Strange Images of Death Read online

  Praise for Barbara Cleverly’s

  Joe Sandilands series

  ‘Spectacular and dashing. Spellbinding.’

  New York Times

  ‘Smashing … marvellously evoked.’

  Chicago Tribune

  ‘A great blood and guts blockbuster.’

  Guardian

  ‘Stellar—as always.’

  ‘British author Cleverly out-Christies Agatha Christie …’

  Publishers Weekly (starred reviews)

  ‘A historical mystery that has just about everything: a fresh, beautifully realized exotic setting; a strong, confident protagonist; a poignant love story; and an exquisitely complex plot.’

  Denver Post

  ‘Evocative narrative, sensitive characterizations, artful dialogue and masterly plotting.’

  Library Journal

  And for The Tomb of Zeus

  ‘Award-winning author Cleverly debuts a captivating new series. In the tradition of Agatha Christie, the characters are complex and varied. Amid the picturesque history of the island (of Crete), mystery and murder abound in this riveting novel.’

  Romantic Times

  ‘For readers who love Elizabeth Peters and Jacqueline Winspear, Cleverly demonstrates a knack for creating full-blown historical puzzlers with complicated plots and engaging characters in unusual settings.’

  Library Journal (starred review)

  ‘Tucked into the wealth of archaeological and historical detail is a full-blown English houseparty murder … with a spirited, intelligent heroine, a glorious exotic setting, a clever plot and a touch of romance …’

  Denver Post

  Also by Barbara Cleverly

  The Last Kashmiri Rose

  Ragtime in Simla

  The Damascened Blade

  The Palace Tiger

  The Bee’s Kiss

  Tug of War

  Folly du Jour

  The Tomb of Zeus

  Bright Hair about the Bone

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010

  First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2010

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  www.sohopress.com

  Copyright © Barbara Cleverly, 2010

  The right of Barbara Cleverly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication

  Data is available from the British Library

  UK ISBN: 978-1-84901-118-1

  US ISBN: 978-1-56947-632-1

  eISBN: 978-1-56947-897-4

  US Library of Congress number: 2009049928

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Prologue

  Provence, South of France, 1926

  He studied her sleeping face for the last time.

  She was lying peacefully on her back, her fair hair spreading in ripples over the pillow. Warm-gold by day, the waves now gleamed pale silver, all colour bleached away by the moonlight. Her features also were drained and only the lips still showed a trace of emotion. They were slightly open and uptilted, perhaps in a suggestion of remembered and recent passion. He smothered the distasteful notion.

  Such beauty!

  He felt his resolve waver and was alarmed to acknowledge a moment of indecision. He reminded himself that this beauty was his—his to spare or to destroy—and a rush of exaltation swept away the slight uncertainty. It had been a wobble, no more than a weakness imposed on him by convention. Convention? Even at this moment of approaching ecstasy he paused to consider the word. From the Latin, of course. ‘A coming together’. In agreement and common consent. Well, convention would never direct him. It was his nature to step away from the crowd, to walk in the opposite direction, to think his own rebellious thoughts and to translate those thoughts into action. He would be true to his nature. He would assert his birthright.

  He leaned closer until his face was only inches above the still form. He had a fancy that, if he pressed his lips to hers, he might catch her dying breath. The thought revolted and fascinated him in equal measure and he lifted his head. He took a deliberate step backwards. He would not touch her. No part of his body would make contact with hers. To test his resolve he contemplated trailing a lascivious finger along her smooth throat as others had, of allowing that finger to ease over the left collar bone until it encountered the imperfection of a tiny mole half-hidden by a fold of her white gown. His hand remained safely in his pocket. He would look. Admire. Hate.

  He stood for a moment, a shadow among shadows. The garment he’d put on had been carefully chosen: an old-fashioned hunting coat (English tailoring, he did believe), it had been abandoned on a hook by the door in the cloak-room by some visiting milord, years, possibly decades, ago. The thick grey tweed was a perfect camouflage—it even had a hood—and, essential for his purpose, not one but two concealed poacher’s pockets. His fine nose was revolted by the smell of decay that lurked in the tweedy depths, still stained with the blood of long-dead creatures, but they accommodated the very special equipment he had needed to carry, covertly, along the corridors.

  He played with the notion of taking out the heavy-duty military torch and lighting up her last moments, but an innate caution made him dismiss the idea. The moonlight was all the illumination he could wish for. A resplendent August moon shone through the uncurtained windows, coating the alabaster-fair features with an undeserved glaze of sanctity.

  The Moon. Generous but demanding deity! He adored her. She was his friend, his accomplice. He welcomed the white peace and forgiveness she brought at the end of each day’s red turmoil and sin. Like some sprite from a northern folk tale, he came to life in the dark hours. His eyes grew wide, his thoughts became as clear and cold as the moon
herself. His senses were sharpened.

  He listened. He turned abruptly as a distant owl screeched and claimed its prey. A farm dog across the valley responded with a half-hearted warning howl and then fell silent, duty done. But from within the walls there was no sound. His stretched senses detected nothing though he could imagine the drunken snores, the unconscious mutterings, the hands groping blindly for a pitcher of cool water as his fellows slept, divided from him by several thick walls and a courtyard. He would be undisturbed.

  The weight in his right pocket banged against his thigh and prompted his next move. He took out the heavy claw hammer and ran a hand over the blunt metal head; with the pads of his fingers he tested the sharpness of the up-curving, V-shaped nail-wrench that balanced it at the rear. He required the tool to perform well in both its capacities. It would smash with concentrated force and, with a twist of his hand, would lever and rip. It would be equal to the task. But there would be noise. He took a velvet scarf from his neck and wound it securely around the hammer head to muffle the blows.

  He was being overcautious. No one would respond, even if the sounds cut through their wine-fuelled stupor. A strange light might possibly have excited curiosity and investigation by some inquisitive servant. No, he didn’t discount a dutiful response from one of these domestics if he were careless enough to draw attention. The live-in staff were well chosen, adequately paid and highly trained. So, no wandering lights. But a few distant creaks and bangs in a crumbling old building went, like the dog’s howl, unheeded by everyone.

  He’d savoured the moment for too long. Enough of musing. Enough of gloating over her loveliness. Time to move on. Time to clear this filth from his path to make way for a worthier offering.

  He took out the fencing mask he’d thought to bring with him and put it over his face. He wanted no tell-tale scratches raising eyebrows at the breakfast table. He pulled up the hood of the hunting coat to cover his hair. There would be no traces of this night’s activity left clinging to his person, attracting the attention of that sharp-eyed girl who cleaned out his room.

  He was ready.

  As a last flourish, he muttered cynically an abbreviated prayer for a lost soul in Latin: ‘Quaesumus, Domine, miserere famulae tuae, Alienorae, et a contagiis mortalitatis exutam, in aeternam salvationis partem restitue. Have mercy on the soul of your maidservant, Aliénore, and free her from the defilement of her mortal flesh …’

  As he murmured, his supple fingers ran with satisfaction along the smooth wooden handle of the ancient hammer. He’d used it often and knew its strength. The muscles of his arms were accommodated to its use as those of a tennis player to his racquet, and they responded now with familiar ease as he swung the weight upwards over his head and brought it crashing down into the centre of the delicate face.

  Chapter One

  France, August 1926

  ‘To wake or not to wake the pest?’ was Joe’s silent question.

  Would she really welcome an elbow in the ribs only half an hour after sinking so ostentatiously into sleep? He glanced again at the suspiciously still form in the passenger seat next to him and the half of the face that was visible. The pure profile and slight smile were deceptively angelic, and he decided to leave her to her daydreams. But a road sign had just announced that they were a mere five kilometres north of the town of Valence. Here they were, booming on south at a speed the Morris Oxford cabriolet could never have reached, let alone sustained, on English roads. Joe Sandilands was no car-worshipper, but he could almost have persuaded himself that it (he refused to call this ingenious arrangement of metal ‘she’) was enjoying swallowing up the huge French distances.

  The day was hot; the hood was down. Avenues of plane trees lined the route, offering, for mile after mile, a beneficent shade.

  The girl in the passenger seat was fast asleep—or pretending to be. You could never tell with Dorcas. Joe was quite certain that she frequently rolled up her cardigan and pushed her head into it, facing away from him, the minute they got into the car, deliberately to avoid making polite conversation.

  And that suited Joe.

  Was she being considerate? Or was she bored out of her mind by him? He decided—bored. A seasoned police officer more than twice her age would never be an ideal companion for a fourteen-year-old English girl, however well travelled she might be. Lord! How old was he these days? Thirty-three! But at least no one had yet taken him for her father and Joe was thankful for that.

  ‘My uncle Joseph Sandilands. Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard,’ was all the introduction Dorcas was prepared to supply when she felt their travelling arrangements called for clarification. But it was all the reassurance people seemed to need. The suggestion of a blood relationship and an impressive title put Joe beyond reproach or even question. Particularly when he hurried to add, allowing just the briefest flicker of martyrdom to flit across his agreeable features, that he was escorting his niece down to her father who was spending the summer at the Château du Diable — or whatever its pantomime name was—in Provence. Dropping her off as he himself flighted south to the delights of the Riviera. As he’d jokingly told his sister Lydia who’d engineered the unwelcome escort duty, he would be held up as an example from Calais to Cannes of self-sacrificing unclehood. And so, to his surprise, it had proved. The slight deceit, embarked on in the interests of an oversensitive English concern for the proprieties, had gone unchallenged and undiscovered.

  Uncle Joseph! The word made him feel old. In his world, uncles were elderly and rather decrepit survivors of the war before the last. They sat in armchairs, smiling benignly at their descendants, muttering of Mafeking, their lower limbs rugged up in tartan. After a shifty glance to make certain Dorcas still had her eyes closed, Joe pushed his sun goggles on to his forehead, tilted his head and squinted critically into the useful mirror he’d had fixed to his wind-screen in Lyon to keep an eye on traffic behind. They were all there on his face: the lines and the crow’s feet sketched in by a tough life lived mostly outdoors. And undeniably on the advance. But at least his grey eyes were taking on an interesting brilliance as his face grew darker in the southern sun. He narrowed his eyes, trying on an air of menace and mystery. All too easily achieved when the left side of your face was slightly distorted. He’d never found the time to have the battlefield surgery corrected and now it was too late—he’d grown into his shrapnel-scarred features. He wore the damage like a medal—with a silent and bitter pride.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Joe! Book yourself into St Mary’s and have that repaired,’ his sister Lydia constantly urged. ‘Surgeons are so much more skilled these days. They can rebuild whole faces—your little piece of mis-stitching would hardly begin to test them. You’d be in and out in no time and we’d have our handsome old Joe back again the moment the bandages came off.’ She’d waggle a minatory finger at him and add: ‘And never forget what they say! “The face is the mirror of the soul.” A platitude, I agree, but a sentiment I’ve always put some store by. It’s deceitful of you to present this distorted funfair reflection of yourself to the world.’

  But he’d resisted. Quibbled. Procrastinated. In eight years of police work, he’d discovered the power of intimidation he could exert by presenting his battered left side to the suspects he was interrogating. It spoke of battles survived, pain endured, experience acquired. With a turn of the head, he could trump the villainy of any man he’d confronted across the interview table. ‘You think you’re tough?’ he challenged silently. ‘How tough? As tough as this?’ Men who’d evaded the draft found themselves wrong-footed, fellow soldiers recognized an officer who’d clearly led from the front and accorded him a measure of silent respect.

  Joe underlined the effect of the drama he was assessing in his rear-viewing mirror with the cruel grin and slanting flash of white teeth of a music-hall villain. Not quite Ramon Novarro in Scaramouche but, even so—not bad! Not bad at all! He could use that sardonic look at the casino or strolling along the promenade in Nice. He reca
lled, with a stir of excitement, the words his superior in the War Office had used when encouraging him, for Reasons of State, to undertake this journey to France: ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Sandilands, that female companionship—if that’s what you’re after—is available and of a superior style in France.’ The Brigadier’s remark was uncharacteristically indiscreet, unwittingly arousing. Joe had been surprised, amused and then dismissive but the titillating notion had stayed with him. His foot unconsciously increased its pressure on the accelerator. Yes, he was eager to be down there, sipping his first pastis under a blistering Riviera sun, eyeing pretty women parading about in tennis skirts and swimming costumes. And if they were enticing your ear with a French accent—so much the better.