Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Chapter Twenty

‘Did I say we had two suspects, sir?’ whispered Martineau. ‘Make that four, shall we? And two of ’em alive and kicking each other. Ouch! There goes another seriously disturbed gentleman. The steward, I think?’

‘Yes. Guy de Pacy. The lord’s cousin. You saw him in the kitchens attending to the child. Before he heard the news.’

‘Does bad temper run in the family? What an outburst!’

‘What was the phrase you served up to the lord earlier? The phrase he savoured? “An outpouring of pent-up hatred” or some such? That was an outpouring of emotion all right and it came from pretty deep but I wouldn’t say hatred had much to do with it, would you, Lieutenant?’

Martineau shook his head in bafflement. ‘No, sir. And I’ll tell you what—he didn’t care that we saw it. That was quite a performance!’

‘Tell me, Lieutenant, have you ever seen a man make the sign of the cross twice over a body?’

‘Can’t say I have, sir. Once is usually sufficient.’

The throb of a six-cylinder engine greeted them as they moved out into the courtyard an hour later. The Hispano-Suiza was on the move. The motor car was advancing on them, as white, as silent and as stately as a swan on a mere. Packed into the rear seat were the duenna and the ballerinas and, at the wheel, just recognizable in cap, sun goggles, driving gloves, duster coat and white scarf, was Petrovsky.

‘That man doesn’t leave!’ Joe snapped to Martineau and raced forward to stand, one hand raised, blocking his path to the drawbridge. The engine revved and the car gathered speed. Joe tried not to flinch as the car came inexorably on. As it surged towards him, his eyes were riveted by the aggressive emblem mounted on the bonnet. The Hispano’s silver stork was flying at him, long neck extended, ready to impale him on its lance-like beak. He was conscious of Martineau lining up by his side as the car screeched and juddered to a halt inches from their toecaps.

Petrovsky chose to react in French: ‘What the hell are you up to? Testing out my power-assisted brakes? As you see, they’re damned efficient! Idiot! I could have killed you! Like to play this little scene again? I may succeed next time!’ he snarled.

‘Mr Toad, I presume? Good morning!’ Joe said, oozing English affability. ‘Mesdames!’ He switched into French and doffed an imaginary hat. ‘I must ask you to abandon whatever plans you have for the day and return to the great hall.’

‘Are you barmy? We were leaving this morning anyway. Appointment in Avignon. And if you think we’re going to stay on in this madhouse a moment longer, you’re way off beam!’ Petrovsky pushed up his goggles, the better to glower his disdain as he announced: ‘Now hear me, Sandilands! We’ve all been made aware by that moustachioed French fop in there of this night’s disastrous events. Events which you have signally failed to avert. As the Law seems to offer no protection, we must shift for ourselves. I have a duty of care to these ladies. I am not a man to expose them to the attentions of a murdering maniac. Now get out of my way!’

Joe replied again in French to be sure he was being understood by driver and passengers. ‘Park your vehicle. Get out and escort your ladies back into the great hall.’

‘Not on your life! You’ve no authority to stop me! You’re not directing traffic in Piccadilly now, you know! This is France!’

Without a word said, Martineau drew his gun and trained it on Petrovsky. He bellowed back, echoing exactly Joe’s words: ‘Park your vehicle. Get out and …’ And he added: ‘In the name of the French Republic on whose soil you find yourself.’

‘And you can bugger off, too,’ said Petrovsky with suicidal boldness, Joe thought. He could almost admire the Englishman. He would never himself have risked snarling down the barrel of a Lebel pistol held on him by the practised hand of a Marseille policeman. ‘I’m not French. You’ve no right to tell me what to do!’

‘Oh, dear!’ said Joe, turning to Martineau. ‘The gentleman seems to be suffering from a little ethnic and geographic confusion. Is he awaiting the attentions of a Russian officer of the law, do you suppose? We could be here some time. Perhaps I should explain in his own language?’ He addressed Petrovsky in formal copper’s English: ‘Spettisham Gregory Peters, of Maidenhead, Berkshire, subject of His Britannic Majesty, I am arresting you in English and French on behalf of the Metropolitan Police of London—’

‘And the Police Judiciaire of Marseille,’ Martineau inserted. ‘For the offence of resisting arrest and attempting to flee the scene of a crime in a suspicious manner,’ he added, enjoying his invention. He unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt and advanced on Petrovsky.

The engine roared into life again, the noise covering a string of oaths in mixed Russian and English. But it was a last flourish. Petrovsky engaged reverse gear and the stork, robbed of its prey, flapped off backwards. Petrovsky stormed away in the direction of the great hall, leaving Martineau to reach inside and switch off the engine and Joe to extend a hand to the ladies.

The Russian girls swore at him in Russian and hopped out, disdainfully ignoring his hand. The duenna caught Joe’s eye and began to shake with giggles. With the grace of a prima ballerina she rested her fingers on his hand and floated down from the motor car. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘How good it is to encounter a gentleman at last in this uncivilized place.’

Joe was startled to hear that her accent was pure Provençal.

It is difficult to fill a room with panic when that room is three storeys high and large enough to accommodate hundreds, but the twenty or so people assembled were doing their best. Some, mainly the men, were sitting around the table in noisy conference, banging fists on the boards to underline the points they were making, spluttering denials and accusations, arguing and demanding. The women seemed to have gathered into two or three small groups, seated on cushions they had carried over nearer to the central table. Predictably the loudest and most hysterical voice was that of Cecily. Joe sighed wearily to hear the ‘I told you all so … Well, if one will make oneself a target … Wouldn’t it just be Estelle who gets herself murdered? Silly girl! And who’s going to tell us the name of the next victim? He should allow the women to leave at once!’ Joe rather thought she was repeating this for his benefit.

He looked about him, mentally calling the roll. He caught the sleeve of Mrs Tulliver, the lady sculptor, as she passed. ‘Gillian—where are the children?’

‘The French policeman sent them off into quarantine in the playroom and asked Jane Makepeace to stay with them. Have you heard? The Commissaire won’t let anyone leave until he’s made an arrest! We’re all to bring down blankets and sleep here in the hall tonight. Can you imagine? All mucking in together! Sweating and snoring! Ugh! He says airily that it’s no more than we would have done as a matter of course in the Middle Ages. It’s all right for him! He’s staying at the Hôtel de la Poste. But poor little Estelle—what a terrible, terrible thing. I, for one, shall sleep with my chisel under my pillow tonight.’

As he turned away, she called after him. ‘Oh, Joe—the Frenchman’s looking for you. He’s set up shop in de Pacy’s office—just commandeered it! He said anyone sighting you was to send you straight along there.’

Joe and Martineau presented themselves at the steward’s office to find two footmen had been ordered to stand, in a state of some puzzlement, on either side of the doorway. Joe raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a comic gesture and, encountering no opposition, knocked and entered. He found Jacquemin comfortably installed. The large central table had been cleared and held only a telephone and the contents of Jacquemin’s briefcase. Two chairs had been fetched and ranged on the side of the table facing the Commissaire.

‘Come in—sit down! You took your time. Progress report! Avignon aware. Pathologist and medical conveyance on way. Also small back-up squad of gendarmerie. They’re perfectly happy at the Préfecture to work with us and offer us access to their facilities. Fingerprinting, blood analysis and so on. They’re all tooled up for that sort of thing. As they get about ten times more state funding to work with than the Police Judiciaire—so they ought!’

‘The lord, sir?’ asked Martineau. ‘Is he …?’

‘Safely confined to his apartment. Valet in attendance counting out his pills and mopping his forehead. I took it upon myself to order up a nurse from Avignon. She’ll arrive with the squad. Now—anything more to report from the scene?’ His question was put to Martineau.

‘Prints, sir. On the tomb—we’ve marked the position on a sketch. Footprints likewise. In the dust near the remains of the statue. Oh—Monsieur de Pacy entered to pay his respects. We weren’t quick enough to stop him. He may have left prints.’

‘I’d expect to find that gentleman’s dabs everywhere about the place. He’s going to be the first to give me a sample. Now—got your kit, Lieutenant? We can get started on that lot out there. You print them and I’ll interview.’

Jacquemin cleared his throat and turned his attention to Joe. ‘Which brings me to a consideration of your position in all this, Sandilands. Two thirds of the cast list appear to be English. I shall need some professional help with the interpretation.’

It was reluctantly stated and his tone bordered on the ungracious. Joe’s reply was succinct: ‘I understand the circumstances and whatever linguistic, cultural or forensic skills I possess are, of course, available to the Police Judiciaire.’

‘Good. That’s settled then. I’ll see that you’re suitably deputized should it become necessary. And let’s not forget—’ his eyes became one degree less frosty—‘that technically we are both subordinate to the Lieutenant here.’

Joe and Martineau exchanged smiles.

‘But first, Sandilands, I’m going to give you a résumé of the case as I see it. I expect you to add anything you feel necessary.

‘We seem to have a classic case. We’re looking for a man suffering from some form of … er … psychopathy.’ He glanced at Joe to judge his reception of his modern view.

‘C’est un cinglé!’ Martineau ruined his effect.

‘A nutcase!’ It was what Joe’s own sergeant would have said.

‘Possibly a man who has suffered damage to the brain or emotions in the war,’ Jacquemin said repressively. ‘A misogynist at all events. That much is clear. We’re looking at the work of a man with a deep dislike and murderous grudge against women. He announced himself with his first attack—I refer to the smashing of the effigy. A clear statement of intent. A known harlot gets her comeuppance. And just in case anyone’s missed the point—here’s a rabbit to underline it. As Sandilands has pointed out. And we should listen to his view—Sandilands, after all, is familiar with this style of multiple killings. It was London, was it not, which gave the world Jacques l’Éventreur? And we have a gallery of Englishmen here on site from which to choose.’

He waved Joe’s list.

‘I fear you may be right,’ Joe conceded. ‘I see no end to this until he is caught. There will be further victims unless we can stop him.’

‘So, the man we are looking for was (a) on the premises on the night of the attack on the statue … date, Sandilands?’

‘Friday the 20th of August.’

‘Thank you; (b) he was possibly injured in the war; (c) as a hater of women, he is most likely unmarried; (d) he is able to come and go about the building without arousing suspicion—or a bedmate. Probably has a room to himself.’

‘One character comes to mind straight away, sir,’ commented Martineau. ‘But he’s not English.’

‘Look, before you go putting the cuffs on de Pacy—consider this,’ said Joe. ‘Estelle was clearly attacked by someone she knew well. Someone she spoke to in English and laughed with. This much is known from the child’s testimony, as I told you. Therefore there may have been a personal reason behind the killing. Someone wanted Estelle to die for a very particular reason. Because she was Estelle Smeeth, not just a stand-in for the female sex.’

‘Could anyone have got in from outside?’

‘Nothing easier. Anyone could have scaled the dip which we call a dry moat of sorts. All the children know the way. And you could stay out of sight of the rest of the castle by keeping the bulk of the chapel between you and it. We shall need to know more exactly when Estelle died but I was hazarding a guess at six o’clock.’

‘Any sightings of the girl at about that time?’

‘Yes. We have a sighting by Jane Makepeace of Estelle and the child by the bridge at about that time so that seems likely. Our dagger-wielder simply watches from the chapel door after the act—it’s perfectly possible to stand in the shelter of the ornate door surround and be completely hidden from the rest of the castle. He nips over to the hall when he’s sure the coast’s clear.’

‘You heard the child speak. Did he have a contribution to make?’

‘Yes, he did.’ Joe filled in as much as he could remember of the interview conducted by Dorcas and summarized: ‘So, we have a dispatch by an apparent friend, with speed and without resistance on the part of the victim. We know that the aggressor spoke in English to Estelle—though everyone here speaks English, whatever their nationality—and he was wearing black trousers and shoes.’

‘Now who wears that sort of outfit at six o’clock in the south of France?’ the Commissaire wondered aloud.

‘A priest?’ Martineau suggested.

‘Indeed,’ said Joe. ‘But also any of the Englishmen gathered under this roof. And their hosts. The French keep early hours in the country for dining but we English keep to our customs regardless. We dress for dinner. Drinks at six fifteen, first course served at seven. Every man would have scrambled into black trousers and dinner jacket by half past six at the latest, possibly before. I had done so myself. So, suitably attired, our chap strolls off into the hall for a drink when the gong sounds. Looking as though he’s just drifted downstairs fresh from the hands of his valet.’

‘Thank you for that. Very helpful. So—it’s an intruder or a resident, a priest or not a priest, an Englishman or some other nationality we’re looking for.’ Jacquemin glowered.

‘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.’