Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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.

‘Well, you could put your foot down here without fearing the blood of centuries will ooze up and ruin your Oxfords,’ Joe commented. ‘I can see why the lord escapes here for a day or two a week.’

Orlando grunted.

Joe tried again:

‘Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté.

Luxe, calme et volupté …

‘And what do we find inside?’

‘Gleaming furniture, polished by the years,’ Orlando quoted back at him, paraphrasing Baudelaire. ‘What else? Drives you mad after an hour. The measured orderliness … everything in its place … Not sure they’ll be pleased to see untidy old me again. When I stayed here I indulged in a rebellious gesture. The precisely positioned gilt clock in the centre of the mantelpiece in the salon where we played cards had been annoying me. Too loud, too ornate, too gilded! And I didn’t care for the look the goaty god Pan painted on the front had been giving me. I’ll swear he smirked at every duff move I made. Before I left I sneaked in and turned its smug Sèvres porcelain face to the wall.’

‘You stayed here? But why?’

‘One of their bridge party is the local doctor. He was called out to a difficult case unexpectedly one day last month and Silmont invited me to ride over with him to make up a fourth. Yes, I do play. But on this occasion I played so badly they’ve never asked me back.’

‘At least Lacroix will recognize your face. Look, Orlando, before we proceed … I’m not quite sure how best to play this scene …’

‘We’re playing a scene? I thought it was just a wheeze of yours to get out from under the jackbooted feet of that Commissaire?’

‘Only partly. May I ask you, when we go in there, just to follow my lead? What I’m trying to achieve is very simple: to ascertain the time Silmont arrived here yesterday and whether he stayed for the duration. Establish the solidity of his alibi. That’s all. Look—I’ll come clean with you. It was de Pacy himself who told me—rather urgently—to enquire into his cousin’s role in all this. He’s not a man who will brook denial! And—there’s something going on between those two that we have no inkling of.’

‘You mean their intense dislike for each other? The rivalry? The uncomfortable fact that de Pacy is the only living relation Silmont has and he’s eaten away by frustration and sorrow that, on his death, the estate will go to him because there’s no one else in line?’

‘Ah. Yes. That sort of inkling. Look, Orlando, I don’t want this to look like a police enquiry. I don’t want to barge in with notebook and pencil demanding to know where they all were at 6 p.m. yesterday. No direct questions will be asked. All you have to do is stand about affably grinning … burble a few inconsequential remarks … Can you manage that?’

‘When did I ever do otherwise? Oh, come on! Let’s get on with it!’

Orlando greeted the footman by name and was himself recognized. They were ushered into a spacious hallway and asked to wait. Monsieur Lacroix was in the summer salon de compagnie with the other gentlemen.

A moment later, Lacroix appeared, as smiling and friendly as his house. Slight and erect, he moved with the briskness of a military man and his welcome filled the room. ‘Joliffe! How good to see you again! Somehow I thought it would be you who volunteered. And you bring a driver?’ He looked enquiringly at Joe.

‘This is a friend of mine and a fellow guest of Lord Silmont. May I present Commander Joseph Sandilands of …’ Orlando recollected himself and added: ‘of London. Joe, this is Monsieur Alphonse Lacroix.’

‘An English Commander, eh? I should warn you that my great-grandfather died aboard the Redoutable!’ The white moustache swept upwards with his smile in a rush of good humour. The bright blue eyes twinkled.

‘Indeed!’ said Joe, impressed. ‘The first French ship to open fire on Lord Nelson! But, sir, I protest! I’m a Scotsman! I won’t be held responsible for Trafalgar!’

‘A Scotsman? Then you are doubly welcome. But come and meet my friends. We were just about to go out into the garden for lemonade.’ He glanced down at their feet. ‘But you come unprepared! I’ll ask Fernand to go and make arrangements in the stables and, while he’s at it, to look out a spare pair of boots. I’m sure we’ll have a pair large enough for English feet,’ he added dubiously, eyeing Orlando’s size elevens. ‘It will take them a while to saddle up, we’ve plenty of time for a chat. Tell me—have you ridden Mercure before, Joliffe?’

‘Mercure? Ride him? But we thought the horse was lame …’

‘Lame? Whatever gave you that idea? Young horse, in the pink of condition. Raring to go. Watch out—he can be a bit of a handful!’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Two elderly gentlemen were talking together some distance away in the deep shade of an arbour. Joe located them and then looked about him with pleasure. From a sun-filled terrace behind the house a path struck off into what Joe’s mother would have called ‘a wilderness’. Here, the calm and luxury seemed to have been routed by Nature. Provence had asserted herself and thrown off the straight lines imposed by the Parisian architect. No shaven and decoratively distorted trees lined up here to salute them; instead, the thick shade of lustrous native foliage, a vine that swarmed unchecked over a wooden support, and scented curtains of honeysuckle, roses and jasmine crowded round for attention. The path itself gave way to a soft runner of close-growing herbs that gave up a delicious aroma under Joe’s feet.

‘There they are, lost in the gloom,’ said Lacroix. ‘This is what I still call “my wife’s garden”. She had an aversion to sun-baked symmetry. I allowed her to plant all this on sufferance! It was only after her death some ten years ago, I realized how right she had been. I often sit here after breakfast and tell her so. Come, let’s get out of the sun and meet my dear friends, le docteur Philippe Simon and Monsieur Alfred Lesueur. Gentlemen, we have Joliffe with us again … Alfred, you will remember Joliffe—the Man Who Reverses Time? And, with him, he brings a gentleman from London—Commander Joseph Sandilands. No, don’t get up—they’re joining us out here for lemonade.’

Greetings exchanged, it was the doctor who spoke first. ‘Have you enquired, Alphonse, about our friend?’

‘No, Philippe, I thought I’d leave medical matters to you.’

‘Then tell me, Joliffe—Bertrand, how did he appear, when he got back this morning?’ The question was put with concern, in the expectation of a crisp answer.

‘Not well,’ replied Orlando with some reticence. ‘Less than his usual self, I’d say. Somewhat tired.’

‘Orlando is being discreet,’ Joe broke in. ‘You’re talking to a medical man, Orlando. I think we can feel free to express our concerns. I’ll be frank—he seemed ill, sir. Emotionally disturbed, of course—you will be au fait with the vandal attack to which his chapel has recently been subjected?’

They murmured their understanding. ‘… disgraceful affair … youth out of control these days … a six-month spell in my old regiment would …’ From their reaction, Joe assessed that no message regarding the more serious crime had been sent to them. They were unaware of the murder.

‘But physically, he struck me as being much diminished …’

‘Yes? Go on.’ The doctor was encouraging him to throw off his British reserve.

‘In fact—jolly ill. From the way he clutches at his heart …’ Joe mimed the gesture, ‘it’s apparent that he has some fears in that quarter. On his return, we noticed that his breathing was irregular and laboured, his face pale, almost blue. He was favouring his left arm. We were concerned.’

‘There!’ said Lesueur. ‘We were quite right to ignore his tantrum and insist he went back in the car. He’d never have made it on that horse of his. Great, strong beast with a mind of its own! It’ll kill him one of these days.’

‘The ride over may well have done some damage …’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, gentlemen—if you know—at what time did Bertrand leave home to come here yesterday? Precision would be appreciated.’

‘We were with him when he set off to walk to the stable. At two o’clock, Orlando? Yes. Let’s say he was mounted and off by two fifteen at the latest,’ said Joe.

‘And he arrived here at just after three!’ announced the doctor. ‘I knew it! He must have galloped most of the way to do the journey in that time!’

Orlando was desperately trying to repress a smirk and avoid catching Joe’s eye.’It’s not an easy ride,’ he commented. ‘Doubt if I could do it in an hour and I’m reckoned to be something of a centaur, back home.’

‘It may be the one thing in life Bertrand still really enjoys, but my friend’s right—it’ll be the death of him. I sometimes think that’s what he has in mind,’ said Lacroix, weighing his words.

‘Riding yourself to death?’ said Joe, picking up his thought. ‘Intriguing idea! Not a bad way to go if you know your time’s measured. No guilt of suicide to bear if you’re a religious man … And if you can calculate it finely enough to collapse in the arms of your oldest friends and your doctor on arrival? A good end!’

‘You understand me, Sandilands. It could kill him. You fellows all heard me ban him from strenuous exercise! And he flouts my good advice continually. Thinks he can fix it with the pills I hand out. I’m quite certain he can’t.’ The doctor looked seriously from Orlando to Joe. ‘Your diagnosis is correct, Commander. Heart, you know. An established condition which has got much, much worse over the past few months. I speak of this to you in the hope that his young friends at the château will be able to exert a greater influence daily than his old friends who see him only one day a week. He must desist from exercise any more taxing than chopping the top off his morning egg.’

‘Some chance of anyone exerting an influence over Bertrand de Silmont!’ Lacroix shook his head. ‘Pride, you know. And it gets stronger as he grows weaker. That’s why he told these chaps his horse had gone lame. He doesn’t want to be seen as a weakling who has to be driven about the place by a chauffeur … who has to consider the possibility that it’s time to give up the horses he adores.’

‘We’ve heard and understood,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll preserve the illusion. And we’ll do our best to urge restraint. Though we risk having our ears torn off if we interfere, I’m afraid,’ he hazarded.

‘Know what you mean!’ sighed Lacroix. ‘It’s a pity you’ve nothing in your medical kit for bad temper, Philippe. Those rages of his! Practically foams at the mouth—over nothing! He used never to be so touchy, you know, Sandilands. Quite out of character. I’m sorry you’ve been presented with this vision of our friend. Illness reduces us all.’

‘The stressful life he leads … One has to make allowances. Jump in boldly and do what one can …’ murmured Joe. His invention was running into the sand.

They mumbled their agreement.

‘But, gentlemen, allow me to reveal the second reason for visiting you without ringing in advance.’

They exchanged puzzled glances but seemed ready—even eager—for a change of subject and tone.

‘We were just passing, returning to Silmont after an unfruitful visit to the village.’

‘Our village? Then it would be likely to be unfruitful! It’s very small—three farmers and their dogs. What business could you have had there?’

‘First, I must make a confession. Or is it rather—a clarification? The “Commander” of my title is not a naval one but a police rank.’

‘Police? What sort of police? Forgive me for asking but, here in France, we have at least six different varieties. There’s the state police and the PJ and Clemenceau’s Tigers … or are they the same thing?’ said Lacroix.

‘And there are divisions of divisions,’ put in Lesueur. ‘There’s Tax Evasion, Narcotics, Art Smuggling … er …’

‘Pimping—that’s one …’ the doctor offered.

‘And Wasting Police Time, you’ll find, gentlemen!’ Lacroix, eyes twinkling called a halt.

‘I’m very simply with Criminal Investigation. If I say—Scotland Yard …?’

They had all heard of Scotland Yard.

‘Joe’s their crack sleuth,’ Orlando offered. ‘Criminal Investigation Department. And he liaises with that European lot in Lyon—’

‘Interpol,’ supplied Joe. ‘It’s in its infancy—birth throes might be more accurate—though it is intended to spread worldwide. But—don’t be alarmed! I’m on leave at the moment. Not on official business. I’m actually on my way down to Antibes. I was cornered at a party in London before I left by a friend with a special plea.’

The doctor groaned. ‘A cross we professionals all have to bear. Favours!’ He put on an old duffer’s voice: ‘“I say—you’re a medical man of sorts, aren’t you? I seem to have this lump behind my ear … this rash in an intimate area …” Pain in the rear, they mean! And then, having received a free diagnosis, they have the nerve to tell me they’ll be sure to go and see their own doctor!’ He levelled a sharp and humorous glance at Joe. ‘As I expect you find, the ploy always works. I never have discovered the formula to deny anyone.’

‘Exactly!’ said Joe. ‘The request I had was rather unusual. “I say, you’re a detective, aren’t you? Can you find a missing wife?” The worse for three cocktails at the time, I heard myself saying: “Not at all, old boy … rely on me.”’ He gave a shudder. ‘And now I have to get on with it. Wonder if you could help? We called in on the off-chance. Long resident in the neighbourhood, pillars of your community—I thought you might be able to offer me the end of a ball of string. I’ve had no luck so far and the Riviera calls! My lost sheep is, of all things, a girl born and bred in these parts.’

‘And her husband’s in London?’ asked Lacroix. ‘Seems a bit unlikely.’

‘He was in London. Recently dead, hence the hoo-ha. Yes. A pre-war, Belle Époque-style romance, don’t you know.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Young Englishman of good family, touring Europe, head full of Petrarch and Boccaccio, La Bohème as well for good measure probably, meets and falls in love with a very young Provençal girl. He marries her and carries her off to England. Not finding it to her taste, she flees back home and the war closes in. There wouldn’t have been a problem, I believe, but there’s a question of progeny and inheritance. It always comes down to cash.’

Heads nodded gravely.

‘So, all other avenues of enquiry having failed, here I am, mewing with frustration and going through the motions.’

‘Joe does himself less than justice,’ Orlando backed up. ‘Even after three cocktails he’ll remember giving his word—and keep it. The man’s a ferret. He’ll find her. It’ll just take time.’ And then, slowly: ‘Why don’t you show them the evidence, Joe. You have it in your wallet.’

‘Ah yes. I say—may I?’ His query was more than a politeness and he waited for Orlando’s nod before taking out his notecase.

He slipped the photograph from it and three heads bent, intrigued, over the faded sepia print.

‘We’ve narrowed this down to 1906. And to a small village in the vicinity of Avignon. The girl in question is the one on the right, aged about twelve. We know that the name of the priest who conducted the communion classes was Father Ignace.’

‘Our priest here is Father Pierre,’ said Lacroix, intrigued. ‘He’s been here for decades. If anyone knows the where-abouts of the priesthood, he will. I don’t know of one called Ignace … You fellows?’

‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘And I know every priest in the area. I can tell you with confidence that there is none such between here and Avignon. But look—1906. I didn’t take up my work here until after the war. I was based in Paris before that and moved down here to be close to my old academy friends.’

‘And I was with my regiment in North Africa at that time,’ said Lacroix.