Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘I’ve heard the name before,’ said Lesueur. ‘In a priestly context, I’m sure. Like the others, I’ve come and gone. These have not been settled times in France. But it does ring a bell.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Getting old. Memory full of holes. I’ll think about it. Let you know.’

Orlando went off to the stables looking rather chipper, Joe thought, when the message came that the horse was ready for him. Looking forward to the ride? Or happy to be getting shot of his police escort? Joe decided—both.

They agreed to meet in the great hall on their return. Orlando dashed off, Joe was quite certain, with the clear intention of getting home before him. He prepared himself to parry a few thrusts spiked with the word ‘horsepower’ when he got back.

He strolled out to his motor car, taking his time to give Orlando a head start and planning the rest of his afternoon. He found he was split between an eagerness to return to the château and a concern to give the Commissaire a run at the problem unencumbered by his presence. Joe decided to waste a little more time. There was one more step he could take in the mad pursuit of Orlando’s Laure before he returned.

He was just climbing behind the wheel when he heard a thin voice calling after him. He turned to see Alfred Lesueur coming at a stately trot down the drive, waving his arms to attract his attention.

‘So glad I caught you! Sorry—I nodded off! I came to with the answer in my head. The name Ignace. Well, an Ignace.’ He frowned. ‘I do hope it’s not the one you’re looking for … You wouldn’t want to find this one. No, no! Terrible business! I’m not a religious man, Sandilands, but I have to say—with everyone else—shameful. If it’s the affair I’m thinking of.’

He put up a hand to forestall Joe’s question. ‘No. I’ll say no more. In case my memory serves me ill. It does play tricks … You must find the evidence for yourself. Not difficult. It was in the newspaper. The local one. They’ll have copies in the archives in Avignon.’

‘Can you remember a date?’ asked Joe without much hope.

‘Before the war. I’m not certain of the year.’

‘A season? That would be a help. If you could remember where you were reading at the time,’ he prompted, ‘you might remember when.’

‘Oh yes. Let me think … Now I take the daily national newspaper … I was probably reading the local one at my aunt’s house. The Voix de la Méditerranée. It comes out weekly. Yes! All the aunts were there, tut-tutting over it. The editor was much criticized for printing the article. My aunt Berthe had bought a copy to check the programme of events for the coming national holiday. So—there you have it,’ he chortled. ‘You’d be looking for the week before July 14th!’

‘Well done!’ said Joe, amused. ‘You’ve saved me hours if not days of research!’

‘Delighted to be of help, old chap. When you find the paper in question, you’ll have to search with a fine-tooth comb because the story I recall, to everyone’s disappointment, only made one appearance. I expect further reports were instantly suppressed by the powers of … well, shall we just say—those with an interest. But even they couldn’t censor the tittle-tattle!’

The priest’s housekeeper showed Joe into Father Pierre’s study. ‘Commander Sandilands, Father,’ she murmured and left them together.

‘Good of you to see me, Father,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve just spent an hour with Alphonse Lacroix who gave me your name as one who might possibly be able to help me.’

‘Sit down. Sit down. You’re very welcome. But—help an English policeman?’ He looked again at the card he held in his hand. ‘A Scotland Yard Commander? Are you sure you want to see me?’

Joe assessed the age of the priest. The unlined, waxen features were difficult to read but he decided that he must be in late middle age and probably a contemporary of Lacroix and his friends. Joe repeated the half-truths he had given earlier to the bridge group with such success and concluded: ‘So—I would be enormously grateful to hear where I might find this Father Ignace.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you,’ came the cold response. ‘The man you seek does not exist.’

‘I have it on very good authority that he does, or did, in the years before the war. If you are unable to give this matter your personal attention, could you at least direct me to the division of the Church which keeps records of the priesthood? I should like to look him up.’

‘There is no record of such a man available to you, Commander. You will find his name on no church roll.’

To Joe’s surprise, the priest got to his feet, walked to the door and opened it. ‘You must excuse me, Commander. I recall that I have an engagement with a parishioner. My housekeeper will show you out. I suggest you waste no more of your time looking for a phantom priest. There is no Father Ignace.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was five o’clock before Joe wearily parked his car between the Hispano-Suiza and a matched pair of Citroën police cars and presented himself again in the great hall. Someone must have been watching for him at the door. The cry went up at once: ‘He’s here!’

He was assailed without warning from all sides by distraught, angry and demanding voices. Hands tugged at his sleeves, someone trod on his foot. Joe hated mobs. Did twenty people constitute a mob? he wondered. Yes. If they were angry, vociferous and without a leader.

‘It’s a disgrace!’

‘Someone must do something!’

‘This’ll show us what Scotland Yard’s made of!’ Joe thought he caught Petrovsky’s subversive rumble.

The cacophony was quelled by a firm and totally reasonable plea delivered over their heads by Orlando to ‘let the poor bloke have a cup of tea, for God’s sake—before you tear him apart!’

A cup was instantly at his elbow, held out by Jane Makepeace. In a co-ordinated move with Orlando, she managed to cut Joe from the herd and settle him at one end of the table, sitting between them, next to the teapot. The crowd did not disperse but seethed about, looking likely to invade his peace at any moment. He guessed he was immune from them as long as he clutched his teacup in his hand.

‘Am I hearing this aright?’ Joe asked, unbelieving. ‘That lot are falling over themselves to tell me that an arrest has been made? Who’s been arrested? And on what charge?’

‘Much as I hate to echo the sentiments of the crowd,’ gritted Jane, ‘especially this crowd—Joe, you’ve got to do something!’

‘They have a point,’ added Orlando. ‘Think of the fellow least likely to have done it, the one we all love the most—they’ve collared him for it!’

‘They, and by that I mean the senior Frenchman—Jacquemin, is it?—have arrested Frederick Ashwell. Freddie! For the murder of Estelle. That’s as much as we know. They’ve got him in there now—in Guy’s … in the steward’s office. That poor young boy! They’ve been grilling him for over an hour. It’s ludicrous! Fred wouldn’t swat a fly if it settled on his cream bun!’

‘I’ve watched him catch a wasp that was being a nuisance and let it go in the lavender muttering “brother wasp”!’ huffed Orlando.

‘He’s a baby—only just out of the Slade!’ Jane’s face was pink with indignation. Her dark eyes flashed with spirit and she tugged anxiously at a lock of silky hair. Joe wondered why he hadn’t noticed at first sight what a very pretty woman she was.

‘Is there anything you can do, Joe?’

He drained his cup of tea, set it down on the table and got to his feet. Time for Sir Lancelot to parade again. Joe steeled himself. Unflustered and commanding, he turned his battered side to the crowd and eyed them with what he hoped was a repressive glare. It worked a treat on new recruits and old stagers alike. It had signally failed with a tiger but it seemed to be working now with the excitable bunch in front of him. They fell silent.

‘Don’t worry! I’m sure there’s something I can do, Jane.’ His voice was directed over her head at the crowd. ‘I’ll go directly to Jacquemin and sort this out. I’m expecting to find we’re hearing an unconfirmed rumour. What we need is information. When we have the facts we can take the appropriate action.’

Mutters of agreement started to go up on hearing his stressed words. Heads nodded support and they began to move aside, making a way through for him.

‘Could you find Guy, tell him I’m back and ask him to attend with me? There may be useful evidence he can supply—’ he started to say.

Jane replied lugubriously: ‘He’s tried! He’s as angry as we are. But they wouldn’t listen to him. The Commissaire threw Guy out of his own office! He’s stormed off in a temper. I’ll try to find him.’

The rebellious grumbles started up again at the mention of Jacquemin’s overbearing behaviour to the steward. De Pacy was a popular man also in that company. Joe heard anti-French suggestions of an inventive nature being proposed by Ernest Fenton and seconded by Derek Whittlesford and thought the sooner he could bring young Frederick out of the office all in one piece or, for choice, selected body parts of the Commissaire in shreds, the better.

He approached de Pacy’s office, nodding to left and right, feeling like a matador entering the ring. The door was, as before, flanked by two sentinels. The puzzled footmen had been replaced by two flint-eyed policemen from Avignon who seemed prepared to block his way. Joe showed his warrant card and informed them that he was expected. He knocked firmly once and walked straight inside.

He addressed the seated Commissaire from the doorway. ‘Excellent news, Jacquemin! Lord Silmont’s day passed exactly as advertised. No variation. No aberration. Three impeccable witnesses. I’ll let you have my report this evening.’

‘Good. Good. Always a pleasure to hear our lords and masters are in the clear,’ he drawled. ‘Now, what may I do for you?’

‘Fill me in. Where’ve we got to? Have you found her passport? Contacted her next of kin?’

‘Of course.’ He pointed to a battered navy Vuitton suitcase behind the door. ‘That’s hers. We packed all her belongings in there. Nothing of interest or value. Mostly clothes. Her parents—named in her passport—were alerted by the force in Avignon and instructions sought. Some difficulties there,’ he commented. ‘Her father would appear to be some sort of dignitary in the Church with an address in Canterbury.’

He passed a scrap of paper over the desk to Joe. ‘Anything known?’

Joe shook his head.

‘They declined to travel down to view the body or pick up her things. We’ve been asked to dispose of them as we think fit.’

Joe grunted. ‘There’s parental affection for you! No more than Estelle would have expected, I think. Has her body been taken care of?’

‘It’s gone to Avignon, sir,’ said Martineau, eager and deferential. ‘Top priority! We’ll hear back tomorrow—’

‘That will be all, Lieutenant,’ said Jacquemin frostily with a nod indicating the presence of an interviewee in the room.

Joe affected to notice for the first time the blond young man standing, hands cuffed behind his back and swaying slightly, opposite the Commissaire. ‘Ah! Freddie, my boy!’ he said jovially and went to pat him encouragingly on the back. ‘Helping out the PJ, are you? Good boy! But don’t stand on ceremony—have a seat, won’t you?’ Joe pulled a chair over and pushed Frederick on to it.

Frederick turned an anguished face to Joe. His long lashes were damp, his cheeks streaked with orange and green paint and trails of facial effluvia. Joe thought, with a stab of pity, that the young man looked like a pagan villager in The Rite of Spring a minute before the end of the last act, collapsing in a heap and dying of physical and emotional exhaustion. Embarrassed, Freddie twisted his neck and wiped his nose on his lapel.

‘Strange fact I’ve discovered, Jacquemin, about artists,’ said Joe conversationally. ‘They never keep a clean handkerchief about them. Dishclouts of the most dubious provenance in every pocket but not a scrap of cotton to blow your nose on. Here, Freddie, have a good toot!’ He held out his own cotton square and waited pointedly until Jacquemin nodded to Martineau to remove the handcuffs.

‘Thank God you’re here, Joe!’ Freddie burst out. ‘Estelle! She’s dead! Murdered, they’re saying. Why? And these fellows think I killed her! Me!’ He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. ‘Idiots!’ he snarled, gaining courage from Joe’s hand on his shoulder. And, losing all control: ‘Arseholes! I loved her! I loved her!’ he screamed again. Jacquemin sighed. ‘We all heard that, I think? Write it down, Martineau. In English and French. You’d be surprised how often that confession leads to the more serious one we’re looking for. You’ve arrived, once again, Commander, at the moment critique. In at the kill, eh?’

‘Explain yourself, Jacquemin.’ Joe’s tone was easy but menacing. He’d guessed from the Commissaire’s failure to throw him out at once on his arrogant British bum that he had, during Joe’s absence, made that essential phone call to establish Joe’s bona fides and check on his rank. The Yard, if consulted, would have confirmed his high office in the force and most likely—since the enquiry came from France—would have mentioned the role he was playing in establishing Interpol, based in their own city of Lyon. A politically difficult moment. Jacquemin must by now know that he was outranked and outplayed by Commander Sandilands.

So why was he not hopping mad? Why wasn’t he reminding Joe that, however elevated he might be back home, here he was without any authority? His equanimity was alarming.

‘My colleague, Lieutenant Martineau of the local police force, was just about to inform this young person that, following his confession, he is to be taken away to Avignon, there to face the examining magistrate and answer a charge of murder.’

‘I heard him just now confess that he loved Estelle. No more than that. If loving Estelle is a crime, man, you can slip the cuffs on at least five gentlemen baying for your blood out there. Six if you count yours truly.’ Joe stuck out his hands cynically in the receptive position. ‘She was a lovable girl. Her death has left us all distraught. We want to see the guilty man behind bars and soon. But a sacrificial goat shoved off a cliff satisfies no one. And makes the rest of the herd more difficult to handle.’

‘We don’t yet have Ashwell’s confession in so many words,’ said Jacquemin. ‘But we do have it in paint.’ He enjoyed Joe’s puzzlement for a moment and went on: ‘His crime is emblazoned on a wall. Painted two metres high in glorious colour and minute detail. And it’s not merely a faithful portrayal of the crime after the event … oh, no … what we have is a statement of intent. We have a blue-print—an all-colours-of-the-rainbow print—for murder.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s even signed and dated it! I invite you to come and have a look.’

He smiled wolfishly at Ashwell. ‘And we’ll take the great designer along with us to explain his theory and procedure, shall we? His modus operandi, I think we’d call it in the trade.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

The small group left the office and headed off back through the hall towards the courtyard. The two French officers, with Frederick walking between them, followed by Joe and one of the gendarmes, raised a few questioning eyebrows but no one tried to bar their way. There was a moment of farce when Jacquemin was on the point of making the wrong turning and the prisoner had to tug the Commissaire by the sleeve and steer him on to the right path.

They emerged into warm late afternoon sunlight. Jacquemin had his bearings now and strode out for the north-facing cloister, a cool and airy spot, sheltered from wind and sun by its width and the arcaded aspect it presented to the courtyard.

‘Outdoors?’ the Commissaire mused. ‘I have to ask: is this a sensible place to create a work of art?’

‘It’s not intended to be permanent,’ said Frederick. ‘I’m experimenting with what is rapidly becoming a lost skill. Lord Silmont, as you know, is an art lover in the true sense and I have found him very ready to support endeavours which may not seem immediately attractive to those who only view art in the saleroom. He understands the need for experimentation. I’ve changed the plaster formula and the schemes for the painting several times already.’

‘What’s all this mess?’ Jacquemin wanted to know. He kicked with his foot at a slew of discarded crayons and scraps of paper that littered the paved floor.

‘The children,’ said Frederick. ‘They gather here in the shade and watch me work. They’ve been trying out their own ideas. They ran off in a hurry when little Marius burst out of the chapel.’ He bent down and started to gather up the remains of his impromptu art school.

‘Oh, leave it, for goodness sake! Now—starting on the left? Good. Explain this … this …’

‘Delectable fresco?’ supplied Joe kindly. ‘It’s stunning! Chagal would admire. But first, tell us, Fred, why is one of the four leaves—would you call them leaves, these sections?—covered over?’

‘There’s an illustration for each of the acts—they follow on each other like chapters in a story—and that’s the last one. Act 4, you could say, the finale. I only finished yesterday. I do one section at a time. One a day. My giornata, it’s called in the trade. Fresco means fresh. You’ve got to finish your picture while the stucco is still damp so that the paint you apply bonds with the plaster. No time for second thoughts or touching up. You have to go at it! In this weather I sprinkle my surfaces evening and morning with water and, to control the rate of drying, I drape a length of fabric over it when I’ve finished. I find it keeps the circulation of air to the minimum. I’m just feeling my way, you understand … using whatever seems to work. Guided by some useful instruction books the lord’s lent me. In Italian. I say—anyone here know any Italian—’

‘We start here,’ Jacquemin interrupted.

‘Ah yes. Now, this one here, the first, is, naturally, the scenery for the opening act of the ballet …’

Fred was getting into his stride, almost losing sight of the reason he was here. ‘There’s been a deplorable audience reaction to some modern ballets—The Rite of Spring, Petroushka, Firebird. Ignorant idiots who thought they were coming to swoon to a performance of Nutcracker or hum along with The Yeomen of the Guard were disappointed. Some hissed and walked out in a marked manner, some got into arguments with others more avant-garde. Fisticuffs broke out in the aisles. Right from the opening bars! In The Rite of Spring a riot ensued. Police were called. Many customers took a dislike to the set. A brilliant design by Nicholas Roerich. The man’s an archaeologist as well as a painter—he knew his stuff. But the design was lacking in the colour the audience wanted. From the title they were expecting yellows and greens and choruses of pink-cheeked virgins crowned with may-blossom. What they were presented with was sombre: shadowy purples and moss greens and glacier white, wonderfully evoking the awakening Steppes of Asia at the moment they begin to shake off winter. Bags of drama! But not comforting. Not the background for a jolly night out. What’s more, the maidens were a disappointment. Clearly from rural Russia not Ruritania—grey-clad scarecrows with painted pagan faces—’

‘I think the audience response may have had more to do with the musical score,’ Jacquemin cut him short. ‘It was the first notes of the bassoon, I understand, that got them on their feet. Monsieur Stravinsky can clear a concert hall faster than the fire brigade. Let us hope that the composer Petrovsky has in mind is more in tune with French ears. Now, guide us over your landscape will you, young man. By the shortest route.’

Frederick waved his arm and began to tell the story Joe had heard from Martineau in the chapel. The two men pulled surprised faces at each other behind Jacquemin’s back.

The Devil’s Bride was intended to intrigue an audience newly eager to rediscover and celebrate its roots, the painter told them. And what rich roots! The ancient Provençal tongue had been recently resurrected by the poet Mistral; folk tales going back to the Roman occupation and still being passed down by word of mouth in the villages had been discovered and preserved in print. In music too, discoveries had been made. Folk songs, shepherd’s chants, gypsy tunes and love songs from the time of the troubadours had been coaxed from elderly inhabitants with long memories.

The story, the music, the setting, all were rooted in this soil, Frederick explained to the accompaniment of enthusiastic nods from Martineau, but the work would have an appeal for the whole world. If they could only find a costume designer with the genius of Léon Bakst, they would have a runaway success. There would be tours to America as well as the capitals of Europe.

‘So, we lure the audiences in,’ he explained. ‘No discordant bassoons, no dull-coloured sets, no ragged costumes to scare them off. We appeal to the world!’ He pointed to the first leaf of his painting.

In the background, a white castle thrust its pinnacles up into a vividly blue sky and on the grassy expanse at its feet all was prepared for a wedding. White birds flew; branches and garlands framed the scene which would be filled by colourfully clad dancers. Frederick had painted in a few figures, resplendent in a form of medieval dress. Joe peered more closely at these and wondered whether anyone else would notice that perhaps the genius costume designer had been found. But this was no idealized Sleeping Beauty castle. His eye searched for the discords. A second glance showed, sneaking in already amongst the springtime colours, a more sinister palette of dark red and grey. The splendid white château had its roots in a soil the colour of blood or embers.

‘Explain the characters, would you. Be brief. I’m sure we’re all familiar with the story,’ Jacquemin invited.

Swallowing his offence, Frederick made the introductions. ‘On your left, gentlemen, the ducal parents of the groom, splendidly attired. These will be elderly dancers who won’t need to stretch their limbs or perform any vigorous steps so we can go to town on the costumes. On the right, the parents of the bride, likewise presented. The groom I have portrayed as a Nijinsky figure. Handsome with wonderful thighs. The central figure: the bride. We do not know her name. Dressed in white to conform to the old story and modern custom, though in medieval times I believe she would …’ The frosty eye of the Commissaire nudged him back on course again. ‘White. Yes. Clinging and simple. But glittering. Much frosting: silver and diamonds winking at her throat and wrists to indicate her wealth. And in this she is quite distinct from another girl over here in the half background, standing in the shadows—do you see her? The second female lead. The Odile to the bride’s Odette, if you will. This is Aliénore, the penniless cousin who is secretly in love with the bride-groom. She is wearing a dark blue dress, the replica of the one the bride wears, but she has no jewels. The two girls do a pas de deux which reveals the girlish innocence of the one, the calculating jealousy of the other—’

‘We’ll imagine that. Carry on to the second act, will you?’

Their eyes followed Frederick’s pointing finger. They noted the red fissure in the castle’s foundations had increased in size. Ragged-edged, it oozed hellfire colours: thunderous purple, streaks of soot black, sparks of sulphurous yellow.

‘And the audience will suddenly see movement here. On stage, I plan to stretch a diaphanous curtain over the crack, red-lit from above, and have dancers writhing behind it,’ Frederick explained. ‘And then, the bride having been left behind on stage while everyone goes off inside for the ceremony, she does a solo dance which turns into a pas de deux when a second character makes his entrance. Up from the roots of the castle comes the Devil. At this stage he’s not terrifying but mesmerizing. Clad all in red, of course, handsome and charming. And—masked. Clearly he’s fallen in love with the bride. He woos her. Nothing doing. She skips off into the castle and he does a dramatic solo full of power and rage. Not a creature to be thwarted!’

‘And we can see what’s going on here,’ said Jacquemin, stepping on. ‘The party’s moved indoors. If I remember the story correctly, the bride encourages her friends to play a last game of childhood before she becomes a wife. A game of hide and seek. Which seems here to be going terribly wrong.’ He looked closely at the third leaf. ‘Looks exactly like the great hall we’ve just left. But decorated and en fête, of course.’

‘A wide stage so that we can put on the formal wedding dances, performed to the traditional tunes, and then the wild scurrying of the young folk as they play their game. And, in the same stage set, the discovery that the girl is missing—with the resulting turmoil. The lighting dies and one part of the stage only is illuminated: over here.’ Frederick moved aside and pointed to the bottom left-hand corner which they now saw to be the grey-painted outline of a dungeon. Two figures were standing hand in hand, in quiet menace. The bridegroom and his lover Aliénore were pitilessly watching the scene before them. Two further figures were dancing together, limbs entwined—amorously or in a frantic struggle—it was hard to tell. The Devil had the young bride by the waist and was wresting her from her hiding place to drag her down even deeper into the bowels of the château.

Martineau pointed an accusing finger at the groom and Aliénore. ‘There they are—the guilty pair. In a moment, they’ll spring to life, clang shut the door and nothing more will be heard of the bride for a hundred years. Death! The Devil is Death! But this devil has a face. Look! Can you see what I’m seeing?’

With his free hand the Devil was tugging the mask from his face.

‘Good Lord! I hadn’t noticed!’ said Joe in surprise. ‘But we know him! Isn’t that …’

‘Monsieur Guy de Pacy. Masquerading. Or not,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Interesting, and we look forward to hearing more from you on what prompted your choice of subject, Ashwell. But at last, here we are at the fourth and final setting. Will you unveil it, or shall I?’

Frederick shrugged truculently. ‘I left it covered over because … well, in the circumstances … respect … sensibilities …’ he mumbled and seemed unwilling to proceed. ‘Not because I had anything to hide!’

Martineau moved forward to attend to the drapery.

‘This is experimental, you understand. The ballet could well end with the third act. I’ve added this scene as the final chapter in the folk story. An awful warning—the wages of sin and all that.’

‘And can you tell us at what precise time you put the last brushstroke to it? I’m assuming that the last flourish could well have been your signature?’ Jacquemin leaned over and pretended to examine the scrawling black letters in the corner. ‘It’s always a puzzle to me—that men who have superb control over their fingers and their brushes seem to be incapable of forming their letters with any elegance. F. J. Ashwell, it says,’ he reported unnecessarily. ‘And it bears yesterday’s date. I’m assuming that whatever time you give us will, of course, correspond to the time the laboratory comes up with when they examine the sample of plaster I’ve sent them.’ He pointed to a gap six inches square chiselled from the bottom of the painting.

‘All this has been reported also by Miss Jane Makepeace who observed Estelle Smeeth and the child Marius some yards away on the other side of the courtyard at the same time. Estelle—the young lady who had become, unwittingly, the subject of your last act. A piece devised and worked on for some hours before the young lady died. Completed, down to the signature, minutes before her death. Now, Sandilands, you see why I demand an explanation at the very least. Though a confession is, in fact, what we’re looking at!’

Joe turned wondering eyes on the painter and then looked back at his vision of death on the wall before them.

The scene in the chapel was exactly as he remembered it. The table-top tomb was there bearing its grotesque burden. The crusading knight lay, unchanged, and at his side, his wife. But this figure was not Aliénore. The features were clearly those of Estelle. And the dagger in her heart was a faithful rendering of the misericord.