Strange Images of Death (15 page)

‘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. Take 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 the 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.

In one swift movement, Martineau produced from his pocket a small silver flask. He held it out tentatively to Silmont.

‘A little cognac sometimes helps in these circumstances, sir,’ he murmured.

Silmont accepted it with a grateful nod and downed a gulp, breathed heavily, and took another.

Joe was trying to identify the strong emotion that was racking the lord. Shock? Distress? Both elements were present but there was something more, it seemed to Joe, something bitter he was trying to repress. Anger, perhaps? He could not wrest his eyes from the form of Estelle. Finally, a little colour returned to his face and he found his voice. ‘I’m sorry to show such weakness of spirit, gentlemen. I am physically not what I once was but that can be no excuse. I will just say that the shock of seeing a young girl who is … was … known to me in these circumstances is overwhelming. And the weapon! Do you see the dagger? It’s mine. The bloody nerve of the man! She’s been done to death with a misericord from my own collection. I have two on display in the armoury. We’ll go over and take a look. I think we’ll find there’s only one remaining. You know—it’s the element of parody that is ultimately distressing. None of you will have seen the original sculpture of my ancestress … This young woman has been done up to resemble the original.’

‘Sir,’ said Joe, ‘in my pocket I have a guidebook to the region. It has an illustration of the carving as it was. Perhaps …?’

‘Yes. By all means. Show it to the officers.’

‘Great heavens!’ Jacquemin was intrigued and offended. ‘Someone’s gone to quite a lot of trouble to make the girl look exactly like … what’s her name? … Aliénore. Anyone can see there’s a superficial similarity between the women but it takes more than a chance resemblance to trigger a man into going to all this bother, I’d have thought? All artistically arranged, you’d say. A crime of placement rather than passion? Is that what we’re looking at? Something studied?’

‘The shoes, the dress … the hair,’ Joe agreed. ‘Good Lord! I hope we’re not being treated to an expression of the latest “-ism” … necroplasticism, perhaps?’ he heard himself say and instantly regretted it. Jacquemin didn’t strike him as being receptive to word-play or remarks of a fanciful nature. And now he would have him marked down as a facetious English lightweight.

The Commissaire turned his double-barrelled gaze on Joe for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me at all,’ he said and then turned his attention back to the tomb top with its deathly offering. ‘You should see what they get up to in Paris in the name of art! Necrophilia, necromontage, necroplasticism … could well be the latest thrill. I’ll keep an eye out. And let’s admit, Sandilands, to this extent, whoever this sensation-seeker is—he’s succeeded! I, for one, am ready to admit I’ve spent rather longer transfixed by this display before us than I ever have by the Mona Lisa. Read what you like into that!’

‘Don’t you think, sir, it would take more than a flight of fancy and stage management to produce this?’ Martineau dared to object. ‘It would take a rush of energy … an outburst from a dam of pent-up hatred.’

‘You’re right, my boy,’ said the lord. ‘Look—let me show you something which may cast some light on what you’ve just said. A motive for murder which has remained alive and strong through the centuries. Will one of you give me a hand? I need to move this wooden superstructure, here on the side abutting the tomb.’

Martineau stepped forward and seized the wooden boards where the lord indicated and began to lever up the structure. Joe hurried to assist.

‘I discovered this when I was a very young man. I had fallen completely in love with Aliénore—everyone did. A strange thing to say of a lifeless effigy but—she was deeply alluring.’ He paused to cast a bleak look at the pile of rubble which had once been a glorious work of art. ‘Throughout my guardianship I’ve kept her in excellent condition. The image was originally decorated, you know. The locks of hair were gilded, her shoulder cape painted blue—a formula we have never been able to recreate—the jewels, though paste, gleamed convincingly. Miss Makepeace has been studying and advising. And restoring. Beautifully. And all to end like this …’

He tore his eyes away from the stone shards and resumed: ‘Aliénore’s husband employed the very best talent to carve her likeness, I would say the work of an artist brought in from Italy. A man whose style makes the leap from Gothic to modern before his time. The workmanship was worthy of a man of the calibre of Giovanni Pisano, the Tuscan artist. If you ever looked on the stately beauty of his Madonnas you would see the same sweetness and humour, the same human individuality. I made myself an expert on medieval carving, the better to appreciate her quality. I can tell you that the second figure, that of Sir Hugues himself, was done by a different and less skilled hand. I am assuming that the lady was portrayed by someone who knew her well in life. Or possibly someone who was allowed to work for his initial sketches from the sight of her dead body.

‘My yearning to know more about her led me to study the Latin inscription running around the three sides of the tomb. Here.’ He pointed. All three men nodded.

‘I was puzzled. I followed the words around and came up with
uxor sua
—his wife
—
and stopped, disappointed. No date of death. No flattering phrase. Was there more hidden away around the back?

‘Gentlemen, there was.

‘I had the stone shelving, which sat awkwardly, like an afterthought, between the tomb and the wall, hacked away and, when I’d viewed and copied down the rest of the accursed lettering, unseen for centuries, I had this wooden structure built on to replace it and prevent anyone else from seeing the shameful truth.’

With a wave of his hand, he invited them to inspect the rear of the marble tomb. By leaning over in turn, at a neckbreaking angle, they could just make out the two remaining words of tribute from Sir Hugues to his wife.

‘It says
et meretrix,
’ Joe, the last man to inspect, read out. ‘And harlot. Aliénore, wife and harlot.’

‘Harlot? What kind of man carves that word on his wife’s tomb?’ Jacquemin asked.

‘A man betrayed by the woman he loved?’ said Silmont. ‘Once I had read the shocking word and accepted that the effigy I adored was flawed, other things began to fall into place.’

‘Ah! The hair! I had wondered,’ said Joe. ‘My knowledge of medieval church sculpture—Provençal or otherwise—is sketchy but, from what I’ve seen, this hairdo strikes me as being a bit out of the ordinary. I’ve never seen a lady with her hair spread all about like this. Aren’t they normally tightly coiffed … you know … every lock swept up into a headdress?’

‘Quite right, young man!’ said the lord. ‘There are very few who remark on that. It’s been forgotten over the years. In the Middle Ages, all married ladies wore their hair under a coiffe. It was the mark of a virtuous wife. Which would lead one to wonder what on earth the lady Aliénore is doing lying on display with her golden hair spread all about her pillow, looking for all the world like a Venetian woman of easy virtue.’

‘It would seem a heartless sort of tribute to pay to your dead wife, sir,’ Joe commented since he seemed to be waiting for a response. ‘And double-edged, since any onlooker of the day would have known exactly how to interpret it. Her husband was, thereby, shaming
himself
into the bargain. And it was uncomfortable to have the horns of the cuckold pinned on you by public opinion in those days.’

‘The tomb would have been assembled here after his death. It’s my theory that he no longer cared about his own reputation in his determination to ruin hers for ever more,’ the lord suggested. ‘Perhaps he left the whole image behind as an awful warning. To future generations. Here’s the just reward for infidelity—an early death.’

‘How did she die?’ Jacquemin asked. ‘Is it known?’

‘Not for certain. It’s said she died in childbirth. Nothing unusual in that, many women of the time did. But her husband was a crusader. Here history deserts us and we must speculate. If he returned from two or three years’ absence in the Holy Land to find his wife in a delicate condition … Well, you can imagine. Neither she nor the child would have survived his wrath. And there would have been few to blame him. It was of paramount importance to keep the line of descent pure. A man could keep mistresses openly under his own roof and produce illegitimate children by the score but his wife had to be of proven virtue, her offspring undeniably those of her husband.’

He shrugged with sudden impatience. ‘But this is very ancient history. What concerns me is the fate of this poor creature who has been persuaded?—inveigled?—forced?—into mocking the effigy of Aliénore and suffering her death. All over again … All over again,’ he muttered. ‘It never ends. Why would it? The poisoned chalice is constantly refilled and always overflowing. And always men are seduced by the gilded beauty of the container and swallow down the noxious contents with a smile of gratitude.’