Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘I ought to make an arrest before the bus arrives,’ grumbled Jacquemin. ‘We’re not ready for this. We await the evidence of fingerprints from the lens cover and that’s about all we’ve got. They may not send it until tomorrow.’ He tore a clump of grey hairs from his moustache. ‘It’s no good—I can’t proceed without a confession.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Joe. ‘So—let’s extract one, shall we? No guns, no thumbscrews, I think you’ll agree? Lacking the scientific evidence, the only thing we have left in our repertoire is low cunning and deceit. I think we can manage that between us! But first, Dorcas has something to tell you.’

‘Look, do we have to have this child in the incident room? Send her away, Sandilands.’

‘No. You must listen to what she has to say.’

‘You’re asking me to unpack that lot?’ said Jacquemin, glaring at Estelle’s suitcase.

‘Sir, Forestier packed everything while I made an inventory,’ said Martineau, shuffling through a pile of papers. ‘I don’t recall any such item … Ah! … Here—look—items seven to nine in the clothing department. Brown skirt, black skirt, red print skirt. Any good?’

He dragged the case into the centre of the room and began the business of removing the strap and unlocking the fasteners. The packing was carefully done and halfway down he found what he was looking for. He held the garment up for inspection.

‘Folded up neatly in the middle of the pile with her skirts. Black trousers. Soiled on seat and trouser bottoms with dust and plant matter, sir. Lady’s.’

‘Tall lady’s,’ said Dorcas. ‘Here, let me show you.’ She held them up in front of her. ‘You see? You’re looking for someone at least six inches bigger than I am. And Estelle was quite small. Only one inch taller than me, I’d say. This pair did not belong to her.’

‘And how do you safely and discreetly dispose of an incriminating item in a building swarming with people … observant domestics … and the police expected any minute? You’re not going to start a bonfire or put them in a rubbish bin. No. You slip them off as though changing for dinner, kick them away casually under the bed, and you put them away later in the drawer of someone who is in no position to deny ownership and whose belongings are being shipped straight out back to England,’ Joe said. ‘Here, let me have a closer look, Martineau.’ He took the garment to the window and held it this way and that. He checked the label inside the waistband; he scratched at the fabric with a fingernail. Finally, he smiled and said: ‘Leave them available on the desk, will you? That’s going to be the first of my pressure points. The second … where did you put the lens cap?’

The Commissaire produced it in its envelope.

‘Fine. Now pass me that sheet of headed paper I brought back from the lab with me, will you? A clean envelope? Large one?’

Joe sealed the lens cap and the sheet of paper inside the envelope and asked Martineau to write the Commissaire’s name on the front in large, curlicued French handwriting. Satisfied with the look of his package, he handed it to Martineau. ‘This is where you’ll have to disappear for a bit, Lieutenant. Drive one of the police cars out of the courtyard and turn around. Dramatic crunch of running feet on gravel, please, and then, moments later, you bustle in waving this envelope. We’ll take it from there.’

Martineau grinned and went out, checking that the corridor was clear.

After a few more minutes’ consultation, Jacquemin stepped to the door and handed a chit to the two attendant coppers. ‘Your instructions, Corporal. At once, please, and to be carried out in that order. Straight into my presence, mind! No wandering off to be permitted on any pretext. Assume imminent arrest and take appropriate precautions.’

One of them was back, rapping on the door in three minutes.

Jacquemin opened it himself, all gracious smiles. ‘Ah! There you are, Miss Somerset. So sorry to have to haul you back in again so soon.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘He’s lying!’ Cecily shouted, pointing a finger at Joe. ‘I haven’t been inciting to riot! They were already rioting and if—’

‘Calm down, please, Cecily,’ Joe said agreeably. ‘We just want some advice. We want to tap into your expertise if you’d be so good as to grant us a minute of your time. I’ve heard you spoken of as something of a botanist. You are an expert on the flora of Provence, I understand?’

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say—’

‘I’m thinking now of the wild flowers, grasses, herbs—that sort of thing. Have I come to the right shop?’

His crisp and friendly tone found a response in her reply. ‘Ask me. I’ll try. Have you got a sample for me to identify? Is that it?’

‘Not exactly. I just need an impressive-sounding name. Any low-growing, sun-loving wild plant particular to this part of Provence will do. The rarer the better. I want to impress someone with my knowledge.’

‘Well, you’ll be wanting a Latin name then or—how about a Provençal one? You could consider … um … well, my favourite name is the one they have for thyme. Le farigoule they call it around here. Creeping thyme—Thymus serpyllum—but that’s not at all rare. Better still … Yes! Woolly thyme is the rather splendidly named Thymus pseudolanuginosus.’

‘Perfect! Thank you very much. That’s all. Now, will you go along with the corporal, Cecily? He’s just going to ask you to step into the room next door with him to fill in a few details—forwarding address and suchlike. You’ll be wanting us to send on your film when we’ve done with it. He’ll only keep you a few minutes.’

Long enough to keep Cecily from view while the second officer appeared at the door with the second interviewee, he calculated.

A sharp tap and Jane Makepeace came in. She greeted them pleasantly. ‘Commander. Commissaire. Well, it’s eeny, meeny, miney, mo, this afternoon, isn’t it? I wondered when it would be my turn to hear the clink of the cuffs.’ And, catching sight of Dorcas seated behind the door: ‘Oh, we meet again, Dorcas! Have they put you to sit in the corner? What have you been up to?’

‘Miss Joliffe is here as a witness,’ said Jacquemin.

‘Sounds serious! What on earth have you witnessed, Dorcas, dear?’

‘Nothing as yet,’ said Joe. ‘But she will witness an event in the coming minutes. She will have the dubious privilege, along with me and the Commissaire, of witnessing your confession to the murder of Estelle Smeeth.’

The spontaneous burst of laughter was disarming. It was not scornful, not nervous, not threatening. Yes, Joe admitted to himself, Miss Makepeace had a very nice laugh.

Jacquemin caught his eye and shrugged the responsibility for the interview over to Joe.

‘Lord Joe! What’s next on your script? I know—you’re going to say: “The game’s up!”’

‘Do you agree to confess with no further ado to this crime or will you insist on hearing a full account of your movements and deeds on the day in question?’ Joe asked.

‘Neither. I have nothing to confess and I certainly haven’t time to sit here and listen to the next instalment in your increasingly desperate flights of fancy. Busy woman, Joe! I have things to do. Objects and people to stick together, you know …’ Her eyes flashed a warm and conspiratorial message to him. ‘You’ll have to try this out on whoever’s next on your list. That’ll be number four,’ she said helpfully and made to turn for the door.

‘Sit, mademoiselle!’ Jacquemin bellowed. His right hand went dramatically to his pistol holster and hovered there just long enough to make Jane Makepeace swallow, glare and decide to take the seat offered.

‘Joe, this goes too far,’ she advised him. ‘Enough’s enough! You must call this attack hound to heel. Who does he think he is? Who does he take me for?’

‘Miss Makepeace, we both take you for a killer. The killer of Estelle Smeeth. We’re waiting to hear your confession.’

‘I will say not a word further until I have my father’s lawyer at my side, to offer counsel,’ she announced.

‘Well, you’d better tell him to attend you in the women’s prison in Avignon,’ said Joe. ‘In about a month’s time. They do things differently in France.’ He had no idea what the rules were himself and was reasonably sure that Jane Makepeace knew even less than he did of the French legal system. Jacquemin backed him up with a sententious nod.

‘The first thing the examining magistrate, after reading your confession (which we will note down), will want to know is why you killed Miss Smeeth,’ Joe said. ‘Would you care to rehearse it with us first?’

The answer came patiently: ‘I’ve told you—I didn’t. I liked her. I was her friend. Why would I kill her?’

‘On the contrary, you loathed her and were jealous of her. But these feelings in themselves were not sufficient to incite you to murder. Your motive went beyond personal dislike. Miss Smeeth’s death was a cold and clinical event, a step on your ladder to the goal you had set yourself.’

Jane appeared puzzled. ‘Goal? And what do you imagine that to have been? To get myself arrested by the Police Judiciaire? For that is the only result I can see ensuing. I could have bumped off … um … Cecily or yourself with much less fuss, had I wished to provoke a pantomime of this nature.’

‘It was a step in your progression. A death to fulfil the desire of a black and pitiless heart.’

Her lip curled. ‘I never read penny dreadfuls and I don’t want to sit here and listen to you regurgitating one.’

‘I see I shall have to tell a convincing tale, Miss Makepeace, in blunt policeman’s language. Not to satisfy you particularly—but a French judge. Where to begin?’

Joe had already decided on his beginning. ‘With the clever, choosy and disillusioned woman who met last year an interesting guest at her father’s dinner table. A French aristocrat. Lord Silmont. September, was it, Jacquemin, when the lord paid his visit to Harley Street? The stamps on his passport bear witness as do the labels on the medicine bottles in his cabinet. Do feel free, Miss Makepeace, to step in and correct me at any point. The talented daughter finds she has much to talk about with her father’s elderly art-loving patient. He is impressed with her. He is a man who, by his own admission, enjoys collecting people as well as objects. He invites her back to work on his collection of antique possessions. Eager to escape the dim bowels of the British Museum with its masculine environment, its scramble for promotion, its petty jealousies, and spread her wings, she accepts.

‘She’s good at her job. She settles in and finds her surroundings congenial. More than congenial—she falls in love with the château and all it contains. The lord, aware that she understands his physical condition, trusts her doubly. But it is not the lord who intrigues her. It is his younger cousin. She becomes deeply attached to the future owner of the household she has already fallen for.

‘She grows ever closer to Guy de Pacy, content to take her time and make herself indispensable to him. And she monitors the lord’s advancing sickness. But then her idyll is disturbed by the annual irruption into the house of the summer colony of artists from whose efforts the lord derives all manner of benefit. And one of their number, a pretty young model, sets her cap at the steward. Though skilled in the art of fending off female attention—Guy has his own demons to contend with—such is the allure of this girl that he finds himself swept off his feet and in the middle of an affair with the much younger woman.

‘It has to be stopped. Our London lady—shall we call her Jane?—has a word in the ear of the lord. We must imagine the poison she drips in—“promiscuous, manipulative whore,” may well have featured. The family name is threatened once more. Guy must be made aware. Brought back to his senses.

‘Her ploy seems to be successful. A cooling-off ensues. Perhaps certain threats regarding testamentary dispositions were made? At any rate the two lovers are, from now on, left casting hard glances at each other across the table. Estelle, broken-hearted, flirts rather desperately with the other men to rekindle his interest but only makes things worse by doing so. Jane monitors the success of her tactics by becoming close to Estelle. The girl begins to trust her—Jane, after all, has some skill in drawing people out—and, with no one else to confide in, Estelle tells her new friend more than is wise.

‘Meanwhile Jane is establishing her position in this little society. How often I’ve heard it since I arrived—“Oh, you’d better ask Jane … Jane will know … That’s Jane’s preserve—tell her.” You asserted your authority,’ said Joe, turning at last to confront her directly, ‘in the dormitory in the matter of Cecily and her schoolgirl activities. And the snake it was that died. By your hand. Or your instruction. The under-forester’s evidence is yet to be heard. I dare say you had no more bad feeling for the creature than you had for Estelle. Its death was necessary and its body useful to you. It established your precedence. Dorm prefect first, school captain next, add a dash of matron. All very useful but what you really wanted was the châtelaine’s keys. You wanted Guy de Pacy and you wanted Silmont.

‘And then your ambition suffered a kick in the teeth. Estelle discovered that she was pregnant. She seems to have been quite clear that de Pacy was the father. Who knows? She went to tell him. What can have been his reaction? You could probably tell us, Jane, because I suspect he unwittingly asked your advice. You probably heard Estelle’s version of events after lights out? Whatever you said—it doesn’t appear to have damped down the incandescent reaction. I was here that evening Estelle had her rendezvous with Guy. I believe she was genuinely in love. I’m guessing that he was fond of her. I’m further guessing that, in the flood of feeling that came with the notion that he was to be a father, he was telling the truth when he said he proposed marriage to her that night and she accepted him.’

Jane’s face had grown pale and her mouth was set in a tight line as he pressed on.

‘One or other of them confided in you the next morning. And you sprang into action. You decided to kill two birds with one stone. If you removed Estelle, there yet remained the obstacle of the lord. You were alarmed to note his stretches of normality between the fits of madness and pain. Wills may be altered at such times. And you knew from your father’s experience that patients can linger for inconveniently long periods. You were aware of Guy’s hatred for his cousin and his impatience to take the reins. The lord’s own behaviour presented you with an irresistible opportunity.

‘In a fit of moon-fuelled rage last Friday evening he had cleared the table tomb of its stone cargo. Anyone making serious enquiries would come rapidly to the conclusion that he was guilty of the vandalism and if the conclusion was not being arrived at rapidly enough, there you were, ready to whisper gravely of psychological disturbance and fearful disease. Ready to deliver up his cloak with a cigar end conveniently in the pocket to intrigue any bumbling bobbies. If, subsequently, a flesh-and-blood offering appeared in the same spot, the inference would be clear. The maniac had struck again. And that, I’m sure, is what you were expecting. Both crimes would be laid at the door of the mad lord. He would be arrested, executed or locked up in an asylum for the insane for the rest of his days. Two lives for the price of taking one.

‘But how to persuade Estelle to make a victim of herself? Nothing easier. She is happy once more and in high good spirits. Her sense of fun leads her to agree to playing a silly joke on Cecily. “Imagine the scene—when she gets back home and Daddy has the film developed! What a souvenir! What a laugh!” You borrow the camera and arrange to meet Estelle at the chapel. But you gild the lily. You plan to have a fall-back position if things go wrong. The lord is to take the blame but he is a man with influence. You can’t be perfectly certain that he won’t come up with some defence you hadn’t anticipated. So Cecily is a reserve suspect.

‘A wise precaution, it must have seemed! Things did go wrong for you at first. It was your bad luck to find the crime being investigated by two competing detectives, one, at least, the star in his force’s firmament. But worse—the lord was inconveniently and unexpectedly away from the scene at the moment of the murder. And then the diligent police discover for themselves the contents of Cecily’s camera. You had decided these officers, since you’d been landed with them, could be of great use to you. A little nudge here, a dig of the spur there, and you’d have them moving wherever you wanted them to go. You didn’t have much respect for their detective abilities but you feared the possibilities of the new forensic sciences and took precautions. Fingerprints were …’ He paused and went on, ‘mostly … rubbed away. Pity. It is fingerprints we rely on for a conviction. More reliable than a confession, we find in England. Were you aware—I think you must have been—that a single print is enough to clinch a case? Juries adore them! They take the weight of responsibility from their shoulders. A scientifically arrived at conclusion is always more acceptable than a moral judgement to twelve good men and true. Circumstantial evidence, deduction, are as nothing compared with the cold scientific condemnation of a single print.’

He broke off tantalizingly, leaving Jane Makepeace to wonder exactly where she had carelessly left a print.

‘The trousers you wore for their convenience in scrambling about in the moat were—just in case—stashed away amongst Estelle’s skirts, ready to be packed off and sent abroad unremarked. But …’ Deep in thought, Joe strolled to the window and flung it open, fanning his face.

Jacquemin reached down and produced the black trousers. He handed them to Joe. Jane’s eyes followed them but still she did not break her silence.

Joe now faced playing his two last cards.

‘You slid down a south-facing slope to get the incriminating shots you wanted. Leaving fragments of earth and plant matter on the fabric. These have been studied under the microscope in the laboratory and identified.’

‘Oh, really! I’ve heard enough! One: those are not my trousers. And two: Cecily who owns them is always crawling around in the undergrowth. Ask her where she’s been lately.’

‘I can tell you exactly where the trousers went on their last outing. There’s a tiny Provençal plant growing on the south side of the moat where we found boot scrapes. It is very rare. Thymus pseudolanuginosus. Are you familiar with it? It is vestiges of this plant that we were able to comb from your trousers,’ he lied convincingly.

Jane Makepeace was convinced. But unimpressed. ‘I think you cannot have heard me clearly. Those are Cecily’s trousers. She wears the uncouth garments all the time. You must have noticed.’

Such was her bored confidence that Joe was silent for a moment. He picked up the trousers, examining them once again. He looked up to see Dorcas mouthing a number at him, and went straight back on the attack. ‘Miss Somerset’s waist size is a generous thirty inches, I’m told. These are twenty-four inches. Exactly the same as yours. In any case, not difficult—merely time-consuming—to check sales receipts from Harrods.’

A slight flicker of emotion across her face told him that she understood the seriousness of her position but she still refused him the satisfaction of a comment.

A car screeched noisily up to the window and a door slammed. At an annoyed glance from Jacquemin, Joe got up and closed the window again. They listened as feet pounded down the corridor. There was a rap on the door and Martineau came straight in.

‘Yes, Lieutenant?’ Jacquemin greeted him.

‘It’s here, sir. They’ve just driven it over from Avignon. Urgent, the sergeant said.’

He handed over an envelope to the Commissaire.

‘Ah! At last!’ Jacquemin exchanged meaningful glances with Joe and slit open the envelope. ‘From the laboratory.’ He studied a sheet of paper with an expressionless face, stared at Jane Makepeace for a moment and passed the sheet to Joe, ensuring that Miss Makepeace caught a clear glimpse of the police letterhead.

‘Now what have we?’ Joe began to mutter. He summarized for his audience: ‘The fingerprints lifted from the enclosed object were clear. Photographs reveal, apart from smudged prints—possibly those of the owner—one thumb and one first finger. The thumb provides fifteen distinct points of agreement with that of one of the people whose prints were sent in from the château. Fifteen! Remind me, Jacquemin, how many you require in France for a conviction. Twelve, you say. Will you show Miss Makepeace the object on which her fingerprints were so clearly evident?’

Jacquemin opened the smaller envelope and placed the lens cap on the desk.

‘You gave it to Estelle to hold. She still had it clutched in her dead hand on the pathologist’s slab. I told you the dead could speak, Jane.’