Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Nine

At the moment the two French policemen were settling their new-found agreement and their delicious fish lunch with a brandy, Joe, in the chapel, was working hard not to throw up his rabbit stew into some available urn.

The tiny body was hanging by the neck. Dead for some days, it was already being consumed by wriggling maggots of various kinds and giving off a revolting odour. Joe took a pencil from his pocket and poked at it. It gave signs of spongy resistance and was not yet dried out. A fly buzzed bad-temperedly from the throat and Joe swatted it away in disgust. Where in hell did they come from, these lousy flesh-eaters? He answered his own question: beetles and flies in the ancient woodwork aplenty no doubt. Some might well have been carried into the building in the animal’s own fur.

And what was the significance? ‘A message’, de Pacy had hinted.

What was one dead creature dangling from a vandalized tomb trying to tell him? What had it said to de Pacy?

Joe was seized for a moment by a healthy rush of indignation and an urge to laugh at his ludicrous situation. His last case in London had involved multiple corpses, eviscerations, and disposal of limbs and heads in packing cases left at St Pancras station. It had involved the talents of the clever men who worked with test tubes, swabs, microscopes and Bunsen burners to establish blood groups and identify fingerprints. He heard himself gleefully recounting his exploits in France to his friend, Chief Inspector Ralph Cottingham, on his return to London: ‘Equipped only with a pencil, I examined the entrails of a rabbit for a clue as to who’d smashed up a statue …’ The story would grow in absurdity as he told it.

He remembered with a flash of guilt the statement he’d been provoked into making after lunch. ‘They start with small animals … work their way up to children and weaker members of society’ or some such guff he’d spouted.

And here was stage one, as predicted.

Or was it? Might it be no more than just—a message? De Pacy had clearly interpreted it as such. Joe couldn’t leave the chapel and meet the steward’s quizzical eye still unaware.

He stared on at the pathetic form willing it to speak. Hanging up in pairs outside a game butcher’s shop, he’d have admired rabbits. He’d have known just which ones to choose. Served up to him in a dish with one of Madame Dalbert’s wonderful sauces, he’d have scoffed the lot and dabbed up the juices with a hunk of bread. And complimented the cook. So why was he finding this one little corpse so sinister?

Sinister. There flashed into his mind a woodcut he’d studied with horror when he was a boy. He’d no idea what his age had been at the time but he had certainly been too young to be exposed to such a graphic image. Not exposed exactly! His own cunning and curiosity had led him to the discovery and he’d never confided it to anyone. Left alone with a head cold while on holiday with his London uncles one day, he’d gone along to the library to entertain himself and had straightaway headed for the section his uncles had banned him from approaching. He knew where the key was and in minutes had unlocked the bookcase and wedged the library door in case Simmons should come and thoughtfully offer him a glass of honey and lemon.

And there they were, to be pored over at his leisure: German, French and Italian publications with copious illustrations of naked ladies. And just the kind he liked. Large-breasted, long-legged beauties, sometimes goddesses, always smiling a welcome. He had imagined himself a Paris, Prince of Troy, in possession of a golden apple and, in order to give his illicit scrutiny a more acceptable motive, decided he was going to be the ultimate judge, making, in a classically acceptable manner, the award to the one who he decided was the most lovely. He unwrapped a disc of Sharpe’s Toffee, popped it into his mouth and smoothed out the shiny gold wrapper. He folded it with his thumbnail into the shape of a crown and decided he’d leave it, as his prize, marking the page of the winner. So far Botticelli’s Roman goddess Flora was in the lead. She had all her clothes on but he liked her naughty face. She looked straight out at him from the book, golden and lovely and about to tell him a joke or throw him a flower. But, strangely, he could never remember who had received the Sandilands Prize for Pulchritude.

It had been a drawing of the most revolting woman he had ever set eyes on that had stayed with him over the years. Lucky it didn’t ruin him for life, he sometimes thought.

The book had been an Italian publication. Heavy red leather and gold lettering. The pages had a rich waxy feel to them as he turned them slowly. Italian beauties of the thirteenth century onwards had delighted him one after the other, until he came upon her. ‘Luxuria’ was her name. A drawing by Pisanello from the fifteenth century. She had everything that ought to have been alluring: youth, a smile, a distant expression of satisfied pleasure, an abundance of golden hair that waved its way like a cloak right down to her bottom. Her only jewellery was a chain about her left ankle. But she was skinny. Her flesh was wasted and her elbow bones poked through the skin. Her knee caps were prominent as was a bone on her right buttock. Joe had turned the book this way and that, using all his scant knowledge of female anatomy to decide huffily that the artist had never seen a naked woman before. Surely? Women didn’t have bones in that place. And the breasts? A pair of small Scottish baps too widely spaced. The belly was all wrong too. Distended. The poor lady clearly had some kind of disease. He’d seen sheep out on the hill with the same symptoms.

Before turning on in disgust his eye had been caught by the animal crouching at Luxuria’s right foot.

The painter reinstated himself somewhat in Joe’s estimation by the quality of his portrayal of the rabbit. Joe knew about rabbits. He’d shot, skinned and jointed many a one ready for the pot and appreciated them in all their forms. So what was this witch-like hag doing alongside a perfectly drawn rabbit? Curiosity always won through with Joe and, sighing, he went to fetch an Italian dictionary to decipher the script that accompanied the strange picture. Half an hour later he had it.

The lady Luxuria was in fact Lust. One of the Vices. She was shown reclining in the manner of Venus but this was a parody. (A trip to the English dictionary eventually cleared up this notion.) So—a ‘no better than she ought to be’ lady. The commentator obligingly explained that her skeletal state was due to an overindulgence in the pleasures of the flesh. Joe decided to remain mystified by this. He was more intrigued to learn that the rabbit was known to be a ‘harlot’s familiar’. On account of its ‘mating proclivities’. Joe took a guess at that one. Well, he understood that in fairy stories cats were the familiars of witches so the rabbit must play the same role for harlot women.

Poor creature. Round, sleek and furry, it would have made a beautiful pet. Unfair to give it to a bony frightening woman like the one in the picture. He decided suddenly that he was feeling hot and thirsty. A drink of honey and lemon would be very welcome. He’d replaced everything in order, locked up, removed the wedge, placed The Swiss Family Robinson open on the library table and rung for Simmons.

Joe peered more closely at the dead animal. How dead? No sign of blood on the corpse or surrounding area. The man who’d brought it here had not, evidently, wanted to leave a messy trail to mark his passage. There was no sign that it had been killed on the spot. Broken neck? Most likely. Killed elsewhere and brought in, then strung up. He wondered whether there was any significance in the positioning of the string. Of course there was. The creature had been put to dangle over the words et Alienora uxor sua. The rabbit, the familiar of the whore. A comment on a woman so long dead? Why?

At least he’d have views to exchange with de Pacy when he returned. Even though what he had to say was largely unintelligible.

Joe looked up, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that emotions could leave an imprint on a scene beyond the dispersal time of sweat and other bodily fluids. He wasn’t quite certain, in spite of all the evidence he’d gathered to the contrary, that Evil with a capital E existed. But he knew that if anyone had asked him at that moment to give an opinion he’d have said: ‘This is a bloody oppressive place. Not good. There’s something ancient and wicked here that the sanctity of centuries has done nothing to dispel. And it’s chasing me out.’

The hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He stood up sharply, right hand going instinctively to the waistband where he usually carried his service revolver. Everywhere hidey-holes met his eye. Flounces of velvet drapery, carved wood ornament, pews and cupboards, even a confessional with a half-curtain pulled across. Places enough to hide a battalion. And then he saw the innocent cause of his concern. Innocent? Perhaps not entirely!

He exchanged glares with a trident-wielding devil that seemed to be taking an interest in him. Carved in dark wood and dulled by the candle-soot of ages, he was still clearly playing a robust part in a representation of the final judgement on the west wall. And keeping the visitor under surveillance. Joe gave him a cynical salute and left the chapel.

Chapter Ten

Château du Diable, Tuesday

The morning began too early for Joe.

He lay still for a few moments collecting his thoughts and wondering where on earth he was. The lingering taste in his mouth of Havana cigars and the certainty that he’d drunk rather too much of ‘the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim’, the night before brought back the memory.

Keats! He blamed the poet Keats for his condition. Now there was a minstrel who could stir up emotions and loosen inhibitions in a few superbly chosen words.

Joe considered Orlando Joliffe jointly charged. Just as the earthernware jugs of wine had been brought in at dinner, Orlando had risen to his feet, made a toast and given the company a verse of ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. It ought to have been embarrassing. There should have been shuffling of feet and surreptitious glances exchanged. But the combination of Keats’ sublime words and Orlando’s confident light baritone swept all before them:

‘O for a draught of vintage that hath been

Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!’

Wine poured from a jug with a generous hand into clay beakers of antique design couldn’t possibly do much damage. This morning Joe discovered his mistake. It had been a pure incitement to drunkenness!

Clattering feet, banging doors and rattling water cisterns were followed a moment later by a peremptory tap on his door. The dashing figure of Nathan Jacoby entered at once, bearing a disarming grin and a cup of tea. Earl Grey by the scent.

‘I come in peace!’ he announced. ‘Seven o’clock! Rise and shine! Orlando said this would be guaranteed to get your motor started. Urgh! Can you really drink this? I’ll put it on the night stand. There’s coffee brewing downstairs if you’re interested. Fresh bread’s come up from the village. All available in the refectory.’

He made his way over to the small high window and flung the shutters open, blinding Joe with daylight and a stream of fresh morning air. ‘Come and take a look at this!’

Joe shrugged into his dressing gown and wandered over. He breathed in gratefully, enjoying the sound of a late cockerel crowing away in the distance and the sight of the hills rolling in a myriad of green interlocking spurs towards the horizon. ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair …’ he commented and found that he meant it.

‘Look, I’m going out with my camera today with young Frederick, one of the painters—the fresco bloke. We’ve hired a car. Plenty of space for you if you’d care to come along.’

‘Ah, yes. I introduced myself. I went to watch him at work after lunch yesterday. Good-looking young bloke from London … preparing to express himself on several square metres of damp plaster. Intimidating! At which end do you start?’

‘A dying art, he tells me. There’s only a handful of artists in Europe who know how to do it. I can paint a bit,’ Nathan admitted, ‘… the only reason some of the company are prepared to put up with me … but I’d never have the dash and sheer courage to embark on something like that. He’s twisted my arm to take him out to the Val des Fées. Silly name for a spectacular sight. Outcrops of ochre—iron-stained rock and soil … colours ranging from creamy white to darkest blood red. Rather eerie and hellish to my mind … But it seems to have a fascination for young Fred. Back home we’d call it Death Creek or Bushwacker’s Gulch or something like that. Here it’s called the Valley of the Fairies! The village houses are mostly painted with the ochre they extract and—you might guess—painters go wild for the colours. The Mont Sainte Victoire at sunset—well, you just have to express it in the local pigments, don’t you? Young Fred had the idea to chip bits off the rocks himself, pound and grind and prepare his own paints. Mmm … He ends up buying them ready prepared by Messrs Mathieu in the village droguerie like everyone else!’

‘And uses them to wonderful effect! He showed me his sketchbook. I saw some terrific ideas for the finished painting. Expressing scenes from local history in colours straight out of the ground—it has a certain appeal. Though I can’t immediately see what financial allure it might have for the lord? Fixed to the wall as it is—it must remain quite unsellable.’

‘Even the lord makes his personal choices. There are several items I know of that’ll never see the light of day outside this château. We’re never given the tour of his own private collection but it’s rumoured that he has one. Must be worth a fortune—he’s been collecting for years. Look—why don’t you come with us to the ochre valley? We’re starting out straight after breakfast.’

Joe cheerfully told him he could resist the fairy charms for the moment. Duty called him to stay at home and get to know some of the other inhabitants.

‘Thought you’d say that. But I also came to say—remember I have a camera. One or two in fact. For different uses. Not just for pleasure and art. And one of their uses is recording evidence, you know. The Ermanox will be perfect for the job. I was wondering if I might sneak into the chapel under a corner of your blanket permission to rove about. How about it? Shall we make a foray together into the forbidden chapel and take some shots of the depredations? If you think it’s worth it? Word is that you went in there yesterday …’

‘I was wondering how to ask!’ said Joe. ‘I found nothing very sinister, I’m afraid, but a record would be a useful thing to have.’

‘That’s great! Look—the light will have gone by the time I get back from the fairy realms … morning light is much better and that place has sensational east windows. How about an early start tomorrow morning, Wednesday, before the Inspector gets himself up here from Marseille? Present him with a fait accompli?’

‘And yourself with an unusual photographic opportunity?’

Nat grinned. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

‘You’re on!’ said Joe. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Left alone, he stood at the window sipping his tea and reviewing his day.

‘The lord sees that their everyday needs are catered for,’ Estelle had told him.

Well, this was certainly to all appearances a happy colony of worker bees, Joe had to think. He’d made full use yesterday of his leave to snoop about the castle and, after his visit to the chapel, had reconnoitred unchallenged, to his heart’s content. He’d leant over shoulders and admired half-finished works; he’d watched a lady sculptor pounding and chipping—‘No! No! The shape’s in there … I just have to reveal it …’; he’d helped Frederick Ashwell to mix and apply a coat of plaster to a wall ready to receive the fresco the lord had commissioned. He’d been impressed by the boy’s professionalism and had listened enthralled as he explained his techniques. Speed and forethought, apparently, were the watchwords. Knowing exactly what you were doing. Impossible to have second thoughts. The preliminary designs complete, the final painting had to be done at the moment the plaster reached the perfection of dampness.

He’d decided on a tactful approach for today. He would wait until the guests were once again at lunch before he’d go, list in hand, to check on the sleeping quarters of each person Guy de Pacy had named. The only names that did not appear were those of the steward himself and his lordship. Orlando had indicated vaguely that the two men occupied rooms in two of the corner towers.

The single men seemed content with their dormitory arrangements, bunking down on camp beds set out, suitably enough, in the old guardroom. A similar area had been allocated to the women on the floor above. Scattered on both floors were small, cell-like spaces put to the use of married couples of whom there were two and, of the others, one had been awarded to Joe and another to the Russian gentleman. Joe had protested his readiness to muck in with the other men but de Pacy had insisted he avail himself of a measure of privacy—‘in case you need to interview someone—or I need to speak to you.’

His things had already been brought up and unpacked while he was at lunch on the first day so he’d conceded with good grace and settled to enjoy his solitary state.

Why in blazes was he staying on? He asked himself the question constantly and the same answers came back ever more strongly. Two answers.

There had been the surprise of discovering that one of the faces around the lunch table had been familiar to him from photographs and newspaper articles he’d seen some years ago in his early days at the Yard: Earl’s Daughter lets her hair down at the Savoy with Dancing Dreamboat … Every playgirl’s favourite partner cuts a rug at Ciro’s … That sort of nonsense, he remembered. But Joe’s professional antennae had quivered at the sight of this guest who he was reasonably sure had a darker side to him than the limelit, cocktail-fired image the press displayed. He was known to the Vice Squad back home in London. But Joe’s hands were tied. There was no way he could make an accusation or even a discreet enquiry based on a piece of sketchily recalled Scotland Yard gossip.

And yet the man’s reported proclivities were too objectionable for Joe to ignore in the circumstances. He had to ask himself whether it would be sensible at least to alert Orlando, and decided that it was more than sensible—it was essential.

And then—the most surprising part of his day—there’d been Estelle’s strange behaviour.

The drinking and the yarning and the laughter had gone on until past midnight, he remembered, and the women had defiantly stayed on at the table. When the moment arrived, he’d looked questioningly at de Pacy and wondered which of the women would take it upon herself to rise and suggest that the ladies might like to withdraw. De Pacy had grinned and, in a marked manner, had launched into a conversation with Jane Makepeace, inviting her opinion on the mental state of Vincent Van Gogh at the moment he severed his own ear. Instead of the heavy psychological diatribe Joe had feared, her crisp answer had raised a shout of laughter around the table.

‘Formidable woman,’ he’d commented to Estelle.

‘You don’t say!’ she’d drawled. ‘Forget it, Joe! You’d need steel-lined underpants to tangle with that one! She wouldn’t be interested in you.’

Estelle had offered to walk him back up to his room after dinner and taken his arm firmly in hers. And the flourish had not gone unremarked by the crowd remaining in the hall. She was wearing a fetching midnight blue gown in a silky fabric cut on the bias. The gown clung flatteringly to her slim figure and her slim figure clung flatteringly to him. Her hair brushing his shoulder smelled heavenly—Après l’Ondée, he thought, or something equally special. She’d been scintillating and funny over dinner; a girl with further plans for her evening, he’d have said. But whom did her plans involve? She’d flirted openly with several of the men. And yet it was on Joe that her choice had fallen when she left.

Intrigued, excited but slightly alarmed, Joe began to try to estimate the quantity of wine he’d downed at dinner and could only conclude: too much. Should he say something … issue a caution? Or hope for the best? They’d arrived at his stout oak door and he’d turned to her apologetically. ‘I say, Estelle—’ was as far as he got before she put a finger over his lips.

‘Shush!’ She’d made a pantomime of listening. Cheery sounds of the women settling down for the night came from their dormitory; a drunken chorus from Iolanthe rose up from the floor below and was quickly extinguished by yells of protest and possibly the application of a pillow. A child called out in its dreams and instantly fell silent.

Reassured by what she was hearing, Estelle whispered: ‘Got a torch, Joe?’

He took one from his pocket. ‘A torch? Never walk castle corridors without one. Er … what do you have in mind? If you’ve found the bloodstained key to Bluebeard’s lair, we’ll have to come back in the daylight. Not at my sharpest at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘Can you at least stagger along to the end of this corridor? That’s all you have to do.’ She’d squeezed his arm reassuringly.

She led him along to the end of the corridor, eased open a window and let herself through on to a flat square of roof contrived between two dormers. Joe followed to find himself on a lookout platform with a low balustrade to ward off vertigo. From up here there was a clear view over the courtyard closed off at one end by the bulk of the chapel.

The cigarette butts underfoot explained the girl’s interest in this private little space, he guessed. He shone his torch on to the roof tiles below, lighting up several packets’ worth of mostly half-smoked ends. And a scattering of something else.

When Estelle turned to close the window behind them, he bent quickly and gathered up two pieces of screwed-up paper and slipped them into his pocket. Unwanted love-notes? He didn’t think so. He managed in his torchlight to catch a glimpse of the name Houbigant printed on one of the flimsy pink sheets. Face powder papers? Discarded out here amongst the cigarette ends? An outlandish and unwelcome thought delayed for a moment his automatic offer of help with the window.

‘Sometimes, when I’ve drunk too much or if Cecily’s snoring, I can’t sleep. Especially these hot nights. So I come out here, sit on the window sill and smoke. The others can’t stand the smell of tobacco and I’m banned from doing it in the dorm. It’s rather like being back at school! I was out here the night of the full moon. It was quite magical. The moon was over there.’ She pointed behind her. ‘A huge harvest moon shining down on the courtyard. It was almost as bright as day but of course the shadows were deeper. But then it all got a bit strange. I heard some dull thuds coming from the chapel and I stood up to have a look. There were no lights on so I sat down again. I thought it must be rocks settling, woodwork contracting after the day’s heat … you know what old buildings are like. I’ve lived in some pretty decrepit places and nothing surprises me! About half an hour later I saw him.’

‘Him?’

Estelle began to tremble and instinctively Joe threw a comforting arm around her shoulders and tucked her shawl more closely about her. The girl felt small-boned and about as substantial as gossamer in his arms but her voice when she replied was throaty and determinedly bold.

‘Him? It? A ghost. At least that’s what I thought I saw. Yes, really! That was my first thought.’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘Dark grey. Solid shape. It could have been male or female. I saw it very clearly. It was wearing a long hooded robe, just as you might expect, and moving along soundlessly. Coming from the chapel towards me. Like this … Head down, hands together in front …’ She demonstrated. ‘Not skulking or trying to hide. Floating along as though it did this every night. Perhaps it does …’

‘Were you able to make out a face?’

Again Estelle quivered. ‘It was hidden by the hood as it came towards me but, without breaking stride, it suddenly looked up in my direction. This is the sickening bit, Joe. It had no face. Where you’d expect to see features there was nothing but a white space. It was a faceless monk.’

‘It looked up at you? Are you quite certain about that?’

‘Yes. Almost as though I’d called out to him. I hadn’t. I made no noise at all. I didn’t move and he couldn’t have seen me in the shadows. He had no eyes, in any case.’

‘Listen, Estelle. I have to ask—could this … um … sighting have been a nightmare? Or a hallucination with a physical cause? Alcohol? Other stimulating and vision-inducing substances?’

He could hardly speak more plainly.

She answered in kind. ‘Ah. Yes. Know what you mean! Was I squiffy? Sensible question and I’ll tell you straight up—no! I couldn’t have been more clear-headed,’ she finished convincingly and then ruined her impression of unquestionable sobriety by adding: ‘On that occasion.’

‘And, having had time to mull it over, are you still thinking it was a ghost you saw?’

‘Lord, no! I’m thinking it was something much more sinister. Something human was coming back indoors. He was one of us. And he felt it necessary to hide his identity. Has he put the cloak away in his wardrobe to use again later? Was he sitting there at the lunch table listening to Padraic’s account of his exploits?’

‘I’m wondering why you didn’t speak publicly of this earlier?’ Joe asked quietly, sure that he knew the answer.

‘And be labelled some sort of crackpot? Spread panic? You saw for yourself how eager they all are to invent a bogeyman! There are children here, Joe. They’re having the time of their lives, roaming about the place completely unafraid. I’m not going to be the one to take away their confidence, to give them nightmares. These innocent years pass too quickly. Mine came to a sudden end when I was seven.’

She dashed on, not wanting to hear a comment from him: ‘And I’ve learned when it’s best to keep quiet. I wanted you to talk to me first—before you heard my strange experience. To get to know me a little. I’m not a fanciful storyteller. I wanted to see you ankle-deep in my cigarette ends on the spot where I saw what I saw, so that you’d understand that I wasn’t inventing anything.’

Joe peered over the edge, taking a measure of the distances involved. He glanced up at the pennant flying from the watchtower. Bending, he picked up a cigarette end, rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed. ‘Untipped, heavy-duty stuff! French tobacco, if I’m not mistaken? Estelle—tell me—what sort of cigarettes are these?’

‘Well, you’re right. They’re Gauloises. I like the strong taste. I started to smoke them because only men seemed to—defiance, you know. I like breaking down barriers. Shocking the prudes. And then I got to like them. Anything else seems insipid now.’

‘And were you actually smoking a cigarette at the time? At the time of the sighting, I mean.’

Estelle had frowned in concentration. ‘No. I’d just put one out. He couldn’t have glimpsed a light. But I see why you’re asking. Strong scent, too.’ She gulped and turned large eyes on Joe. ‘He’s sniffed me out, our effigy smasher, hasn’t he? He knows who I am. He knows I was watching him.’

All Joe could do was apologize for the obvious nature of his advice. She’d listened, amused, as he’d earnestly advised her not to be alone … to seek out the company of those she could trust.

‘Exactly what I have in mind,’ she’d said mysteriously. ‘No! Thank you, Joe—you’re a sweetheart!—but I really don’t need an escort to cross the corridor!’ She’d waved a hand towards the ladies’ dormitory, whispered goodnight, kissed him on the cheek and left him at his own door, his head still reeling from the enticement of her perfume. A lure which had not been thrown on the water to catch him, he acknowledged.

He stood just inside his doorway listening to her scurrying feet which took her straight past the dormitory and on to the end of the corridor. From the click-clack of her heels, he guessed that she didn’t much care if he heard, so eager was she to move on to her next assignation. He couldn’t make out whether she’d gone up or down the staircase—nor decide whether he was relieved or disappointed.

In the end he had to admit that he was concerned. Not fearful. But definitely concerned. And his concern centred on the women and children. In a few quiet moments with Dorcas, he’d made clear his preference that she sleep in the small dorm with the little ones, just a door away from the single women’s quarters. And across the corridor from his own cell. She’d listened quietly and told him that she understood. He thought it very likely that she understood quite as much as he did himself.

At least Dorcas seemed content and busy. Since her status had been publicly acknowledged on the first day, she’d thrown herself into doing exactly what she had made a play of despising and the children followed her everywhere, delighted to have a gang-leader. She’d tapped on his door last evening just after eight as he was dressing for dinner and reported all well with the junior squad. They’d had early supper and Estelle had been informed that all were present, correct, clean and in pyjamas. The cook’s children were spending the night here in the château instead of going back home to the village. When their mother stayed on, they generally stayed too, so including herself, the total was seven. And could she borrow his copy of Kim? There didn’t seem to be much in the way of reading material about the place. Joe had reminded her that Orlando would be bound to know where the books were kept.