Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Suddenly I felt very unsexy indeed. I rolled away from him, got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and began to pace about, as I always do when I’m really perturbed. A terrible weary sadness rolled over me. Although we’d spent so little time together Juliette and I had become oddly intimate, in a way that was rare in my life. My brother and I had hardly anything in common, and since our parents’ death we scarcely met. Naturally I had friends, but most, apart from Caroline, were comparatively superficial; and Olivier notwithstanding, the gap Joe left had not been filled. Of course, in the world’s eyes I barely knew her – how often had we met? Twice? Three times? Nevertheless, by the end of that last afternoon she and I had become something more than just acquaintances. Perhaps because she was old, and not much time might be left to us, we’d somehow bypassed the preliminaries. Paradoxically, the result had been something quite outside age: the person I’d met that afternoon had been simultaneously the old woman sitting before me and the audacious, resourceful girl whose story she was recounting. And now I’d never see her again.

  But the shock I felt was more than grief. There was also a terrible, numbing guilt. I knew, with absolute certainty, that this death and my visit must be connected. How, I could not yet imagine, or perhaps did not care to try. The detail was unimportant. It was the conviction that mat-tered. It lodged toad-like in my stomach. If I hadn’t gone to La Jaubertie, Juliette would be alive today.

  It also, of course, meant that Jean-Jacques Rigaut now really was the owner of the St Cecilia.

  Olivier was clearly astonished by my reaction to what, for him, was no more than local tittle-tattle concerning an old woman I’d barely known. He’d been expecting Gosh, lucky I got to her in time, and what he’d got was full-scale distress. How was he supposed to deal with that?

  ‘You say they found her . . . How long had she been dead?’

  He shook his head. ‘No idea. All I know is, the house-keeper found her.’

  ‘Babette.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I think that’s her name. She’d been away, apparently, and when she got back, no more Madame.’

  ‘Do they know how she died?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know any details. If you like I can try and find out.’

  ‘If you could, I’d really like to know.’

  Juliette – dead. It made no sense. Or perhaps it made only too much. I kept returning to the same image: Rigaut in the door of the study, dishevelled, unnerved, so completely panicked by my unexpected and unwelcome presence that he’d committed the ultimate blunder – told a lie that the slightest questioning would instantly find out. Anything to get rid of me. And that, surely, could mean only one thing?

  I said, ‘I need a drink. Let’s go downstairs.’

  I had a quick shower, then left the bathroom to him and dressed in the first garments that came to hand – as it happened the sexy silk trousers, that now seemed so glaringly inappropriate. I put some food on the table, opened a bottle of wine – not the Prosecco: I’d rarely felt less in the mood for bubbly – poured two glasses, and drank one off.

  What, if anything, was I going to tell Olivier? My acquaintance with him was just about the opposite of that with Juliette. In terms of time and physical presence I’d known her hardly at all, and yet I felt I knew everything about her – or almost: now, I reflected the real truth about Helmut and Antoine would be forever a mystery. And I’d have told her anything. Whereas although I’d been as physically intimate with Olivier as a woman can be with a man, in any real sense of the word I hardly knew him at all.

  Of course, her death might well have been entirely natural. She might simply have had a heart attack: felt ill, fallen down and died. Given her age and frailty, that was what everyone would assume. But I wasn’t convinced. She hadn’t shown any signs of illness the previous evening. She’d been tired, yes – though not too tired to mark up the notebook. Nor to invite me round in the morning. If she’d been feeling ill – that ill, on the point of death – she simply wouldn’t have called. Or if she had, somehow, dragged herself to the phone, it would have been to summon help, not confirm our rendezvous.

  So she must have died just after that. And Rigaut had been there. Only that could explain his behaviour. If she’d simply been taken ill, he’d have said so. You find your mother on the point of death, you look for help. That’s the normal, human reaction.

  For God’s sake, it’s the reaction if you find your mother dead.

  I poured myself another glass of wine and took a deep breath. ‘What I’m going to tell you now is a big secret. Nobody else knows about this.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Something to do with Madame Rigaut?’

  I nodded. ‘And her son.’

  ‘Jean-Jacques . . .’ He could barely conceal his delighted anticipation. His initiative was paying off, in spades.

  I suddenly felt overwhelmingly hungry. In the circumstances the celebratory meal I’d prepared seemed some-what out of place, but it was all there was. I said, ‘Let’s eat and then I’ll tell you. You’ll need to take notes.’

  He looked at me curiously. ‘All right. What a strange woman you are, Régine.’

  We ate in silence, each preoccupied with our own thoughts, and finally, over the coffee, I began my tale. Rigaut’s letter. My last afternoon with Juliette, the note-book, our appointment, the phone call, her failure to answer the door when I rang, the house open, the un-expected encounter with Rigaut. Going back later to find the house locked up, apparently empty. In the end we taped it, on my tape machine – the same machine I’d used to record Juliette’s tale. I needed to be sure he had the story quite straight.

  When I got to the end of my recital, Olivier shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. To kill your mother? Over a picture?’

  ‘I don’t understand, either. But that seems to be what happened. What other explanation can there be?’

  He stared into his glass, considering. ‘Is that what you thought at the time?’

  ‘Of course not. Though I knew something was wrong.’

  ‘What an idiot, to go back in the afternoon. Imagine if you’d run into him.’

  ‘I had to,’ I said. ‘I just knew something had happened, and that somehow it was my fault. I still feel that, even though I didn’t actually do the deed, whatever it was. How could I leave without trying to find out? You won’t believe this, but I even thought about trying to get in there by a secret tunnel she’d told me about, that leads to the cellars.’

  ‘I remember there were stories about a secret tunnel,’ Olivier said thoughtfully, pouring himself another glass of wine and lighting another Gitane. I’d have been seriously worried about his smoking habit if I were Delphine. Fortunately I wasn’t. As husband material, Olivier really was not convincing. I suspected she might be reaching that conclusion, too.

  He inhaled slowly, and blew another smoke ring. I said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘About Rigaut . . .’ He stubbed out the cigarette half-smoked, perhaps remembering some wifely injunction. ‘If he stands, he might really win. He’s very clever. He’s never been implicated in anything. Lives quietly, doesn’t go for great shows of wealth, puts it about that he isn’t a rich man. Not that he’s poor, you saw his wife, you don’t dress like that for nothing, but she has her own money. He lives on his salary, no business connections, all political contributions accounted for. He takes a trip, he pays himself, or at any rate it doesn’t come out of the slush-fund all the rest of them use.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true.’

  ‘It is. But as I said, he’s clever.’

  ‘I suppose he’ll own La Jaubertie now. Not that that’s going to make anyone rich.’

  Olivier laughed. ‘Quite the contrary, I’d imagine. But if he’s really planning to start his own party, he’s going to need some funds.’

  ‘The picture.’ I thought about the notebook entry and that dodgy Florentine ‘barone’. ‘If it’s genuine.’


  He clicked his tongue thoughtfully against his teeth, then gave his sudden brilliant smile – the one I’d dreamt about most of last night. ‘You mean it’s not? What a fantastic story that would be . . . The old mother dies, and for what? I wonder . . .’ He ran a finger absently round the rim of his glass, making it ring – a sound that’s always set my teeth on edge. ‘It might be worth flying a kite. Just to see how he reacted.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘State the facts. Just tell the story – you wouldn’t have to say anything in so many words. Then see what happened.’

  ‘You’d never get away with it.’

  ‘Not in England, no. Fortunately, things are a bit differ-ent in France.’

  After that, conversation lapsed. Without sex to oil the wheels and pass the time we had not much to say to each other that had not already been said. I could think of nothing but Juliette, and Olivier was clearly planning his story. Our fling was over – evaporated as suddenly as it had blossomed. I wondered if his motivation had ever been more than what might be termed professional. Not that we hadn’t fancied each other – that sort of thing can’t be faked – but it seemed fairly apparent that his main reason for coming to London had been to recount his juicy morsel in hopes that it might lead to a story. He was a chancer, as Caroline would doubtless have been the first to point out – yet another in my litany of unsuitable men.

  The night before us, to which I had looked forward so eagerly, now promised to be something of an embarrassment. Olivier offered to go to a hotel, but that seemed ridiculous: mine was a large bed, and we could perfectly well spend a civilized night in it together. By the time we’d cleared up it was bedtime: we bade each other goodnight, and turned over to sleep. But although I was exhausted I couldn’t stop the churning of my mind, and lay endlessly awake while Olivier snored, gently but insistently.

  He was booked on the nine thirty Eurostar, which meant leaving the house at seven forty-five. We rode the Northern Line together: my stop was Charing Cross, he went on to Waterloo. The tube was crowded, but we managed to bag two lean-against semi-seats. As the doors shut and the train began its rattling progress, I remembered something that had occurred to me as I lay awake during the night. ‘By the way, have you any idea what’s likely to be happening at La Jaubertie just now?’

  He looked at me blankly. ‘Happening in what sense?’

  ‘I meant, will it be closed up, or will someone be there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I can easily find out. I expect they’re waiting for the will. Though of course everyone knows what’s going to happen, it’ll all go to Jean-Jacques.’

  ‘So no one can go in or out?’

  ‘Of course they can. They’ll put an official seal on the front door, but you can still get in round the back.’

  ‘Is your uncle Francis still working there, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Probably not just now. But I expect he’ll still have a key . . . Why?’

  I explained that I needed someone to go in and take a sample of paint from the picture for testing – a tiny fragment, preferably from behind the frame. ‘And if he could get a little piece of canvas as well, that would be wonderful. He’ll need to take the picture down, but it’s light, it shouldn’t be difficult. The canvas is nailed to the stretcher, when he turns it over he’ll see. He can take a bit from the back. Just a tiny bit, perhaps where it’s come away round a nail.’

  ‘Won’t there be an alarm?’

  ‘Not in the house – I’m pretty sure of that. And I don’t think there’d be one on the picture. I certainly didn’t notice anything when I was there. The insurance would be terrific, and who’s going to look for that kind of thing at La Jaubertie? I’d do the job myself, but that might be a bit difficult just now.’

  ‘I’ll ask him. I shouldn’t think he’d mind.’

  Just before the train drew in to Charing Cross he said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Go in to work,’ I replied, slightly surprised.

  ‘No, I meant about the story. What we were discussing last night.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave that to you. Bonne chance.’

  Sometimes work is a distraction, but that day I found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything, however simple. At a quarter to six I gave up, and an hour later was back at the house. It looked as though it had been hit by a hurricane – bed tangled, kitchen filled with dirty dishes, bathroom under water, the whole perfumed with Gitanes.

  I’m not one of the world’s natural housewives, but in extremis cleaning can be quite comforting. It’s constructive, and simple, and the results are more or less instantaneous. Grimly I attacked the bathroom.

  I wondered what Joe would have to say about it all. Perhaps, now that he was in the past, I’d phone him, to see.

  16

  Antoine Rigaut: London, August–September

  As if to focus our minds, the papers suddenly seemed full of Jean-Jacques Rigaut. As Olivier had predicted, all the many scandals that for years had hovered around the Elysée seemed to be gathering into a great head of pus that threatened to spurt out and drench the various participants in a noisome coating, one of whose effects would be to leave them at least temporarily unelectable. It seemed as though only Rigaut, severe and upright, stood apart from this uncharmed circle. Because of this, and also because he offered those tempted by the Front National a way of indulging their more disreputable instincts without actually voting for fascists, he was now a serious prospect for the Presidency, as part of either the ruling party or the new one he talked of starting.

  Unable to concentrate on anything else, I passed the time listening to the tapes of my interview with Juliette. And they in turn led me to think about Jean-Jacques’ brother Antoine, whose birth had been so problematic and whose death had propelled me into this strange adventure. His agreeing to lend the picture hadn’t been a figment of my imagination – there were letters and emails confirming it. Positively charming – suggesting we meet sometime to dis-cuss the exhibition, he might have some suggestions to offer. And then, suddenly, he had changed his mind. And before anyone could ask him why, died.

  Other than the fact of it, however, I knew almost nothing about Antoine Rigaut’s death. It was the consequences, not the event, that had concerned me. First the impossibility of contacting him (hardly surprising, since he was already dead), and then the fact that the discovery of his body for some reason changed Manu’s mind about putting me in touch with his grandmother. What that reason was I still could not say for certain, though I was beginning to have some inkling. But whatever might have been in Manu’s mind that day, I didn’t think he would share it with me now. On the contrary – given a choice of everyone in the world, I was probably the person he least wanted to see. I wondered if he had connected his grandmother’s death with my visit. If and when he did, it would probably be impossible to get him to speak to me ever again.

  On the other hand, this might be the moment to resume contact with the Louvre. Now Rigaut was safely out of the way, might they not rethink his arbitrary refusal to lend the picture? And maybe, incidentally, shed a bit of light on the affair . . .

  I picked up the phone, dialled the Louvre, and asked for Charles Rey.

  This time, he was in. He answered his phone with a brusque ‘Oui?’ – a busy man, annoyingly interrupted in the midst of important concerns. When I introduced myself, he sighed. That seemed a bit uncalled-for, considering the terms on which we’d parted last time we’d met. Not that after twelve years one expects effusiveness, but surely, at the very least, a pleased curiosity? Perhaps the redoubtable Madame Desvergnes had filled him in on my previous visit, and he now connected me with the tangle over Rigaut and the cancelled loan.

  ‘Eh bien, Régine. I gather you called round. Sorry I wasn’t there . . . What exactly did you want?’

  ‘It’s about the Caravaggio St Cecilia. I don’t know if you know – you probably weren’t concerned – but we were hop
ing to borrow it for an exhibition here at the National Gallery.’

  His worst suspicions confirmed, he dug around in memory’s far recesses. ‘Yes, I seem to recall something of the sort.’

  ‘It was all agreed, and then Monsieur Rigaut suddenly withdrew permission. Nobody really explained why, so I was hoping perhaps, since he’s not around any more, it might be possible to reconsider. I understand you’re in charge now, is that right? How are you, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine,’ he said absently, his mind clearly else-where.

  The silence that followed was so long I began to wonder if he’d rung off. Eventually, however, he spoke – but only to say, ‘I’m afraid I can’t really take that sort of decision. I’m just the acting head. They haven’t made a permanent appointment yet.’

  I didn’t argue, though I could have. If acting heads can’t take decisions, what can they do? ‘Of course. It’s just – I thought you might have some idea what was going on.’

  ‘Why would I?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘No particular reason, just that you were colleagues . . . I don’t suppose you know why he refused? Or know some-one who may know?’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ He clearly wanted to end this conversation.

  However, I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook now I’d got him nicely dangling. You never know what little detail may jog someone’s memory. ‘Or what happened to him? It all seemed very mysterious.’

  He sighed. ‘I’m afraid not. All I know is what I found.’ He stopped abruptly, as though the words had slipped out before he’d realized what he was saying.

  So that was where he’d been the afternoon I visited his office at the Louvre! ‘What you found?’ I said conversationally. ‘My God, was it you that found him? How terrible for you!’

  He didn’t deny it. ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ was what he said. ‘And now if you don’t mind, I have to go to a meeting.’

  Meetings, meetings, what convenient things they are. Still, I’d made some progress. Not professionally – I some-how had a feeling the Louvre picture had slipped irretrievably out of our grasp. But it was clear now that Charles had known Rigaut not just as a colleague but well enough to call round – to get into his apartment, indeed. Had Rigaut confided in him? I was willing to bet he had. In which case, Charles knew exactly why Rigaut had suddenly changed his mind.