Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Chapter Three

Joe entered the building with eyes still dazzled by his prolonged scanning of the midday sky and it was a second or two before he was aware of the figure coming towards him down the corridor. Dressed in black and moving on silent feet, the stranger made straight for him. Once within striking distance, the man grunted an exclamation and raised his hand, the chopping edge lined up on the centre of Joe’s face.

Joe’s reaction was swift and instinctive. He seized the outstretched arm by the wrist and tugged the man forward, jerking him on to his swiftly extended right foot. The unknown crashed to the stone-flagged floor, falling to his knees with a scream of pain. A second scream rang out as Joe yanked his arm up behind his back.

‘What the hell? For Chrissakes, lemme go!’ protested an American voice.

From the end of the corridor Orlando’s voice rang out, reinforcing the suggestion: ‘Joe! Let him up! Are you mad? What’s going on?’

‘Who’s your friend?’ Joe asked when Orlando joined them.

‘That’s Nathan! Nathan Jacoby. He’s staying with us. He was only coming to say hello.’

‘He has a strange way of introducing himself!’ Joe grunted, his anger blocking any embarrassment or regret. He hauled the spluttering American to his feet and addressed him in a tone of false bonhomie: ‘Look, mate, let me explain: if you come at a London copper down a dark corridor dressed like a lascar thug and stick a fist in his face, you must expect to be lifted out of your socks. In polite circles we put out a hand at waist level. Like this.’ Joe demonstrated. ‘How do you do, Mr Jacoby … I’m Joseph Sandilands … And I’m pleased to meet you,’ he added, remembering the American greeting.

‘Well, I can’t say I’ve been overjoyed to meet you— so far! But thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to hail a British bobby from a safe distance in future … Like the width of the Atlantic. Shall we start over?’

Orlando gave a nervous burst of laughter. ‘Nat, you twerp! You were doing that gesture again, I’ll bet! That affected business with your hands. You’ll have to forgive him, Joe—he gets carried away. Nat’s one of those photographer chappies. He’s incapable of looking at any new face or vista without framing it.’ Orlando put up his hands, made a box shape and pretended to peer through it. ‘Like this.’

‘No, no, Orlando!’ the American said in exasperation. ‘You’re just not seeing what I’m seeing. You haven’t noticed it, have you? Perhaps you’re too accustomed to the sight of this man’s face?’

‘Ugly brute to meet for the first time in a dark corridor, I agree,’ said Orlando peering uncertainly at Joe. ‘And perhaps I should have said something.’ The American sighed. ‘Permit me, Sandilands?’ He carefully put up the edge of his hand again, centring on Joe’s nose, and turned it like a flap from side to side. ‘I caught sight of you lit up in the doorway. See that, Orlando? This side you’ve got light, this other darkness. We’ve got ourselves a Janus … a Lucifer in mid-fall … an Oxymoron of War … I’m assuming it is war we have to thank for this fascinating rearrangement of your physiognomy?’

‘Oh, come on, Nat! He’s just a bloke, you know,’ Orlando protested. ‘A bit battered but then so are thousands like him … nothing out of the ordinary for an Englishman of his age. You’ll pass a dozen in worse condition between the Ritz and Boodle’s.’

The photographer raved on: ‘If I put a high wattage bulb over him, up here—’ an elegant hand indicated a spot to the right and above Joe’s head—‘you can imagine the drama! No—a daguerrotype! Old-fashioned perhaps and a pain in the neck to perform but this face is worth the bother. Nothing like them for portraits, you know.’

‘Do leave it for later, Nat!’ Orlando pleaded and turned to Joe. ‘He sees everything in black and white, don’t you know. Only to be expected when he spends the hours of daylight squinting through a viewfinder and the hours of darkness closeted away in some garde-robe developing the stuff. I reckon all those chemicals he uses are softening his brain.’ He grinned at the American, who grinned back cheerfully.

A face much more fascinating than his own, Joe decided now his eyes had readjusted. The smooth tanned oval was framed by an explosion of dark hair which curled in corkscrews, unrestrained by scissors, brilliantine or even a comb, Joe guessed. Startling enough and some preparation for the majesty of the nose which would not have disgraced an eagle owl or a Pathan warrior. But the first intimidating effect was countered by the warmth of the eyes. They disarmed. Deep-set and dark, they shone with humour and were fringed by lashes of an extravagance any cover girl would have envied.

What had Joe called him? ‘A lascar thug’. He regretted the jibe. It was a common enough insult back home in the London docklands where these tough Eastern seamen had acquired a certain reputation for lawlessness and skill with the knife, but this man, by all appearances, could indeed have his origins in the Middle—or even farther—East.

‘I say—do forgive me for implying …’

‘I didn’t take it personally. I’m not from Alaska,’ came the easy response.

He waited for Joe’s jaw to drop and added: ‘But if your reference was to Al Askar and the ruffians who go by that name—well, I guess that’s kind of flattering. It means “a soldier”, they tell me. In Persian. Can’t say I’ve ever been called a soldier before—in any language.’

So why, Joe wondered, was this intelligent and professional man parading about in his present costume? He glanced with some distaste at the baggy black cotton trousers, the chest-hugging, collarless shirt—also in black—and the black rope-soled espadrilles. All bought in the local market, Joe supposed, and more suited to one of the fishermen who lounged along the sea front at Collioure. Well, Orlando and his smart artist friends set a standard of flamboyant eccentricity a humble photographer might find hard to emulate. Tricking himself out as a devil-may-care cut-throat must be his way of keeping his end up. It was all a house-party game. Tedious stuff! Joe wondered briefly what gambit a humble policeman might use for the same purpose and resolved to annoy them all by simply changing his white shirt for an even crisper white shirt and polishing his already shiny shoes.

He smiled and, perfectly ready to offer himself to the assembled company as a source of derision or even a comic turn should that be what tickled their fancy, he straightened his Charvet cravat, smoothed down the pocket flaps of his linen jacket and moved off down the corridor. Joe Sandilands was used to singing for his supper.

Chapter Four

It was lucky some sharp-eared child had heard the car horn, Joe reckoned, as he made his way along several corridors, or they’d have wandered the maze like Theseus without the benefit of a ball of wool. He noted, as they passed, the contents of the one or two rooms whose doors were open. Mainly they were used as storage for mouldering sports equipment, artists’ easels and encrusted palettes, children’s toys. One contained nothing but an array of stuffed boars’ heads and long-dead birds in glass cases.

At last they came out into what Orlando had called ‘the refectory’. A word that hardly did it justice, Joe considered. This was the grand hall of a very grand castle. The intimidating space soared to a height of three storeys and was lit by windows contrived at three levels from ground to ceiling. Light was flooding in boldly through the topmost rank of windows, the ancient, lead-paned glass filtering and distorting it into ripples which moved along the stone walls, washing them in southern warmth. The harshness of the limestone was further softened by tapestries and hangings quite ragged enough to be genuinely centuries old.

While the children trooped straight in followed by Nathan, Orlando paused with Joe in the arched doorway and watched his face, waiting for his reaction.

‘Well, I never!’ murmured Joe. ‘Sorry! I’ll think of some more intelligent response when my brain’s adjusted to all this grandeur.’ And, feeling that a more appreciative response was expected: ‘Stunning! Simply stunning! I say—these tapestries are certainly eye-catching. Could they possibly be …?’

‘As ancient as they look and worth a fortune,’ said Orlando. ‘Thought you’d like them.’

Though threadbare in places and greying with age, the greens, the violets and the turquoise blues of Aubusson still told their stories. Joe’s eye was caught and held by the small fierce eye of a wild boar cornered in a forest glade.

Powerful and utterly fearless, the splendid animal was rounding on his tormentors. In the next tapestry, he was lying, spectacular in death, a prize at the feet of a lusty royal huntsman. The scenes of venery were interspersed with scenes of courtly life: feasting, dancing, flirting and the playing of instruments most of which were unfamiliar to Joe. Hairy satyrs tootled roguishly on pipes making maidens swoon with delight. Maidens strummed on viols—if those pot-bellied instruments were viols—and youths fainted at their feet. The long-dead participants, apart from the satyrs, were universally young and handsome. Joe’s impression was a blend of dark eyes, expressive hands, muscular thighs, winking jewels around swan necks, white coifs and rich attire.

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ said Orlando. ‘Woven especially for this château—for this very room in fact. I’ll introduce you to the Shades of the Castle later. First you must meet the present incumbents. Not so aristocratic, I’m afraid—you’ll be looking at them for a long time before you spot a tiara or a garter amongst them. And the standard of courtly manners is sadly eroded, you’ll find. Still—you’ll probably hold your end up … I say …’ The normally urbane Orlando was disconcerted to be found speaking disparagingly of his fellows but he soldiered on apologetically: ‘Not sure what you might be expecting but … they are a bit of a mixed crowd, you know. One thing they all have in common is—they know their mind and they speak it. Without fear or favour or regard for authority, if you know what I mean?’

‘I talk all the time with people who have no respect for authority,’ said Joe. ‘Especially mine. A bunch of bolshie buggers, are you trying to say?’

Orlando grinned and waved a negligent hand towards the far end of the hall where a subdued crowd was at luncheon. ‘Exactly that! And here they are.’

The guests, as many as twenty in number, Joe was surprised to see, were already seated on benches on either side of a very long oak table stretching across the room and positioned in front of an ornate fireplace. Though the day was hot, a fire of aromatic logs smouldered agreeably in the grate and Joe was glad of the homely scent in this intimidating space. But even a crowd this size was rendered insignificant by the size of the room. Noting the huddle, Joe’s mind turned to defensive positions and famous last stands. Had some desperate voice, moments before he entered, called out: ‘Circle the wagons!’ ‘Ten bullets each—make ’em all count!’ ‘Our swords? Come and get them!’?

The setting hardly favoured intimate or even comfortable dining, but this was the exact spot originally designated for it. There, at the far end, in splendour and state, the master of this place and his entourage would have feasted before a crowded and bustling hall from the day the castle was built. Joe guessed that it was the unchangeable proximity of the kitchens that had kept it in operation here over the centuries and he watched as two men-servants came in through a door to the left of the table. One was carrying a basket of freshly baked bread, the other a large jug of wine. Both were soft-footed and swift, their every gesture correct.

He stood with Orlando at a polite distance from the table while Nathan, pausing to give him an encouraging slap between the shoulder blades, went to resume his place halfway along one of the benches. Joe looked for Dorcas and lighted on her already established at a smaller table set to one side. Clearly the children’s table. Clearly too, Dorcas was, by general consent, already in charge. As he watched, she tapped one boy on the knuckles with a ladle and reproved him, grinned, then began to spoon out stew into bowls.

The murmuring stopped at their approach, forks were placed on plates, faces were raised in expectation to take in the newcomer. A bad moment. Joe fortified himself with the thought that they were strangers and, for him, likely to remain so. He prepared to smile blandly through a deluge of names, none of which he need commit to memory.

Orlando seemed to be of the same mind. He signalled to everyone that they were to remain seated and launched into a rough, joking presentation of Joe.

‘Untraditional’ was the most forgiving term Joe could think of to describe the introduction but he smiled affably through it, made a gracious, all-embracing bow and glanced along the ranks. Well, they earned his respect for the lively effort they were making to combat the medieval austerity. Colourful diaphanous clothing, floating scarves and gypsy colours made a gallant riposte to the aridity of the white spaces. Here and there, the garish glitter of a diamanté clasp caught his attention, a cascade of metal bangles tinkled distractingly down a slim brown arm. Joe thought for a moment he’d arrived in the middle of a mad fancy-dress party. Or had he crashed a rehearsal for an end-of-the-pier show? Make-up was certainly much in evidence—bold eyes dark with mascara were raised to his in speculation, reddened lips smiled invitingly. Small wonder that it was the women he was first aware of—scattered at random amongst the gathering, they seemed to make up almost half the number.

The men were dull in comparison: countryman’s clothes mainly, corduroy jackets and badly tailored linen suits, with one or two stained smocks in evidence, proclaiming that the wearer was terminally forgetful, contemptuous of good manners or invoking the licence of artistic preoccupation. Stares directed at him were challenging, curious or welcoming. None was uninterested.

‘Now, what shall we do with you? Where would you like to sit?’ Orlando asked.

‘The far side seems to be less densely packed,’ said Joe. ‘And it suits me to have my back against a solid wall with my sword-hand free to swish,’ he added with an apologetic smile and a nod towards the left side.

‘Coo er! Who’s your swashbuckling friend, Orlando?

D’Artagnan arrived, has he?’ called a sarcastic voice. ‘Pity he’s come too late!’

‘We’ll make a place over here, next to me,’ said Orlando quickly, ushering Joe to a seat at the end of the bench he’d picked out. ‘Hey! Shove up a bit, all of you! Thanks! Far too many people to introduce all at once,’ he announced bluntly. ‘You’ll not remember their names … never sure I can myself … Anyway, they know who you are now and if they want to get acquainted, they’ll make overtures in their own good time.’

‘Certainly will!’ The voice was low, female and flirtatious. ‘And now’s as good as any. Bags I first in the queue for an audience!’ it added, saucily.

A slim young woman got to her feet and extricated herself from the bench. She picked up her bowl and swayed around the table to squeeze herself between Joe and Orlando. ‘Estelle,’ she said and took his hand in hers. ‘When I’m in France. Stella when I’m at home, which is—or used to be—London.’

Joe had already identified her accent as educated southern counties. ‘My home too, these days,’ he said.

‘Joseph Sandilands,’ delicately emphasizing his surname. ‘Miss … er?’

‘Ah, yes! Name, rank and number. One of the old school!’ She managed to make the comment teasing rather than offensive. ‘We all call each other by our first names here … It’s Smeeth.’

‘Excuse me—I didn’t quite catch that …’

‘Estelle Smeeth. That’s S—M—double E—T—H.’

Joe’s puzzlement turned into a hiccup of laughter. ‘I see! When in France! And to which branch of the Smith family do you belong? Or is it—let me guess—an alias?’

‘That’s a secret between me and my passport. But your identity is no secret. Orlando’s been trumpeting your arrival for a week now. We’re all dying to meet the star of the Met! I’ve actually read about you in the papers—you came down on the guilty like Nemesis! The Garrotting at the Opera House, the Regent’s Park Rapist … the Tory MP who was pushed in front of the 6.15 at Waterloo … Now, there’s one I’d like to own up to myself.’ She crashed through the flimsy hedge of Joe’s mumbled disclaimer and cantered on: ‘Orlando thought he’d better warn us that his daughter’s chaperone was on The Force.’ She flicked a glance towards Dorcas. ‘Just in case any of us needed to search our conscience and prepare an alibi. Perhaps even make an excuse and leave in a hurry.’

‘What? You’re trying to tell me there are usually fifty of you here?’ Joe asked lightly. ‘Glad you felt brave—or innocent—enough not to flee before the Law, Estelle!’

He was teasing but he was sincere. The girl was charming and flattering. Too effusive for his comfort, perhaps. There was something in the warmth of her welcome that disturbed him. Un peu surexcitée? Yes. She was talking too fast, too loudly and with too many hand gestures. He reminded himself soberly that he was rubbing shoulders with young people of an artistic temperament, not nodding over a book in the London Library. And Estelle was exceptionally pretty. Her long fair hair was outrageously unfashionable and would have raised eyebrows in London but it flowed over her bare shoulders in waves a Pre-Raphaelite painter of the last century—or any red-blooded man of this—would have swooned at the sight of. Joe realized he was staring and tore his gaze away. Light brown eyes were emphasized by straight brows, her nose was neat and her mouth rouged and generous. There was a highly strung, theatrical air about her and Joe decided she would have been convincing as one of the daughters of Boadicea in any village pageant. But instead of a Celtic cloak, she was wearing some kind of strapless sun dress in white linen, the better to indulge in the new craze of sun-bathing, Joe guessed, noting peeling red patches on the creamy flesh.

‘Here, let me help you to some daube de lapin aux herbes de Provence,’ Estelle offered. ‘It will be good. We have the services of a wonderful local cook. A woman. From the village. Poor lady! I don’t think we’re much of a challenge for her skills. In fact, I’m pretty certain she’s had orders from on high to back-pedal on the menus. Keep it simple for the ignorant Anglo-Saxons. Stew one day, roast the next. At least we’ve never been offered boiled mutton and jam which is what they’re all convinced we eat all the time back home. Though, occasionally, the cook forgets herself and does something seriously dreamy with asparagus. In England, it would get her a job at the Savoy!’

Estelle, he noticed, was saying appreciative things about the food but scarcely tasting her own portion, merely rearranging the pieces on her plate. Too eager to chatter and make an impression, he thought.

‘The staff would, indeed, appear to be impeccable. They are in the employ of …?’

‘The owner of the château. The Lord of Silmont … can’t remember all his titles. Count or Marquis? Something like that. We just call him “the lord”. His name’s Bertrand but no one would dream of using it. Even the seneschal calls him “sir” and he’s a blood relative.’

‘He has a seneschal, did you say?’

‘Yes. That’s his maître d’hôtel, you know. And I’m using the word “hôtel” in the original sense, of course—’

Smart town house?’ interrupted Joe, piqued by the girl’s condescending tone. ‘And I shall think of the gentleman as “the steward”. How very feudal! Tell me—are they here among us, this medieval pair? Do point them out so that I may direct a courtly bow in the right quarter or tug a forelock.’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You have a very nice forelock. But don’t tug it just yet. The lord isn’t here at the moment. That’s his place at the head of the table, the empty one, and no one ever sits there but him. He pops in occasionally, he says to practise his English with us, but as he speaks more elegant English than any one of us, I have to think he’s actually checking on progress with the canvases.’

‘Checking progress? What? Like some sort of overseer?’

‘Yes. Exactly that. Keeping us all up to the mark. If you were imagining yourself joining some carefree house party—forget it! In fact it’s a sort of assembly line. I can’t call it a treadmill exactly—that would be too, too ungracious for words—but our host is a bit of a whip-cracker, Commander.’ She waved a hand at the far end of the hall. ‘Do you see the wall down there is doing service as a gallery?’

Joe noted that the tapestries and wall sconces had given way to three ranks of canvases, taking up the whole surface. Several more had been stacked against it.

‘That’s the week’s output. Our patron has an eye to the main chance as well as an eye for a good painting. He’s a collector and a connoisseur. And very well regarded in art circles. He has the critics in his pocket.’

‘And his pockets are deep ones?’

‘You bet! Nothing known for sure but I’d expect he knows exactly how to oil the wheels and grease the palms. The art-smart journalists and opinion-makers echo his views, kowtow to his prejudices, support his enthusiasms. He sets the fashion, having bought extensively into it, then he sells at vast profit to New York or London. He’s made a fortune from his dealings.’

Joe looked around him. ‘And these are his protégés?’

‘His breeding ground. His worker bees. You identify your talent, establish it in stimulating surroundings, satisfy all daily needs and you’re in business.’

‘You’re very acerbic?’

‘My sharp tongue! It keeps getting me the sack! But judge for yourself—our seigneur got rid of three painters he decided weren’t worthy of support in the first week.’

‘Pour encourager les autres?’ Joe asked lightly.

She smiled. ‘No. Because they failed to please. I told you—he knows his stuff. Right decision. He had a blazing row with a Cubist painter whose name—if I were indiscreet enough to mention it—you would certainly know.’ Estelle affected a grumpy man’s baritone: ‘“Looking at this stuff is like looking down a cracked kaleidoscope filled with rusty nails … undigested scraps of flesh … the dismembered leftovers of a crazed axe-man …” were some of the lord’s polite descriptions of our artist’s latest offerings.’

‘Ouch! Poor chap!’ said Joe.

‘Save your sympathy! We all know that this particular artist—who does have a genuine talent, as far as I can judge—agrees with that view in private. After a second bottle, he’s been heard to ask—in genuine mystification—how on earth the public can be taken in so easily by his artistic pretensions. But in an open exchange of views with the boss, he felt he had to stand up for himself and his art and he did. He’s famously persuasive. And—he ended up by selling a dozen or so examples of his “dog’s vomit” to our host, after prolonged haggling, before he flounced off in a well-timed huff.’ She smiled in satisfaction.

‘Followed by the cheers of the crowd?’

‘Oh, rather! We’re a mixed bunch but you’ll find there’s a certain group loyalty. We admire anyone spirited enough to put one over on the powers that be. When you think that those pictures are probably being snatched from the walls of a posh Parisian saleroom as we speak! For twenty times what the artist received! It’s a hard equation to work out and one’s never perfectly certain on which side one stands …’

‘But when x equals rather a lot of cash …?’

She grinned. ‘That’s right, Commander! Always keep your eye on the x! It’s a new concept for many artists but they’re learning.’

‘I’m sad to hear you say so,’ said Joe. ‘I had hoped to fetch up in the company of high-minded creators of beauty … incorruptible visionaries …’

Estelle gave him a hard look and sighed. ‘Another one of those who thinks you paint more effectively on an empty stomach? What nonsense! Would you detect more efficiently if they starved you for a week? Well, then!’

‘And the steward?’ Joe pressed on with his enquiries. ‘Which one is he?’

‘Go on—guess. You’re the detective.’

Joe thought he had already spotted the man in charge. Sartorially, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the gathering in his casually tailored beige linen suit and open-necked shirt. A dark-haired, brown-eyed man in his late thirties, he was chatting amicably with the people about him and blended in with the group in all respects but one. He was the only man at the table who had monitored the comings and goings of the servants, with the discreet but all-seeing eye of a butler.

Joe took a moment to scan the company and then whispered in Estelle’s ear: ‘Got him! Do you see the man who’s the spitting image of Albert Préjean? The film star?’

‘Albert who …? Oh, yes, I know who you mean! He played the pilot in Paris Qui Dort, didn’t he? Craggy good looks. A real heartbreaker. That’s a more perceptive insight than I think you realize.’

‘Yes, that’s the one. And I’m guessing that the gentleman who so resembles him is the man who sits at the lord’s right hand.’

Estelle giggled. ‘He usually hovers behind his left shoulder. And you’re quite right. Well done! I’ll take you over to meet him after the meal. He’ll expect it. Oh, and may I warn you? He shakes hands with his left. Right arm badly burned. He was with the Aviation Militaire in the war. One of the Cigognes Squadron. Meanwhile, although he’s nattering away with Nathan in apparently complete absorption, he’s actually giving you an ever-so-discreet once-over. Smile for the seneschal, my dear! He likes handsome men.’

Something in her tone alerted and annoyed Joe. He found he was torn between satisfying his curiosity and discouraging the girl’s loose gossip. He chose the safer path of distracting her. ‘Tell me two things, Estelle … what is the gentleman’s name and was he late down to lunch today?’

‘Late to lunch? What is this? My first interrogation?’ she gurgled. ‘How thrilling! I’ve no idea. I’m almost always the last to arrive so it’s hard to say. I don’t believe anyone came in after me … Let me think. Guy—that’s his name: Monsieur Guy de Pacy—was already here. He came in through the kitchen door over there. I heard him shouting at one of the staff before the door banged shut. Then he fixed his suave smile on and entered stage left. Something on your mind, Commander?’

‘Only the desperate hope there’ll be enough of this delicious stuff left for second helpings,’ he said. ‘And why not call me Joe?’

‘Here, have some bread to soak up the gravy, Joe. It’s quite all right to do that over here.’

‘Thank you, I shall. And thirdly I’m curious to know how you managed to get caught up with this stimulating company. Are you an artist?’ he asked.

‘Lord no! I’m an artist’s model. I take my clothes off in cold studios and sit or lie for hours on end while some oaf at an easel turns me into something he’s dreamed up—a stick insect, something on a butcher’s slab or, at best, an odalisque in a silken turban and a bangle commissioned for some wealthy client’s boudoir or bar. In the real world, Commander, you wouldn’t know me. You might recognize my family name but they no longer recognize me, I’m afraid.’ She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’m what’s known back home as “a bad lot”! Kicked out of school, banned from darkening any paternal doors ever again. I’ve been adrift in Europe for the last five years. And I’m having a wonderful time!’

‘And which of the company are you attached to—professionally, I mean?’ Joe thought it wise to enquire.

‘Nathan. The photographer. I came down from Paris with him. Nat’s a sweetie-pie! He’s not at all possessive and he’s perfectly ready to lend me out to one of the others.’ She nodded towards the gallery. ‘You’ll find two or three pictures where I’m just about recognizable … the girl and the unicorn on the beach … the concubine in red harem pants … the bride in Frederick’s fresco … But I prefer sitting for Nathan. He makes me laugh and he doesn’t … ogle. Not really possible, I suppose, when it’s all over in—literally—a flash! And at least with a photographer I can be pretty certain that the results look like me.’

‘They say the camera doesn’t lie,’ Joe offered.

‘And that’s another untruth! But it’s more honest than any painting could ever be. I love the black and white clarity of it all. And it’s quick. Click! The image is accurately caught for ever.’

‘But you can have some fun with it,’ Joe suggested with a smile. ‘I remember admiring a shot of the luscious Kiki de Montparnasse, taken from behind. Someone had painted the curving sound-holes of a violin—or was it a cello?—on her bare back.’

‘I know it! Wonderful! One of Man Ray’s. I tried to persuade Nat to do something similar but he laughed and told me I hadn’t got the waist and swelling hips for a cello. He suggested a flute might be more the thing.’

The arrival of fresh steaming bowls of daube coincided with a swirling unrest among the children.

Orlando leaned to Joe. ‘That’s good! It looks as though they’ve finished at the babies’ table. They gobble down their food and get restive so I usually dismiss them.’ He rose to his feet and selected a suitably paternal tone: ‘You may get down now, chaps, and go out to play. You’ve all been very good so you’re allowed sweets from the bowl in the pantry. Dorcas, my dear, you’d better supervise. They’re allowed two—one for each hand. And don’t get lost!’ he shouted after their retreating backs. ‘Chapel and ovens out of bounds, remember! Oh, and better make that Joe’s car as well.’

Dorcas lingered behind, picking up discarded napkins and replacing used cutlery neatly on the dishes as she’d been taught. She directed an earnest stare in Joe’s direction.

‘Ovens?’ Joe asked, intrigued.

‘In the dungeons down below, where the children go to play hide and seek,’ Estelle explained, ‘there’s a series of perfectly hideous hidey-holes with doors.’ She shuddered. ‘The kids will tell you that they’re ovens where prisoners used to be shut in alive to cook to death. I think they’re really called oubliettes. You know—tiny cells where prisoners could be put out of the way and forgotten.’