Strange Images of Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘We’re nearly there, Sandilands,’ the Commissaire said. ‘It’s a jigsaw and we’re looking for the last piece. Where to look?’

  ‘I usually find it down the back of the sofa or under the table,’ said Joe. ‘You have the notes on interviews with the inmates? Did you have time to get through them all? There are two witnesses in particular I’d like to hear from.’

  Jacquemin indicated a box packed with notebooks and papers. ‘Yes, everyone. Ready to be typed up at HQ. I thought we’d keep them here in case we need to check something. We’ve got sketches of the crime scene—Martineau has a flair for that sort of thing—everybody’s fingerprints have been taken and rushed off to Avignon. Photographs also have gone to the laboratory. Everything done by the book. The answer’s in there.’ He sighed. ‘We’re just going to have to grind through it again.’

  ‘Did you check the contents of the brown attaché case?’ Joe asked. ‘What have you done with it? Nathan Jacoby and I didn’t disturb the contents when we found it at the scene. Left it for you. I just noted that it contained the red dress and espadrilles she’d taken off in the chapel. I presumed she’d smuggled the white nightdress and satin slippers in that way. Jane said she’d seen Estelle carrying it minutes before she disappeared—she remarked that the girl looked as though she was taking off for the weekend, case in hand. Too much to hope for a note in the dress pocket—Meet me at six in the chapel, your lover, Pierre-Auguste, head stable-lad, or some such?’

  Jacquemin scrabbled about under the table, picked it up and passed it to Joe. ‘Here, check for yourself. We found nothing.’

  Joe eased the shoes and the folded dress out of the case and examined it. It smelled delicately of her perfume. The rest of the case contained no surprises. He replaced it on the floor next to the package he’d brought back from the hospital.

  ‘I say—did you have time …?’

  ‘No. Not yet,’ said Jacquemin. ‘Shall we do that now?’

  He cleared a space on the table top and carefully upended the bag. Out spilled the white garment, folded to show its bloodstained section on top, and a pair of knickers. The garments were accompanied by a sheet of paper and a brown envelope. The brief note, typed by the pathologist’s assistant, listed three items. Jacquemin read it swiftly: ‘One: dress … Two: undergarment (one piece only) … and Three …’ He froze and looked across at Joe.

  ‘Open up the envelope,’ he snapped. ‘Something odd going on here!’

  Joe tore open the flap, tipped out the contents and stared. ‘That’s it!’ he muttered. ‘The missing piece. It was under the table, Jacquemin. Let’s hear what the good doctor has to tell us, shall we?’

  Jacquemin began to read out the accompanying notes. ‘He starts with an assurance that we may handle the object—it’s been tested for fingerprints, revealing three different subjects. These are being compared with records of prints they’ve been promised from the force at the château and they’ll send word when they have a result. It was found grasped in the victim’s left hand. Unremarked by the officers discovering and transporting the body because rigor had preserved it clenched in her palm. It fell to the floor when the period of rigor relaxed her limbs on the pathologist’s table. Well, bugger me! Remind me, Sandilands. How were her arms placed when you found her?’

  ‘Like this.’ Joe demonstrated. They were crossed over each other just underneath her bosom, exactly imitating the statue. He picked up the small round object in his left hand and crossed his arms again, left under right. ‘Well tucked up, you see. Quite invisible.’

  ‘It wasn’t hypnosis or mesmerism that got her on to the slab, lying perfectly still, eyes closed, smiling gently, was it?’ said Jacquemin. ‘It was something much more simple. All the killer had to do was ask nicely.’

  ‘Nathan Jacoby had it right, you know,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘While we were standing looking at her, he said Estelle would do anything for a joke. He sneered at her English voice … Oh, do let’s! What a cracking jape! or something like that. And that’s the only impulse that would have led her to offer herself up without resistance. She was all co-operation! Imagine—someone suggests to you what a laugh it would be to make use of the cleared space on the altar top to stage such a scene. A beautiful girl lying in exact imitation of the alabaster lady, next to the sixhundred-year-old knight. But this one, recognizably someone known to whoever their chosen audience was to be—someone still very much alive … at least at the moment the shutter clicked—that would be entertaining. Because that’s what it was all about. A sick English joke.

  ‘It’s just the sort of nonsense you see printed in the society magazines every week back home. It’s all the rage to have yourself photographed in some surreal pose in fancy dress. Inside a mummy case, on top of a gatepost … Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray—they wouldn’t have been able to resist either. So, laughing together, Estelle and the would-be photographer meet in the chapel.’

  ‘Just as the child reported,’ said Jacquemin.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Inconveniently, Estelle spots the child Marius in some distress and takes the time to haul him in, with a view to sorting him out when the little photographic session is over. Thinking his presence may not be entirely appropriate to the occasion—what with the disrobing that’s about to occur—she hides the small person in the confessional and proceeds with the lark. She changes into her white costume, clambers up and assumes the recumbent position.’

  ‘She took her clothes off, right there in front of her killer?’ Jacquemin wondered.

  ‘Again—there’s the aspect of intimacy in all this. I don’t think Estelle would have stripped off so readily in front of someone unfamiliar. And the photographer armed with camera … and concealed knife … encourages: That’s just perfect. Hair spread. Dress folded just so. Feet on the greyhound. Eyes closed. We’re ready. Oh, drat! Could you just hold my lens cap for me? Thanks, darling.

  ‘The moment her eyes are shut and she’s keeping rigidly still, the camera is put down, the dagger picked up. If Estelle is conscious of her companion leaning over her, manoeuvring, arranging, breathing deeply perhaps—well, that’s photographers for you. And that’s a photographer’s model for you! She spent her days keeping still in strange poses. The killer can take as long as necessary to position the point exactly where it will do its swift job, Estelle won’t move, because she trusts her killer absolutely. She’s smiling, enjoying the joke, possibly even muttering: “Oh, do get on with it!”

  ‘A second later it’s over. She probably died instantly, according to the pathologist.’

  ‘And in the excitement of the moment, and the urge to make a swift exit from the scene, the lens cap clutched in her left hand is forgotten,’ Jacquemin muttered. ‘But why ask the victim to hold it in the first place?’

  ‘Do you take photographs?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Never. I get someone to take them for me.’

  ‘I can tell you—lens caps are a damned nuisance. They have to come off at the last moment and be put straight back on again. And is there ever a safe place to park them? Leave them lying about and they get lost or trodden on. There was no flat surface available at the tomb if you remember it. And the appearance of a lens cap in the shot would have ruined the gruesome medieval flavour somewhat. No—the thing to do is what I always do—put it into the nearest available hand. They always remember to return it.’

  ‘Unless they’ve died clutching it. Hmm …’ Jacquemin poked at the insignificant object on the table with a pencil. ‘Well, Sweet Cecily Somerset! I told you I’d find your wretched lens cap! I’ll take pleasure in returning it. You won’t thank me for the arrest warrant for murder that accompanies it, though.’

  Joe frowned. ‘We know how it was done. But before we say who did it, we need to find out why, Jacquemin. Why. There has to be a desperately strong motive for plunging a dagger into someone’s chest. Cecily? I very much doubt that—’

  He was interrupted by a tap on the door. Martineau came swiftly in, his face flushed
with excitement. ‘Sir! Commander! You’re wanted at once up in Jacoby’s studio! He’s got the prints of that film you gave him to develop. The one we took out of Cecily what’s-her-name’s camera.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The handwritten notice on the door—‘No admittance. This includes you, Jacquemin’—was greeted by a harrumph of outrage and a pounding with a fist by the Commissaire. Nathan opened the door after what he considered a suitable interval and the three policemen stepped tentatively into the work room.

  It was hot and dark and stank of chemicals. Every dimly discerned working surface was crowded with bottles, jars and trays. Strips of celluloid dangled from the ceiling and the whole room was lit by an unnatural red light. Seen so illuminated from above, Nathan’s mischievous features would have given Frederick inspiration for Beelzebub, Joe thought. He was playing with them, of course. The red light was switched on merely to establish his alchemical credentials, his mastery of the space.

  They had interrupted no photographical procedure and Nathan replaced the red with the white room lights the moment he judged the intruders had been sufficiently impressed. He seemed pleased with himself.

  ‘Don’t touch anything and mind where you put your heads and feet,’ he warned. ‘All developments a success. I’ve made prints from the negatives in the two Kodaks, from the slides of my Ermanox and Miss Somerset’s Leica. Right! First in the programme—overture and beginners. The pocket Kodaks, gentlemen.’

  He set out two rows of photographs on the bench in front of them.

  ‘I’ve forgotten which is whose but I think they’re interchangeable,’ he said.

  ‘Café terrace … that’s in Aix … le Mont Sainte Victoire … the Dentelles …’ said Jacquemin. ‘Landscapes. Some, I see, with added figures.’ He peered more closely. ‘What is going on here, Sandilands?’

  Joe peered alongside. ‘Picnicking? Would that cover it?’

  ‘Mmm … le déjeuner sur l’herbe seems to be a popular theme with you English.’

  ‘Well, you know the slogan: A friend, a memory and a pastime—a Kodak,’ said Joe, smiling. ‘Next exhibit, Nathan?’

  ‘Now the Ermanox. My camera. See here: I want you to take a careful look at these. First the pictures taken in the chapel on discovery of the body yesterday.’

  He spread out on the counter in front of them the eight reproductions of the Ermanox slides. They were numbered one to eight.

  ‘Well? What can you see?’

  ‘I’d no idea you’d got these,’ grumbled Jacquemin. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? That’s withholding evidence. Chalk another one up, Martineau. Oh, and I’m taking these away with me. Very handy. It’ll be some time before we get ours back from the labs. What are we supposed to be seeing? Come on, man, it’s no time for a guessing game.’

  Joe saw at once. ‘We’re meant to look at the quality rather than the subject, I think.’

  A quick nod from Nathan confirmed this.

  ‘The first four were taken by a keen amateur,’ Joe said with amused self-mockery, ‘and they’ll just about serve—as a record. But the second four were taken by a professional hand and, if the subject were not so lugubrious, could take their place in the pages of Vogue magazine. I see I must get in closer next time, Nathan, and focus up more precisely.’

  Jacquemin peered again. ‘It was you two clowns! Now, I can see that. Get on.’

  ‘Just preparing you for the next lot. Now—I want you to keep in mind what you’ve just seen,’ said Nathan with the encouraging tone of a stage conjuror.

  He removed the prints of Estelle’s death scene and began to place on the counter another and clearly inferior set, one by one.

  ‘This is the film from the Leica belonging to Cecily Somerset. Number one, crossing the Channel. Rough day? Impossible to keep the camera steady at any rate. Number two. Arrival in France. Water calm but we still have the shakes. The strip of grey matter along the top half-inch is the French coastline. The other five and a half inches are the sea. Number three: jolly group of friends posing at the front door of the Hôtel Ambassadeur in Paris. Pity about the passing cycle. Numbers four and five: a selection of the guests at Silmont. You’ll recognize yours truly, well, half of yours truly, far left on the second one. Cecily herself does not appear. Behind the camera, evidently … And still shaking and still trying to find the f-stop ring.

  ‘Change of subject for six to twelve. Flowers. They all seem to be roses.’

  ‘Rosa gallica, Rosa mundi, Rosa damascena …’ Jacquemin pointed out the ones he could identify. ‘My grandmother’s dining room was lined with Redouté’s best. I spent many a boring Sunday lunch memorizing the names.’

  ‘And here’s one I know,’ said Martineau. ‘Hard to tell in black and white but I think that’s the white rose of Provence.’

  ‘She made an excursion to a Cistercian abbey near here. It has a collection of old roses,’ said Nathan.

  Jacquemin was beginning to paw the ground with impatience.

  ‘There were six more exposures,’ said Nathan, suddenly serious. He snapped them out one at a time in a row. Again, each print had a number in the corner.

  ‘Great heavens!’ Martineau broke the stunned silence. ‘Shall I go and bring her in, sir?’ ‘Wait! Wait! I think our friend Jacoby has something more he wishes to impart? Go, on, man, we’re listening.’

  * * *

  ‘Number thirteen is a shot of the chapel. Taken from the side nearest the dry moat—the east. Probably taken from a balanced position halfway down the far slope. An unusual perspective but out of sight of the rest of the castle.

  And, looking at the shadows, you can see that the sun is in the south-west and getting low. What we have here is an—accidental? experimental?—essay in contre jour. I think, gentlemen, if you go and scramble about in the moat on the far side of the chapel at just before six this afternoon, you’ll see exactly the same shadow lines.

  ‘Number fourteen is interesting for its detail. The camera has now moved a few yards on towards the corner and is pointing across the south side of the chapel and over the courtyard. If you look carefully you can just get a glimpse of the stable clock in the distance, between two roof lines. I wonder if this was intended?’

  Martineau selected a magnifying glass from a tray on the counter and handed it to the Commissaire.

  ‘It’s saying six o’clock, near as dammit,’ confirmed Jacquemin.

  ‘Next up is number fifteen. An unfussy view of the great door. Clearly we go through it and here we have, at number sixteen, a shot of the table-top tomb.’

  ‘We’re being taken for a walk,’ Martineau observed.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not a ride,’ muttered Joe.

  ‘And the tomb, you’ll see, has only one occupant which dates and times the photographs quite narrowly. Sir Hugues is lying there by himself next to the rough patch of stone where his wife had previously lain. But it’s numbers seventeen and eighteen that are the clinchers, I think you’ll agree?’

  ‘Good God!’ breathed Martineau. ‘Are they the same? Have you done two prints from one exposure, Jacoby?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. They’re different. Very slightly,’ said Jacquemin with benefit of magnifying glass. ‘A whisker of a difference in angle. And again, Jacoby, we must ask—intentional? I’d say they’re separated by a second or two. No more … Very similar to the Ermanox set we’ve just seen. Look at the blood pattern. She’s not play-acting. She’s definitely dead. Can you enlarge the wound area, Jacoby? From such a film?’

  Nathan produced further reproductions of the last two shots. ‘I thought you might need these.’

  Martineau peered again. ‘Ah, yes! I thought I could just make out … The blood … Here, Sandilands, take a look. There’s a greater quantity on the second of these shots. Not much but enough to make it out. And unless our friend here has been working some of his magic …?’

  Nathan looked aggrieved and shook his head vehemently.

  ‘It’s caught a highli
ght. The blood’s still shining. These shots were taken moments, seconds, after the girl was stabbed. While the heart was pumping its last. While she was still expiring.’

  A silence fell and, in the hot room, three men shivered.

  Martineau spoke first in a deadly voice: ‘Now shall I go and get her, sir?’

  ‘In a moment. We’ll definitely have a few questions to put to Sweet Cecily but, if I’m not mistaken, Mr Jacoby has a further point to make?’

  Joe was sure that Jacquemin had seen the truth as quickly as he had himself and was, with unexpected generosity, allowing Nathan to take the stage again to give his expert opinion. Or to check his own conclusion.

  ‘The first set I showed you—Joe’s efforts followed by mine—made it quite clear that the hand holding the camera, the eye behind the lens, is always individual. I can see the differences in style as clearly as one artist can identify another by his brush strokes. It’s like handwriting. But it only works when you’re familiar with the photographers, of course. Here, I’m working in the dark. I assume the first five to have been taken by Cecily. Careless, expecting the camera to do all the work. Jolly snaps for the album. Really—she’d have been better off with a five guinea Kodak. The next group, the flowers, showed an improvement. Learning had occurred. Perhaps she finds it easier to get the measure of inanimate objects? But the last six—’

  ‘Were taken by someone different!’ exclaimed Martineau. ‘Even I can see that! They’re not perfect … I mean, they’re not a professional job like Mr Jacoby’s but they’re well focused up and framed and … well … not arty, but sort of businesslike. By someone used to holding a camera and the right sort of brain to operate it.’