Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  Orlando grunted.

  Joe tried again:

  ‘Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté.

  Luxe, calme et volupté …

  ‘And what do we find inside?’

  ‘Gleaming furniture, polished by the years,’ Orlando quoted back at him, paraphrasing Baudelaire. ‘What else? Drives you mad after an hour. The measured orderliness … everything in its place … Not sure they’ll be pleased to see untidy old me again. When I stayed here I indulged in a rebellious gesture. The precisely positioned gilt clock in the centre of the mantelpiece in the salon where we played cards had been annoying me. Too loud, too ornate, too gilded! And I didn’t care for the look the goaty god Pan painted on the front had been giving me. I’ll swear he smirked at every duff move I made. Before I left I sneaked in and turned its smug Sèvres porcelain face to the wall.’

  ‘You stayed here? But why?’

  ‘One of their bridge party is the local doctor. He was called out to a difficult case unexpectedly one day last month and Silmont invited me to ride over with him to make up a fourth. Yes, I do play. But on this occasion I played so badly they’ve never asked me back.’

  ‘At least Lacroix will recognize your face. Look, Orlando, before we proceed … I’m not quite sure how best to play this scene …’

  ‘We’re playing a scene? I thought it was just a wheeze of yours to get out from under the jackbooted feet of that Commissaire?’

  ‘Only partly. May I ask you, when we go in there, just to follow my lead? What I’m trying to achieve is very simple: to ascertain the time Silmont arrived here yesterday and whether he stayed for the duration. Establish the solidity of his alibi. That’s all. Look—I’ll come clean with you. It was de Pacy himself who told me—rather urgently—to enquire into his cousin’s role in all this. He’s not a man who will brook denial! And—there’s something going on between those two that we have no inkling of.’

  ‘You mean their intense dislike for each other? The rivalry? The uncomfortable fact that de Pacy is the only living relation Silmont has and he’s eaten away by frustration and sorrow that, on his death, the estate will go to him because there’s no one else in line?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. That sort of inkling. Look, Orlando, I don’t want this to look like a police enquiry. I don’t want to barge in with notebook and pencil demanding to know where they all were at 6 p.m. yesterday. No direct questions will be asked. All you have to do is stand about affably grinning … burble a few inconsequential remarks … Can you manage that?’

  ‘When did I ever do otherwise? Oh, come on! Let’s get on with it!’

  Orlando greeted the footman by name and was himself recognized. They were ushered into a spacious hallway and asked to wait. Monsieur Lacroix was in the summer salon de compagnie with the other gentlemen.

  A moment later, Lacroix appeared, as smiling and friendly as his house. Slight and erect, he moved with the briskness of a military man and his welcome filled the room. ‘Joliffe! How good to see you again! Somehow I thought it would be you who volunteered. And you bring a driver?’ He looked enquiringly at Joe.

  ‘This is a friend of mine and a fellow guest of Lord Silmont. May I present Commander Joseph Sandilands of …’ Orlando recollected himself and added: ‘of London. Joe, this is Monsieur Alphonse Lacroix.’

  ‘An English Commander, eh? I should warn you that my great-grandfather died aboard the Redoutable!’ The white moustache swept upwards with his smile in a rush of good humour. The bright blue eyes twinkled.

  ‘Indeed!’ said Joe, impressed. ‘The first French ship to open fire on Lord Nelson! But, sir, I protest! I’m a Scotsman! I won’t be held responsible for Trafalgar!’

  ‘A Scotsman? Then you are doubly welcome. But come and meet my friends. We were just about to go out into the garden for lemonade.’ He glanced down at their feet. ‘But you come unprepared! I’ll ask Fernand to go and make arrangements in the stables and, while he’s at it, to look out a spare pair of boots. I’m sure we’ll have a pair large enough for English feet,’ he added dubiously, eyeing Orlando’s size elevens. ‘It will take them a while to saddle up, we’ve plenty of time for a chat. Tell me—have you ridden Mercure before, Joliffe?’

  ‘Mercure? Ride him? But we thought the horse was lame …’

  ‘Lame? Whatever gave you that idea? Young horse, in the pink of condition. Raring to go. Watch out—he can be a bit of a handful!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two elderly gentlemen were talking together some distance away in the deep shade of an arbour. Joe located them and then looked about him with pleasure. From a sun-filled terrace behind the house a path struck off into what Joe’s mother would have called ‘a wilderness’. Here, the calm and luxury seemed to have been routed by Nature. Provence had asserted herself and thrown off the straight lines imposed by the Parisian architect. No shaven and decoratively distorted trees lined up here to salute them; instead, the thick shade of lustrous native foliage, a vine that swarmed unchecked over a wooden support, and scented curtains of honeysuckle, roses and jasmine crowded round for attention. The path itself gave way to a soft runner of close-growing herbs that gave up a delicious aroma under Joe’s feet.

  ‘There they are, lost in the gloom,’ said Lacroix. ‘This is what I still call “my wife’s garden”. She had an aversion to sun-baked symmetry. I allowed her to plant all this on sufferance! It was only after her death some ten years ago, I realized how right she had been. I often sit here after breakfast and tell her so. Come, let’s get out of the sun and meet my dear friends, le docteur Philippe Simon and Monsieur Alfred Lesueur. Gentlemen, we have Joliffe with us again … Alfred, you will remember Joliffe—the Man Who Reverses Time? And, with him, he brings a gentleman from London—Commander Joseph Sandilands. No, don’t get up—they’re joining us out here for lemonade.’

  Greetings exchanged, it was the doctor who spoke first. ‘Have you enquired, Alphonse, about our friend?’

  ‘No, Philippe, I thought I’d leave medical matters to you.’

  ‘Then tell me, Joliffe—Bertrand, how did he appear, when he got back this morning?’ The question was put with concern, in the expectation of a crisp answer.

  ‘Not well,’ replied Orlando with some reticence. ‘Less than his usual self, I’d say. Somewhat tired.’

  ‘Orlando is being discreet,’ Joe broke in. ‘You’re talking to a medical man, Orlando. I think we can feel free to express our concerns. I’ll be frank—he seemed ill, sir. Emotionally disturbed, of course—you will be au fait with the vandal attack to which his chapel has recently been subjected?’

  They murmured their understanding. ‘… disgraceful affair … youth out of control these days … a six-month spell in my old regiment would …’ From their reaction, Joe assessed that no message regarding the more serious crime had been sent to them. They were unaware of the murder.

  ‘But physically, he struck me as being much diminished …’

  ‘Yes? Go on.’ The doctor was encouraging him to throw off his British reserve.

  ‘In fact—jolly ill. From the way he clutches at his heart …’ Joe mimed the gesture, ‘it’s apparent that he has some fears in that quarter. On his return, we noticed that his breathing was irregular and laboured, his face pale, almost blue. He was favouring his left arm. We were concerned.’

  ‘There!’ said Lesueur. ‘We were quite right to ignore his tantrum and insist he went back in the car. He’d never have made it on that horse of his. Great, strong beast with a mind of its own! It’ll kill him one of these days.’

  ‘The ride over may well have done some damage …’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, gentlemen—if you know—at what time did Bertrand leave home to come here yesterday? Precision would be appreciated.’

  ‘We were with him when he set off to walk to the stable. At two o’clock, Orlando? Yes. Let’s say he was mounted and off by two fifteen at the latest,’ said Joe.

  ‘And he arrived here at just after three!’ announ
ced the doctor. ‘I knew it! He must have galloped most of the way to do the journey in that time!’

  Orlando was desperately trying to repress a smirk and avoid catching Joe’s eye.’It’s not an easy ride,’ he commented. ‘Doubt if I could do it in an hour and I’m reckoned to be something of a centaur, back home.’

  ‘It may be the one thing in life Bertrand still really enjoys, but my friend’s right—it’ll be the death of him. I sometimes think that’s what he has in mind,’ said Lacroix, weighing his words.

  ‘Riding yourself to death?’ said Joe, picking up his thought. ‘Intriguing idea! Not a bad way to go if you know your time’s measured. No guilt of suicide to bear if you’re a religious man … And if you can calculate it finely enough to collapse in the arms of your oldest friends and your doctor on arrival? A good end!’

  ‘You understand me, Sandilands. It could kill him. You fellows all heard me ban him from strenuous exercise! And he flouts my good advice continually. Thinks he can fix it with the pills I hand out. I’m quite certain he can’t.’ The doctor looked seriously from Orlando to Joe. ‘Your diagnosis is correct, Commander. Heart, you know. An established condition which has got much, much worse over the past few months. I speak of this to you in the hope that his young friends at the château will be able to exert a greater influence daily than his old friends who see him only one day a week. He must desist from exercise any more taxing than chopping the top off his morning egg.’

  ‘Some chance of anyone exerting an influence over Bertrand de Silmont!’ Lacroix shook his head. ‘Pride, you know. And it gets stronger as he grows weaker. That’s why he told these chaps his horse had gone lame. He doesn’t want to be seen as a weakling who has to be driven about the place by a chauffeur … who has to consider the possibility that it’s time to give up the horses he adores.’

  ‘We’ve heard and understood,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll preserve the illusion. And we’ll do our best to urge restraint. Though we risk having our ears torn off if we interfere, I’m afraid,’ he hazarded.

  ‘Know what you mean!’ sighed Lacroix. ‘It’s a pity you’ve nothing in your medical kit for bad temper, Philippe. Those rages of his! Practically foams at the mouth—over nothing! He used never to be so touchy, you know, Sandilands. Quite out of character. I’m sorry you’ve been presented with this vision of our friend. Illness reduces us all.’

  ‘The stressful life he leads … One has to make allowances. Jump in boldly and do what one can …’ murmured Joe. His invention was running into the sand.

  They mumbled their agreement.

  ‘But, gentlemen, allow me to reveal the second reason for visiting you without ringing in advance.’

  They exchanged puzzled glances but seemed ready—even eager—for a change of subject and tone.

  ‘We were just passing, returning to Silmont after an unfruitful visit to the village.’

  ‘Our village? Then it would be likely to be unfruitful! It’s very small—three farmers and their dogs. What business could you have had there?’

  ‘First, I must make a confession. Or is it rather—a clarification? The “Commander” of my title is not a naval one but a police rank.’

  ‘Police? What sort of police? Forgive me for asking but, here in France, we have at least six different varieties. There’s the state police and the PJ and Clemenceau’s Tigers … or are they the same thing?’ said Lacroix.

  ‘And there are divisions of divisions,’ put in Lesueur. ‘There’s Tax Evasion, Narcotics, Art Smuggling … er …’

  ‘Pimping—that’s one …’ the doctor offered.

  ‘And Wasting Police Time, you’ll find, gentlemen!’ Lacroix, eyes twinkling called a halt.

  ‘I’m very simply with Criminal Investigation. If I say—Scotland Yard …?’

  They had all heard of Scotland Yard.

  ‘Joe’s their crack sleuth,’ Orlando offered. ‘Criminal Investigation Department. And he liaises with that European lot in Lyon—’

  ‘Interpol,’ supplied Joe. ‘It’s in its infancy—birth throes might be more accurate—though it is intended to spread worldwide. But—don’t be alarmed! I’m on leave at the moment. Not on official business. I’m actually on my way down to Antibes. I was cornered at a party in London before I left by a friend with a special plea.’

  The doctor groaned. ‘A cross we professionals all have to bear. Favours!’ He put on an old duffer’s voice: ‘“I say—you’re a medical man of sorts, aren’t you? I seem to have this lump behind my ear … this rash in an intimate area …” Pain in the rear, they mean! And then, having received a free diagnosis, they have the nerve to tell me they’ll be sure to go and see their own doctor!’ He levelled a sharp and humorous glance at Joe. ‘As I expect you find, the ploy always works. I never have discovered the formula to deny anyone.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Joe. ‘The request I had was rather unusual. “I say, you’re a detective, aren’t you? Can you find a missing wife?” The worse for three cocktails at the time, I heard myself saying: “Not at all, old boy … rely on me.”’ He gave a shudder. ‘And now I have to get on with it. Wonder if you could help? We called in on the off-chance. Long resident in the neighbourhood, pillars of your community—I thought you might be able to offer me the end of a ball of string. I’ve had no luck so far and the Riviera calls! My lost sheep is, of all things, a girl born and bred in these parts.’

  ‘And her husband’s in London?’ asked Lacroix. ‘Seems a bit unlikely.’

  ‘He was in London. Recently dead, hence the hoo-ha. Yes. A pre-war, Belle Époque-style romance, don’t you know.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Young Englishman of good family, touring Europe, head full of Petrarch and Boccaccio, La Bohème as well for good measure probably, meets and falls in love with a very young Provençal girl. He marries her and carries her off to England. Not finding it to her taste, she flees back home and the war closes in. There wouldn’t have been a problem, I believe, but there’s a question of progeny and inheritance. It always comes down to cash.’

  Heads nodded gravely.

  ‘So, all other avenues of enquiry having failed, here I am, mewing with frustration and going through the motions.’

  ‘Joe does himself less than justice,’ Orlando backed up. ‘Even after three cocktails he’ll remember giving his word—and keep it. The man’s a ferret. He’ll find her. It’ll just take time.’ And then, slowly: ‘Why don’t you show them the evidence, Joe. You have it in your wallet.’

  ‘Ah yes. I say—may I?’ His query was more than a politeness and he waited for Orlando’s nod before taking out his notecase.

  He slipped the photograph from it and three heads bent, intrigued, over the faded sepia print.

  ‘We’ve narrowed this down to 1906. And to a small village in the vicinity of Avignon. The girl in question is the one on the right, aged about twelve. We know that the name of the priest who conducted the communion classes was Father Ignace.’

  ‘Our priest here is Father Pierre,’ said Lacroix, intrigued. ‘He’s been here for decades. If anyone knows the where-abouts of the priesthood, he will. I don’t know of one called Ignace … You fellows?’

  ‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘And I know every priest in the area. I can tell you with confidence that there is none such between here and Avignon. But look—1906. I didn’t take up my work here until after the war. I was based in Paris before that and moved down here to be close to my old academy friends.’

  ‘And I was with my regiment in North Africa at that time,’ said Lacroix.

  ‘I’ve heard the name before,’ said Lesueur. ‘In a priestly context, I’m sure. Like the others, I’ve come and gone. These have not been settled times in France. But it does ring a bell.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Getting old. Memory full of holes. I’ll think about it. Let you know.’

  Orlando went off to the stables looking rather chipper, Joe thought, when the message came that the horse was ready for him. Looking forward to the ride? Or happy to be gett
ing shot of his police escort? Joe decided—both.

  They agreed to meet in the great hall on their return. Orlando dashed off, Joe was quite certain, with the clear intention of getting home before him. He prepared himself to parry a few thrusts spiked with the word ‘horsepower’ when he got back.

  He strolled out to his motor car, taking his time to give Orlando a head start and planning the rest of his afternoon. He found he was split between an eagerness to return to the château and a concern to give the Commissaire a run at the problem unencumbered by his presence. Joe decided to waste a little more time. There was one more step he could take in the mad pursuit of Orlando’s Laure before he returned.

  He was just climbing behind the wheel when he heard a thin voice calling after him. He turned to see Alfred Lesueur coming at a stately trot down the drive, waving his arms to attract his attention.

  ‘So glad I caught you! Sorry—I nodded off! I came to with the answer in my head. The name Ignace. Well, an Ignace.’ He frowned. ‘I do hope it’s not the one you’re looking for … You wouldn’t want to find this one. No, no! Terrible business! I’m not a religious man, Sandilands, but I have to say—with everyone else—shameful. If it’s the affair I’m thinking of.’

  He put up a hand to forestall Joe’s question. ‘No. I’ll say no more. In case my memory serves me ill. It does play tricks … You must find the evidence for yourself. Not difficult. It was in the newspaper. The local one. They’ll have copies in the archives in Avignon.’

  ‘Can you remember a date?’ asked Joe without much hope.

  ‘Before the war. I’m not certain of the year.’

  ‘A season? That would be a help. If you could remember where you were reading at the time,’ he prompted, ‘you might remember when.’

  ‘Oh yes. Let me think … Now I take the daily national newspaper … I was probably reading the local one at my aunt’s house. The Voix de la Méditerranée. It comes out weekly. Yes! All the aunts were there, tut-tutting over it. The editor was much criticized for printing the article. My aunt Berthe had bought a copy to check the programme of events for the coming national holiday. So—there you have it,’ he chortled. ‘You’d be looking for the week before July 14th!’