Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  I nodded.

  He held out an ID tag. ‘Detective Sergeant Edmunds, Metropolitan Police. This is my colleague Mr Lebrun from France. I wonder if we might have a few words?’

  I felt the sweat start to run: panic, unspecific but nonetheless intense, flooded through me. ‘What about?’

  He nodded towards the house. ‘Could we perhaps talk indoors?’

  I opened the door, and Edmunds shut it behind us.

  My house was once two cottages; the ground floor has been knocked through to make one big kitchen/living room. I led us to the sitting-room bit, wondering how I’d ever make it through to the end of whatever this was. The day already seemed to have been going on for an unusually long time, and now it threatened to stretch on into eternity. I took an armchair, Edmunds and Lebrun sat somewhat awkwardly side by side on the sofa. I repeated my question. ‘What on earth is this all about?’

  Edmunds nodded at Lebrun, who said in heavily accented English, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, madame. Some-thing has arisen and it seems you may be able to help us.’

  I said nothing. Since Lebrun was French, this must have something to do with the Rigauts. Perhaps Olivier had published his piece and the police had been prompted to investigate Juliette’s death.

  Lebrun’s next words indicated that this was indeed the case. He said, ‘A Madame Juliette Rigaut was found dead on 25th August. I believe you knew her?’

  I wondered how hard-pressed the British force would be to find someone who could speak French even as well as Lebrun spoke English. I said, ‘Yes, I knew her. And I heard she’d died.’

  Lebrun inclined his head. ‘As I think you perhaps know, the circumstances of her death were not altogether straightforward.’

  I said, ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

  Lebrun scrabbled in his briefcase, brought out a copy of Olivier’s magazine and handed it to me. His was the lead story, headlined Mystery Death of Minister’s Mother, with photographs of La Jaubertie and the Minister, and a blurred image of Juliette, obviously blown up from a small snapshot.

  On August 25, Mme Juliette Rigaut, mother of Interior Minister Jean-Jacques Rigaut, was found dead at her home, the château de la Jaubertie, in the Dordogne. Mme Rigaut had not seemed unwell, but since she was eighty-eight years old, an age when death is hardly unexpected, no questions were raised. She was buried four days later in the family vault.

  Mme Rigaut, widow of the famous Surrealist photographer Emmanuel Rigaut, had spent the day of August 23 in conversation with Dr Régine Lee, a scholar from the National Gallery in London, who hoped to borrow an art-work for a forthcoming exhibition. The conversation went on into the evening; at eight o’clock Mme Rigaut suggested it should be continued the next morning, August 24. It was agreed that Mme Rigaut would telephone Dr Lee when she was ready to receive her.

  Just after nine next morning, Dr Lee’s mobile phone rang. It was Mme Rigaut, saying that she was ready and that Dr Lee should come round.

  Dr Lee at once set out for La Jaubertie, arriving about ten minutes later. But when she rang the front doorbell, nobody answered. As the door was open, she let herself into the house, thinking that Mme Rigaut was probably waiting for her upstairs.

  Dr Lee expected to find Mme Rigaut in her study, where they had talked the previous day. But no one was there, nor did there seem to be any sign of life elsewhere in the house. She was about to leave when she heard footsteps approach-ing. However, the person who entered the study was not Mme Rigaut but her son, Jean-Jacques, the Minister of the Interior. He assured Dr Lee that his mother could not see her and (despite their arrangement and the earlier phone call) was not in the house. He then ordered her out.

  Naturally she left; equally naturally, she was worried and curious as to what could have happened. In the after-noon she thought she would try once more, in case Mme Rigaut had returned. However, when she got to La Jaubertie, the house was closed and shuttered, and it seemed clear that no one was at home.

  On the following day, August 25, when Mme Rigaut’s housekeeper Babette Lacour returned from a short holiday and let herself into the château, she found Mme Rigaut’s body lying on her bed. She was declared dead of natural causes, and buried in the family vault four days later. But when had the death occurred? And did anyone look to see what she’d really died of?

  Edmunds said. ‘Don’t tell me your phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve been out all day.’

  As if to prove Edmunds’ point, my phone began to ring. I let it go through to voicemail, but the caller hung up when the message began to play. I went over to check: I had twelve messages waiting – at least one of them, doubt-less, from the person who’d just hung up.

  ‘May I keep this?’

  Lebrun nodded. ‘Would you say this is a correct account of events?’

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much what happened.’

  ‘Pretty much?’ Lebrun repeated sharply.

  ‘Obviously there are some details he hasn’t included.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, for instance, when Monsieur Rigaut found me in the study – I don’t know if you’ve seen him, he always seems very calm, very in control. But he looked absolutely distraught. Panic-stricken. It struck me – I was astonished, I couldn’t imagine what could have been happening to make him look like that.’

  ‘Perhaps finding an intruder in the house,’ Edmunds remarked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘But we’d met before. He knew I’d been talking to his mother. He’d tried to stop it, but we’d gone ahead anyway. And I don’t think I’m a particularly alarming figure. Would you say?’

  ‘Why had he tried to stop it?’ Lebrun asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I take it you were the source of this story.’

  ‘I spoke to Olivier Peytoureau, yes.’

  ‘So what are you implying? That Monsieur Rigaut murdered his mother?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything. All I can tell you is what happened to me and what I saw. I made the arrangement with Madame Rigaut, to see her at La Jaubertie on the morning of 24th August. I wanted to look at a notebook – a diary kept by her father when he bought a picture I’m interested in. You probably know, I work at the National Gallery. We’d spent the previous day together and she’d shown me the notebook, but we’d been talking all day and she was tired, and I wanted to look at it more closely. So we agreed I’d come back in the morning, after she’d called to tell me she was up and ready. So that’s what she did – called just after nine – five or ten past. But when I got there a quarter of an hour later, no one answered the door. I knew she was deaf, and might not hear the doorbell, so I tried the door – I knew it usually wasn’t locked. And then I went along to the study. I assumed she’d be there. But she wasn’t, so I got on with looking at the notebook. And then Monsieur Rigaut arrived, and told me she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Perhaps he just thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of you,’ Edmunds said. ‘I know I wouldn’t be too pleased to come into my lounge and find someone fossicking around.’

  ‘Madame Lee,’ Lebrun said, ‘would it surprise you to know that there are perhaps other interpretations of what happened that morning?’

  ‘I’m not interpreting. I’m just telling you what happened.’

  Taking no notice of this, he said, ‘Clearly the assumption must be that Madame Rigaut died a natural death. She was old – eighty-eight – an age when it’s natural to die, n’est-ce pas? But the implication of the article is that her death was not natural, and that Monsieur Rigaut knew more about it than he said. But in that case, the same could be true of you. If she was killed, why should it be Monsieur Rigaut that killed her? Why not you? You could have done it, why not? You were there.’

  My mind whirled. ‘Is that what he’s saying? Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Naturally we spoke to Monsieur Rigaut.’

  ‘And?’

  �
�Madame, my business is to find out what you say. But it’s always possible, n’est-ce pas, that when he said his mother didn’t want to see you he was telling the truth? As I understand it, you seem to think that by the time Monsieur Rigaut found you, Madame Rigaut was dead. But why should that be? And if the house was locked when you returned there, is that so unusual? But whether it was locked or open, you were there that afternoon, you said so yourself. Who knows what happened then?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Nothing. No one was there. The place was locked up.’

  ‘That’s what you say. But telling is not proof.’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘You can’t seriously be suggest-ing I killed her?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply saying that if – if – she was killed, it’s not impossible.’

  We stared at each other for a moment. Then he said, ‘Were you a friend of Madame Rigaut?’

  ‘I hadn’t known her long, if that’s what you mean. I’d been there a couple of times to discuss various things. I liked her a lot.’

  ‘She had a picture you wanted to borrow?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And did she lend it?’

  ‘No. She said she would – I can show you the letter – and then Monsieur Rigaut wrote to say she wasn’t the sole owner and the other owners, of whom he was one, refused. I went back to see Madame Rigaut, and showed her his letter, and she said he was lying – she wrote it on his letter, I can show you that too. They’d had a big argument about it. The whole thing seemed very strange, and naturally I wanted to try and find out what was going on. That’s how I met Monsieur Peytoureau. He comes from there, and the families know each other. I thought he might be able to give me a clue.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Not really. I still don’t understand it. But there you are.’

  ‘How about Monsieur Rigaut? You know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him a couple of times. I don’t think he likes me, and I know he didn’t like me talking to his mother.’

  ‘When you left La Jaubertie that morning, where did you go, exactly?’

  ‘I went back to Les Pruniers, the b. and b. where I was staying, and talked to Delphine Peytoureau who runs it. Olivier’s wife. We’d become good friends. I paid her for the room, and she said did I want to come swimming in a lake where they go, but I said I wouldn’t.’

  ‘And then?’

  And then, and then. Up to this point my story had involved other people, so it could be checked. But after that, I’d been on my own.

  ‘I stayed at Les Pruniers for a while – it was a beautiful day and I lay about in the garden. And then, as I told you, I went back to La Jaubertie.’

  ‘Why, exactly?’ Lebrun asked.

  ‘Because I was worried about Madame Rigaut. Wouldn’t you have been? One minute I’d been talking to her and the next she supposedly wasn’t there and didn’t want to see me. Something very strange seemed to be going on. And I’d become fond of her. So I wanted to make sure she was all right. I thought I’d see whether Monsieur Rigaut was there, and if he wasn’t, then perhaps she would be and we could have our talk. So at about two, two thirty, I went back there.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Well, there were no cars there. Not that that meant any-thing – I hadn’t seen any cars in the morning, either. So I got out and rang the bell. And no one answered.’

  ‘As in the morning.’

  ‘As in the morning. But this time when I tried the door it was locked. All the doors were, and all the shutters were shut. It was clear no one was there.’

  ‘So you left?’

  ‘Not before having a bit of a look round. The château’s surrounded by woods, and on one side they come quite close in. I found a sort of old barn in a clearing there, with tyre tracks going to it. That must have been where Monsieur Rigaut put his car.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually find it there?’

  ‘No, that was locked, too.’

  Edmunds and Lebrun exchanged glances.

  ‘Did anyone see you while you were there?’ Lebrun asked. He looked exhausted: he’d probably started early, and now it was almost ten in the evening. Eleven, if he was working on French time. And it’s always tiring operating in a foreign language. They’d probably only sent him over because he spoke English.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Madame Lee,’ he said finally, ‘are you sure that’s all you know? This is serious, madame.’

  ‘Believe me, that’s it. And if you don’t believe me that’s still it. There’s nothing more I can tell you.’

  ‘How many other people have you told about this?’

  ‘Only one.’

  Lebrun said, ‘Peytoureau,’ and I nodded.

  ‘Why him, particularly? To get the story in the press?’

  I wondered how much he knew about me and Olivier. Our hillside embrace hadn’t exactly been private. If Rigaut or one of his gorillas had seen us, he certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to pass that little detail on to the police. Not that it needed much passing – Rigaut’s gorillas were the police, for God’s sake. I felt sure, now, that that must be what had happened. What was it Rigaut had said? I see you two are friends – something of that sort.

  ‘Yes, I met him through his wife. I told you, I was stay-ing at their house – she does chambres d’hôte at St Front, near Meyrignac. The tourist office recommended her.’

  He sighed and said, ‘You realize the predicament you are in, madame? I’m afraid that for the moment I must ask you to remain available.’

  Edmunds said, ‘Perhaps you would give me your pass-port, Miss Lee. We’ll keep it quite safe.’

  Perhaps. How very British, to phrase an order as though there were some choice about it. I said, ‘If you don’t mind waiting down here, I’ll call my lawyer.’

  Edmunds shrugged. ‘Of course.’

  I left them sitting while I went up to my study and called Caroline on my mobile. She answered at once, and it struck me she was probably in bed. However, she was still awake, and for once David was there – he was working at home for a couple of days. She passed me to him, and I explained briefly what had happened. ‘They want my passport. I can’t imagine what they thought I’d do – skip the country?’

  David considered for a couple of minutes. ‘Did you have any foreign trips planned?’

  ‘No, not immediately.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not going to inconvenience you, I’d let them have it. It’ll keep them happy and we can always get it back. Have they been there long?’

  ‘An hour.’ I looked at my watch. ‘No, actually nearly two.’

  ‘It would probably have been better if we’d had some-one there.’

  ‘All I said was what happened.’

  ‘Yeah – well, it should be OK. Keep in touch. Don’t answer any more questions without someone there.’ He gave me a number to call, and rang off.

  Downstairs, no one had moved. Lebrun looked as though he might be asleep. I fished the passport out of my bag and handed it over. Edmunds wrote me out a receipt, then slipped it into a plastic envelope and stowed it in his briefcase. He asked for the number of my mobile, and when I hesitated, added, ‘Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to contact me if you’re thinking of leaving London.’

  I gave him the number; he noted it down and slid it into the plastic bag alongside my passport. When I asked where I could contact him he said simply, ‘Paddington Green,’ with a note of surprise that implied, Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Lebrun stood up and held out his hand like a sleep-walker. It contained a card. I took the card and shook the hand. ‘Au revoir, madame. If you need to contact me, that is my number.’

  I closed the front door behind them, poured myself a large slug of whisky and told myself to forget all about it. But I couldn’t, however hard I tried. Instead I spent the night wondering what French prisons were like, and hoping I wasn’t going to find out.

  18

  Gro
unded: London, September

  They say that even when you think you haven’t slept you really have, more than you know. If so, the results were not discernible when I got up.

  As soon as I plugged the phone back in it began ringing, so I pulled it out again and checked the voicemail. It kicked off with a message from Olivier telling me he’d done the story and would send me a copy. There was also a message from, of all people, Joe, hoping I was all right. His main concern was probably professional (though he had the grace not to actually mention our arrangement) but it was still good to hear him. Not so long ago, I’d have called him back instantly, wouldn’t have had any peace until I’d spoken to him, but now other priorities were more urgent. The other messages, as Edmunds had predicted, were from the French and English press.

  I deleted them, and wondered how best to contact Olivier. His mobile seemed the best bet. But when I called the number I was switched direct to voicemail. Perhaps he was having the same problem as me. I left him a message, and asked him to call my mobile. Relatively few people knew its number, so that at least should be safe from the press.

  At the office, my phone was similarly swamped. Olivier’s mobile still didn’t answer, and he hadn’t called. I tried his office extension, but there, too, I was switched direct to voicemail.

  I couldn’t disconnect the office phone, so I took it off the hook and tried to concentrate on the pile of work that as usual awaited me. But that was impossible, so I called Joe.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as casual as though speaking on the phone was something we did all the time these days. ‘You’ve been and gone and done it this time. So what’s all this about?’

  ‘Are we speaking professionally or personally?’

  ‘Personally, of course.’ He sounded hurt. ‘What d’you take me for?’

  ‘A journalist. You can’t imagine what it’s like. The phone just rings all the time.’