Strange Images of Death (8 page)

He was being manipulated and had felt the pull on his strings, the pressure on his back, the opening of a path from the moment he arrived in this frightful place. The thought that pushed all others aside was that here, amongst a group of people who would all declare themselves dedicated to the creation of beauty, was concealed a soul who could take an obscene pleasure in destroying something more lovely than anything their hands were capable of producing. Surely such a soul would stand out like a block of black iron amongst these tinkling, golden, ephemeral but well-meaning daubers? A hornet amongst the butterflies?

Unsettled, Joe breathed in cautiously and wondered. The stink here was strong. And he wasn’t detecting lilies. Had the steward not been so firmly in control of his stomach as the experienced Joe and vomited in some dark corner? No. The man had survived four years of war. He would have recognized rotting flesh as easily as Joe and not been physically perturbed by it. But perhaps the flesh, wherever it was, had not yet begun to rot at the time de Pacy visited?

Joe followed his nose back to the tomb. His eye ran along the Latin engraving that encircled the three sides of the monument exposed to view.
Hic iacet Hugus Silmontis
, it read, under a swag of twining ivy, along the short west end facing the door, followed by
armiger honoratus Provinciae
along the long side. Four words completed the statement and acknowledged his wife:
et Alienora, uxor sua
was engraved across the short east end.

Dangling from a projecting curl of ivy was the source of the stench.

Chapter Eight

Marseille, Monday lunchtime

Commissaire Francis Jacquemin of the Paris Police Judiciaire, lean, attractive and gallantly moustached, was enjoying a rare moment of unbuttoned ease. Two buttons to be precise. It was as far as decorum would allow. He had released his waistcoat to this extent under cover of the voluminous table napkin that defended his white shirt from the unctuous saffron-coloured sauce of the dish he was just finishing.

He ran a finger round his starched collar to release a surge of body heat created by the spices and sighed. ‘Bliss! Utter bliss, my friend! Damned good idea to take ourselves off the hook and come out and celebrate. This is my first taste of bouillabaisse and—I’m sure you’re right—the best in Marseille. Nothing like this to be had in Paris!’ He took another sip of his chilled champagne.

‘All the same, I think you’re glad to be going back to the capital?’ his companion said carefully.

The men grinned. Each was quite aware that the Parisian’s departure was welcome on both sides. Inspector Audibert had been accommodating and polite when presented with the unrequested assistance of the big noise from the Paris PJ. Many would have objected. It was a fact that the authority of the Paris Brigade Criminelle ended with their geographical boundaries and technically Jacquemin had no jurisdiction whatsoever down here in the south. Only the local force had the authority to slip on the handcuffs and haul the miscreants off to court.

The criminal fraternity knew this too.

In his clean-up of the Paris underworld, the Commissaire had torn through the gangs formed with the release of men after the war. Modelling themselves on the vicious ‘Bande à Bonnot’ they’d rampaged through the streets, robbing and murdering with a callousness and skill acquired in four years of killing.

In the end, virtually wiped out by Jacquemin’s tenacity and his ruthless methods, they had succumbed. But one gang, more astute than the rest, had survived and moved on. Had moved south in fact. Had learned to steal fast motor cars and use them effectively to get away from the crime scene. And get to the next. They’d discovered that there were richer and easier pickings on the Riviera coast. After centuries of peace, the roving plunderers were back in business and based in Marseille.

Jacquemin the pitiless had pursued them.

Working under the aegis of the Marseille police, he had located, lured into a trap and confronted the gang in double quick time. He’d shot three of them dead and the rest had been scooped up by the Inspector’s force. Neither officer spoiled the occasion by mentioning the assistance they’d had from a local underworld boss who’d infiltrated the newcomers’ set-up and served them up on a plate.

The Commissaire and the Inspector were taking all the credit that was going and treating themselves to a celebratory lunch to close the case. The morning had been spent very agreeably dictating their experiences to a reporter from
Le Petit Journal
and offering their better profiles to his artist. A considerable triumph for both forces.

‘So, what now, sir?’ Inspector Audibert asked dutifully.

He received the answer he was hoping for from this smarty-pants intruder with his well-barbered hair, neat moustache, hand-made shoes and unfathomable grey stare: ‘An earlier than expected departure! The train to Paris tomorrow morning and two weeks’ leave.’ And then, with unexpected camaraderie, Jacquemin leaned across the table and confided: ‘To be spent in Brittany with my wife’s mother.’

‘Ah? I find the northern seaside most uncongenial,’ said the Inspector tactfully.

‘I find my northern mother-in-law most uncongenial.’

They exchanged rueful smiles. Jacquemin’s faded as he remembered that his current mistress also had plans for him—and Rachel’s plans threatened to pull him in a different direction. He sighed. Rachel was beginning to behave more like a wife these days. Always a disappointment. And then there was that promising girl he’d taken to tea at the Ritz … That little vendeuse from the tie counter at the Printemps. Adèle? That was it! Adèle would be expecting a follow-up. And he wouldn’t be averse to making a further move.

‘Nothing much happening in Paris in August,’ Jacquemin summarized lugubriously. ‘Lost pugs, defaulting gigolos, false insurance claims … The silly season, you know. And you?’

The man from Marseille shrugged. ‘I only wish I could say the same. You’ve seen my schedule. Up to my ears. I blame you! You’ve made it too tough for the villains up north. All your riff-raff comes down here to get into trouble. Our serious problems come from Parisians and wealthy foreigners—not so much home-grown crime around these days. Foreigners! Huh! I was feeling so elated at getting that gang of yours behind bars I did something really regrettable the other day …’

He reached under the table for the briefcase which never left his side and took out a notebook. ‘Here we are … three murders, no—that’s five after last night … several robberies on my plate and what did I hear myself expansively agreeing to do? Take a day off up in the Lubéron to investigate the hacking to bits of a young lady.’

He enjoyed the surprised lift of Jacquemin’s expressive eyebrows and added: ‘I deceive you! The lady is … was … of alabaster and not so young—six hundred years or there-abouts. Why did I agree to go?’

‘Send one of your chaps. Any of them would welcome a drive into the country,’ said Jacquemin comfortably. ‘Why not reward one of the bold fellers who assisted the other night? What about the young lieutenant who risked life and limb when I was pinned down on that fire escape? He was impressive, I thought.’

‘Martineau, you mean? Yes, he’s keen. But it’s not possible, I’m afraid. Big gun required to deal with the crew up there at the château. Here, look.’ He opened his book at a page of pencilled notes and passed it over. ‘For a start—note the address—it’s the seat of some local bigwig—one who still clings to his aristocratic title. Recognize it? Yes,
that
Count! Known to you up there in Metropolitan circles, is he? I’m not surprised. Doesn’t cut much ice with me but—they’ve all got friends in the real world, these musical-comedy types. Political mates in high places and they’ll get you a kick up the bum or the sack if you upset them. And, to go on—half the people swanning about the place are foreigners. Half are artists. Some must be both!’ He quivered with distaste.

‘Silmont? Le Château du Diable, does this say?’ Jacquemin pointed and gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Aristide—they’re having you on!’

‘No, I checked. It’s actually plain old Château de Silmont and the other rubbish is a nickname. A little local joke that stuck. I’m wary of jokes that stick—there’s usually a good reason for it.’

‘Romantic though? You have to say it has a certain allure.’ The Commissaire smoothed down his moustache and placed his napkin on the table. His mind already moving ahead to Paris, he caught the eye of the waiter who came forward to clear away. ‘I’m not surprised you agreed to go.’

‘You could say romantic, I suppose. The château is full of summer guests according to the maître d’hôtel with whom I spoke …’ He paused. ‘Funny—the chap sounded quite capable of sorting out any nonsense himself without dragging in the Brigade … Army type, you’d say. Authoritative. Economical with his words. Used to getting his way. I can only imagine he’s been put up to calling us in by all those foreign women he’s got up there twisting his arm.’

‘Foreign women?’

‘It’s some sort of artists’ colony. Half the number are young ladies … models, mistresses, Russian dancers—posers of one sort or another. Intoxicating substances freely available, no doubt. You can imagine the squabbling and hair-tugging that goes on … the bed-hopping … Too much time on their hands and not enough clothes on their backs—you know the sort of thing.’

‘Mmm … sounds interesting.’ The Commissaire focused his iron gaze on the Inspector. ‘Lucky old you!’ He called for cigars. ‘Tell me more about these Lubéron hills of yours. Rushing streams? Shady green forests full of game?’ he mused.

‘Sportsman?’ asked the Inspector.

‘You’ve seen me shoot! And I’m better with a shotgun than a pistol,’ said Jacquemin with relish.

‘Ah! I guessed as much,’ muttered the Inspector. ‘It has no charms for me, I’m afraid.
Homme du peuple
that I am, I wouldn’t know which way up to hold a sporting rifle. I expect they’ve got whole shooting rooms equipped with the very best game guns from London—wouldn’t you agree? Purdeys—would that be what they call them? Holland and Holland? Thought so. There’s probably wild boar running around up there. I’m just surprised these idiots haven’t taken to knocking each other off, out in the chestnut forest. Oh, yes, we get a dozen or so of those “accidents” every hunting season!’

He murmured on about the attractions and dangers to be experienced in the Provençal hills but Jacquemin was no longer listening.

‘Aristide!’ The Commissaire finally called a halt to the monologue. ‘My friend, Aristide! You have been good to me … no, no! Hundreds would have resented my presence on their patch and attempted even to foul up the case. But you—you have been efficiency itself with nothing in view but the common cause. Look—you must let me, in some small way, repay you.’ He brandished the notebook under the Inspector’s nose and in one dramatic gesture tore out the pencilled sheet. ‘I relieve you of this piece of idiocy! It’s the least I can do. I’ll attend and report back. This place is on my way north. Look—give me a car and a driver from the Brigade and we’ll set off into the hinterland. There’s bound to be a hostelry of some sort in the village—I don’t mind slumming it. I’ll poke about in the rubble, declare the destruction to be the result of a narrowly focused freak earthquake and send the driver straight back to you with a report when he’s dropped me off at the railway station in Avignon. Let me ease your burden as you have eased mine, though to this very small degree.’

The men regarded each other dewy-eyed, exclaimed with mutual delight, protested and conceded and called for cognac.

The Commissaire’s mind was already devising the wording of three telegrams. The phrases were grave and regretful:
unavoidably detained … case of international concern … reciprocity of fraternal assistance an imperative …
Monique (and her mother), Rachel, Adèle—they could all make what they liked of it.

The Inspector was asking himself how on earth he’d managed to pull it off so easily. Should he warn them up there at the château? No! Let the buggers find out for themselves!

Chapter Nine

At the moment the two French policemen were settling their new-found agreement and their delicious fish lunch with a brandy, Joe, in the chapel, was working hard not to throw up his rabbit stew into some available urn.

The tiny body was hanging by the neck. Dead for some days, it was already being consumed by wriggling maggots of various kinds and giving off a revolting odour. Joe took a pencil from his pocket and poked at it. It gave signs of spongy resistance and was not yet dried out. A fly buzzed bad-temperedly from the throat and Joe swatted it away in disgust. Where in hell did they come from, these lousy flesh-eaters? He answered his own question: beetles and flies in the ancient woodwork aplenty no doubt. Some might well have been carried into the building in the animal’s own fur.

And what was the significance? ‘A message’, de Pacy had hinted.

What was one dead creature dangling from a vandalized tomb trying to tell him? What had it said to de Pacy?

Joe was seized for a moment by a healthy rush of indignation and an urge to laugh at his ludicrous situation. His last case in London had involved multiple corpses, eviscerations, and disposal of limbs and heads in packing cases left at St Pancras station. It had involved the talents of the clever men who worked with test tubes, swabs, microscopes and Bunsen burners to establish blood groups and identify fingerprints. He heard himself gleefully recounting his exploits in France to his friend, Chief Inspector Ralph Cottingham, on his return to London: ‘Equipped only with a pencil, I examined the entrails of a rabbit for a clue as to who’d smashed up a statue …’ The story would grow in absurdity as he told it.

He remembered with a flash of guilt the statement he’d been provoked into making after lunch. ‘They start with small animals … work their way up to children and weaker members of society’ or some such guff he’d spouted.

And here was stage one, as predicted.

Or was it? Might it be no more than just—a message? De Pacy had clearly interpreted it as such. Joe couldn’t leave the chapel and meet the steward’s quizzical eye still unaware.

He stared on at the pathetic form willing it to speak. Hanging up in pairs outside a game butcher’s shop, he’d have admired rabbits. He’d have known just which ones to choose. Served up to him in a dish with one of Madame Dalbert’s wonderful sauces, he’d have scoffed the lot and dabbed up the juices with a hunk of bread. And complimented the cook. So why was he finding this one little corpse so sinister?

Sinister. There flashed into his mind a woodcut he’d studied with horror when he was a boy. He’d no idea what his age had been at the time but he had certainly been too young to be exposed to such a graphic image. Not exposed exactly! His own cunning and curiosity had led him to the discovery and he’d never confided it to anyone. Left alone with a head cold while on holiday with his London uncles one day, he’d gone along to the library to entertain himself and had straightaway headed for the section his uncles had banned him from approaching. He knew where the key was and in minutes had unlocked the bookcase and wedged the library door in case Simmons should come and thoughtfully offer him a glass of honey and lemon.

And there they were, to be pored over at his leisure: German, French and Italian publications with copious illustrations of naked ladies. And just the kind he liked. Large-breasted, long-legged beauties, sometimes goddesses, always smiling a welcome. He had imagined himself a Paris, Prince of Troy, in possession of a golden apple and, in order to give his illicit scrutiny a more acceptable motive, decided he was going to be the ultimate judge, making, in a classically acceptable manner, the award to the one who he decided was the most lovely. He unwrapped a disc of Sharpe’s Toffee, popped it into his mouth and smoothed out the shiny gold wrapper. He folded it with his thumbnail into the shape of a crown and decided he’d leave it, as his prize, marking the page of the winner. So far Botticelli’s Roman goddess Flora was in the lead. She had all her clothes on but he liked her naughty face. She looked straight out at him from the book, golden and lovely and about to tell him a joke or throw him a flower. But, strangely, he could never remember who had received the Sandilands Prize for Pulchritude.

It had been a drawing of the most revolting woman he had ever set eyes on that had stayed with him over the years. Lucky it didn’t ruin him for life, he sometimes thought.

The book had been an Italian publication. Heavy red leather and gold lettering. The pages had a rich waxy feel to them as he turned them slowly. Italian beauties of the thirteenth century onwards had delighted him one after the other, until he came upon her. ‘Luxuria’ was her name. A drawing by Pisanello from the fifteenth century. She had everything that ought to have been alluring: youth, a smile, a distant expression of satisfied pleasure, an abundance of golden hair that waved its way like a cloak right down to her bottom. Her only jewellery was a chain about her left ankle. But she was skinny. Her flesh was wasted and her elbow bones poked through the skin. Her knee caps were prominent as was a bone on her right buttock. Joe had turned the book this way and that, using all his scant knowledge of female anatomy to decide huffily that the artist had never seen a naked woman before. Surely? Women didn’t have bones in that place. And the breasts? A pair of small Scottish baps too widely spaced. The belly was all wrong too. Distended. The poor lady clearly had some kind of disease. He’d seen sheep out on the hill with the same symptoms.

Before turning on in disgust his eye had been caught by the animal crouching at Luxuria’s right foot.

The painter reinstated himself somewhat in Joe’s estimation by the quality of his portrayal of the rabbit. Joe knew about rabbits. He’d shot, skinned and jointed many a one ready for the pot and appreciated them in all their forms. So what was this witch-like hag doing alongside a perfectly drawn rabbit? Curiosity always won through with Joe and, sighing, he went to fetch an Italian dictionary to decipher the script that accompanied the strange picture. Half an hour later he had it.

The lady Luxuria was in fact Lust. One of the Vices. She was shown reclining in the manner of Venus but this was a parody. (A trip to the English dictionary eventually cleared up this notion.) So—a ‘no better than she ought to be’ lady. The commentator obligingly explained that her skeletal state was due to an overindulgence in the pleasures of the flesh. Joe decided to remain mystified by this. He was more intrigued to learn that the rabbit was known to be a ‘harlot’s familiar’. On account of its ‘mating proclivities’. Joe took a guess at that one. Well, he understood that in fairy stories cats were the familiars of witches so the rabbit must play the same role for harlot women.

Poor creature. Round, sleek and furry, it would have made a beautiful pet. Unfair to give it to a bony frightening woman like the one in the picture. He decided suddenly that he was feeling hot and thirsty. A drink of honey and lemon would be very welcome. He’d replaced everything in order, locked up, removed the wedge, placed
The Swiss Family Robinson
open on the library table and rung for Simmons.

Joe peered more closely at the dead animal. How dead? No sign of blood on the corpse or surrounding area. The man who’d brought it here had not, evidently, wanted to leave a messy trail to mark his passage. There was no sign that it had been killed on the spot. Broken neck? Most likely. Killed elsewhere and brought in, then strung up. He wondered whether there was any significance in the positioning of the string. Of course there was. The creature had been put to dangle over the words
et Alienora uxor sua
. The rabbit, the familiar of the whore. A comment on a woman so long dead? Why?

At least he’d have views to exchange with de Pacy when he returned. Even though what he had to say was largely unintelligible.

Joe looked up, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that emotions could leave an imprint on a scene beyond the dispersal time of sweat and other bodily fluids. He wasn’t quite certain, in spite of all the evidence he’d gathered to the contrary, that Evil with a capital E existed. But he knew that if anyone had asked him at that moment to give an opinion he’d have said: ‘This is a bloody oppressive place. Not good. There’s something ancient and wicked here that the sanctity of centuries has done nothing to dispel. And it’s chasing me out.’

The hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He stood up sharply, right hand going instinctively to the waistband where he usually carried his service revolver. Everywhere hidey-holes met his eye. Flounces of velvet drapery, carved wood ornament, pews and cupboards, even a confessional with a half-curtain pulled across. Places enough to hide a battalion. And then he saw the innocent cause of his concern. Innocent? Perhaps not entirely!

He exchanged glares with a trident-wielding devil that seemed to be taking an interest in him. Carved in dark wood and dulled by the candle-soot of ages, he was still clearly playing a robust part in a representation of the final judgement on the west wall. And keeping the visitor under surveillance. Joe gave him a cynical salute and left the chapel.