Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘And the cool nerve of a sniper,’ Joe added.

  ‘Are we thinking: Cecily Somerset? Most probably not. Ask the lady politely to meet me in the office in ten minutes, will you, Martineau? And tell her nothing of this. I’m sure we’ll all be interested to hear her answer when I ask her to whom she lent her apparatus on the day of the murder,’ said Jacquemin.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cecily stood in front of the desk, facing up to the Commissaire and Joe, while Martineau sat in an opposite corner of the room taking notes.

  In a swift discussion on the way down, the two officers had come to an agreement on technique. The Commissaire was to be obviously in charge of the interrogation, directing his English confrère. He made it clear to Joe that he wished to appear remote, implacable, dangerously foreign. Joe’s: ‘Oh, I say—are you sure you can you pull that off?’ had received the frozen stare.

  The interview was to be conducted by Joe in English. The Commissaire’s knowledge of the language was perfectly adequate for an understanding but he shied away from the notion of speaking it himself. ‘We must catch every nuance,’ he declared. ‘And Miss Somerset’s French is worse than my English. We will see how we get on.’

  ‘Yes, Sandilands, I can identify that camera as mine,’ stated Cecily, pointing to the Leica on the desk in front of her. ‘Again! It can tell you itself—look at the name on the strap. Come off it, Commander! I’ve done all this already. For that Frenchman.’ She glared at Jacquemin. ‘Is he deaf? Or just being French? Shall I shout louder?’

  ‘Just a formality, Miss Somerset,’ Joe said mildly. ‘Imagine you’re in Scotland Yard, will you? Helping the police with a very tricky enquiry. Lieutenant, a chair for the lady, please.’

  Cecily lowered her dungareed bulk on to the chair with a suspicious glower that was meant to tell Joe she’d got his number and that English smarm was as unwelcome as French froideur.

  ‘And this is how you can help us.’

  He laid out the first twelve shots from her camera and invited her to inspect them.

  A few moments of: ‘Good gracious, I never thought you’d be able to do it! Develop them right here on the spot. I was going to take the camera back to London with me and have them done properly. I say, I won’t pay for these, you know … Oh, the roses came out well, didn’t they? However did you manage …?’

  ‘We had a bit of luck. Nathan Jacoby spent some weeks working in the Leica laboratory in Germany,’ Joe improvised. ‘It was a piece of cake for him.’

  ‘But I hadn’t finished up the exposures,’ protested Cecily. ‘I’d only taken about half. Now what shall I do for the rest of the hol? I can’t afford to waste half a film just like that, you know!’

  Joe smiled. ‘Well, why don’t you come to some arrangement with your friend—the one you lent the camera to and who finished off the rest of the cassette?’

  Her face lost its calculating expression, her voice its querulous edge as she replied after a long moment: ‘Friend? What friend? Finished off … I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The second half of your film was used by someone else, Cecily. And we’d like to know to whom you gave permission to borrow the camera.’

  ‘Borrow my camera! Never! Nobody! I wouldn’t … I didn’t!’ she protested. ‘What’s going on?’

  Joe produced the shots of the exterior of the chapel and the door. ‘These are the next three from your roll of film. Did you take them?’

  ‘I’ve told you! No!’ She turned to the Commissaire and said rudely: ‘Non! Non!’

  Looking back at the photographs, she commented: ‘What’s the point of these, there’s no people in them. And no flowers, which was the whole reason for bringing it. Why would I want to take a picture of a door? I didn’t take these.’

  ‘And yet they are there on your negative. We must assume someone helped himself or herself to your camera without your knowledge.’

  ‘I’ll have their guts for garters!’ said Cecily, swelling with rage. ‘Everyone knows my possessions are off limits! I made that quite clear when one of those Russians tried to make off with my nail scissors.’

  ‘Tell me—where did you keep your camera?’

  ‘In the general ladies’ dorm. You know where that is. We each have our own chest of drawers. My camera was in the bottom drawer.’

  ‘So anyone could have entered and taken it away for a few hours, replaced it, and you wouldn’t have noticed it had gone missing?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I hadn’t used it for at least a month … six weeks … too busy … and I can’t say I’ve ever got into that silly habit of snapping everything in sight all the time. So common!’ She thought for a bit and, encouraged by Joe’s silent attention, ventured to say: ‘Anyone could have helped themselves, you know. The maids are in and out in the morning and, as if that’s not enough, they let a manservant come in to check that the maids have done their duty … at least that’s what they say … And the steward checks on the menservants. It’s like Piccadilly Circus. You yourself, Commander, are well placed to nip in and take it. Your room is just opposite. Or those children next door. Why don’t you ask your niece Dorcas? It’s the sort of thing she might do. And any one of those women I share with could have taken it. They all knew where it was.’

  ‘Was any one of these ladies more likely than the rest to take it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll say so! But you’re going to have some trouble interrogating her! Estelle Smeeth. The dear departed. She hated me.’

  ‘The reason for this hatred was …?’

  ‘She couldn’t take a bit of teasing, that’s why.’ Cecily’s features took on an unpleasant truculence. ‘She irritated me from the moment she arrived. I made a mess of her bed on her second night. Nothing much—just the usual dorm foolery. But Miss Smeeth didn’t seem to have the background to understand or appreciate that sort of thing and—my!—did she ever overreact!’

  ‘Are you saying she retaliated? She got her own back?’

  ‘With knobs on!’ Snorting with outrage, Cecily confided: ‘She put a snake in my bed!’

  ‘A moment … you’re quite certain it was Estelle who did this dirty deed?’

  ‘Well, who else? She’d never admit it. Tried to blame Jane Makepeace. But it was her bed I’d messed up. She was the one with a certain close association with the under-forester … that raffish, curly-haired one who delivers the rabbits. I noticed he always made an appearance whenever there was a sight of Estelle in the offing. And who else would be able to catch one and chop its head off? The snake, I mean. A completely overworked reaction, I think you’ll agree, Commander?’ she finished primly.

  ‘Head? Off?’ asked Joe faintly. He had a sudden sick feeling that the interview was spiralling out of his grasp.

  Jacquemin shot a meaningful look at Martineau who was already scratching a note in his book.

  ‘The maids were not best pleased to be called up to deal with it,’ Cecily said frostily.

  Having listened with a commendably inexpressive face to this embarrassing catalogue of English eccentricity, the Commissaire suddenly lost patience and leaned forward. ‘Miss Somerset,’ he purred in his heavily accented English, ‘a Frenchman always keeps his word to the fair sex. I told you I would find and return to you your lens cap. And here it is.’ He took it from his pocket and placed it in front of her.

  Cecily picked it up and examined it. ‘Oh, I say! Thanks so much. Yes, that’s mine. Wherever did you find it?’

  ‘Clutched in the dead hand of your friend Estelle,’ he said in a doom-laden tone.

  Cecily dropped it with a clink on to the floor and squealed.

  ‘Interview over.’ Jacquemin smiled. ‘For now. I must ask you to hold yourself available, Miss Somerset, for our further entertainment.’

  ‘I had thought better of the English, Sandilands! A nation that has given the world the Whitechapel Ripper, the Brides in the Bath Smith, the Royston Disemboweller, the Brighton Poisoner, should be asham
ed to now offer us the hair-tugging and wrist-slapping exploits of a gaggle of overgrown schoolgirls!’

  Joe looked at the cynical face and understood his opposite number. ‘You’re no more fooled by all this flummery than I am, Jacquemin. That was uncomfortable but it had to be gone through. And now, I think we could say we’re moving in for the kill ourselves. The Silmont Slayer is within our grasp,’ he added fancifully.

  ‘A clever business,’ commented Jacquemin. ‘A blend of careful forward planning and on-the-spot reaction to favourable circumstances.’

  ‘The qualities of the best generals,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve known a few such. Two of them were even French.’

  ‘I can see when, how and who,’ said Jacquemin. ‘And certainly that will be thought to be enough to make an arrest. But I cannot yet see why it was done. And that concerns me. Where is the profit in it? Where the satisfaction?’

  ‘I think I’ve got there,’ said Joe. ‘And I can tell you, the profit is great—and material: the satisfaction, twisted up as it is with thick strands of envy and vengeance, enormous. Bad blood, Jacquemin. It’s a case of bad blood.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘Not now, Orlando. Things to do. Can’t it wait?’

  Orlando seized him by the arm as Joe, leaving the office, tried to push past him.

  ‘No, it damned well can’t! This is something you started and when you’ve heard me you’ll perhaps have the good grace to say thank you. You may even admit that what I have to say will make your life easier.’

  ‘Walk with me, then. I’m just going to the great hall to check that someone I’m interested in is still there in plain sight, obeying the rules. I shouldn’t have asked Dorcas to go ferreting about the castle by herself.’

  He quickened his step.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t! And, yes, this is about Dorcas. I managed to exchange a few words with her before she beetled off running your errands. I tried to countermand your order and told her to stay in the hall but she went off anyway. I begin to think, Sandilands, that she’s too much under your thumb.’

  ‘Is that it? I don’t agree. That girl is under no one’s thumb—not even yours. But I understand, sympathize, concur … whatever you want me to say. You’re her father. Will you tell the child her position of Sorcerer’s Apprentice has been terminated or shall I?’

  ‘No, that’s not it! That was a by-the-way remark. What I want to say—after due consultation with my daughter—is that we both, she and I, want you to desist.’

  ‘Desist from what, precisely?’

  ‘You know damn well what. I’m telling you to stop looking for her mother, Laure. She’s lost and, after much thought, we’ve both decided that it would lead only to trouble and disturbance if you managed to find her. Go no further, Joe. Clear?’

  ‘Clear. Look, mate, I’m inviting you to waste a few further minutes of my time and step into this room with me so that I can give you a dressing down without disturbing the castle.’

  Joe pushed him though the open door of a games room and closed the door after them. ‘You wouldn’t want anyone to overhear what we have to say to each other, I think. There are chairs over there by the snooker table. Let’s sit for a moment. And last time we sat knee to knee you looked me in the eye and told me less than the whole truth. You’ve been stringing me along … To say nothing of Dorcas. Leaving us both to stumble about in a darkness you could have illuminated. That stops here and now. Imagine yourself in the confessional. There’s nothing you can say to me that will shock or amaze me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. It was your snotty remark about thirty-eight weeks that got me thinking. The duration of a pregnancy. I was surprised to hear a bachelor knew that,’ Orlando said resentfully.

  ‘Part of the job. In fact it was exactly the puzzle of poor Estelle’s similar condition that put me in mind of it. Yes—she was pregnant. Over two months gone. And, no, we can’t be certain who the father was. With your known proclivities, Orlando, I should keep my head down and stay off the firing step until the guns fall silent. You’d be surprised how often a week or two either side of the critical day can lead to mayhem. Though in France I believe they grant themselves a little leeway and count to forty.’

  ‘Yes, well, whichever it is, you’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’ Orlando said unhappily. ‘I ought to have come clean.’

  ‘I can see why you didn’t. In your position, I do believe I’d have done the same,’ Joe admitted. ‘And I’d have been a bit more forcefully obstructive if a nosy Scotland Yard bugger had been hassling me with impertinent questions. So, all things considered, old mate, you come out of this, in my estimation, covered in glory.’

  Orlando looked doubtful. ‘Not much glory in this for anyone, I’d have thought.’

  ‘But there is. I’m seeing a young, idealistic, carefree Englishman who on 14th July 1911 or thereabouts stumbles on an outcast girl, little more than a child, and takes her under his wing. Feeds her up, shelters her, paints her picture … gets fond of her.’

  ‘You make her sound like a starving hedgehog. She wasn’t a bit like that,’ Orlando objected.

  ‘But here’s the bit that impresses me: the Englishman knows, because she tells him, or it’s becoming obvious, that she’s pregnant. And he takes her home with him regardless and cares for her. And the unknown man’s child.’

  Orlando stirred uncomfortably, then nodded.

  ‘I know this child was born—because she’s been so obliging as to write it in my birthday book—in January 1912. So, her mother got pregnant in May or June at the latest of the previous year. She must have been aware of her condition by the time she met you, and, indeed, this was most likely the reason for her being thrown out of the family home.’

  ‘You have it right,’ said Orlando dully. ‘Dorcas is not my natural daughter. I have no idea who her father was—some village boy, I expect, or a sweet-talking travelling salesman—isn’t that whom they always blame? But it makes no difference. No difference at all. She’s my daughter. I love her more than most fathers can be bothered to love their daughters. And, I’ll tell you something, Joe—if you ever breathe a word of this to her, I’ll … I’ll make your life hell! I’m not a vengeful man but I really think I might kill anyone who threatened my relationship with my children. Any one of them. And Dorcas is my eldest. Got that?’

  ‘I have indeed. Understood. I could never think of her as anything else. But, Orlando, I work faster and dig deeper than you give me credit for. Look, old man, and tell me at once if you want to shut down this conversation, I think I do know who the father was. If you want to hear—it’s up to you …’

  Orlando considered for a moment then nodded. ‘It might help. Not knowing is always worse than knowing.’

  ‘Well, he lived in the village as you might expect but he wasn’t the “village boy” you have supposed. He was young, handsome, intelligent, educated and something of a musician.’

  ‘All that?’ said Orlando. ‘Well, no wonder I failed to impress!’

  ‘He was also—a priest.’

  ‘Good God! Not … not …?’

  ‘Yes. Father Ignace who sounds as old as the hills was, in fact, only twenty-nine on the day he disappeared from the village. The same day Laure went missing. Except that she’s really Marie-Jeanne Durand.’

  ‘Oh, my poor, poor girl!’ Orlando shook his head in sorrow. ‘No wonder she could never tell me. The shame! She was genuinely a religious person, you know, from a devout family. It must have broken her heart and wrecked several lives. And I was always second best. She never quite managed to love me. She would never want to see me again.’

  There was an uncomfortable moment as Orlando pondered and then he repeated: ‘Please, Joe—no further. Promise? For Dorcas. She lost her mother years ago. I don’t want her now to lose her father. Me, I mean. You know what she’s like! If she knew the truth, she might take it into her head to skip off and go hunting down this mystery man. I couldn’t bear to lose her. She must never be told.’
<
br />   ‘I understand perfectly. Her uncle Joe wouldn’t want to lose her either,’ he said more cheerfully, getting to his feet. ‘No further action on this front, eh?’

  The two men shook hands solemnly.

  Joe found his step was sprightlier, his breathing freer, a load of responsibility off his back, as he continued his interrupted path to the hall.

  He needed all his new-found buoyancy to confront the mob.

  He was greeted by a crashing wave of outrage. Suitcases had been packed, wristwatches were being ostentatiously consulted. Deadlines were being delivered.

  ‘No right to keep us here!’ Padraic Connell was standing by the door lamenting, ready for the off, pack on back. ‘I’m expected at the abbey.’

  ‘No right at all! The British consul must be informed!’ boomed Petrovsky. ‘I demand the return of our passports!’

  ‘We’re leaving this afternoon for Avignon,’ announced Mrs Whittlesford, slipping on her gloves to underline her message.

  ‘We sent a servant into the village with a note.’ Derek’s voice was triumphant. ‘We’ve hired the charabanc. Anyone who wants to can climb aboard. It’ll be here in two hours.’

  ‘Stupid bugger!’ said Fenton. ‘You shouldn’t have told him. He’s hand in glove with the frogs! Now he’ll ring and cancel it.’

  ‘If Jacquemin needs to know anything more he’s going to have to ask quickly. We’ve all suffered enough.’

  ‘Dashed if we’re spending another night under this roof!’

  ‘Just waiting to be picked off! First it was Freddie, then it was Cecily. She’s in a frightful state.’

  ‘She has no cause to be,’ Joe said. ‘She’s not been arrested. She was merely helping by giving information. I’ll have a word with her.’

  Someone pointed to a gesticulating figure enjoying the attention of a small audience. He made his way over and, smiling, asked her to step aside with him.

  ‘Better for all, I think, Miss Somerset, if you stop stirring up dissent in the ranks. It’s an arrestable offence in France.’