Strange Images of Death (17 page)

‘Afraid so! And here’s something else to chew on,’ said Joe, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Evidence. Three pieces. Sorry—no useful little bags available at the time I made the discoveries.’

He opened it up on the table to show the contents. ‘Now—this screw of paper was used by the victim. You may like to check the powder.’ The Frenchmen listened as he told of his time spent with Estelle on the roof platform.

‘She saw the statue-smasher and he saw
her
watching him? That’s another reason for getting rid of her, are we thinking? No, we’re not! He was disguised. No reason to think she saw through it. Is there, Sandilands?’

‘She certainly didn’t seem to have made an identification.’

‘And cocaine? Where was she getting it? Did she bring supplies from Paris? How long had she been here?’

‘Since the beginning of the season. Three months. I believe she was a girl who was easily bored and would seek stimulation. Her mood swung while I was here in the castle. I think she was getting supplies. From someone with access to the exterior, clearly.’

‘They’d get it in any city along the Rhône. Along the drug-smuggling route from the port of Marseille and up north to Paris. There are places … people in Avignon who would oblige. We must find out who’s been making trips out into the world.’

‘You’d need a vehicle, sir,’ said Martineau thoughtfully. ‘It’s thirty kilometres to Avignon. Would you like me to take the Hispano-Suiza apart?’ he offered with relish.

‘It’s not the only car around. There’s a car available for hire by the day down at the village,’ said Joe. ‘A scheme run by the enterprising garage owner. And a charabanc for group outings—they’re an adventurous lot and like to get about. And motorcycles. And even horses. Many of the guests make use of
them
. It’s wonderful riding country. They go out all over the place, singly or in groups. We might make enquiries.’

‘Still—the girl was a drug-fiend. So what? Not much of a reason to kill her, is it?’ said the hard-boiled Parisian.

‘Cocaine …’ Joe mused. ‘It’s a sociable drug—where I come from. People sniff it up in company usually. At parties. In jazz club cloakrooms. To put themselves in a jolly mood.’

‘Agreed. She’s unlikely to have been sniffing the stuff all on her lonesome. So who was keeping her company?’ Jacquemin pencilled a note in his book.

‘And with the girl’s contacts in mind, Commissaire, may I ask you, when the time comes to interview each of the denizens, to enquire which of them has a camera and what type it is? It may not be important but I should like to know.’

Jacquemin scratched in a further note. ‘And what’s this here?’ he asked, poking at the sliver of gilded stone in the centre of the handkerchief with the end of his pencil.

‘Ah yes! Pickings from the robe I think the perpetrator wore on the night he hammered Aliénore to bits. From low down near the hem. It could have brushed on during the attack and clung to the rough wool. It’s a piece from the hair, judging by the gold paint. We brought a sample from the chapel for comparison.’

Martineau produced a white paper bag from his crime case and handed it over.

‘Mmm … we’ll get these put under a microscope—but clearly they’re from the same source,’ agreed Jacquemin. ‘And what’s this here?’

‘The cigar end also comes from the robe. It was in the pocket. Orlando Joliffe and I found it hanging on the back of the door to a guest’s room.’

‘Guest? Which guest?’

‘Petrovsky, the ballet-meister. Director of the Ballet Impériale at present performing in auditoriums all over Provence. Avignon this week.’

Jacquemin looked down his list. ‘Personal guest of the lord. Frequent visitor. Accompanied by two dancers and a chaperone. Russian?’

‘No, he’s as British as I am. Name of Peters. Rich. Dilettante. Known to the Vice Squad. History (suspected only as far as I know) of keeping company with young girls.’

‘Professional hazard in his line of work, I’d have thought,’ said Jacquemin reasonably. ‘Still—in possession of a vehicle … trips to Avignon … and all the arty-farty places where the sophisticated gather … We’ll grill him. Now—tell me about this half-smoked El Rey del Mundo.’

‘Is that what it is, sir?’ Martineau peered with interest.

‘So it declares itself,’ said Jacquemin, pointing to the gold and red band it still carried. He picked it up, holding it by the smoked end, and squeezed gently. He sniffed the tobacco. ‘Though I’d have known it without the hint. Very expensive. Smooth, light tobacco. The best Havana. I’ve only ever smoked three of them. Very expensive.’ He turned to Martineau who was already rising from his chair. ‘De Pacy. He’ll know.’

In the Lieutenant’s absence he went on studying the cigar. ‘Carefully guillotined at the mouthpiece,’ he observed. ‘As you’d expect. A man who can afford these is hardly likely to bite the end off with his teeth!’

‘Don’t you take the band off in France?’ Joe asked. ‘We do in England. One tries to avoid flaunting one’s taste.’

‘Some do. Most, if they’ve any experience, puff away until the cigar has warmed through. It melts the glue on the band and you don’t risk tearing it and the wrapper and looking a fool. And very useful for
us
! Men hold a cigar by the band. Between forefinger and thumb.’ He demonstrated with an imaginary cigar. ‘This’ll have prints on it. If they’re Petrovsky’s we’ve got him! Any ash left at the first scene in the chapel, Sandilands?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Did he put his hammer down and pause to enjoy a soothing, post-climactic cigar?’

‘Conveniently stuffing the unsmoked half away in his pocket? I don’t think we’re dealing with that kind of careless mind. No, what we’ve got is someone calculating, evil and yet … I search about and come up with the unsatisfactory word—playful. No, it’s not as straightforward as it might appear,’ Joe said thoughtfully. ‘If he’s gone to all that trouble staging the scene in the chapel, he’s not going, casually, to leave his disguise on the back of his own bedroom door. For the English copper to find. They all knew I had permission to roam about poking my nose into drawers and pockets. And besides—on display like something you’d find in the lingerie department at the Printemps store, there was another little item … rather surreal …’

‘Surreal? Can’t say I’m an habitué of the department you mention but I’d have said depraved,’ was Jacquemin’s response to Joe’s account of the contents of the gown’s pocket. ‘Ballet tights doing an entrechat? What’s his point?’

‘I don’t think Petrovsky
was
making a point. I think the whole little display was put on for my benefit. The man who really wore the cloak knew he’d been seen by Estelle and that he could no longer make use of the garment. So he abandons it, flamboyantly.’

‘Hoping for what? To incriminate Petrovsky?’

‘Yes, giving us the hint in case we hadn’t already twigged: here’s a man you wouldn’t want anywhere near your daughters, he’s saying. If we’d nabbed Petrovsky on various charges, I’m sure that would have been a very acceptable outcome—he clearly dislikes the chap—but I flatter myself he has more respect for my detective abilities!’ Joe shrugged. ‘He was
surrendering
the garment. No further use for it. And, almost as a joke, he left it where it would furnish evidence pointing the finger at our Russian friend. If I wasn’t taken in by that here’s another try—a very distinctive cigar end. A double bluff! The bloke who smoked that may be involved, he’s suggesting. Another poor sod it entertains him to throw suspicion on? When we know the name of the smoker of the best Havanas we can put it down, second on the list of our perpetrator’s denouncements. He’s laughing at me or he’s time-wasting.’

‘And where is the cloak now?’

‘It was impossible to make off with it at the time, under the scrutiny of Orlando Joliffe
and
his lordship, as I was! And I’m perfectly sure it will have been removed and destroyed many hours ago.’

Martineau entered smiling. ‘Found him, sir. Yes, de Pacy knows who smokes those things. The chap leaves the stubs about all over the place in ashtrays. And, wouldn’t you guess—it’s Lord Silmont.’

‘No surprise!’ said Jacquemin. ‘Second on our stool-pigeon’s list, are you thinking?’

‘And his first mistake,’ said Joe. ‘If we go haring off, following the second false trail laid by the cigar end, and arrest Lord Silmont, we’re going to run into what I suspect is a cast-iron alibi. The villain we’re dealing with could not have known that the lord was about to take the whole day off and spend it with his friends some ten miles away. It was an arrangement made just that morning. So our informant has chosen to set in the frame for murder an innocent chap who was playing cards ten miles away at the time.’

‘Which indicates that he can’t be in the inner circle, so to speak. Not privy to the lord’s confidences and diary entries.’ Jacquemin was thinking aloud. ‘Someone recently arrived? Or on the fringes of the Silmont social scene?’

‘Unless there’s something wrong with the lord’s alibi,’ was Martineau’s tentative offering. ‘He’s a clever bloke. That history lesson he gave us in the chapel! And all that guff about a horse going lame … how often do you hear about that happening these days?’

‘Particularly to horses of the quality of those I saw in his stable,’ said Joe. ‘You could have ridden any one of them thirty miles before it laboured. The very best animals, in peak condition and several attentive grooms to check the state of their hooves and limbs before they set out … hmm … We have no sighting of his lordship between my own—when he appeared in riding gear and outlining his plans for the day … rather carefully, I now come to think … and his reappearance just before eleven this morning in a chauffeured Delage. I wonder what exactly the lord got up to in the last twenty-four hours … Perhaps he arrived late for his bridge appointment? If he arrived at all? It would be interesting to find out …’

Jacquemin replied with the decisiveness Joe was coming to expect from him. ‘Sandilands. Check his alibi. In depth. Take your car.’

Joe smiled to have got his own way. ‘Delighted, Commissaire.’

Chapter Twenty-One

‘This is a wild-goose chase you’re bringing me on!’ Orlando grumbled as they drove out over the drawbridge. ‘Why did you ask for me?’

‘Because you told me you’d paid a visit. You know the way and your face will gain us entry.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it. And anyway, I ought to be back there giving a hand with the children or assisting with the enquiry, not gallivanting with you about the countryside. Through the village and go left at the fork … I want to do what I can to catch the murdering sod who’s killed Estelle. We all do. She was a wonderful girl and when I get my hands on whoever—’

‘Shove it, Orlando, will you! I know you’re upset but you’ll have to join the queue of people who want to wreak revenge. And, at the moment, you’re way behind me and Guy de Pacy.’

‘And Dorcas,’ Orlando said surprisingly. ‘She’d got fond of her, you know. Estelle was like that—you liked her or loathed her at first sight. Mostly people liked her. Anyway—his days are numbered—the joker who did it. Dorcas has put a gypsy curse on him. And, believe me, you wouldn’t want that! I know the old crone who taught it to her some summers ago in Surrey … The guilty party’s probably shitting worms and spitting scorpions as we speak!’

‘Tell me, Orlando—because I’m an inquisitive so and so, and I’ll beat your brains out if you don’t—about Estelle’s love-life. I have reason to believe you have first-hand experience of it.’

Orlando, the pacifist, visibly struggled to prevent himself from tearing Joe’s head off. He replied in a strangled voice: ‘None of your bloody business! What
is
this unhealthy fascination with my love-life? I’m not a fellow who talks lightly about the women he’s involved with. If I answer your impertinent question at all it is through gritted teeth and with the slim hope that you will use the evidence to bolster any detective powers that remain to you to bring this hideousness to a conclusion.’

After a little more harrumphing he added: ‘I played a walk-on part only. Well, it was more of a walk-off part, when you come to think of it. Er … once only. Soon after we both arrived here. In June. She was, I would guess, an experienced player in the Ars Amatoria. She was kind enough to pose for me one day and the inevitable happened.’

‘Inevitable?’ Joe was angry enough to interrupt his flow. ‘How can you say that? Do artists have some unchallengeable droit de seigneur over the girls who sit bored out of their brains before them, day in, day out?’ He regretted his outburst instantly but consoled himself with the thought that Orlando would have suffered a much worse tirade from Lydia.

‘No, you’re right,’ said Orlando mildly. ‘You can’t always depend on it. But it’s not the out and out exploitation you suggest, Joe. You’ve never painted a woman, have you? You wouldn’t understand the feeling that develops between artist and model. It’s a very special one. Fraught with difficulties but rather intimate. It’s more than just the clothes that come off. And it’s not all one way! You can talk to each other while the painting’s going on, you know. Pour out your troubles, air your fantasies. You’d pay five guineas an hour for the sympathetic ear of one of those psychiatric chappies in London. And
he
wouldn’t be so easy on the eye.’ Orlando pursed his lips, sighed and confided: ‘She was a generous girl. Her emotions were not involved. Unless you count pity as an emotion. Is it? Anyway, her urge to compassion fulfilled, I think she quickly found someone else to occupy her time. Yes. I’m pretty sure there was someone else … someone important to her. I can usually tell when a woman’s in love … And Estelle, I would say, was in love.’

‘What were the signs?’

‘A certain undirected euphoria. She smiled a lot. Of course, that could have been the cocaine … but I don’t think so. She dressed perkily, she chattered in an alluring and attention-seeking way at table, she went missing for long periods at a time, several times a week. Boring job—sitting about in the nude, not able even to read a book—who shall blame her for seeking a little excitement? But—and here’s the odd thing—I haven’t the slightest idea with whom she was involved! Why do you suppose she would keep something like that quiet? In a company like this—bohemian, I hear you sneer—who would care? It’s a case of love and let love in this little world.’

Joe remembered the conversation he’d overheard in the ladies’ dormitory. ‘Some are more censorious than you’d allow, Orlando. They enjoy the idea of freedoms for themselves but still don’t much like to see other, more attractive creatures, seizing their opportunities with both hands. Or their men! Perhaps the man involved was married? There are two married couples accorded the luxury of rooms of their own, I understand. The Whittlesfords and the Fentons? Jacquemin, when I left him, was putting them to the bottom of his list. Married couples tend to notice if one of them’s donning a stinking old cloak, picking up a hammer and sneaking off for an hour in the middle of the night.’

‘Returning, breathing heavily, in a state of excitement? Oh, I’m not so sure … And anyway … Mrs Whittlesford would have no idea what her other half was up to at night! And you can bet your boots
Mr
Fenton was unobserved by
Mrs
Fenton!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Two rooms. Four people. Married couples, but not necessarily coupling within the marriage, if you take my meaning.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Joe.

He forced himself to pursue his enquiries since he’d got Orlando into a discursive mode. ‘So—we don’t know who Estelle was mooning over then, but was there anyone she disliked particularly?’

Orlando, feeling himself on firmer ground, was prepared to consider this. ‘Not really. That’s not Estelle. She tried to like everyone. Made an effort. Good manners, you know—early training shows through. There was no one she shied away from. She couldn’t stand some of the women but then we’ve all wanted to strangle Cecily. Ghastly woman! Girls can be terrible bullies, you know. Cecily rather put the boot in from day one, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, yes. I thought I sensed a bit of bad blood between them.’

‘All on Cecily’s side. Upper-class twit of a girl, spoiled rotten, I suspect, by her doting daddy. No expense spared to launch her in her chosen career. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Cecily happens to have talent. I’ve always thought it unfair—the way talents like this are handed out by the Almighty. Great galumphing girl she may be but those road-mender’s hands of hers have got a certain skill.’ Orlando’s lip curled. ‘Of a marketable sort! A queasily romantic sort. Fantin-Latour would call for the smelling salts. But you’d be surprised how many Parisian and New York boudoirs are graced by one of her overblown Peony Portraits. This season she’s unleashed her enthusiasm and loaded her palette to celebrate the Flora of Provence.’

‘What about the other women?’

‘Jane Makepeace terrifies us all and Phoebe Fenton has a laugh that would make anyone want to cut her throat. Estelle really tried even with the ballet girls as they chasséed through. She always learned their names and made time to chat with them—’

‘The men, Orlando, it’s her relationship with men I’m interested in.’

‘She was close to the photographer—Nathan. Met him in Paris. Obviously something going on or had been going on there … One doesn’t ask. Then there’s Frederick the fresco man.’ He paused. ‘Hard to say. She never spoke of him. Well-set-up young lad. Talented—he trained at the Slade with the best of the new crop. Good background. All the charm in the world. And the real thing—not like that three-coats-deep glaze the Irishman shows to the world. Estelle did some work for Fred a week or two ago. She sat for some of the preliminary sketches he was doing for
The Devil’s Bride.
The two of them disappeared for days together. Hired a motorcycle from the village, had picnic baskets packed and off they went with Estelle on the flapper seat. “Location hunting,” he told me when I enquired. “We’re looking for the descent into hell. I think we may have found it!”’

‘Why don’t you go back and start at the top—with the lord,’ suggested Joe. ‘How did she get on with him?’

‘The lord? Silmont?’ Orlando gave a dismissive laugh. ‘I don’t think she had much time for him! But then,
he
doesn’t have much time for
us.
She always went very silent when he was around, now I come to think of it. And I don’t think she had much respect for his cousin, de Pacy, either.’ Orlando furrowed his brow, remembering. ‘I always had the feeling she had something on him … Knew something she shouldn’t have known … Hard to recall at this stretch of time but there was some remark she made once. “Oh, if only you knew! That man’s not what he appears …” That sort of comment. I would never suspect Estelle of the slightest malicious intent but she was a bit odd about de Pacy. She made the expected overtures when she arrived. Sailed in, all guns firing. The women all do, you know. He’s a good-looking man—war hero—and he has that authoritative air about him that the rest of us so envy.’ Orlando sighed and glanced at Joe. ‘You’ve got it, too. I say, you didn’t …?’

‘No such luck!’ said Joe quickly.

‘Well, she went through the motions but, experienced lass that she was, caught on rather more quickly than the other ladies who fancied their chances with him and sheered off.’ Orlando paused, wondering quite how to proceed.

‘She did confide—even warned me, you might say—that he is a man who likes handsome men,’ Joe prompted, electing to use Estelle’s own euphemism for a male condition not spoken of in company. He could not be certain of the extent to which the happily sexual Orlando was aware of inversion.

‘Well, there you are, then! She found out quickly enough—and the hard way, no doubt. Can rock you on your heels, a rebuff of that sort. Leads to loss of self-esteem and insecurity if one is not hardened to rejection,’ he replied with complete understanding and acceptance of Joe’s suggestion. ‘That would be the moment she started to avoid him. Oh—nothing done in a marked manner, you understand. She wouldn’t deliver a set-down. Not her style. In fact, anyone less interested in the girl than I, wouldn’t have noticed. Little things. She always managed to seat herself at the other end of the table, never joined him on his fur-pile—’

‘On his what?’

‘At the end of the meals—you know. At the moment the hall turns from
salle à manger
to
salon de compagnie
. You can tell an awful lot about relationships, friendships, involvements when people start to pull up those very medieval piles of furs and cushions and sit about in groups. Not so popular with the women,’ he said with a twinkle of amusement. ‘The ones who’ve only packed their short evening dresses. Much involuntary flashing of underwear on the way up and down! Those who brought their lounging pants or a long dress find themselves much more at ease. Take a close look next time—if ever—it happens again.’

Joe promised to give his close attention to the fur-pile friendships and, hesitatingly, asked: ‘About Guy de Pacy’s proclivities, Orlando … I’m a man … you’re a good-looking chap, in the right light … have you any reason …’

‘Good gad! No! Not the slightest!’

‘Exactly. So why …?’

‘Estelle could have got it wrong, you’re thinking? Warning you off like that? And if the fellow did turn her down, one does rather wonder why? It’s not every day a girl like her swims into your life, offering excitement and no strings attached. What could possibly …? Oh, I say … I’m having a terrible thought! He was a pilot, you know. Flew with the Storks. It’s said he was badly injured in a crash landing towards the end of the war. No one has any idea—why would we?—of the extent of those injuries. Perhaps there’s an unpalatable
physical
reason for the distance he keeps between himself and the women. I mean, apart from the arm.’

‘He gets on well with Miss Makepeace?’

‘Different sort of relationship there. She’s trying to get into his head not his … Formidable woman. A scholar. You have to admire the way she does a man’s job and no one questions her right to her position. They’re good friends. A meeting of minds, I’d say. And good luck to him!’

The two men fell silent, too absorbed by their sombre thoughts and speculations to enjoy the beauty of the countryside they were driving through. Cool stands of oak trees crowding the lower slopes of the hills gave way to an airy upland where cherry orchards and vineyards and corduroy furrows of lavender vied with each other for prominence. In the distance a finger of ancient yellowed limestone rose like an exclamation mark, drawing the eye. It was echoed and softened by the slim, peremptory shapes of cypress trees.

‘That’s where we’re headed,’ said Orlando, suddenly conscious of the reason he’d been sent along for the ride. ‘At least I think that’s where the lord brought me. Wasn’t really concentrating. I remember it was ten miles and he pointed out an Italianate campanile as the marker when we got within range. The house is right underneath it. Pretty place. Not at all grand. Gentilhommière of sorts. Nice man. You’ll like Alphonse Lacroix.’

It had none of the grandeur of Silmont. An eighteenth-century
maison de plaisance,
the honey-coloured stone house was on a human scale and built, not for defence, but for a comfortable life. It had remained trim and symmetrical over the years, exactly as the architect had first rendered it, with not a trace of the haphazard organic growth of an English house of the same venerable age. A modest two storeys, from a long and emphatic centre, it extended wings forward in a welcome towards the approaching visitor. The rear of the house was protected from wintry blasts from the Alps to the north by a lift of hills, outliers of the Vaucluse, and its façade was carefully angled to miss the full glare of the afternoon sun. Pale grey wooden shutters were folded back revealing tall windows whose panes glittered in the sun’s sloping angle. White curtains billowed, suggesting an airy interior. The central wide entrance door was clearly announced by a low flight of steps flanked by trimmed orange trees in tubs. The carriage sweep was freshly raked.

Joe parked the car a short way off in front of the house and turned off the engine. The noise of the cicadas flooded in, thrumming pleasantly and pierced, in the distance, by the excited whinny of a horse.