Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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She caught Dorcas’s eye over the table and spoke in a voice meant to be heard by all. ‘So glad you’ve arrived at last, dear! It used to be my job to gather in the brood at the end of the day and do the roll-call. Never was dorm-prefect material, I’m afraid. Not the mother hen type, either! I’m delighted to see I can now hand it over to a competent youngster who will keep a closer eye on them.’

Dorcas gargled a gypsy oath and flung a knife down on to a dish with a clatter. Joe winced.

Everyone looked up and stared, sensing a drama. Even two very young girls with abundant dark hair who’d been fluting like finches in a mixture of Russian and French fell silent. The strikingly handsome gentleman sitting between the two beauties Joe had already marked down as possibly Russian, of intimidating aspect and out of place at that table. He was somewhat older than the rest of the company and more formally dressed. His linen jacket was uncrumpled and his silk cravat impeccably draped. Joe looked for a flaw in this ageing Adonis and decided that the hair, slicked back over a well-shaped skull, was suspiciously dark over the ears and, in a year or two’s time, the jowls would have grown heavy.

The Russian broke off an intense conversation in accented French with Guy de Pacy to glower at Dorcas. He took a monocle from his shirt pocket, fixed it into his right eye-socket, and with all the menace of Beerbohm Tree playing Svengali at the Haymarket, he affected to seek out the source of the interruption. Not much liking what he saw, he glowered again.

Joe leaned behind Estelle and touched Orlando lightly on the shoulder. Orlando caught and responded to his enquiring look. ‘Monsieur Petrovsky. Ballet-meister. Or so he bills himself,’ he hissed.

Oblivious of the Russian disapproval, Dorcas began to speak. In a voice whose chilling hauteur brought back memories of the girl’s formidable grandmother, she addressed her father. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Orlando, I won’t take up any child-herding duties on a formal basis … I may not be staying long. The Commander and I are working on a project. We may have to come and go … leave early … get back late … Our schedule must remain elastic. And, anyway, it’s a long time since I saw it as my job to go about extracting half-baked children from ovens at the end of the day.’

Someone exclaimed, all turned wondering eyes on Orlando, waiting for his reaction to this statement of rebellion. Waiting for him to discharge the musket of paternal authority over her head.

But the shot came from another quarter. Petrovsky’s voice boomed out: ‘Tell me, child, how old are you?’

Grudgingly Dorcas replied: ‘I’m fourteen.’

‘Fourteen? Indeed? May I recommend a few more years in bottle before you uncork your wisdom for the world?’

The monocled eye swept the audience, gathering approval. The finches tittered dutifully. Joe had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d delivered the line. Or the first time they’d heard it.

Orlando rose to his feet, distinguished and urbane. ‘I take your point, Dorcas old thing,’ he said calmly. ‘But, I say, darling daughter of mine, may I ask you not to speak to your father in your grandmama’s voice?’ He gave a histrionic shudder. ‘It gave me quite a turn! One termagant in a family is quite enough, thank you! Now, why don’t you come on over to the grown-ups’ table—where you ought to be—and we’ll discuss our domestic arrangements more discreetly? We don’t want to risk wearying the elderly with the frivolous concerns of youth.’

Dorcas grinned. She came stalking over to Joe’s side and tapped Estelle on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas Joliffe. How do you do? May I ask you to move along a little, madam? There are things I have to discuss with my uncle Joe.’

After a brief flare of surprise, Estelle shuffled peaceably along the bench and, as Dorcas inserted her skinny frame between them, Joe caught the model’s brown eyes crinkling in amusement over the top of the girl’s head. ‘Understood!’ said Estelle. ‘Look—do you think we could do a deal, Dorcas Old Thing? One day on, one day off for as long as you stay? I’m sure Nunky JoJo wouldn’t object. And considering half the junior contingent are Joliffes of one sort or another anyway, that’s better than a fair offer. I’m not kidding when I say it’s not my forte … All that “Cleaned your teeth? Washed your hands? Done your duty in the garde-robe?” They take no notice of me and it’s so boring! At least share the boredom with me! Otherwise it won’t get done at all.’

Dorcas extended a hand and took the one being offered her. ‘Done!’ she said with satisfaction. And, surprisingly: ‘I’ll take tonight’s watch if you like? But you’ll have to brief me. What time do they go down? Eight? Not until eight? Estelle, you spoil them!’

They dived into an easy domestic conversation, leaving Joe free to enjoy the apple tart and cheese and the quantities of wine poured from cooling earthenware pitchers. Joe thought he could safely scratch the kitchen from his list of facilities to check on. He learned a few more names and listened carefully to a series of thumbnail sketches of the people around the table from Orlando.

‘They’ll bring coffee in a moment and then we’ll break up into groups,’ Orlando explained, looking at his wristwatch. ‘We aim to be back at work by two—no siestas! But we like to circulate a bit. Exchange views and gossip, make plans for outings into the countryside by charabanc. You’ve no idea how inspiring it is to share and develop ideas. Gives you a certain confidence to know you’re not alone. We usually settle on some of those piles of cushions and furs they keep about the place in lieu of proper furniture. This crowd seems to rather go for the informal approach,’ he added apologetically.

‘Suits me,’ said Joe. ‘I can lounge like a sultan, given the chance. Just don’t expect me to talk art and make any sense.’

There was a lull while the last of the dessert and cheese plates were carried off and one of the company took the opportunity to ask, ‘Have you asked him, Orlando? What’s he say?’

Orlando shook his head. He seemed embarrassed.

‘Oh, come on, man! You said he wouldn’t mind …’

‘Me?’ Joe asked warily, noticing he was the target of all eyes. ‘What won’t I mind?’

‘They have some mad idea that you should be asked, although in transit and on vacation, to offer a little professional advice. I didn’t want to impose but … oh, well, they’re so uneasy about it, someone’s bound to bring it up … Might as well be me. Fact is, Joe, we’ve got a little local difficulty.’

‘Little local difficulty!’ scoffed one of the women. ‘You call an invasion and sacking by a band of Vandals a “difficulty”?’ Her voice began to climb to a shriek. ‘And when they return? What words will you find to inform the police that we women have all been raped in our beds?’

‘Beds, eh? At least we’re to be violated in comfort,’ muttered Estelle to Dorcas who, to Joe’s dismay gave an appreciative giggle.

Estelle leaned across the table and caught the eye of the speaker, a woman whom Joe might have described as a statuesque redhead—if the statue in question were portraying an Amazon queen. The lady now quivering with anticipated terror appeared to be perfectly capable of repelling a squad of eager Vikings single-handed. And, indeed, dressed for repelling. Joe studied her outfit and tried to repress his subversive thoughts. She was wearing a pair of mannish dungarees, paint-splattered, and the top half flattened an over-generous bosom like a breastplate.

The elf-like Estelle squared up to her boldly. ‘Put a sock in it, Cecily!’ she said. ‘You’re spreading panic. It’s unfair on Dorcas to greet her with such rubbish. And anyhow—when Orlando says “local” he’s spot on! The drawbridge was up. No one could have got in here from outside after dark, you know that. It’s one of us who’s responsible. He’s probably listening to your hysterical squawks right now and laughing at you. Or we could listen to Guy—it’s most likely one of the live-in staff going on a drunken rampage. No more than that. I’m sure Guy will tell us when he’s discovered his—or their—identity.’

‘Orlando?’ said Joe, faintly. ‘Would you care to enlarge? I’m all ears.’

‘Better tell him, Pa,’ urged Dorcas. ‘He wouldn’t want to leave me anywhere Vandal-infested, you know.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Orlando heavily. ‘I do so hate a fuss but … it was really rather disquieting …’

Jeers, hisses and stamping feet urged him to recast his phrases. ‘Very well—it was dashed upsetting! We’re all agreed on that. Who was it who found her? Padraic? Padraic joined us last week on his way through Provence. Would you care to tell Joe what you discovered?’

A slender man got to his feet and the party fell silent. He had the Irish good looks to go with his name: black hair flopping over his forehead, misty blue eyes and an air of melancholy. The voice that accompanied this romantic outward appearance, though soft, had the resonance of a tenor bell and every word was clear.

‘Padraic Connell, Commander. Writer, traveller, song-collector and, when I can no longer fight off the urge, second-rate poet.’

Good Lord! The man even had that self-disparaging, lop-sided smile that women fell for. Joe glanced sideways to check its effect on Estelle and saw that both she and Dorcas were caught on the hook of his charm. Wide-eyed, mouths ever-so-slightly open, they were eager to hear more. Even the finches at the far end had fallen silent.

‘It was two days ago I made the heart-rending discovery.’

Chapter Five

‘I was going into the chapel to inspect the medieval fabric: the stones, the statues, the inscriptions—I’d been promised wonders. I’ve a fascination with the Courts of Love which were held in the castles hereabouts. You’ll have heard of the Courts of Love, Commander?’

Joe didn’t confide that he’d encountered the notion only two hours before in a guidebook. He nodded silently, not wishing to interrupt the man’s flow.

‘Well, I’m wandering through this blessed land of Provence in the tracks of these lords and ladies who presided over the birth of a concept so essentially a part of our humanity we are living by it today. I speak of Romantic Love.’ He looked heavenwards for a second while he questioned himself. ‘Now was it the birth or was it simply the acknowledgement of an ideal of love which already existed? An ideal which transcended the boredom and the distasteful duties of noble wedlock?

‘Wedlock! The word itself snaps like manacles! In a time of arranged marriages and religious demands it pleased the ladies of the day to turn the phrase “God is Love” on its head. For many “Love is God” drew a warmer response.’ His glance wafted lightly around the table, touching the women with a complicitous and forgiving unction. ‘A wife was her husband’s chattel but she could be queen of her lover’s heart.’

Joe noted that the men in the audience—with one exception—were staring in disapproval or discomfort at their plates. The women were melting, intrigued. Even Dorcas seemed to be well adrift.

‘All over this fair land of Provence, from citadel to citadel they reigned, these clever beauties, patronesses of the arts, spinners of the bright thread of romance which lives on and spells out their names in letters of gold: Stéphanette, Cécile, Blanchefleur, Aliénore, Elys …’

Having tasted the silver syllables, he surged into an explosion of the ancient Provençal tongue, its muscled certainty celebrating its stout Roman roots:

‘Ah! Mounte soun le beu Troubaire

Mestre d’amour!

‘Where is he, the handsome troubadour, past master of love? Where indeed may I find my troubadours, the wandering musicians who enchanted with music and song? I’m trailing them in the hope they will lead me to a queen. A queen of both England and France. A woman who was as clever as she was beautiful: Eleanor of Aquitaine. The wife of kings, the mother of kings, the daughter of a prince. I feel sure my heroine—for so she is, and I don’t blush to declare it—must at one time have arrived here to preside over the revelries. Perhaps she even sat at this table, right there in the place which a beauty of our own day now graces.’ He paused to lift his claret glass to toast a simpering blonde who dimpled and squirmed to find herself unexpectedly the centre of attention.

The Irishman was taking longer to come to the boil than Orlando, but Joe noted his audience had settled to listen to the hypnotic voice with the wide-eyed anticipation of children turning the last page of a favourite bedtime story. They knew the ending but were enjoying travelling with him towards it. And the whole performance was being put on for Joe’s benefit after all. He assumed a more receptive expression.

‘Here, at Silmont, I felt I was drawing closer, entering her world. I had a tryst in the chapel, not with Eleanor herself, but with one almost as well known—her contemporary and namesake: Aliénore. A noble lady whose legendary beauty had drawn me across the breadth of France.

‘Aliénore … And there she was—or rather, there she had ceased to be.’

The handsome features creased in pain for a heartbeat.

‘It’s Keats who expresses the deepest emotions in the fewest words, don’t you find? Knowing something of the lady I was about to see and afire with anticipation, my thoughts were captured by two lines of his:

‘Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time …

‘Well, that holy place was steeped in silence and the air was heavy with the slow passage of many centuries, but the bride …’ The honeyed flow faltered and resumed, spiked with bitterness: ‘Ah, the bride I was to find was no longer unravished, poor creature! She had been hacked to pieces by a barbarous hand.’

Chapter Six

Joe had heard enough.

He was conscious that in the stillness that followed this sorrowful announcement all eyes had slid over to him, watching for his reaction. That most irritating of challenges—‘So there! What do you make of that, Mr Policeman?’—even when silently delivered, always drew an off-key response from Joe.

He leaned back and offered the Irishman a sympathetic grin. ‘Commiserations, old chap! So you never got to fix a ceremonial smacker on those famous lips? I understand that’s the tradition in these parts? My guidebook assures me,’ he patted his pocket, ‘that the carving in question is such a lifelike image and so remarkably lovely that no man can restrain himself from leaning over her and planting a kiss. Table-top tomb, I understand? A double effigy? The Lady Aliénore, dead as a doornail, toes turned up, alongside her crusading warrior lord? The question is: would I have had the temerity to wanton with his wife under the old boy’s bristling gaze? I think I’d have had to drape a handkerchief over his face first. But many are less fastidious, I believe. To the extent that there was some concern over the erosion of the stone?’

His unemphatic question was heard with the sullen silence and offended stares that greet any child who has flippantly raised a doubt over the existence of Father Christmas.

‘But now, if I get your drift, Padraic,’ he went on, unperturbed, ‘you’re telling me the statue has suffered more than the usual osculatory wear and tear? Smashed up, you say? How very disturbing! Has anyone checked the roof overhead and the remains below for a fallen corbel? I’m sorry I can’t be of help … what you need is the name of a good stonemason or an architect specializing in ancient buildings. I’m sure Monsieur de Pacy has the details of both on his books. Good story though—we were all agog!’ An appreciative nod to the Irishman marked the end of his turn in the spotlight.

Padraic looked about him uncertainly, opened his mouth, closed it and then sat down.

A pretty young woman with dark brown hair worn in a short bob fixed Joe with a scornful gaze from under her glossy fringe. ‘Jane Makepeace, Commander. I’m a guest of Lord Silmont. From my reading and experience, I judge that you are missing the point by a mile. Calculatedly, I hope. I would not like to discover that the police force we depend on is not trained to pick up the underlying—and disturbing—implications of this event. I can only guess at your motivation—I assume you are wilfully ignoring the potential threat to us all in a public-spirited attempt to calm the rabble.’

‘Jane’s making a study of the science of psychology.’ Orlando leaned to Joe and hissed a warning in his ear under cover of refilling his wineglass. ‘Conserver of ancient artefacts with the British Museum and presently on loan to the lord for the summer. Worth hearing, Joe!’

‘Miss Makepeace, you overestimate my sense of duty,’ Joe replied jovially enough. ‘My motivation in attempting to sweep the shards of this nasty business under the nearest carpet is a purely selfish one. By the morning I shall be gone. By the evening I shall be dining in Antibes. What I do is investigate crime—principally murder. Venting one’s wrath on a stone effigy may not be in the best of taste but it does not constitute a capital offence. Wanton damage at the most. Deplorable. But surely there’s a local gendarmerie who could interest themselves? I really don’t think this affair would ever secure the attention of Commissaire Guillaume of the Brigade Criminelle, were you to approach him …’

Her next comment was delivered with an extra helping of scorn. ‘Commander, you are being a very great disappointment. You really haven’t seen the danger, have you?’

Joe didn’t quite like to see the triumph in her eyes. Too late he recognized that his aversion to Padraic’s plangent delivery had led him into too brisk a reaction. He’d oversteered and would have to correct his course. He sighed and conceded stiffly: ‘You’re referring to the probable repetition and escalation in the violence, of course?’

Jane Makepeace favoured him with an encouraging smile. She had a very nice smile, he was irritated to notice, and he corrected the balance of his approval with the observation that she was one of those over-tall gawky women, all wrists and elbows.

‘It had occurred to me. Very well. I give you my thoughts: I dismiss the notion that we are dealing with the efforts of a disgruntled art critic. In six hundred years, the lady has attracted nothing but praise and admiration, after all. So what exactly has been attacked? Her beauty? Her sex? Her nobility? All of these? Perhaps we’re contemplating a statement by some ugly misogynistic Bolshevik? Anyone here fit the description?’

Stifled laughter greeted this and a shout of ‘Derek! He’s got your number. Confess at once!’

Suddenly serious, Joe added: ‘But we ought to consider that the lifeless image may well have been merely an unresisting substitute for a living, flesh and blood object of hatred. Could such a thing happen again? It’s a valid question. And one we must ask.’

Nods of agreement broke out around the table and, in response to a further challenge from Jane Makepeace, Joe was led to make a further confidence: ‘Yes, I have to say that your assumption is well founded, madam. I could reveal that, in my own studies of real-life criminals to whom I have access, I have noted that the worst, the most cruel, the craziest if you like, murderers have begun their bloody careers in petty and largely unremarked areas. Dolls disembowelled, domestic animals taken and tortured. And then smaller, weaker humans may follow: children or the mentally enfeebled. Family members may be attacked. And in his search for ever more satisfying outlets for his insane anger, the villain casts his net wider. Strangers are caught in it. And it’s at that moment that he comes to our—and the public’s—attention. Too late, you will say. He is already launched.’

Everyone was silent, appreciating Joe’s candour.

‘There! I told you all so!’ crowed Cecily. ‘The Commander agrees with me. There’s a Jack the Ripper in the making prowling the corridors. A Beast! A sadistic killer! A lunatic!’ Cecily had very blue, very large eyes and they were at this moment at their bluest and largest as they swept the table in triumph. They settled on Joe, and Cecily made a further dramatic point: ‘Did you know that the moon was at the full on the night it happened, Commander?’

‘I believe it was, madam,’ said Joe curtly, not wishing to feed her fire.

‘I don’t think Herr Freud would give much weight to the phases of the moon in such a case.’ Jane Makepeace’s response was equally repressive, Joe guessed for the same reason.

‘Huh! Only if the suspect were a woman, I bet,’ chimed in Estelle. ‘Then he’d have plenty to say about monthly madness. Now—have we got to the point where we shall have to go about the place suspecting everyone we rub shoulders with of being a weapon-wielding killer in embryo? Bring me a jug of water, Marcel—and just leave the axe at the door, would you?’ she drawled. ‘Are you happy now you’ve made your point, Jane?’ she finished waspishly.

Joe looked steadily across at Jane Makepeace and raised an eyebrow, underlining the question. She flushed and murmured uncomfortably: ‘No need to get carried away, Estelle. Crowd hysteria is something we should be on our guard against encouraging … In this much, at least, the Commander is quite right and we should listen to him. Though I maintain that ignorance is always a dangerous state. To know is to be able to arm oneself. If one chooses.’

‘But can you tell me, Padraic?’ Joe interrupted in his no-nonsense police voice, picking up the awkwardly expressed plea for calm. ‘As no one will admit to a falling corbel—was there a tool still at the scene? Hammer? Axe? Pick?’

‘No. None. But judging by the damage I saw, I’d say the attack could only have been carried out with a stonemason’s hammer or something of the kind.’ Padraic appeared to welcome his return to the limelight and spoke in the voice of a thoughtful witness.

‘What had been done with the remains?’

‘The sculpture had been smashed into large pieces and then prised away from the rest of the display. Like this …’ He instinctively mimed an action Joe had seen often enough: the swing of a man digging in the trenches, pounding, hacking, levering. ‘Someone had gone to the trouble of hauling the bits off to a corner of the chapel. They’re still sitting there in a pile if you’d like to inspect.’ He shot a questioning glance at Guy de Pacy who nodded soberly and then got to his feet.

Was some careful servant keeping an eye on proceedings through the red baize door which dampened the sounds between the hall and the rear offices? Instantly, a footman appeared with a tray laden with coffee cups and a second followed with a steaming jug.

‘Ah, we have coffee!’ said de Pacy as though surprised.

‘Interesting comments, Sandilands! Very interesting! And I intend to hear more. Right now! Why don’t you help yourself to a cup and come over here where we might be more at ease to continue this conversation? Orlando? May we ask you to join us?’ He spoke in English with the merest French lilt.

The rest of the company helped themselves to coffee and made off to the fringes of the room, moving cushions and rugs here and there to accommodate their gathering groups. Joe would have been intrigued to monitor the placings and affiliations but Guy de Pacy had something more serious in mind for him. Instead of going off to lounge, he set about clearing one end of the table himself before a man had a chance to scurry forward and take the dishes from his hands. Satisfied, he gestured to Joe and Orlando to join him there. In conference, Joe decided.

He embarked directly on the problem. ‘Firstly: Sandilands, on no account are you to feel under any obligation to involve yourself in this mess. I hope I make that clear?’

Joe nodded. So far they were of one mind.

‘I’m aware of your reputation and, being a racing man, I thought “horses for courses”. This is an event for a sturdier breed than you! I insult neither you nor the good Sergeant Lafitte from the village when I say that this is definitely a task for the gendarmerie.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ was Joe’s silent thought.

‘I entertained the theory that it might be young louts from the area sneaking in and having a bit of fun … Their great, great-grandfathers might well have done the same in the unpleasantness of the revolutionary times. I was confident that the Sergeant, once apprised of the situation, would nod wisely and advise me to leave it to him—a name or two came to mind …’

‘You took steps to preserve the scene, of course?’ Joe asked.

‘Naturally. I went to investigate it myself the moment Padraic returned with his news. I took Jane with me. Miss Makepeace is an authority on medieval art—did you realize?—and a conserver. I thought she might well have insights … be in a position to advise on repair or reconstruction. I—we—judged that we were looking at an unnatural and disturbing occurrence.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I’m speaking to a soldier?’

‘From Mons to Buzancy,’ Joe said succinctly. ‘And the four years of hell in between.’

De Pacy nodded. ‘Aviation Militaire. I flew Spads.’ He looked briefly at his motionless right arm. ‘All wood and canvas. They go up like a match. They were lucky to get most of me out.’

The two men regarded each other quietly and, shibboleths exchanged, continued with more easy understanding.

‘Inhuman acts of destruction were done in war, Sandilands. Even in sacred buildings. Things of beauty and worth were destroyed or stolen away. And in the frenzy, the overheated passion, the fear, all is possible. One understands … one does not forgive but one understands. The act of desecration we saw in the chapel would, in the war years, have been regarded as nothing more than some drunken private’s revenge on the female sex … a howl of protest against a God in whom he can no longer believe. But the war is long behind us. No such excuse is available to us. I decided to treat it as a scene of crime because that is exactly the impression it made on me. We touched nothing. I immediately put the chapel out of bounds to everyone—adults as well as the children. They are, at all events, unable to gain access, even should they wish to, since the opening mechanism is a good four feet above the ground and far too heavy for them to operate.’

‘No more than “out of bounds”?’

‘It is never locked. It is the House of God and open to those who need to speak to Him,’ he said solemnly and then smiled. ‘And if there ever was a key it was lost many years ago. So, people are on their honour to do as I ask. Sergeant Lafitte was fetched. He inspected. He wondered. He surmised. He washed his hands of it. To my disappointment, he had no suitable candidate on his list. He gave me the telephone number of the police in Avignon and told me to contact them should worse occur.

‘I wasn’t prepared to wait for worse, Commander. I was left clutching at the theory you yourself propounded just now. I am not willing to risk the safety of any of the guests under this roof. I was eventually put through to—foisted off on to might be more accurate—the Police Judiciaire in Marseille. An inspector listened politely to my problem. His attention was not caught by the “crime” but the name and standing of the owner of the damaged statuary gave him pause for thought. Quand même …’ he shrugged, ‘we have to take our place in the queue for his services. With a gangland war, three murders and two robberies on his books, a beaten-up bit of alabaster has low priority. He informed me he could attend the scene in five days’ time. In other words, he will arrive the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘An hour’s investigation of the crime scene will leave the officer well placed for lunch. He asked me to ensure the area was sealed off and left ready for his inspection.’

Joe was beginning to relax. He liked Guy de Pacy’s brisk delivery. He nodded approval of his arrangements. And, with the élite Police Judiciaire, the respected equivalent of the London CID, in control of proceedings, a visiting English policeman was surplus to requirements. Joe could, with good conscience, bow himself off stage. He concluded he was, in the politest possible way, being excused from further participation.

‘So, I was wondering, Sandilands, if we could persuade you to stay on for a couple of days to meet this policeman? To confer with him? You speak excellent French, Orlando tells me, and have used it in a military and diplomatic role during the war?’ He smiled his genial smile again. ‘A man who has the ability—and tact!—to deal with our French generals can safely be set to deal with a provincial policeman, I’m thinking. I would like you to use your knowledge of the profession to get inside his skull and discover his theories and his strategy for dealing with our problem. If, indeed, he has any. If he hasn’t, I should very much like you to plant some in his head.’

He was silent for a moment before adding quietly: ‘Some of the people gathered here under the castle roof are your friends, I understand, and a good number are your compatriots, Sandilands. This episode—an attack on beauty in a holy place—strikes me as being very un-French and coincides with the presence of a dozen foreigners of artistic temperament. There are undercurrents here I cannot account for in a public place over a cup of coffee to a stranger … But then again … it could well be that a clear-eyed stranger will see something obvious that has not manifested itself to me. It’s a question of focus. I’ll just say, I would be happy and relieved if you would accept to stay on and lend a hand.’

The furrows on the brow deepened, the dark eyes were earnest, conveying more than he had articulated. He waited again, taking the measure of Joe’s silent indecision, then, finally: ‘I’m not a man to run about squawking with panic, Sandilands. I do not easily ask for help. You hear me asking now. Will you stay on?’

‘Of course, Monsieur de Pacy. I’d be delighted,’ Joe heard himself saying.