‘What were the signs?’
‘A certain undirected euphoria. She smiled a lot. Of course, that could have been the cocaine … but I don’t think so. She dressed perkily, she chattered in an alluring and attention-seeking way at table, she went missing for long periods at a time, several times a week. Boring job-sitting about in the nude, not able even to read a book-who shall blame her for seeking a little excitement? But-and here’s the odd thing-I haven’t the slightest idea with whom she was involved! Why do you suppose she would keep something like that quiet? In a company like this-bohemian, I hear you sneer-who would care? It’s a case of love and let love in this little world.’
Joe remembered the conversation he’d overheard in the ladies’ dormitory. ‘Some are more censorious than you’d allow, Orlando. They enjoy the idea of freedoms for themselves but still don’t much like to see other, more attractive creatures, seizing their opportunities with both hands. Or their men! Perhaps the man involved was married? There are two married couples accorded the luxury of rooms of their own, I understand. The Whittlesfords and the Fentons? Jacquemin, when I left him, was putting them to the bottom of his list. Married couples tend to notice if one of them’s donning a stinking old cloak, picking up a hammer and sneaking off for an hour in the middle of the night.’
‘Returning, breathing heavily, in a state of excitement? Oh, I’m not so sure … And anyway … Mrs Whittlesford would have no idea what her other half was up to at night! And you can bet your boots Mr Fenton was unobserved by Mrs Fenton!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Two rooms. Four people. Married couples, but not necessarily coupling within the marriage, if you take my meaning.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Joe.
He forced himself to pursue his enquiries since he’d got Orlando into a discursive mode. ‘So-we don’t know who Estelle was mooning over then, but was there anyone she disliked particularly?’
Orlando, feeling himself on firmer ground, was prepared to consider this. ‘Not really. That’s not Estelle. She tried to like everyone. Made an effort. Good manners, you know-early training shows through. There was no one she shied away from. She couldn’t stand some of the women but then we’ve all wanted to strangle Cecily. Ghastly woman! Girls can be terrible bullies, you know. Cecily rather put the boot in from day one, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, yes. I thought I sensed a bit of bad blood between them.’
‘All on Cecily’s side. Upper-class twit of a girl, spoiled rotten, I suspect, by her doting daddy. No expense spared to launch her in her chosen career. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Cecily happens to have talent. I’ve always thought it unfair-the way talents like this are handed out by the Almighty. Great galumphing girl she may be but those road-mender’s hands of hers have got a certain skill.’ Orlando’s lip curled. ‘Of a marketable sort! A queasily romantic sort. Fantin-Latour would call for the smelling salts. But you’d be surprised how many Parisian and New York boudoirs are graced by one of her overblown Peony Portraits. This season she’s unleashed her enthusiasm and loaded her palette to celebrate the Flora of Provence.’
‘What about the other women?’
‘Jane Makepeace terrifies us all and Phoebe Fenton has a laugh that would make anyone want to cut her throat. Estelle really tried even with the ballet girls as they chasséed through. She always learned their names and made time to chat with them-’
‘The men, Orlando, it’s her relationship with men I’m interested in.’
‘She was close to the photographer-Nathan. Met him in Paris. Obviously something going on or had been going on there … One doesn’t ask. Then there’s Frederick the fresco man.’ He paused. ‘Hard to say. She never spoke of him. Well-set-up young lad. Talented-he trained at the Slade with the best of the new crop. Good background. All the charm in the world. And the real thing-not like that three-coats-deep glaze the Irishman shows to the world. Estelle did some work for Fred a week or two ago. She sat for some of the preliminary sketches he was doing for The Devil’s Bride. The two of them disappeared for days together. Hired a motorcycle from the village, had picnic baskets packed and off they went with Estelle on the flapper seat. “Location hunting,” he told me when I enquired. “We’re looking for the descent into hell. I think we may have found it!”’
‘Why don’t you go back and start at the top-with the lord,’ suggested Joe. ‘How did she get on with him?’
‘The lord? Silmont?’ Orlando gave a dismissive laugh. ‘I don’t think she had much time for him! But then, he doesn’t have much time for us. She always went very silent when he was around, now I come to think of it. And I don’t think she had much respect for his cousin, de Pacy, either.’ Orlando furrowed his brow, remembering. ‘I always had the feeling she had something on him … Knew something she shouldn’t have known … Hard to recall at this stretch of time but there was some remark she made once. “Oh, if only you knew! That man’s not what he appears …” That sort of comment. I would never suspect Estelle of the slightest malicious intent but she was a bit odd about de Pacy. She made the expected overtures when she arrived. Sailed in, all guns firing. The women all do, you know. He’s a good-looking man-war hero-and he has that authoritative air about him that the rest of us so envy.’ Orlando sighed and glanced at Joe. ‘You’ve got it, too. I say, you didn’t …?’
‘No such luck!’ said Joe quickly.
‘Well, she went through the motions but, experienced lass that she was, caught on rather more quickly than the other ladies who fancied their chances with him and sheered off.’ Orlando paused, wondering quite how to proceed.
‘She did confide-even warned me, you might say-that he is a man who likes handsome men,’ Joe prompted, electing to use Estelle’s own euphemism for a male condition not spoken of in company. He could not be certain of the extent to which the happily sexual Orlando was aware of inversion.
‘Well, there you are, then! She found out quickly enough-and the hard way, no doubt. Can rock you on your heels, a rebuff of that sort. Leads to loss of self-esteem and insecurity if one is not hardened to rejection,’ he replied with complete understanding and acceptance of Joe’s suggestion. ‘That would be the moment she started to avoid him. Oh-nothing done in a marked manner, you understand. She wouldn’t deliver a set-down. Not her style. In fact, anyone less interested in the girl than I, wouldn’t have noticed. Little things. She always managed to seat herself at the other end of the table, never joined him on his fur-pile-’
‘On his what?’
‘At the end of the meals-you know. At the moment the hall turns from salle à manger to salon de compagnie. You can tell an awful lot about relationships, friendships, involvements when people start to pull up those very medieval piles of furs and cushions and sit about in groups. Not so popular with the women,’ he said with a twinkle of amusement. ‘The ones who’ve only packed their short evening dresses. Much involuntary flashing of underwear on the way up and down! Those who brought their lounging pants or a long dress find themselves much more at ease. Take a close look next time-if ever-it happens again.’
Joe promised to give his close attention to the fur-pile friendships and, hesitatingly, asked: ‘About Guy de Pacy’s proclivities, Orlando … I’m a man … you’re a good-looking chap, in the right light … have you any reason …’
‘Good gad! No! Not the slightest!’
‘Exactly. So why …?’
‘Estelle could have got it wrong, you’re thinking? Warning you off like that? And if the fellow did turn her down, one does rather wonder why? It’s not every day a girl like her swims into your life, offering excitement and no strings attached. What could possibly …? Oh, I say … I’m having a terrible thought! He was a pilot, you know. Flew with the Storks. It’s said he was badly injured in a crash landing towards the end of the war. No one has any idea-why would we? — of the extent of those injuries. Perhaps there’s an unpalatable physical reason for the distance he keeps between himself and the women
. I mean, apart from the arm.’
‘He gets on well with Miss Makepeace?’
‘Different sort of relationship there. She’s trying to get into his head not his … Formidable woman. A scholar. You have to admire the way she does a man’s job and no one questions her right to her position. They’re good friends. A meeting of minds, I’d say. And good luck to him!’
The two men fell silent, too absorbed by their sombre thoughts and speculations to enjoy the beauty of the countryside they were driving through. Cool stands of oak trees crowding the lower slopes of the hills gave way to an airy upland where cherry orchards and vineyards and corduroy furrows of lavender vied with each other for prominence. In the distance a finger of ancient yellowed limestone rose like an exclamation mark, drawing the eye. It was echoed and softened by the slim, peremptory shapes of cypress trees.
‘That’s where we’re headed,’ said Orlando, suddenly conscious of the reason he’d been sent along for the ride. ‘At least I think that’s where the lord brought me. Wasn’t really concentrating. I remember it was ten miles and he pointed out an Italianate campanile as the marker when we got within range. The house is right underneath it. Pretty place. Not at all grand. Gentilhommière of sorts. Nice man. You’ll like Alphonse Lacroix.’
It had none of the grandeur of Silmont. An eighteenth-century maison de plaisance, the honey-coloured stone house was on a human scale and built, not for defence, but for a comfortable life. It had remained trim and symmetrical over the years, exactly as the architect had first rendered it, with not a trace of the haphazard organic growth of an English house of the same venerable age. A modest two storeys, from a long and emphatic centre, it extended wings forward in a welcome towards the approaching visitor. The rear of the house was protected from wintry blasts from the Alps to the north by a lift of hills, outliers of the Vaucluse, and its façade was carefully angled to miss the full glare of the afternoon sun. Pale grey wooden shutters were folded back revealing tall windows whose panes glittered in the sun’s sloping angle. White curtains billowed, suggesting an airy interior. The central wide entrance door was clearly announced by a low flight of steps flanked by trimmed orange trees in tubs. The carriage sweep was freshly raked.
Joe parked the car a short way off in front of the house and turned off the engine. The noise of the cicadas flooded in, thrumming pleasantly and pierced, in the distance, by the excited whinny of a horse.
‘Well, you could put your foot down here without fearing the blood of centuries will ooze up and ruin your Oxfords,’ Joe commented. ‘I can see why the lord escapes here for a day or two a week.’
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.’
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