‘There!’ said Lesueur. ‘We were quite right to ignore his tantrum and insist he went back in the car. He’d never have made it on that horse of his. Great, strong beast with a mind of its own! It’ll kill him one of these days.’
‘The ride over may well have done some damage …’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, gentlemen-if you know-at what time did Bertrand leave home to come here yesterday? Precision would be appreciated.’
‘We were with him when he set off to walk to the stable. At two o’clock, Orlando? Yes. Let’s say he was mounted and off by two fifteen at the latest,’ said Joe.
‘And he arrived here at just after three!’ announced the doctor. ‘I knew it! He must have galloped most of the way to do the journey in that time!’
Orlando was desperately trying to repress a smirk and avoid catching Joe’s eye.’It’s not an easy ride,’ he commented. ‘Doubt if I could do it in an hour and I’m reckoned to be something of a centaur, back home.’
‘It may be the one thing in life Bertrand still really enjoys, but my friend’s right-it’ll be the death of him. I sometimes think that’s what he has in mind,’ said Lacroix, weighing his words.
‘Riding yourself to death?’ said Joe, picking up his thought. ‘Intriguing idea! Not a bad way to go if you know your time’s measured. No guilt of suicide to bear if you’re a religious man … And if you can calculate it finely enough to collapse in the arms of your oldest friends and your doctor on arrival? A good end!’
‘You understand me, Sandilands. It could kill him. You fellows all heard me ban him from strenuous exercise! And he flouts my good advice continually. Thinks he can fix it with the pills I hand out. I’m quite certain he can’t.’ The doctor looked seriously from Orlando to Joe. ‘Your diagnosis is correct, Commander. Heart, you know. An established condition which has got much, much worse over the past few months. I speak of this to you in the hope that his young friends at the château will be able to exert a greater influence daily than his old friends who see him only one day a week. He must desist from exercise any more taxing than chopping the top off his morning egg.’
‘Some chance of anyone exerting an influence over Bertrand de Silmont!’ Lacroix shook his head. ‘Pride, you know. And it gets stronger as he grows weaker. That’s why he told these chaps his horse had gone lame. He doesn’t want to be seen as a weakling who has to be driven about the place by a chauffeur … who has to consider the possibility that it’s time to give up the horses he adores.’
‘We’ve heard and understood,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll preserve the illusion. And we’ll do our best to urge restraint. Though we risk having our ears torn off if we interfere, I’m afraid,’ he hazarded.
‘Know what you mean!’ sighed Lacroix. ‘It’s a pity you’ve nothing in your medical kit for bad temper, Philippe. Those rages of his! Practically foams at the mouth-over nothing! He used never to be so touchy, you know, Sandilands. Quite out of character. I’m sorry you’ve been presented with this vision of our friend. Illness reduces us all.’
‘The stressful life he leads … One has to make allowances. Jump in boldly and do what one can …’ murmured Joe. His invention was running into the sand.
They mumbled their agreement.
‘But, gentlemen, allow me to reveal the second reason for visiting you without ringing in advance.’
They exchanged puzzled glances but seemed ready-even eager-for a change of subject and tone.
‘We were just passing, returning to Silmont after an unfruitful visit to the village.’
‘Our village? Then it would be likely to be unfruitful! It’s very small-three farmers and their dogs. What business could you have had there?’
‘First, I must make a confession. Or is it rather-a clarification? The “Commander” of my title is not a naval one but a police rank.’
‘Police? What sort of police? Forgive me for asking but, here in France, we have at least six different varieties. There’s the state police and the PJ and Clemenceau’s Tigers … or are they the same thing?’ said Lacroix.
‘And there are divisions of divisions,’ put in Lesueur. ‘There’s Tax Evasion, Narcotics, Art Smuggling … er …’
‘Pimping-that’s one …’ the doctor offered.
‘And Wasting Police Time, you’ll find, gentlemen!’ Lacroix, eyes twinkling called a halt.
‘I’m very simply with Criminal Investigation. If I say-Scotland Yard …?’
They had all heard of Scotland Yard.
‘Joe’s their crack sleuth,’ Orlando offered. ‘Criminal Investigation Department. And he liaises with that European lot in Lyon-’
‘Interpol,’ supplied Joe. ‘It’s in its infancy-birth throes might be more accurate-though it is intended to spread worldwide. But-don’t be alarmed! I’m on leave at the moment. Not on official business. I’m actually on my way down to Antibes. I was cornered at a party in London before I left by a friend with a special plea.’
The doctor groaned. ‘A cross we professionals all have to bear. Favours!’ He put on an old duffer’s voice: ‘“I say-you’re a medical man of sorts, aren’t you? I seem to have this lump behind my ear … this rash in an intimate area …” Pain in the rear, they mean! And then, having received a free diagnosis, they have the nerve to tell me they’ll be sure to go and see their own doctor!’ He levelled a sharp and humorous glance at Joe. ‘As I expect you find, the ploy always works. I never have discovered the formula to deny anyone.’
‘Exactly!’ said Joe. ‘The request I had was rather unusual. “I say, you’re a detective, aren’t you? Can you find a missing wife?” The worse for three cocktails at the time, I heard myself saying: “Not at all, old boy … rely on me.”’ He gave a shudder. ‘And now I have to get on with it. Wonder if you could help? We called in on the off-chance. Long resident in the neighbourhood, pillars of your community-I thought you might be able to offer me the end of a ball of string. I’ve had no luck so far and the Riviera calls! My lost sheep is, of all things, a girl born and bred in these parts.’
‘And her husband’s in London?’ asked Lacroix. ‘Seems a bit unlikely.’
‘He was in London. Recently dead, hence the hoo-ha. Yes. A pre-war, Belle Époque-style romance, don’t you know.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Young Englishman of good family, touring Europe, head full of Petrarch and Boccaccio, LaBohème as well for good measure probably, meets and falls in love with a very young Provençal girl. He marries her and carries her off to England. Not finding it to her taste, she flees back home and the war closes in. There wouldn’t have been a problem, I believe, but there’s a question of progeny and inheritance. It always comes down to cash.’
Heads nodded gravely.
‘So, all other avenues of enquiry having failed, here I am, mewing with frustration and going through the motions.’
‘Joe does himself less than justice,’ Orlando backed up. ‘Even after three cocktails he’ll remember giving his word-and keep it. The man’s a ferret. He’ll find her. It’ll just take time.’ And then, slowly: ‘Why don’t you show them the evidence, Joe. You have it in your wallet.’
‘Ah yes. I say-may I?’ His query was more than a politeness and he waited for Orlando’s nod before taking out his notecase.
He slipped the photograph from it and three heads bent, intrigued, over the faded sepia print.
‘We’ve narrowed this down to 1906. And to a small village in the vicinity of Avignon. The girl in question is the one on the right, aged about twelve. We know that the name of the priest who conducted the communion classes was Father Ignace.’
‘Our priest here is Father Pierre,’ said Lacroix, intrigued. ‘He’s been here for decades. If anyone knows the where-abouts of the priesthood, he will. I don’t know of one called Ignace … You fellows?’
‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘And I know every priest in the area. I can tell you with confidence that there is none such between here and Avignon. But look-1906. I didn’t take up my work here until after the war.
I was based in Paris before that and moved down here to be close to my old academy friends.’
‘And I was with my regiment in North Africa at that time,’ said Lacroix.
‘I’ve heard the name before,’ said Lesueur. ‘In a priestly context, I’m sure. Like the others, I’ve come and gone. These have not been settled times in France. But it does ring a bell.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Getting old. Memory full of holes. I’ll think about it. Let you know.’
Orlando went off to the stables looking rather chipper, Joe thought, when the message came that the horse was ready for him. Looking forward to the ride? Or happy to be getting shot of his police escort? Joe decided-both.
They agreed to meet in the great hall on their return. Orlando dashed off, Joe was quite certain, with the clear intention of getting home before him. He prepared himself to parry a few thrusts spiked with the word ‘horsepower’ when he got back.
He strolled out to his motor car, taking his time to give Orlando a head start and planning the rest of his afternoon. He found he was split between an eagerness to return to the château and a concern to give the Commissaire a run at the problem unencumbered by his presence. Joe decided to waste a little more time. There was one more step he could take in the mad pursuit of Orlando’s Laure before he returned.
He was just climbing behind the wheel when he heard a thin voice calling after him. He turned to see Alfred Lesueur coming at a stately trot down the drive, waving his arms to attract his attention.
‘So glad I caught you! Sorry-I nodded off! I came to with the answer in my head. The name Ignace. Well, an Ignace.’ He frowned. ‘I do hope it’s not the one you’re looking for … You wouldn’t want to find this one. No, no! Terrible business! I’m not a religious man, Sandilands, but I have to say-with everyone else-shameful. If it’s the affair I’m thinking of.’
He put up a hand to forestall Joe’s question. ‘No. I’ll say no more. In case my memory serves me ill. It does play tricks … You must find the evidence for yourself. Not difficult. It was in the newspaper. The local one. They’ll have copies in the archives in Avignon.’
‘Can you remember a date?’ asked Joe without much hope.
‘Before the war. I’m not certain of the year.’
‘A season? That would be a help. If you could remember where you were reading at the time,’ he prompted, ‘you might remember when.’
‘Oh yes. Let me think … Now I take the daily national newspaper … I was probably reading the local one at my aunt’s house. The Voix de la Méditerranée. It comes out weekly. Yes! All the aunts were there, tut-tutting over it. The editor was much criticized for printing the article. My aunt Berthe had bought a copy to check the programme of events for the coming national holiday. So-there you have it,’ he chortled. ‘You’d be looking for the week before July 14th!’
‘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?’
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