Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Easy enough to check whether the lad’s telling the truth or not,’ said Martineau when they returned to the office. ‘Shall I go and collar his lordship, sir? That was as good a denunciation as I’ve ever heard! Shall I haul the blighter down and make him answer up?’

‘It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,’ Jacquemin replied. ‘That valet of his …’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Léon something …’

‘Bédoin,’ supplied Joe. ‘Old retainer type. Been looking after his master for decades.’

‘Bossy old bugger! He’s given the lord a stiff dose of something to send him to sleep. Without reference to me! Or to the hospital nurse I’ve sent up to keep an eye on things. The valet’s uttering dire warnings of seizures to come. This fellow appears to be in charge of the pharmacopoeia. Which he keeps under lock and key in his own lair. He’s got a room next door to the master’s in his suite in the south tower.’

‘You’re saying you’ve—?’ Joe began to ask.

‘First thing I did. On the assumption that not a lot goes on under a roof of this sort without the knowledge of the owner, I stepped out and inspected his rooms. He raised no objection but I had to batter down the valet to gain admission.’

‘Anything of note? I should particularly like to hear of what his medication consists. I was fortunate enough this afternoon to have a concerned discussion with his doctor. He confirmed my suspicions regarding the lord’s health. But it would be interesting to hear what the man is actually being prescribed.’

Jacquemin passed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Here you are. I took an inventory.’

Joe glanced down the list. ‘Can you tell me why you’ve divided this into two distinct parts?’

‘Because that’s how we found them,’ said Jacquemin. ‘In two different cupboards and—this is extraordinary—with two different labels. The first group and the largest in number are the bottles and tins marked with the local doctor’s details. The second, amounting to three or four items in all, bear the address of a Harley Street, London, medical establishment. With a name on the label we all recognize. Makepeace. Do you have a comment to make?’ He looked keenly at Joe who had fallen into a silent perusal of the list.

‘Er … not yet. I should like to take the time to check up on one or two of these items. I’m noticing that the London doctor and the local chap have one prescription in common. Both have decided to supply him with potassium iodide. Anything known?’ he asked carefully.

‘Heart and lungs. My predecessor swallowed them down like cachous,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Quite useless. It got him in the end.’

‘May I borrow this? Take a copy and return it?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And, tell me Jacquemin, was there anything that took your attention in his quarters? What sort of set-up does he have there?’

Jacquemin pulled a sour face. ‘Austere to the point of monkishness, I’d say. Fixtures and fittings and furnishings all of the very best but simple. Apart from some pretty fancy artwork on the bedroom walls.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘Artwork which would surprise you, Sandilands. I expect it says a lot about the occupant of any room—the choice of pictures—if you think about it. A man can fill his public rooms with whatever he thinks will impress his guests. That’s the face he wants to show to the world but it’s the image he chooses to rest his eyes on before he goes to sleep that tells you who he really is.’

Joe and Martineau were suddenly thoughtful.

‘Passing in review your own walls, gentlemen?’ Jacquemin grinned. ‘Let me guess. The Lieutenant lives with his widowed mother. I’d expect a reproduction of a suitably pious religious scene—an Annunciation or something similar.’ And, as Martineau coloured and shuffled his feet, added: ‘With something more recreative under the bed, I’d guess. Now, Sandilands …’

Joe’s annoyance at this invasion of his privacy bristled in his voice: ‘Before you venture out on to another creaky limb, Jacquemin, I’ll reveal the secrets of my bedchamber walls: horses and angels. Find fault with them if you can. I managed to acquire one of Alfred Munnings’ paintings of the Canadian cavalry horses at war behind the front line before they were much collected. The angels—so buxom and bonny their gilded frame can scarcely contain them—are the subjects of an Italian renaissance drawing left to me by an uncle.’

Jacquemin’s smile was self-congratulatory. ‘Horses and women. One might have guessed.’

‘Please, let us have no further confidences,’ Joe begged. ‘We’ll let you off your round in the revelation game, Commissaire. Some things it’s kinder not to ask, don’t you agree, Martineau? Now, we’re eager to hear what you made of Silmont’s pictorial laudanum.’

‘Ghastly taste! Simply ghastly! They tell us he’s one of Europe’s authorities on modern art—he could have his pick! And what does he choose to surround himself with? Medieval visions of hell!

‘Right there on the wall, facing him as he lies in bed, there’s a painting on wood, over two metres in height. He told me it’s the right-hand panel of a pair commissioned to go over an altar. The Descent into Hell. Funny—from a distance you’d find the colours and composition intriguing but when you focus on what’s actually going on … well! Torture, rape and slaughter by the most inventive means is what’s going on! All being perpetrated by devils equipped with tridents as well as more outré pieces of equipment, but, I can tell you—nothing like the dashing Devil in red that our young set designer envisioned.’

‘I expect the church it was destined for refused to take delivery. You wouldn’t want to expose a congregation to a sight like that for hours on end. Could give them unwelcome ideas,’ Joe suggested. ‘But the artist? Did he say who the artist was?’

‘Some Dutchman with an unpronounceable name … Bosch!’

‘Hieronymus Bosch?’

‘You’ve got him! Strange thing—the other painting that took my eye—and crushed it—was by a Dutchman too. Vincent Van Gogh. A self-portrait painted, I was told, when he was an inmate in the lunatic asylum—quite near here—in St Rémy de Provence. Turned out dozens, apparently, and gave them all away.’ Jacquemin shuddered. ‘I know they’re collected these days but I can tell you, I wouldn’t say thank you for this one! I’ll never forget it. It’s a roughish painting—layers of livid colour slapped on, radiating outwards, and in the centre, a face. What a face! Green and yellow, emaciated flesh. You can tell the man was near death when he did it. Now, the sight of a corpse to me—and I suppose it’s the same for you fellows—long since ceased to stir the emotions, but this was no piece of dead flesh awaiting the pathologist’s attention. It was a living corpse. Sounds barmy, I know, but, if someone you knew had just died and you bent over him to murmur your farewell and he suddenly opened his eyes wide and stared at you … well … you can imagine the effect. Frightful! The eyes pin you to the wall! Dark, dull, blue-black, like a pair of ripe olives. They don’t ask questions, they don’t tell you anything, they don’t accuse. They look at you but don’t know you’re there. And, of course, they wouldn’t know. The man was looking in a mirror when he painted it. You’re standing in the way of a man who’s interrogating himself, judging himself, and finding himself guilty of some appalling sin. A man full of self-hatred and on the edge of death.’

A forceful painting, Joe thought, to have aroused such feelings in the apparently unemotional Commissaire.

‘Those eyes burn with pain,’ Jacquemin added, still enjoying his subject. ‘No wonder he has trouble sleeping. A nice Corot or two—that’s what I’d prescribe for his walls. Much more effective than the laudanum-based sleeping draught—item number six on the list I’ve given you.’

‘Books? What about books? I’ve inspected the lord’s library but it would be interesting to hear what he has by him.’

‘The usual line-up of novels. Hugo … Dumas … Tolstoy. Nothing more recent than Proust whom he seems to have read. A lot of poetry … classics … history … much local history … everything Mistral’s ever written about Provence. A history of the château, privately printed. Numerous photographs of the building including some of the chapel and tomb. I have to say, there’s no element we couldn’t accept in the lad Frederick’s story. He was definitely put up to it,’ his voice curdled with suspicion, ‘whatever it was, by his lordship. The books Ashwell showed us—the blueprint for his designs—were pressed on him by Silmont. The gaps were still to be seen on the shelves between Perrault’s fairy tales and the Almanach de Provence. Martineau measured them.’

‘So, just as Ashwell claims, he was handed his subject, his scene and his model—her services paid for in advance, on the house so to speak. All complete, on a palette, by the man commissioning the work,’ Martineau summarized. ‘And it was the lord who first put into his head the similarity between the statue and the live model, Miss Smeeth. The lord who gave him the keys to the armoury and invited him to study the daggers. The lord who, jokingly, suggested he paint the Devil with his cousin’s features. And—wouldn’t you know it?—who was known to be ten miles away himself at the time of the killing? His lordship! What’s going on, sir? Murder by some sort of hypnotic influence? By proxy? By witchcraft?’ He pursed his lips, uncomfortable with his suggestion. ‘Do you suppose money changed hands?’

‘Ah! Now you’re being fanciful, Lieutenant,’ sneered Jacquemin. ‘The English are known to be unbribable. But it will be entertaining to hear the lord’s version of events when he comes to the surface again. Meanwhile …’ He shuffled his papers and invited the two men to pull their chairs closer. ‘Just in case any further murders by suggestion are being planned, it will be sensible to reduce the number of potential victims. Can we take blonde young females as his preferred prey? I think we must. It’s the only pattern we’ve got—if two attacks constitute a pattern. Taking the smashing of the alabaster image as a statement of intent, it seems reasonable. Accordingly, I’m getting the remaining two possible victims out from under our feet. That little strawberry bonbon … what’s her name?’

‘Clothilde?’

‘Her and her Parisian mother. Blonde woman. Artist. Paints Madonnas and suchlike. I’ve ordered up a taxi to take them into Avignon and from there they can get a train back to Paris. Both very ready to go. I thought we’d take a chance on the redhead. What was she now? … Flower portraitist, she calls herself.’ His lip curled. ‘Big and overblown, like her subjects.’

Joe thought he recognized Cecily. ‘Jacquemin—the other children. I believe Marius Dalbert to be in some danger. When word gets out—and it most likely has by now—that he was hidden in the chapel with a murderer on the loose, steps might be taken to silence him.’

‘Already thought of, Sandilands. The older boy also. I’m sending the pair of them down to the village to the safety of their grandmother’s house in the high street. I’ll post one of the gendarmes they’ve sent us to stand guard at night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They’re due to start off after their tea. In about half an hour. Miss Makepeace has volunteered to escort them down and their mother is very agreeable. Nothing much I can do about the Joliffe children. Father Joliffe insists they’ll be safe enough in his orbit. He’s promised to keep them on a tight rein. I’m not letting him leave. Reported to have had a certain relationship with the deceased. He’s on my list.

‘Now, here you are.’ He passed a sheet of paper to Joe. ‘You asked for the names of all those in the castle who have cameras, I believe. Didn’t take long to compile.’

Joe looked at the Commissaire in surprise. ‘I say—I’m impressed. And thank you for taking the trouble. I don’t think you’ll have wasted your time.’

He began to read out: ‘The lord—a two-year-old German one. Zeiss-Tessar lens, quarter plate reflex.’

‘Good but barely used, his valet tells me,’ said Jacquemin. ‘He keeps it to record works of art he’s interested in. Not one for filling the family album. His cousin borrows it occasionally.’

‘Nathan Jacoby. Great heavens! Can the man really own so much photographic gear? Three plate cameras and the Ermanox?’

‘I haven’t had time to check his version yet. A visit to his dark room is called for, I think. And soon. Those powders and chemicals may not be all they’re said to be.’

‘Petrovsky. A large plate camera.’

‘He takes shots of the ballet sets, portraits of the ballerinas for release to the press as well as for his own records. He last used it to photograph Ashwell’s set paintings.’

‘Two Kodak pocket front-folders. One belonging to the Whittlesfords, the other to the Fentons.’

‘Each with an exposed film inside. I’ve asked Jacoby to develop them.’

‘Cecily Somerset. Ah! Sweet Cecily has a brand new Leica. One of those tiny 35 millimetre, thirty-six exposure jobs. Goodness, how smart!’

‘And not much of an idea how to use it. She hardly knows which way up to point the thing. Martineau, who’s sensitive to mechanical devices, had to take it out of her hands to stop her wrecking it. I asked her nicely to remove the film for our inspection and she was nonplussed. No idea where the lever was. “Oh, but I always get a man to do that sort of thing,” she said and batted her eyelashes. “I was going to wait until I got back to London to do that. And Daddy wouldn’t be best pleased if he knew you were opening it up. It was a birthday present.” And then she noticed, in all this argy-bargy, that her lens cap was missing. Flew into a temper and accused me of losing it. “You’ve dropped it! Yes, you have! You were fiddling with it!” Made us both check our turn-ups! What was that English name you called the woman just now? Sweet Cecily?’

‘I was being sarcastic. It’s a shy wayside flower in England. Smells delicately of aniseed.’

Jacquemin chortled with laughter. ‘Nothing delicate about this specimen! We had to take the camera from her hands. But it was worth the effort—it had the bonus of a part-used film in it. With Jacoby’s assistance—he’s as good as a laboratory—we got it wound back and he’s busy developing it. Are you going to tell me why you want to have this information?’

‘Not just yet. Call it an unformed thought. Look—call them all in, will you? These cameras. The whole lot.’

Jacquemin smirked. ‘In the box!’ He gestured towards a large cardboard filing box on the floor, standing next to Estelle’s attaché case. ‘All of ’em except Jacoby’s lot. I let him keep all his equipment in what he calls his laboratory. Too messy and bulky to cart downstairs.’

A tap on the door preceded the appearance of one of the guards. ‘A lady to speak with the Commissaire.’

Jane Makepeace strode in. ‘Jacquemin, the Dalbert children are lined up ready to go down to their granny’s. Shall we set off now?’

Jacquemin gave his permission for the squad to move off and thanked her for her consideration. Joe excused himself and followed her from the room.

‘That’s a kind gesture, Jane. I’ll just watch you start off. I must say, the fewer children there are around the place, the happier I am.’

She smiled back at him. ‘Not entirely altruistic. I’m glad to get out of this place even for a few minutes. And there they are—your efficient niece has rounded them up.’

The two boys were standing with Dorcas in the courtyard. Joe bent to say goodbye and thank them for being such a help and so calm at a difficult time. They smiled and nodded, eager, he thought, to be off.

‘And here’s Miss Makepeace who’s going to walk you down,’ Joe added.

He was embarrassed by their reaction. One on either side of Dorcas, they reached for a hand and backed away behind her.

‘But we thought Dorcas was going to come with us and spend the night, sir,’ said René. ‘You did say, Dorcas! You were going to finish that story …’

Jane Makepeace laughed, instantly identifying and defusing an awkward situation. ‘You see how children react to me! Unfortunately, I have the same effect on dogs and men! That’s fine, René, old fruit! In fact, it’s a splendid idea that Dorcas should stay the night. But the Commander will have to give permission. None of us may move around, brush our teeth or blow our noses without some policeman giving us leave. Boys—you’re well out of it!’

‘You’re sure you want to do this, Dorcas?’ Joe asked.

She held the boys’ hands protectively. ‘Yes. I want to stay with them.’

‘Then hang on a tick …’ Joe gave a sharp whistle and summoned one of the gendarmes on duty at the gate. He spoke to him quietly for a moment. ‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘This is Corporal Lenoir who’s detailed to stand guard tonight anyway. He may as well set off a bit early and go along with you. Behave yourselves, now!’

As they started back towards the château, Jane stopped and turned to confront Joe. ‘At last! I’ve got you by yourself! You’ve been avoiding speaking to me since you arrived, Commander. I meant what I said about dogs and men, by the way, so I’m not surprised. Though I don’t always understand why I have this repellent effect.’

‘Well, I can’t answer for the dogs but I’ll tell you about the men,’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘It’s because they’re generally ugly or stupid, frequently both. Confronted by a woman as pretty and clever as you are, they feel at a loss. Diminished in some way, their manhood challenged.’

‘And do I diminish you, Commander?’ From any other woman the question would have had a flirtatious tone.

‘Lord no! I’m not stupid and I grew up surrounded by women all cleverer than I am, so, for me, an intelligent woman who speaks her mind is par for the course. If it’s credentials you’re looking for—I march regularly with the suffragettes around London and I’m invited every year to attend one of Mrs Pankhurst’s little soirées. It gets me into quite a lot of hot water with my department. Now, why don’t we take a stroll around the courtyard and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘Murder—what else? I think I know who did this awful thing. I think I can work out why. And I’m pretty sure you’ve reached the same conclusion.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘And you’re right. I do look for credentials. Probity, honour, a useful role in life—these are all important to me. I choose to confide in you because I understand from others and I observe for myself that you possess all three in generous measure.’

She spiked this Victorian flattery with a mocking smile and passed her arm through his. ‘Why don’t we go along to my workshop for a few private moments? It’s not far. Just to the left down here. In the old stables. When the lord had his spacious new building put up for his horses he converted the old one into a studio. It’s lavishly equipped—no expense spared. Better than we can boast at the BM!’

The words were confident but the arm trembled slightly in his and she turned to take a swift glance over her shoulder. They started out together, two friends deep in conversation.

‘I offer reciprocal assurances, Joe. I hope you’ll find that you can trust me. On such a short acquaintance—why should you? But in dire circumstances, I believe honest souls recognize each other and it’s you I’ve chosen to burden with my foul suspicions. I can no longer keep them to myself. If there were to be another killing …’ Her words trailed away and then she started again, more firmly: ‘I have my faults—indeed my sole virtue I sometimes think is the ability to acknowledge this—but the fault people find most annoying in me is that I don’t suffer fools gladly. “Intolerant and intemperate girl!” I remember my father calling me when I was quite small. “You will never marry,” he raged some years later, “because the man has not been born who would come up to your expectations.” And here I am, Joe, thirty-one next month and still single.’

Joe was disarmed by her disclosure and saddened by her stout-hearted acceptance of her situation. And how on earth, he wondered, was a man supposed to respond when a woman revealed her age so baldly? ‘Perhaps he was born, this hero, but died in the carnage, destined never to meet his equal?’

She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Do they know, at Scotland Yard, Commander, that they are harbouring a Romantic in their brass-buttoned bosom?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I believe they have an inkling. Tell me, then, did you never set eyes on him—your beau idéal?’

He received another surprised stare. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did find him. A man I could love. A man—strangely—imperfect in every way. How Pa would have laughed! But, you know, it’s been my father and my brother who have been much in my mind lately and pressing me to confide in you.’

At last she was coming to her point. Joe could only imagine that this preamble signalled a subject of some importance.

‘Doctors both,’ she explained. ‘My father is an eminent psychiatric practitioner …’

‘With a practice in Harley Street? Yes, he is well known in London.’ And now known to the police from a name on a label, he did not add.

‘And my brother intends to follow him after his medical formation. From family conversations and my own studies, I have acquired, over the years, some understanding of the diseases of the mind. Some have a psychological origin but others have a purely physical cause. I’ve learned to recognize the symptoms of a peculiarly distressing, badly understood and little talked-of disease. It’s one my father has been closely concerned with. His patient list reads like selected pages from Debrett and the Almanach de Gotha. Sufferers from this disease tend to seek treatment discreetly, abroad in a foreign capital, and he has many distinguished Europeans—men and women—on his books. Treating, but, sadly—and he would be the first to admit this—failing to cure.’

Finally, she came to her point. ‘Commander, I believe we are in the close company of a man who is in the throes of the third—and deadly—stage of this illness.’

They had reached her studio and entered to find an enchanting space, full of colour and activity. Jane spoke to the girl in maid’s uniform who was busy planing down a length of wood clamped in a vice, telling her to pack up and consider herself dismissed for the day. She moved two pieces of embroidery from a pair of Louis XVI armchairs and invited Joe to sit. He looked about him, intrigued. He was aware of an Aladdin’s cave of antique and lovely objects lined up, propped up or sitting in boxes on tables awaiting the attention of the latest scientific equipment. A German microscope, Bunsen burners, glass phials and a range of chemicals in jars spoke of a serious attempt to test, understand and repair the decaying contents of the château.

‘Tea?’ Jane invited. ‘I always keep a kettle going on the stove and I have some deliciously strong Assam. Would that suit?’

‘It certainly would. If you will serve it in a stout white porcelain mug. I wouldn’t want to risk one of those delicate china confections I see you have over there.’

‘The Limoges? Not even the lord is allowed to use those,’ she said. ‘Far too delicate. They’re here for repair.’

Joe watched her movements about the room with pleasure. He had at first sight wrongly assumed gawkiness in those long limbs. Her every gesture was neat and controlled. The cracked china cups would benefit from a passage through her capable hands.

‘If what I see about me are the sick men of the castle’s contents, I must concentrate and track down the real treasures. They must be quite an eyeful! Are they all Silmont heirlooms or have they been collected over the years?’

She answered him as she busied herself with the tea things. ‘Almost all authentic. Some very ancient indeed. But you know what these feudal castles are—“chivalric receptacles for stolen goods” I once heard them called! The aristocracy—and the priesthood—were allowed the luxury of a bit of banditry and got away with it for centuries. They were always above the law. It doesn’t make the objects themselves less admirable. Here’s your tea. I noticed you don’t take sugar. Oh, thank you, Louise, I’ll see you tomorrow after breakfast,’ she called to the girl, who bobbed by the door and left them together.

‘Louise,’ she explained, ‘has the makings of an excellent craftsman. I’m training her up. She’s quite wasted on bed-making and dusting.’ She looked about her with more than satisfaction—with love. ‘I have the delightful job of cataloguing the precious contents, Joe, as well as repairing the dicky ones—that is the ones I have the competence to tackle. I know my limits and the Aubusson tapestries I’ve sent to their factory for repair. They still have the skills. I have nothing to do with his art collection which I haven’t the knowledge to evaluate. Beyond anyone’s estimation I do believe!’

‘Guy de Pacy is a lucky man—heir to all this and his cousin breaking up fast on the rocks.’ Joe commented, a slight question in his tone.

‘If he is indeed the heir, I can only approve. He is a fine man and I can think of no one who would value it more,’ said Jane stoutly. ‘Always excepting myself and about six other aficionados at the Museum. It will be in safe hands at last.’

They sipped their tea companionably for a moment then: ‘You did some restoration on the effigy of Aliénore, I understand?’

‘Yes. That was entirely in my compass. I was horrified to see the damage. Guy took me in to examine it. I’d just regilded her hair! Hours … days of work lost, but that’s as nothing compared with the loss of the artwork. It really was exceptional, you know. Carved with love.’

She glanced at Joe. Trying to judge how receptive he might be to one of her theories, he decided. His alert and friendly grin clearly did the trick as she plunged into a confidence. ‘Do you know, I found something quite extraordinary under a fold of her dress—just under the neckline. It would only have been perceptible to someone peering very closely at it from an odd angle, as I did. I thought at first it was a flaw in the stone and ran a finger over it. No, it was smooth and intentional. It was a mole, Joe. A little brown disfigurement invisible to any onlooker during her life or after her death, in stone. It was a very personal touch.’

‘The artist had an intimate knowledge of the lady’s body, are you saying?’

‘Perhaps so intimate that their relationship was the cause of her death.’

‘And her husband, with a cruel turn of the screw, made her lover carve her effigy after death?’ Joe shuddered at his thought.

‘Yes. But the artist made his own secret farewell. He carved into her likeness a sign of his very special intimate knowledge. So special and heartbreaking that, here we are, Joe, six centuries later, understanding him.’ She leaned closer, emphasizing her point. ‘Just you and I. I never did speak of it to Lord Silmont. The knowledge would have inflamed his rage, I think.’

Knowledge to which Joe considered he himself had no right, outsider that he was. He saw in Jane’s earnest face the desire, often unconscious, certainly never acknowledged, of the expert for the objects in his or her care. ‘Was it yours to withhold, Jane, this discovery?’

She blushed. ‘No! You’re right, of course. A romantic whim of mine … I wanted to keep the lovers’ secret from him. I shouldn’t have. Not my place. I’m just a jobbing craftsman around here, after all.’

‘But a moving story,’ Joe murmured. ‘I wonder what happened to the artist.’

‘I’d guess that he didn’t long survive the completion of his work. The lords of the day were vindictive, possessive and cruel. And—believe me—they still are!’

‘You were about to speak of the present Lord Silmont and his problems, I think.’

Jane fell silent. The moment she had been working towards had come, an opportunity for free speaking to a receptive ear presented itself, and yet she hesitated.

‘It’s syphilis,’ Joe said bluntly to bump her over her hesitation. ‘Extraordinary how one hesitates to say the word. The French Disease, the Italian Swelling, the Scotch Fiddle, the Spanish Gout: the dose of nastiness we say we catch from whatever people we perceive to be our enemy at the time. The “great pox” is a term anyone would understand. All words for one ghastly, incurable scourge. And one may go about one’s daily life, suffering from it for years … decades.’

She nodded. ‘And it frequently goes undeclared or undetected. Even medical men are deceived into diagnosing a weak heart, high blood pressure, epilepsy, poor digestion. Indeed, it mimics all those ailments brilliantly. My father has been consulted by men regarding the mental damage they were experiencing, men who did not associate it with their “other complaints”. But in the end it shows itself in all its hideousness. The spirochetal bacterium that causes it may take thirty years to climb the spine and reach the brain but eventually the parasite will settle there and destroy whatever cells govern our personality. Mild-mannered men become demons overnight. They storm and rage and then become calm again. The end may not come quickly. There are recorded cases of men who have lingered for years, on the brink of death one moment and enjoying a normal life the next. Frequently, towards the end, the fury gives way to periods of intense creativity—artists, musicians, writers—all have revealed this.’

‘It’s extraordinary,’ Joe agreed, ‘that the heights of human artistic achievement may be reached only to be countered moments later by a plunge to the depths of human behaviour. Jekyll and Hyde? Oscar Wilde’s portrait of Dorian Grey? Are these an allegory? A warning?’

‘Beethoven’s last works, those of Schubert … Guy de Maupassant … Baudelaire … Oscar Wilde perhaps, and Van Gogh’s late canvases. Those last, completed in a frenzy of inspiration within the madhouse itself.’

In spite of himself, Joe found his voice dropping to a whisper as he revealed: ‘He has in his room—were you aware?—a self-portrait of Van Gogh. Three-quarter profile with a stare deadly enough to terrify the Commissaire.’

‘Has Jacquemin worked it out?’

‘No, not yet. In spite of compiling a list of the medicaments he found in his cupboards. Amongst the laxatives and painkillers and milk of magnesia tablets, I saw listed potassium iodide. The Commissaire understands this to be a prescription for heart disease.’