The editor snorted, reading the article again. ‘Now how in hell did the old bugger get this one through?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The pre-war editor, old Goutière. He took some risks! Must have stirred up a hornets’ nest. He was in his last year here when I signed on. A raging red! Communist sympathies, you know. Anti-monarchist, anti-Church. You name it—he was against it. But especially the Church. He hated the authorities. Always scrapping with them. Getting back at them by inserting bits of innuendo like this one.’
‘Innuendo?’ said Joe. ‘What am I not seeing?’
‘Look at the last bit: “lively … popular … missed by the young … especially close …” Shorthand for taking advantage—sexually no doubt—of the young things under his influence. It had to be hand-under-the-skirt-stuff—I doubt fiddling with their minds would have got old Goutière excited. Everybody in the area would know how to interpret this but—clever old sod—there’s nothing there that could trigger a legal challenge.’
‘But the Church must have put the boot in,’ said Joe, ‘since this is the one and only reference to the priest. No follow-up, I’m told. Though it’s not all that damaging. I’m surprised they got so hot under their collars.’
The editor had fallen silent, distracted. The finger pointed to a further column, level with, but at one remove from, the article about Father Ignace.
‘What did you say the girl’s name was?’ he asked.
‘Laure.’
‘Ah. Not the same one then. But all the same, this is interesting. And may be exactly what upset the Church!’ He grinned. ‘Cheeky bugger! Do you see what he’s done? On the same page! Look at the headline! “Mysterious disappearance of young girl from village”. And—wouldn’t you know—it’s the same village! The depopulation of St Vincent-les-Eaux? Is that what we’re looking at? Anyway, it’s not your girl. It’s plain Marie-Jeanne Durand who shows a clean pair of heels. Anxious parents call in the police, reporting the disappearance of their daughter. Ah—now she had packed a case. Her friends claim Marie-Jeanne gave them no reason to believe she was about to abscond.
‘… Watch being kept at railway stations … Public asked to be on the alert for a five-foot-three-inch, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, seventeen-year-old. Well, that narrows the field to about ten thousand! And—here it is!—Marie-Jeanne was a member of the church and had been prepared for her communion by the village priest, Father Ignace, to whom she was thought to be very close. If she’d had something on her mind, she would certainly have confessed her problems to him. Father Ignace was unavailable for comment on the disappearance of his young parishioner.’
‘Due to his own mysterious disappearance.’
‘And the fact that he was himself most likely her problem.’ Rozier sighed gustily. ‘Bloody hell! It’s Abélard and Héloïse all over again. Young girl falls for unattainable man. They will do it!’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I expect he’s joined the Foreign Legion and she’s a worn-out tart plying her trade on the streets of Paris by now. Have you got what you want?’
‘More than I want,’ said Joe, grasping the editor’s hand. ‘Sadly, much more. Monsieur Rozier, let me thank you for your excellent coffee, your life-saving croissants, your welcome and your invaluable help. I think you could just have ruined at least three lives.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Orlando was loitering in the courtyard, kicking up the gravel on the path, when Joe drove up. He hurried forward to open the car door and started to speak the moment Joe turned off the engine of his Morris.
‘I seem to have been appointed your sheepdog,’ he grumbled. ‘Jacquemin posted me here to warn you … alert you … It’s the lord! He’s come round from his morning sedative, according to his valet, and he’s asking to speak to you. Jacquemin wants you to go straight up before it’s too late. He’s reported to be sinking fast. If you ask me, the Commissaire is a bit miffed that he hasn’t been asked along to hear the last words himself.’
‘I’ll just dump this lot on Jacquemin’s desk first,’ said Joe. He leaned behind and picked up the file of notes from the hospital and the bag of Estelle’s belongings. ‘The lord’ll stay afloat for a few minutes more. Possibly much longer than most of us expect and some of us want! And, don’t worry, Orlando, whatever else he has to convey, I’m not expecting a confession to murder. I think a priest is what’s called for. Has anyone thought to …?’
‘Of course! There’s one on his way. The Commissaire sent a car, would you believe! Glad to see you’re so relaxed about it. The Commissaire’s climbing up the curtains! Oh … by the way … thinking of priests … your expedition into Avignon … Anything interesting to report?’ He rearranged the gravel nervously with the toe of his boot.
‘Oh yes! Indeed! But no urgency to reveal all, I think. Not to a man who’s been in possession of all the pieces of the jigsaw but one all along. Did you think I couldn’t count to thirty-eight? I’ll hear your confession later, Orlando!’
He hurried towards the steward’s office, smilingly brushing aside anxious people trying to waylay him in the great hall. He noticed as he passed through that it was looking quite medieval in its noisy, colourful disorder. A gendarme was standing posted at the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene with an expression of disbelief.
Piles of bedding and cushions were littering the floor, easels had been set up under windows, children were playing a noisy game that involved racing around the pillars and screaming. Battling away at the far end of the space, Mrs Fenton was thumping away at a piano which had been dragged in from somewhere. A jolly English tune—Country Gardens, he thought he recognized—was being played in strict rhythm for the benefit of the two ballet girls. These two, lost in their activity, were exercising. Barefoot and clad in an improvised costume of rolled-up pyjama bottoms and shirts, they yet managed to be impressive. Joe paused for a moment to admire their lissom movements.
Loud-voiced and authoritative, the duenna was pacing about in front of them, banging occasionally on the floor with a stout walking stick. As Joe marvelled, she shrieked for a stop, railed at Natalia and demonstrated a position herself on light, precise feet. The bulky, insignificant lady was transformed. The girls listened and nodded and copied.
‘I say …’ the wail went up from Mrs Fenton. ‘I adore Percy Grainger as much as the next man but that’s eleven times I’ve played that piece! What about a little Nutcracker? Sugar Plum Fairy, anyone?’
‘It’s the siege of Lucknow without the bloodshed,’ Orlando muttered.
‘Where’s de Pacy?’ Joe asked.
‘Still in a sulk, I’d guess. He won’t come out of his quarters. He’s had a huge bust-up with his cousin. At least that’s what Jane says has sent him into a tail-spin. The servants have clearly not been directed to tidy up the mess. They’re playing cards in the old pantry. It looked worse an hour ago. Then Jane came in and gave everyone a pep talk. Pulling together, keeping calm, putting on a good face for the French … you can imagine the sort of thing. Ah! Here she comes.’
Joe hurried off down the corridor to the office.
‘Here’s the pathologist’s report and here are the things they took from her body.’ Joe placed the bag and the file on the desk and sat down opposite the Commissaire.
‘Good man, your Lemaître,’ Joe said. ‘With interesting things to say. I’ll tell you now—the most significant thing he had to report was that our girl was between two and three months pregnant. She would have been aware. And she had no drugs whatsoever in her system.’
Jacquemin seized the file and began at once to leaf through it. ‘So, she was clear-headed when she went and laid herself down on that stone altar?’ he muttered. ‘How in hell did he …? Hypnosis? What about mesmerism? Isn’t that all the go at the moment in the music halls? Did the doc have any suggestions? They’re worth hearing, you know.’
‘He was as puzzled as we were … are,’ he corrected himself.
Jacquemin gave him a cold star
e. ‘You can leave this with me, Sandilands. Your presence is requested by the lord. Thinks he’s dying.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Again. His valet claims he’s been doing this every month for the last year. And then he springs back again, hale and hearty, and asking why he sees nothing but long faces about him. But we’ll humour him. You’re to go up to his apartment at once. Try to get up there before the priest arrives and forgives him for everything he’s done … makes him change his mind. And come straight back down here and report to me. Got your notebook? I shall want to hear every word of his confession to murder.’
Joe shook his head. ‘That’s the last thing I expect to hear from his lordship.’ He checked his pockets for his notebook, helped himself to a pencil from a pot on the desk and went out.
‘Bédoin!’ Joe remembered the valet’s name and greeted him with a serious face when the man opened the door to the lord’s quarters. ‘A sad business. I hear Lord Silmont wants to see me.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ murmured the valet. ‘He wishes to make a full confession to you before he sees the priest.’
‘Ah …’ said Joe. ‘Am I to take it his lordship is experiencing a period of … shall we say … lucidity?’
‘Complete lucidity. He’s as sharp as a pin and feeling no pain for once. You arrive at a good moment. If all goes according to past form, he will present his normal self, though he’s a little sleepy as yet. As the last of the soothing dose I gave him wears off he will become somewhat euphoric. And his behaviour less predictable. May I advise you to summon help and withdraw should you be overtaken by circumstances, sir? He is in no way restrained and experience indicates that it would not be wise to attempt to sit out the storm.’ He put a small bell in Joe’s hand. ‘I will be next door. Summon me at once should his lordship become difficult.’
The lord was sitting up in bed, pale but cheerful and leafing through a copy of a Parisian colour magazine.
‘At last! Sandilands swoops in! Glad you could come. Your sensation-seeking Parisian colleague was not best pleased by my request to unburden myself to you. But I can’t say I fancied confessing all to that sour-faced, publicity-seeking Commissaire. He’d have me on the front of one of these rags before you could say knife!’ The lord threw down the magazine in disgust. ‘Gentleman that you are, I think you’ll understand a gentleman’s problems. We’ll do this in French, if you don’t mind? There may be nuances I couldn’t convey in English.’
The walls of the spartan room were, as Jacquemin had told them, adorned by two of the world’s artistic masterpieces and Joe deliberately kept his gaze from them, knowing that, once he looked, he would see nothing else. The lord must have his full attention. He turned his head resolutely away.
But his slight movement had not gone unnoticed.
‘No! Do look! You’ll never see another one so wonderful,’ Silmont said, gesturing to the Van Gogh. ‘You are aware of my problem?’
Joe nodded. ‘You’re suffering from the great pox.’ He thought the old-fashioned name would be more acceptable than the modern clinical term.
‘Then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that, should a man make an effort to understand the devastation of this disease, he could either spend weeks reading eminent physicians’ writings on patients’ symptoms or, Sandilands, he could spend one minute looking into that tormented face. I have done both. Believe me—the face has it!’
Accepting the invitation, Joe turned at last and stared into the wild, doomed, self-knowing eyes of the painting.
‘He was at the asylum not many miles from here—you knew that? And there he produced some of his most marvellous works. I have been lucky enough to acquire a few of them. But this one … He gave it away, you know. To one of the warders … nurses … whatever you like to call them. The man didn’t appreciate what he had and it spent many years in his attic, unregarded. I bought it from his daughter for a very modest sum. Sandilands, I could be looking into a mirror!’
‘And the delusions which are symptomatic of the foul scourge you have suffered have directed your behaviour of late? You have contemplated—even carried out—acts which have been contrary to your nature? Acts which you must now confess to your priest?’ Joe asked delicately. How much easier it would have been for him to accuse an out-and-out villain of his premeditated crimes and slap on the handcuffs. And here he found himself treading on eggshells around this damaged penitent, whom, despite his assurances, he could not truly understand.
‘And to you. And I trust you to convey my confession to the Commissaire.’
‘I’m listening. Would you like to start with the destruction of the effigy of Aliénore, sir?’
‘It was Lady Moon who suggested it.’
Joe pursed his lips, uncomfortable with this contribution.
‘Lady Moon, sir?’
‘It’s quite all right, she’s not speaking to me at the moment.’ Silmont’s voice was all reassurance and reason. ‘She’s not even in the room. But when she does come and whisper in my ear, there’s no denying her. She was at her most regal that night. Glowing, powerful. I could only obey. She had asked for a sacrifice. And what more suitable spot, Sandilands? The offering was to be carefully timed for the moment when the moon’s beams illuminated the tomb top. I had to clear it of the original strumpet to place a choicer creature in her place. I knew the moment she arrived that the girl Estelle was the chosen one. And she was even there that night watching me as I crossed the courtyard. There was a moment of epiphany when I looked up and saw her. Her hair was lit up from behind, turned to a silver halo by the moon. My goddess had marked her out for me.’
‘Estelle didn’t identify you that night,’ said Joe, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Your mask—fencing mask, was it? from the box in the sports room?—and your cloak—which you so thoughtfully surrendered to me—did a good job.’
‘Surrendered? To you? My cloak? What are you talking about? It’s in my cupboard. Take it. I expect you’ll want to examine it for evidence.’ He seemed annoyed at the interruption and muttered on: ‘Immaterial. She was the one. The harlot was taunting me—attacking me in the centre of my being, threatening the things I still hold dear—my position … my family name … my possessions. This promiscuous woman had to be got rid of before she could get her filthy fingers on my life’s work. Before she brought down the curse of bad blood once again on the family.’
He looked anxiously at the door and his voice dropped as he made his accusation: ‘She was conspiring with my cousin to be rid of me. He’s not here with you, is he? Guy? You didn’t let him up?’ His voice was rising to a shriek. ‘He’s always treading on my heels, tripping me up, pushing me downstairs. No? You’re sure?’
Joe hurried to reassure him that he’d come alone.
Jane Makepeace would have had a word for this display of the further disintegration of the lord’s character. Tertiary stage neurosyphilitic paranoia or some such. Joe acknowledged he was going to have his work cut out to distinguish truth from vindictive imaginings.
‘I decided to remove her,’ the lord said more calmly. ‘I always expected to be found out but—why care? I am dying. I would be dead before they could sharpen up the guillotine.’
‘With a house full of policemen, sir, it was just a matter of time,’ said Joe easily.
‘It’s close now, Sandilands. This may be my last lucid interval … they grow shorter … and why risk any false accusations lodged against me? The dead cannot defend themselves. So—I say now: the crime I committed, I was entirely free to commit. It was my statue to do with as I wished. And I wished to smash it into dust. But the girl? Much though I longed to plunge a dagger into her pullulating entrails, I was robbed of the opportunity.’
His voice began to rise alarmingly, his face was suffusing with rage. ‘Who was it, Sandilands? My cousin declares he didn’t kill the girl. And I must believe him—if he had, I know he would delight in telling me so. He’s always gone faster and farther, climbed higher, ridden harder, had more women … He’s the one wh
o has the glittering war record, the respect and loyalty of the servants. If not Guy—then who?’ he shouted again, struggling for control. ‘Who first stole my scheme to kill, took my dagger, and snatched from me the satisfaction of forcing her dying breath out through her lying lips? You know, don’t you? Tell me! I insist on knowing!’
The door opened slightly and Joe heard the valet cough a warning.
‘Your priest is coming up the stairs,’ Joe improvised. ‘I must leave. But yes, I do know. Now. And I will tell you. By the end of the day. Do we have until the end of the day?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain.
The lord favoured him with a beaming smile which chilled Joe to the bone. ‘It’s time for you to make your move, Sandilands,’ he said. ‘Bring me the name before the moon rises.’
How easy was it going to be to convince Jacquemin that the lord was innocent of any crime he could arrest him for? Joe thought—not very. Before he returned to face him, he decided to take a detour.
Not being quite certain where exactly in the building Guy de Pacy had his rooms, he greeted an approaching footman and asked him to take him to the steward’s quarters. The man showed no surprise at the request and Joe had a clear impression that he was expected and this escort had been thoughtfully provided.
The man led him to a tower Joe had noted but not yet explored. The one diametrically opposite to the lord’s. It was spacious. It rose to three floors, commanding a good view of the courtyard and the door giving access to the great hall. An excellent military choice for what was, Joe guessed, the command post of the château.
The manservant led him through the ground floor which had been left as an open space, largely plain and unfurnished, though the stone floor had been covered agreeably with a softening carpet of local weave. One boot-rack stacked with highly polished riding boots stood by the door and, at the far end of the room, a mahogany table held a cargo of two heavy wooden church candlesticks in which fat wax candles had been very recently lit and a matched pair of silver vases filled with bunches of white lilies. The scent in the enclosed space was overpowering.
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