Текст книги "Strange Images of Death"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

Joe listened on, hoping he’d misunderstood.

‘It should be Estelle on duty tonight but nobody’s seen her since teatime so I thought I’d better get on and do the rounding-up myself. I’ve counted six. There’s me, Peter, Dicky, Rosie, Clothilde, René …’ she recited, in her concern using her fingers to demonstrate. ‘We’re all here. It’s the littlest boy who isn’t. Le petit Marius. The cook’s youngest. I sent everybody out again to hunt for him … they’ve not done their teeth yet … to look in all the usual places. Nothing. We’ve yelled his name all about the castle. We’ve looked in every oven and every cupboard he likes to hide in. He’s just disappeared. I don’t know what to do. And it’ll be getting dark soon.’

‘I’m sure it’s all right, Dorcas. Look—if you like, I’ll come in and have a word with the others. Perhaps they’re playing a joke on you? Had you thought of that?’

‘Of course. First thing I thought of! And I’ve told them what I’ll do to them if they are. They aren’t having me on. Besides, René, his older brother, is crying. He thinks he’ll be blamed and he’s upset. I can’t make any sense of what he’s saying.’

Joe went into the dormitory to find a huddle of murmuring children gathered together on one bed for consolation. Trying to keep his voice brisk and reassuring, he began to question them. Peter answered first as the oldest boy and confirmed that the last sighting of le petit Marius, who didn’t know how old he was, had been just after tea, before they’d started play again. Awkwardly Peter told Joe he might like at this point to question René.

Joe took the hint and turned to René. He knelt down and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me if he was sad or happy, your little brother, when you last spoke to him.’

‘Sir, he was sad,’ whispered René.

‘Why—sad?’

‘We’d had an argument. I’d just told him that he couldn’t play with us in the game we were planning for after tea. He’s too little for some things—’

‘Don’t be angry with René,’ Dorcas interrupted. ‘Marius can be a pain in the bum. He thinks he can do everything the others do but sometimes he just can’t. And he always shouts the same thing: “I’m Marius! I’m a soldier!” I blame his mother for calling him after a Roman infantryman. Gives him ideas beyond his size.’

Joe smiled. ‘What was the last thing he said to you, René? Can you remember?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated then asked: ‘You want me to say the exact words? They were rather rude. Well, he said, “Damn you, crétin! I don’t want to play your stupid game anyway. I’m going down to Granny’s!”’

Joe breathed deeply, the relief washing through him. ‘Did that surprise you?’

‘Well, no. He’s done it before, stomping off in a rage. And telling tales. Granny always …’ René’s lips began to quiver and tears began to drip down his nose. Joe silently handed him a handkerchief and patted his head. ‘Granny always takes his side. She always believes him and I get a smack for not looking after him properly. If he’s gone home I’ll be in trouble again after last time. He knows that. He wouldn’t have landed me in it again, would he? He’s a pest but he’s not really bad. He’s my brother … I was sure he’d be about the place just hiding to … to …’

‘To pay you back? To make you feel guilty.’

René nodded.

‘Look, all of you. Calm down. I’m sure this is going to be all right. I want to see you with clean teeth when Dorcas and I get back up here. We’re just going down to the kitchen to have a word with René’s mother and see what she has to say. I think it’s most probable that young Marius is, even as we speak, being tucked in and spoiled rotten by his grandma. But I like to be certain.’

‘It’s dinner time, sir,’ René pointed out, his face creasing with anxiety. ‘Maman doesn’t let anyone into the kitchen at dinner time and guests never at all. She’ll be cross!’

‘Don’t worry! She’ll let me in. I shall know exactly what to say to her. And I tell no tales!’

Reassured by his calm and friendly voice, the children began to nod and smile and hunt about for their sponge bags. Normality returned.

‘Sorry I bothered you, Joe,’ said Dorcas as they made their way downstairs. ‘There are things I don’t understand yet about this set-up. I should have pressed him a bit harder and got the truth out of him. Do we have to disturb Madame Dalbert? She’s a bit of a dragon, according to René.’

‘And the steward! And me!’ said Joe lightly. ‘But come and take a look.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Dorcas reluctantly. ‘But—tell you what—let’s not make an entrance through the great hall. There’s a side door into the kitchen that they use for supplies. It leads in from the courtyard. The boys use it when they want to see their mother.’

Amongst dashing servers and hurrying kitchen hands they had difficulty in picking out the small figure of Madame Dalbert. Dorcas crept in behind on Joe’s heels, apparently wishing herself a million miles away from this bustling scene. The cook stood rigidly watching him approach, confounded by his presence in this place at this time.

Joe plunged straight in: ‘Madame, my apologies. I’m here to ask if you know where your son is at this moment.’ He reached behind and pulled Dorcas forward. ‘This here’s Monsieur Joliffe’s daughter and she’s just turned the castle upside down searching for him. Unsuccessfully. He’s disappeared. We can’t find him.’

Joe was alarmed to see Madame Dalbert turn pale and sink down on to a stool, clutching her bosom. He hurried to counter the effect of his bald statement: ‘I speak of the little one—Marius. There is some evidence that he got tired of the games and was heard to say he was going off home to stay with his grandmother. Is this likely, do you think?’

The cook found her voice again. ‘Oh, thank God for that! Ouf! You gave me quite a turn! Yes, of course it’s likely. Marius! He’s done it before. He knows the way home blindfold. Everyone in the village knows him. He’s always wandering about. He’ll be all right. Now—if you’d said René had gone off, I’d really have been worried!’ She got to her feet again and resumed her imperious stance. Back in control. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m sure it’s not necessary. Marius slipped in here to see me at about four o’clock. He was a bit grumpy. They quarrel a lot, the boys. I listened to him and gave him some bread and chocolate and a glass of milk and he cheered up. I told him he could go and see his granny if he wanted to. It’s hard for him being the youngest and sometimes it’s best for him to have some time to himself. No harm done. But thank you, sir … miss … for thinking of warning me. And miss—’ she turned now towards Dorcas with a look that was very nearly tender, ‘thank you especially for paying attention to them. Little Marius talks about you all the time since you got here.’

She wiped a hand on her pinny and tentatively held it out to Dorcas.

In one of the uninhibited rushes of emotion Joe had come to recognize and dread in Dorcas, the girl ignored the extended hand, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the dusty little figure. They hugged each other in relief for a moment.

He walked back to the dormitory and distributed the illicit sweets he’d scooped up in the pantry as they passed through. ‘All’s well, chaps!’ he announced. ‘Marius’s mother was aware of the situation. Marius has indeed gone to ground at Gran’s. I’m giving my torch to Dorcas so if there’s any problem in the night, you’ll be able to shed some light on it. And I’m just across the corridor. See you all in the morning! Night night! Oh, just one word, Dorcas, if you wouldn’t mind …’

She responded to his raised eyebrows correctly and came to join him in the corridor.

‘Estelle,’ he whispered. ‘I’m very concerned for her. Would you mind awfully going into the women’s dorm and asking if she’s back yet? If not, see if you can find out where they think she might be.’ Dorcas groaned. ‘Yes, I would mind. Awfully. I’m not going in there! They’re all dressing for dinner—I’d be in the way. You’ve seen what they’re like. And they’re on their best behaviour when you’re around. They’ll rag me! Do I have to? … Oh, all right then … but if I have to kill one of those Russian girls it’ll be all your fault.’

She went in, leaving the door open, and Joe skulked in some discomfort outside by the jamb. Judging by the noise, they were all still in there, quarrelling about stolen stockings and yelling at each other to be quiet in several languages. Dorcas ignored the cat calls and suggestions that she go straight back into the crèche and, cleverly, Joe thought, directed her question to the sensible Jane Makepeace.

‘Miss Makepeace, can you help me?’ he heard Dorcas say.

‘Not really a good time, darling. I’m a bit behind … Look, pass me that stocking from the radiator, will you?

‘I’m looking for Estelle. She’s disappeared,’ Dorcas persisted.

And Jane replied, ‘Well, this here’s her bed next to mine and, you see, she’s not in it or on it or in the vicinity of it. Can’t say I’ve seen her lately. Sorry, I’m not much help.’

‘No, you aren’t, are you?’ Cecily’s voice. ‘Dorcas has been moved up to the top table now—I think we should give her credit for a little grown-up understanding, don’t you? Listen, my dear—the truth is, Estelle doesn’t often sleep in her own bed. She wasn’t here last night either. She’s most probably spent the afternoon with one of the chaps and she’ll spend the night with him. If he has a room of his own. If he hasn’t they’ll find one somewhere without too much trouble. You could try her boyfriend Nathan—he’s got a room to himself in the north tower where he messes about with his chemistry set.’

A lazy Russian voice drawled: ‘Or, failing that, my darling, you could always ask your father.’

The response was a blend of titters and shocked protests.

‘You’d do better,’ Cecily went on, ‘to check your uncle—if that’s what he is. Oh, come on now! We all saw it! She was knocked sideways the moment he came in. Alley cat! She was on the prowl before he’d sat down to lunch! And I noticed—we all did—that she left the dining room on his arm last night. Wearing that little blue Worth number. She doesn’t put that on for cocoa in the dorm with us! And none of the men have the sense to resist her. No, that’s what I’d do—nip across the corridor and see what the Law’s got in its long arms.’

‘Cecily, you have a mind like a sewer!’ Jane Makepeace again. ‘Remind me to pass you the name of a good alienist in London. I really think you need the psychiatric equivalent of a flue-brush passed between your ears … or a good dose of liver salts. Why are you always so beastly to the girl? She means well.’

‘I can’t stand to breathe the same air as that tart!’ Cecily’s voice was vicious and uncontrolled. ‘She’s unhealthy! Goodness knows what we might catch from her!’

The room went silent, signalling that she’d gone too far.

The silence was broken by Dorcas. Stiff but polite, she spoke to the room: ‘A child is missing. Commander Sandilands is in the kitchens at this moment interviewing the cook about the disappearance of her son. But thank you all for your help and advice. You’ve told me more than you know.’

‘The cook’s son? Well, why didn’t you say?’ Jane Makepeace exclaimed. ‘I can tell you where they both were … oh, between tea and the children’s supper time, if that’s any use?’

‘Please, I’d very much like to hear.’

‘I’d gone down to take a look at Frederick dashing away at his fresco outside in the gallery. I heard Estelle call out and looked up. She was over by the gateway and she’d clearly just caught one of the children—the smallest one—by the hand. Rounding them up for their evening meal, I thought. In so far as I gave it any thought. It was just the usual routine. So it must have been just before six. You only have scurrilous things to say about Estelle, Cecily, but she does more than her bit with those little ones. Do any of us even know their names? I don’t. So I can’t name the boy she was with. Clogs. Green shirt. She was bending over, talking to him. Sensible girl, I thought. Checking up. If I had to speculate, I’d say the child was going home to the village. They do sometimes. Or perhaps he’d been sent home. Had he been naughty?’

‘Did you see Estelle going out over the drawbridge?’

‘No. But I expect she did. Well, where else would she go? When I looked up again, they’d disappeared. Good girl, I thought—she’s gone down to the village with him. She was wearing that short red dress she had on at breakfast time and I don’t see it hanging up. Oh, come to think of it—there was something strange about her … she was carrying that little brown attaché case of hers. No room in that for more than a change of knickers and a toothbrush so she wasn’t going away for good. So, she’s probably stayed on down there in town. There are places to stay, I think. They say the inn’s pretty good.’

‘Ah! Some village Romeo in the offing, do you suppose?’ ventured someone.

‘Just getting away from the rest of us for a bit,’ suggested Jane. ‘It’s rather like being back at school living here. We all want to break out occasionally. Estelle is the one of us who has the courage to do it. I should take yourself off watch, Dorcas dear, and go to bed. Look—if she turns up again at dinner, I’ll tell her to pop her head round the door and say goodnight, shall I?’

Murmuring her thanks, Dorcas excused herself and came out. She closed the door gently and Joe supported her slight form, quivering with rage, back into the safety of the children’s dormitory.

Joe snapped awake in the dark hours, alert and listening. He went to his window and set about opening the shutters, surprised by the sudden force of the wind that almost snatched the iron locking bar from his hand. He stuck his head out and listened for a moment to the Mistral booming down the valley. With this northerly wind scouring the buildings, ancient woodwork would be creaking, unearthly howls would sound down narrow chimneys. He found the words of a prayer he’d not spoken since childhood were on his lips:

In deepest dark no fear I show

For Thou, O Lord, art here below.

I feel as safe as in the light,

Thy hand in mine throughout the night.

He crept silently into the corridor and went to stand by the door of the children’s room, listening. Reassured by the silence, he went back to his bed, imagining Orlando’s scathing comments if he’d been caught out in this show of sentimental vigilance.

Chapter Fifteen

Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. The wind had abated as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving a cool, combed and invigorated countryside behind it.

An equally cool, combed and invigorated Commissaire Jacquemin called for his coffee pot to be refilled and detained with a gesture the landlord of the Hôtel de la Poste who was personally waiting on his distinguished guest. ‘Ferro—tell the Lieutenant over there …’ He nodded at the young man breakfasting by himself at the far end of the room, ‘… to join me at my table, would you? And bring another cup.’

The officer and the additional crockery arrived at Jacquemin’s table at the same time. ‘Ah! Coffee, Martineau? Sleep well? Good, good. Of course, being a native, you must be used to this confounded wind. Now tell me—the motor car—did you manage to get to the bottom of the problem with the … transmission, I think you said? We weren’t handed the cream of the collection for our little jaunt, I think? I want to arrive at the château snorting impressively not jangling like a bag of nails.’

‘Yes. All in order, sir,’ said the young man crisply. His broad brow, intense eyes and tight mouth gave the impression that here was a man incapable of saying or thinking anything but ‘yes’. ‘Snorting like a bull! There’s a mechanic right here in the village who seems to know his business. He sorted it out in no time. All’s ready for our assault on the Devil’s Château.’ He grinned dismissively.

‘Ah, yes! This name … I don’t like to walk unprepared into strange scenes even of the comic opera type I suspect we’re about to experience. A little local guidance is called for, I think.’ He summoned the landlord again and invited him to seat himself. ‘Monsieur Ferro, you know where we’re headed this morning. Tell me—how did the Château de Silmont of venerable name ever acquire the sobriquet of du Diable?’

Monsieur Ferro was delighted to be of assistance. ‘Because devilish things have happened there over the centuries. Oh, the usual murder and rapine, but this castle has always been associated with a particular kind of—I think you have to say, inhuman—evil. The kind that can only come from the Devil.’

‘Monsieur Ferro will be able to point out to you the hill-top lair of the Marquis de Sade of evil repute, not many miles from here, sir,’ the Lieutenant added helpfully. ‘There are many such châteaux dotted about in the villages and each has a reputation worse than the last.’

‘Ah, yes, but the Marquis de Sade was of flesh and blood. It’s at Silmont that the supernatural makes its appearance most strongly through history,’ insisted the landlord, realizing he was talking to a man of Provence. ‘It started with the Devil’s Bride. You must know that story?’

Jacquemin, mildly entertained, exchanged looks with Martineau and poured out more coffee. ‘Do tell. The story hasn’t reached Paris yet.’

It was only slightly encouraging but it was all the invitation Ferro needed.

‘This happened long ago, in the days of the Counts of Provence, when Paris was a backwater and France just a neighbouring kingdom,’ he said with pride. ‘The young heir to Silmont was to be wed. To the lovely daughter of a rich marquis from a nearby estate. The château was en fête for the wedding celebrations. It must have looked like the setting for a fairy tale—guests had come from miles around, days of feasting were planned, there were acrobats and musicians by the score. The young bride—who came with a large dowry—was very taken with her new husband. She must have considered her father’s outlay—some ten thousand crowns, it was said—well spent! The groom was somewhat older than she, in the custom of the times, but handsome and powerful and would inherit one day a splendid castle and lands. Ah! How were they to know …’ He left a dramatic pause, rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘… know that the lord had a rival—a rival more powerful than himself? The girl already had a secret admirer. The Devil! None other!’ Monsieur Ferro made the sign of the cross at the whispered name. ‘Though she was unaware of his plans for her. After the ceremony, the bride, still dressed in her white wedding dress, insisted on playing a game with her friends and all the other little guests who’d been invited to keep her company. It was a game she loved to play. And she was, after all, still a very young thing. A game of hide and seek.

‘She ran away and hid and everyone searched. And searched again. They called and called again. There was never an answer. Everyone feared for her. She did not know the château, her new home, at all. This was her first visit. The child did not reappear that day. And that night the château resounded with sighs and moans in every chimneypiece and no one slept.

‘The search continued for the next day, the next week, the next month. The countryside was combed in the for-lorn hope she had wandered off. Every gypsy tribe within a score of miles was questioned in case they’d snatched her away. But they found no sign. Not even a dropped kerchief. And they were never likely to find her. The Devil had made off with his chosen bride, it was said, from under the lord’s nose. Her lord remarried. He came into his inheritance. The years passed. The first bride was forgotten. I cannot even tell you her name.’

‘Is that it? That’s all?’

Monsieur Ferro paused, shook his head and fixed the men with the glazed eyes of a storyteller who is approaching his climax and resenting an interruption. ‘And then, they say, a hundred years later, when they were rebuilding a part of the castle, they pulled the cover off an oubliette that no one knew was there. And, crouched in the bottom, was a small figure in white. The bride. As they tried to pull out the body, she and her dress crumbled to dust,’ he finished with relish.

‘Not a congenial place, it would seem, for young ladies of flesh and blood—or stone,’ the Commissaire observed.

‘People have so remarked over the years, sir. No one remembers the name of the missing child bride—as I said just now—but everyone knows the name of her successor. One of the young girls who’d played hide and seek on that fateful day was Lord Silmont’s cousin—Aliénore. An impoverished branch of the family … she had no dowry but was famous for her beauty. They made a match of it—no one could deny him this comfort in his sorrow—and she produced a male heir within the year.

‘But the lord had no luck with his wives. Aliénore died in her youth, it’s said in childbirth, on her lord’s return from the Crusade.’ He sighed. ‘Her husband was determined that she would be remembered for ever. He had the most splendid portrait effigy carved in alabaster and set up in the chapel. You must try to see it while you’re up there, sir. It really is the loveliest thing. After all these years, you’d swear she was just sleeping.’

‘How very fascinating. Now tell me, Ferro … I’m planning to stay for another night. May I confidently expect to encounter the smoked haunch of wild boar again on the menu this evening?’

Ferro, hearing dismissal in Jacquemin’s voice, stood and tilted his head agreeably. ‘But of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

The two men waited until Ferro was out of earshot before they laughed.

‘Well, let’s have it, Martineau! Your analysis, please!’

‘I’d have had the cuffs on the young lord straight away, sir! I’d have sweated him to find out what he really thought of this annoying little twerp whose idea of the best way to spend a honeymoon was a game of hide and seek. I’d have wanted to know the size of his wife’s dowry and whether it came to him on her death. I’d have asked about to find out if he had his eye on any other female in the neighbourhood. Someone whose name began with an A perhaps. And—if he was still at liberty after my attentions—watched with interest his further marital exploits.’

‘Ah? I’m speaking to an admirer of the Perrault fairy tale? Do I hear echoes of the story of Bluebeard? Perhaps we should keep an eye out for bloodstained keys and locked cupboards full of dead wives while we’re up there?’

Martineau acknowledged the Commissaire’s sally with a smile. ‘Always on the alert, sir. And I don’t despise fairy tales. I slapped the cuffs on Bluebeard last year. In Marseille. The gentleman was going by quite a different name and he was certainly no lord. But the contents of his cupboards … well, I won’t go into that so soon after breakfast, sir.’

Jacquemin nodded his approval. He liked a chap with the spirit to answer up for himself. And this sharp young officer, Martineau, had stepped in and saved his bacon in Marseille. Perhaps he could be encouraged to pursue his further career in Paris, conveniently in the orbit of the Commissaire? Jacquemin knew the value of a good man at his back. Another advantage to come out of this wild-goose chase? He looked at his wristwatch in great good humour. ‘Bring the car round at ten thirty, will you, Lieutenant? If you’re to work with me, you must understand that when I am not being punctual to the second, I am arriving ahead of time. Greeting suspects before they are quite prepared for you can be very informing and it puts them on the back foot—they are the ones caught burbling excuses. Let’s see if we can surprise these pretentious buggers with their trousers down, shall we?’