’

  ‘Oh, you have forty weeks in a French pregnancy?’ Joe enquired, smiling. ‘In England it’s generally reckoned to be thirty-eight.’

  ‘Whatever it is, we’re thinking that the perpetrator had to be one of the men—or menservants … there are some very well-set-up young fellows amongst the ranks, had you noticed?—who were in residence here in the fortnight or so after her arrival. I’ve compiled a list. The Lord Silmont heads the list of runners and riders, as you see. Though physically he carries quite a handicap. Can you imagine—’

  ‘Let’s not try,’ Joe interrupted.

  ‘Well, let me have your guesses. Go on—tell me which bloke your money’s on, Sandilands.’

  Joe took the list from him, picked up a pencil and circled a name.

  ‘Guy de Pacy? Bugger me! What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t say that—he does. Pin your ears back, Jacquemin, and hear the confidences and confessions I’ve just had thrust at me by these two warring gentlemen. You’re going to enjoy this!’

  After twenty minutes of question, answer, speculation and reference to Jacquemin’s copious notes, Joe caught the Commissaire’s eye over the littered desk and risked a sly smile. The smile was reciprocated. At least the moustache twitched briefly in a not unfriendly manner. An acknowledgement, finally, that the two men were working together. At different rhythms and with different methods but working satisfyingly towards the same objective.