Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Joe left his car at the commissariat and walked in towards the centre of the small city. This morning he was going to try to ignore its beauty and its tempting cafés; he was going to ignore the warnings of a stomach that had missed breakfast and was rumbling at every waft of coffee-roasting and bread-baking from the shop fronts he passed along the boulevard.

He struck out with the river Rhône on his left, heading for the tight swirl of medieval buildings still standing inside the city walls. He steered by the white towers of the Pope’s Palace rising, with a careless disregard for symmetry, to lord it over the huddle of pink-tiled roofs. This was the point of his day. The visit to the morgue, though it had in the end proved more fruitful than he could have expected, was a cover for his next assignation.

He found what he was looking for in a back street near the Place de l’Horloge and entered the double-fronted premises to the sound of a jangling bell over his head through a door marked ‘For Public Access’. The offices of La Voix de la Méditerranée were not exactly buzzing. He reminded himself that this was August and the middle of the holiday season. The papers were still being produced but probably working with a skeleton staff. On the high mahogany counter a printed notice told members of the public that this was the place to present your news (at any time), your personal advertisements (before twelve noon), or request to consult the archive (between ten and eleven, Wednesday to Saturday). Clearly browsing was not encouraged.

Joe checked his watch. He was five minutes into the narrow time slot. He rang the counter bell for attention.

This came two minutes and three rings of increasing volume later and was offered by a distracted and peaky-looking youth in a long green apron. Joe sighed. The skeleton staff. After the exchange of greetings he announced cordially: ‘I’d like to consult your archive, please.’ He presented his credentials. ‘This is a police request for access to certain of your back numbers.’

‘Year, please?’ The boy had barely glanced at his warrant card.

‘Between 1906 and 1911 …’

‘Sorry, sir. You’ll have to be more precise.’ The unhelpfulness turned to truculence. ‘I can’t bring all that lot out. They’re down in the cellar! And they’re bound, you know. By the month. That’s … that’s …’

‘Seventy-two bound volumes,’ said Joe. ‘At least it would be if I wanted every month. But let me finish. I want to see the papers printed for the second week of the month of July. That’s six folders only. And look—I’d like some advice from one of your editorial staff—someone over the age of forty for choice.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid. There’s only Monsieur Rozier in and he won’t come. He’s busy.’

Joe leaned across the counter. He took from his inside pocket the letter of introduction from Jacquemin. With his thumb carefully placed over the ‘Dear Dr Lemaître’, he passed it under the eyes of the clerk. The impressive letter heading and the swirling signature brought a spark of interest.

Joe heaped kindling on the spark. ‘Recognize this signature? Well, why would you? But you’ll recognize the man who scrawled it next week when his heroic features appear on the front cover of Le Petit Journal. Commissaire Jacquemin is in town, my lad. Yes, The Implacable One himself! And he’s flushing out the villains and personally filling them full of lead. Three dead in Marseille over the weekend. You’ll read about it. He requires co-operation.’

The boy hurried away with a mumbled ‘Leave it with me, sir … I’ll see what I can do …’

Rozier took less time to appear than the counter clerk. The bespectacled, moustached man in shirt-sleeves came bustling in, mild annoyance losing the fight with extreme curiosity. He examined Joe’s warrant card, talking as he did so. ‘Rozier. Deputy editor. I’m forty-four. Hair’s going grey but I still have my teeth. Good enough for you? What’s all this shit about Jacquemin? And what’s an English policeman doing in Avignon running errands for that pitiless old prick?’

‘Long story. A peek at some of your papers, accompanied by some insights from a man who knows the local area, would help me to solve a fifteen-year-old mystery, reunite a pair of young lovers driven apart by the war and restore a lost child to its mother.’

‘Is that all? You drag me from my fat heifer sales report for this?’

The hard eyes gleamed and Joe decided that, though the man showed no sign of having a heart, at least he had a sense of humour. It was a start.

‘Michel says 1906 to 1911, week two of July,’ Rozier went on briskly. ‘I’ve asked him to haul them up and wheel them in. If you’d like to take a seat at the reading table over there I’ll come round and scan them with you. Know what you’re looking for, or are we just browsing?’

‘I know exactly. A name. The name of a village.’ Joe presented his problem as an enquiry for a missing person. He added his invention of the question of an inheritance which seemed to go down well with listeners.

‘A girl from one of our villages … Hmm …’

Joe had gently stressed the local aspect of his problem and embroidered on the aspect of mystery.

‘Hang on a minute, I’ll call for coffee. How do you take yours? Croissant with that? I usually have one at this time of the morning.’ He yelled into the back quarters: ‘Dorine! Nip next door and tell them to make it two servings of café complet, will you? Priority!’

The coffee arrived before the volumes and was served in heavy green china from the local café. A basket of croissants was a blissful sight to a man who’d not yet had time for breakfast and Joe helped himself with pleasure.

When the six bound copies of La Voix appeared on a trolley, Rozier handed the 1906 volume to Joe and himself took the 1911 one, sitting next to him at the table. ‘Twice as fast this way. We’ll start at opposite ends. If you can keep up a reasonable speed, we should meet up in July 1908. Now tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for.’

‘I’m interested in a news item for a very particular area. Somewhere between here and Apt.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not Chicago! The inhabitants tend to lead God-fearing, well-ordered, excruciatingly dull lives. Try the centre pages first. “News from the Villages” section.’

Joe leafed swiftly through his volume and grimaced. ‘See what you mean! Pig-rustling and chicken-snatching would appear to be the crimes of the month. We’re looking for the week announcing the programme for the Bastille Day jollifications, remember. I’ve finished with this one. Pass me the next lot, will you?’

Rozier was working more slowly, constantly distracted by news items that rang a bell with him. ‘Good God! So that’s how the turd got started! You’d never credit what heights this chap’s risen to! Député now … Before my time, of course … Ah! Storms over the area—that’s what buggered up the vintage …’ His comments were salted with a vocabulary Joe hadn’t heard since the trenches.

And then: ‘Well, here’s the programme for 1911. July 7th. Opera and plays on at the theatre … folklore extravaganza on the Rocher des Doms, gypsy bands, dancing—wouldn’t you guess?—on the Pont Bénézet. Grand parade on the day itself. Now what are we really looking for?’

‘Any reference to a priest by the name of Father Ignace. I need to know in which village he had his cure of souls.’

‘Is that it? Couldn’t you just have looked him up in whatever lists the Church keeps? They must know where their blokes are.’

‘Well, apart from the fact that I have very little time available to me and you know with what speed the wheels of the Church turn when they’re determined not to be helpful, I don’t think my enquiries would get anywhere. Bit of an obstacle been raised …’ he said conspiratorially. ‘Whoever he was or is, this priest has been effaced from the records.’

‘Oh, ho! One of those! No. Sorry. You won’t find any record of him in here either then,’ he said firmly, but Joe noticed that he was continuing to lick one long bony finger and scan the pages as he turned them. ‘Catholic city, you know. The new Vatican in the new Rome from the fourteenth century when the popes took up residence here.

The Palace has always been the heart of the city, a mighty and controlling presence. Anything disrespectful about the clergy just wouldn’t get through on to the pages. A curé could go berserk, slaughter half his parishioners and rape the rest and you wouldn’t read about it. Now, a bad olive harvest … Oh, Good Lord! Look here!’

The long finger was pointing to the centre.

‘“Mysterious disappearance of priest from village”,’ he read. ‘That’s the headline.’

The much-loved curé of the church of St Vincent-les-Eaux, near Avignon, has disappeared in mysterious circumstances. Villagers report they had no warning of his departure and his superiors are unable to state what has happened to him or where he has gone.

     It is understood that no steps had been taken to replace him or redeploy him.

     His distraught housekeeper claims that the young priest, 29-year-old Father Ignace, who is as good as a son to her, had packed none of his things and had not called for his suitcase to be made ready.

     Father Ignace, a renowned scholar and musician of note, is a lively and popular member of his village community and will be sadly missed, in particular by the young people to whom he was especially close.

‘Heavens!’ said Joe. ‘Rozier, you replace one question with a dozen others! But I have what I was seeking—the name of the village. Now I can find traces of the young girl who was in his confirmation class in 1906. A certain Laure of St Vincent-les-Eaux! She’s firming up. I’m getting close now.’

The editor snorted, reading the article again. ‘Now how in hell did the old bugger get this one through?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The pre-war editor, old Goutière. He took some risks! Must have stirred up a hornets’ nest. He was in his last year here when I signed on. A raging red! Communist sympathies, you know. Anti-monarchist, anti-Church. You name it—he was against it. But especially the Church. He hated the authorities. Always scrapping with them. Getting back at them by inserting bits of innuendo like this one.’

‘Innuendo?’ said Joe. ‘What am I not seeing?’

‘Look at the last bit: “lively … popular … missed by the young … especially close …” Shorthand for taking advantage—sexually no doubt—of the young things under his influence. It had to be hand-under-the-skirt-stuff—I doubt fiddling with their minds would have got old Goutière excited. Everybody in the area would know how to interpret this but—clever old sod—there’s nothing there that could trigger a legal challenge.’

‘But the Church must have put the boot in,’ said Joe, ‘since this is the one and only reference to the priest. No follow-up, I’m told. Though it’s not all that damaging. I’m surprised they got so hot under their collars.’

The editor had fallen silent, distracted. The finger pointed to a further column, level with, but at one remove from, the article about Father Ignace.

‘What did you say the girl’s name was?’ he asked.

‘Laure.’

‘Ah. Not the same one then. But all the same, this is interesting. And may be exactly what upset the Church!’ He grinned. ‘Cheeky bugger! Do you see what he’s done? On the same page! Look at the headline! “Mysterious disappearance of young girl from village”. And—wouldn’t you know—it’s the same village! The depopulation of St Vincent-les-Eaux? Is that what we’re looking at? Anyway, it’s not your girl. It’s plain Marie-Jeanne Durand who shows a clean pair of heels. Anxious parents call in the police, reporting the disappearance of their daughter. Ah—now she had packed a case. Her friends claim Marie-Jeanne gave them no reason to believe she was about to abscond.

‘… Watch being kept at railway stations … Public asked to be on the alert for a five-foot-three-inch, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, seventeen-year-old. Well, that narrows the field to about ten thousand! And—here it is!—Marie-Jeanne was a member of the church and had been prepared for her communion by the village priest, Father Ignace, to whom she was thought to be very close. If she’d had something on her mind, she would certainly have confessed her problems to him. Father Ignace was unavailable for comment on the disappearance of his young parishioner.’

‘Due to his own mysterious disappearance.’

‘And the fact that he was himself most likely her problem.’ Rozier sighed gustily. ‘Bloody hell! It’s Abélard and Héloïse all over again. Young girl falls for unattainable man. They will do it!’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I expect he’s joined the Foreign Legion and she’s a worn-out tart plying her trade on the streets of Paris by now. Have you got what you want?’

‘More than I want,’ said Joe, grasping the editor’s hand. ‘Sadly, much more. Monsieur Rozier, let me thank you for your excellent coffee, your life-saving croissants, your welcome and your invaluable help. I think you could just have ruined at least three lives.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Orlando was loitering in the courtyard, kicking up the gravel on the path, when Joe drove up. He hurried forward to open the car door and started to speak the moment Joe turned off the engine of his Morris.

‘I seem to have been appointed your sheepdog,’ he grumbled. ‘Jacquemin posted me here to warn you … alert you … It’s the lord! He’s come round from his morning sedative, according to his valet, and he’s asking to speak to you. Jacquemin wants you to go straight up before it’s too late. He’s reported to be sinking fast. If you ask me, the Commissaire is a bit miffed that he hasn’t been asked along to hear the last words himself.’

‘I’ll just dump this lot on Jacquemin’s desk first,’ said Joe. He leaned behind and picked up the file of notes from the hospital and the bag of Estelle’s belongings. ‘The lord’ll stay afloat for a few minutes more. Possibly much longer than most of us expect and some of us want! And, don’t worry, Orlando, whatever else he has to convey, I’m not expecting a confession to murder. I think a priest is what’s called for. Has anyone thought to …?’

‘Of course! There’s one on his way. The Commissaire sent a car, would you believe! Glad to see you’re so relaxed about it. The Commissaire’s climbing up the curtains! Oh … by the way … thinking of priests … your expedition into Avignon … Anything interesting to report?’ He rearranged the gravel nervously with the toe of his boot.

‘Oh yes! Indeed! But no urgency to reveal all, I think. Not to a man who’s been in possession of all the pieces of the jigsaw but one all along. Did you think I couldn’t count to thirty-eight? I’ll hear your confession later, Orlando!’

He hurried towards the steward’s office, smilingly brushing aside anxious people trying to waylay him in the great hall. He noticed as he passed through that it was looking quite medieval in its noisy, colourful disorder. A gendarme was standing posted at the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene with an expression of disbelief.

Piles of bedding and cushions were littering the floor, easels had been set up under windows, children were playing a noisy game that involved racing around the pillars and screaming. Battling away at the far end of the space, Mrs Fenton was thumping away at a piano which had been dragged in from somewhere. A jolly English tune—Country Gardens, he thought he recognized—was being played in strict rhythm for the benefit of the two ballet girls. These two, lost in their activity, were exercising. Barefoot and clad in an improvised costume of rolled-up pyjama bottoms and shirts, they yet managed to be impressive. Joe paused for a moment to admire their lissom movements.

Loud-voiced and authoritative, the duenna was pacing about in front of them, banging occasionally on the floor with a stout walking stick. As Joe marvelled, she shrieked for a stop, railed at Natalia and demonstrated a position herself on light, precise feet. The bulky, insignificant lady was transformed. The girls listened and nodded and copied.

‘I say …’ the wail went up from Mrs Fenton. ‘I adore Percy Grainger as much as the next man but that’s eleven times I’ve played that piece! What about a little Nutcracker? Sugar Plum Fairy, anyone?’

‘It’s the siege of Lucknow without the bloodshed,’ Orlando muttered.

‘Where’s de Pacy?’ Joe asked.

‘Still in a sulk, I’d guess. He won’t come out of his quarters. He’s had a huge bust-up with his cousin. At least that’s what Jane says has sent him into a tail-spin. The servants have clearly not been directed to tidy up the mess. They’re playing cards in the old pantry. It looked worse an hour ago. Then Jane came in and gave everyone a pep talk. Pulling together, keeping calm, putting on a good face for the French … you can imagine the sort of thing. Ah! Here she comes.’

Joe hurried off down the corridor to the office.

‘Here’s the pathologist’s report and here are the things they took from her body.’ Joe placed the bag and the file on the desk and sat down opposite the Commissaire.

‘Good man, your Lemaître,’ Joe said. ‘With interesting things to say. I’ll tell you now—the most significant thing he had to report was that our girl was between two and three months pregnant. She would have been aware. And she had no drugs whatsoever in her system.’

Jacquemin seized the file and began at once to leaf through it. ‘So, she was clear-headed when she went and laid herself down on that stone altar?’ he muttered. ‘How in hell did he …? Hypnosis? What about mesmerism? Isn’t that all the go at the moment in the music halls? Did the doc have any suggestions? They’re worth hearing, you know.’

‘He was as puzzled as we were … are,’ he corrected himself.

Jacquemin gave him a cold stare. ‘You can leave this with me, Sandilands. Your presence is requested by the lord. Thinks he’s dying.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Again. His valet claims he’s been doing this every month for the last year. And then he springs back again, hale and hearty, and asking why he sees nothing but long faces about him. But we’ll humour him. You’re to go up to his apartment at once. Try to get up there before the priest arrives and forgives him for everything he’s done … makes him change his mind. And come straight back down here and report to me. Got your notebook? I shall want to hear every word of his confession to murder.’

Joe shook his head. ‘That’s the last thing I expect to hear from his lordship.’ He checked his pockets for his notebook, helped himself to a pencil from a pot on the desk and went out.

‘Bédoin!’ Joe remembered the valet’s name and greeted him with a serious face when the man opened the door to the lord’s quarters. ‘A sad business. I hear Lord Silmont wants to see me.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ murmured the valet. ‘He wishes to make a full confession to you before he sees the priest.’

‘Ah …’ said Joe. ‘Am I to take it his lordship is experiencing a period of … shall we say … lucidity?’

‘Complete lucidity. He’s as sharp as a pin and feeling no pain for once. You arrive at a good moment. If all goes according to past form, he will present his normal self, though he’s a little sleepy as yet. As the last of the soothing dose I gave him wears off he will become somewhat euphoric. And his behaviour less predictable. May I advise you to summon help and withdraw should you be overtaken by circumstances, sir? He is in no way restrained and experience indicates that it would not be wise to attempt to sit out the storm.’ He put a small bell in Joe’s hand. ‘I will be next door. Summon me at once should his lordship become difficult.’

The lord was sitting up in bed, pale but cheerful and leafing through a copy of a Parisian colour magazine.

‘At last! Sandilands swoops in! Glad you could come. Your sensation-seeking Parisian colleague was not best pleased by my request to unburden myself to you. But I can’t say I fancied confessing all to that sour-faced, publicity-seeking Commissaire. He’d have me on the front of one of these rags before you could say knife!’ The lord threw down the magazine in disgust. ‘Gentleman that you are, I think you’ll understand a gentleman’s problems. We’ll do this in French, if you don’t mind? There may be nuances I couldn’t convey in English.’

The walls of the spartan room were, as Jacquemin had told them, adorned by two of the world’s artistic masterpieces and Joe deliberately kept his gaze from them, knowing that, once he looked, he would see nothing else. The lord must have his full attention. He turned his head resolutely away.

But his slight movement had not gone unnoticed.

‘No! Do look! You’ll never see another one so wonderful,’ Silmont said, gesturing to the Van Gogh. ‘You are aware of my problem?’

Joe nodded. ‘You’re suffering from the great pox.’ He thought the old-fashioned name would be more acceptable than the modern clinical term.

‘Then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that, should a man make an effort to understand the devastation of this disease, he could either spend weeks reading eminent physicians’ writings on patients’ symptoms or, Sandilands, he could spend one minute looking into that tormented face. I have done both. Believe me—the face has it!’

Accepting the invitation, Joe turned at last and stared into the wild, doomed, self-knowing eyes of the painting.

‘He was at the asylum not many miles from here—you knew that? And there he produced some of his most marvellous works. I have been lucky enough to acquire a few of them. But this one … He gave it away, you know. To one of the warders … nurses … whatever you like to call them. The man didn’t appreciate what he had and it spent many years in his attic, unregarded. I bought it from his daughter for a very modest sum. Sandilands, I could be looking into a mirror!’

‘And the delusions which are symptomatic of the foul scourge you have suffered have directed your behaviour of late? You have contemplated—even carried out—acts which have been contrary to your nature? Acts which you must now confess to your priest?’ Joe asked delicately. How much easier it would have been for him to accuse an out-and-out villain of his premeditated crimes and slap on the handcuffs. And here he found himself treading on eggshells around this damaged penitent, whom, despite his assurances, he could not truly understand.

‘And to you. And I trust you to convey my confession to the Commissaire.’

‘I’m listening. Would you like to start with the destruction of the effigy of Aliénore, sir?’

‘It was Lady Moon who suggested it.’

Joe pursed his lips, uncomfortable with this contribution.

‘Lady Moon, sir?’

‘It’s quite all right, she’s not speaking to me at the moment.’ Silmont’s voice was all reassurance and reason. ‘She’s not even in the room. But when she does come and whisper in my ear, there’s no denying her. She was at her most regal that night. Glowing, powerful. I could only obey. She had asked for a sacrifice. And what more suitable spot, Sandilands? The offering was to be carefully timed for the moment when the moon’s beams illuminated the tomb top. I had to clear it of the original strumpet to place a choicer creature in her place. I knew the moment she arrived that the girl Estelle was the chosen one. And she was even there that night watching me as I crossed the courtyard. There was a moment of epiphany when I looked up and saw her. Her hair was lit up from behind, turned to a silver halo by the moon. My goddess had marked her out for me.’

‘Estelle didn’t identify you that night,’ said Joe, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Your mask—fencing mask, was it? from the box in the sports room?—and your cloak—which you so thoughtfully surrendered to me—did a good job.’

‘Surrendered? To you? My cloak? What are you talking about? It’s in my cupboard. Take it. I expect you’ll want to examine it for evidence.’ He seemed annoyed at the interruption and muttered on: ‘Immaterial. She was the one. The harlot was taunting me—attacking me in the centre of my being, threatening the things I still hold dear—my position … my family name … my possessions. This promiscuous woman had to be got rid of before she could get her filthy fingers on my life’s work. Before she brought down the curse of bad blood once again on the family.’

He looked anxiously at the door and his voice dropped as he made his accusation: ‘She was conspiring with my cousin to be rid of me. He’s not here with you, is he? Guy? You didn’t let him up?’ His voice was rising to a shriek. ‘He’s always treading on my heels, tripping me up, pushing me downstairs. No? You’re sure?’

Joe hurried to reassure him that he’d come alone.

Jane Makepeace would have had a word for this display of the further disintegration of the lord’s character. Tertiary stage neurosyphilitic paranoia or some such. Joe acknowledged he was going to have his work cut out to distinguish truth from vindictive imaginings.

‘I decided to remove her,’ the lord said more calmly. ‘I always expected to be found out but—why care? I am dying. I would be dead before they could sharpen up the guillotine.’

‘With a house full of policemen, sir, it was just a matter of time,’ said Joe easily.

‘It’s close now, Sandilands. This may be my last lucid interval … they grow shorter … and why risk any false accusations lodged against me? The dead cannot defend themselves. So—I say now: the crime I committed, I was entirely free to commit. It was my statue to do with as I wished. And I wished to smash it into dust. But the girl? Much though I longed to plunge a dagger into her pullulating entrails, I was robbed of the opportunity.’

His voice began to rise alarmingly, his face was suffusing with rage. ‘Who was it, Sandilands? My cousin declares he didn’t kill the girl. And I must believe him—if he had, I know he would delight in telling me so. He’s always gone faster and farther, climbed higher, ridden harder, had more women … He’s the one who has the glittering war record, the respect and loyalty of the servants. If not Guy—then who?’ he shouted again, struggling for control. ‘Who first stole my scheme to kill, took my dagger, and snatched from me the satisfaction of forcing her dying breath out through her lying lips? You know, don’t you? Tell me! I insist on knowing!’

The door opened slightly and Joe heard the valet cough a warning.

‘Your priest is coming up the stairs,’ Joe improvised. ‘I must leave. But yes, I do know. Now. And I will tell you. By the end of the day. Do we have until the end of the day?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain.

The lord favoured him with a beaming smile which chilled Joe to the bone. ‘It’s time for you to make your move, Sandilands,’ he said. ‘Bring me the name before the moon rises.’

How easy was it going to be to convince Jacquemin that the lord was innocent of any crime he could arrest him for? Joe thought—not very. Before he returned to face him, he decided to take a detour.

Not being quite certain where exactly in the building Guy de Pacy had his rooms, he greeted an approaching footman and asked him to take him to the steward’s quarters. The man showed no surprise at the request and Joe had a clear impression that he was expected and this escort had been thoughtfully provided.

The man led him to a tower Joe had noted but not yet explored. The one diametrically opposite to the lord’s. It was spacious. It rose to three floors, commanding a good view of the courtyard and the door giving access to the great hall. An excellent military choice for what was, Joe guessed, the command post of the château.

The manservant led him through the ground floor which had been left as an open space, largely plain and unfurnished, though the stone floor had been covered agreeably with a softening carpet of local weave. One boot-rack stacked with highly polished riding boots stood by the door and, at the far end of the room, a mahogany table held a cargo of two heavy wooden church candlesticks in which fat wax candles had been very recently lit and a matched pair of silver vases filled with bunches of white lilies. The scent in the enclosed space was overpowering.

A winding staircase led to a first-floor office with a stout oak door, the twin of the one in Petrovsky’s apartment. The manservant knocked gently and entered. Joe hung back and heard him say: ‘Excuse me, sir. I’ve got that Englishman with me. The policeman.’

And the gruff response: ‘Tell him I’ll see him. Just give me a minute, will you, Félix.’

There was the sound of furniture creaking, foot-stamping and nose-blowing, and Guy de Pacy appeared in the doorway, rubbing an unshaven face. ‘Thank you, Félix. That’ll be all.’ Even red-eyed and black-bristled, he cut an impressive figure, Joe thought.

Joe went in and took the chair being pointed out to him. ‘Forgive the squalor,’ mumbled de Pacy, making a careless gesture around the room..

Joe looked for the squalor and saw that it consisted of one jacket flung around a chair back. Everything else was neat and comfortable, a working room supplied with arm-chairs and bookshelves. A phonograph standing in a corner was giving out a moody piece of Mahler that Joe thought he recognized. Kindertotenlieder. De Pacy hurried to lift the needle arm and turn the record off.

‘Now—where in hell did you get to this morning?’ de Pacy said, beginning to stride about the room. ‘I was looking to you to exercise some control over your fellow countrymen. Have you walked through the great hall? I peered in this morning and decided to leave them to it. Jacquemin thought it would be a good idea to keep the lot of them herded in together. Mad notion! He’ll find he’s got more corpses on his hands than he knows what to do with. By the end of the day, we’ll be looking at the Black Hole of Calcutta! And I’m quite sure I don’t care a button!’

The steward was talking in his bluff tone to fill a gap and distract Joe from an examination of his emotion-racked face.

Joe decided to have none of his nonsense.

‘I was in Avignon,’ he said. ‘At the morgue. She didn’t suffer, Guy, the pathologist assures me. She could hardly have been aware of what was happening to her. She looked very peaceful. I paid my last respects to Estelle and her baby.’