Strange Images of Death Page 12

  ‘Sergei! Are you up there? Sergei?’

  ‘And now we’re caught!’ whispered Orlando.

  ‘Who is this? De Pacy?’ muttered Joe.

  ‘No. Much worse. Much, much worse! It’s the lord himself.’

  Surprising Joe, he straightened his shoulders, grinned and said lightly, ‘Look—leave this to me. I’ll do the talking. You just smile politely. Okay? Stay where you are. Put the door back against the wall and hide the fifth position. Oh, and take those gloves off!’

  ‘Silmont! Is that you?’ he bellowed back in confident French. ‘We’re up here. Looking for Sergei. The whole world’s looking for Sergei this morning! Will you come up or shall we come down to you? Ah, here you are! Didn’t see you at breakfast, sir—I was hoping to introduce my friend Joe Sandilands, who’s doing the tour. I’ll do it now. Come in, come in.’

  With aplomb, Orlando made the introductions. He could have been standing in his own drawing room, Joe thought, confident and welcoming.

  The lord was all charm. He was delighted to see Joe whom he had been hoping to catch at lunch and regretted that he would have so short a time with him. ‘Just off to visit an old friend and neighbour for the day,’ he apologized, indicating his riding breeches. ‘Only ten miles distant—I usually ride over. Though I’m so enfeebled these days I never know when one of these rides is going to be my last. You get set in your ways once you reach fifty, you’ll find. It becomes increasingly difficult to give up on anything. I look forward to spending one evening each week playing bridge with three old friends of my youth. This week it happens to be a Tuesday when we’re all free. One of us being a doctor, we tend to follow his lead. Sounds depressing, no doubt, to a young man like you but our weeks turn agreeably around the event. I shall make a point of returning by lunch time tomorrow to do my duty! I feel I ought to exchange nods at least with this inspector of police we’ve been promised. I think cousin Guy allowed himself to be pressed into an overreaction by some of the shrill ladies we have on board at the present. What do you say, Sandilands?’

  ‘In the same situation, sir, I would myself have called on the police—had I not been the police,’ he finished with a smile. ‘There is always the fear that it may be the prologue to a tragedy.’

  ‘But as to the elusive Sergei, sir,’ Orlando bustled on with his explanation, ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you. Someone said he’d eaten early and come back to his room. The fresco painter is looking for him also—trying to tempt him out to the Val des Fées. The on dit is that our Russian friend is, in fact, a watercolourist of some distinction in addition to his other talents, were you aware? … But of course … We’ll continue our search and pass him a message should we find him before you do … What would you like us to say?’

  While Orlando had flannelled himself through this onesided conversation, Joe and the lord had been taking stock of each other. Joe decided he liked what he saw. Of medium height and slender with thinning brown hair and pale, angular features, their host did not at first sight live up to Joe’s imagined aristocratic presence. Or to his fear-some reputation as art connoisseur. Here was one who had been a handsome man and an athletic man, but Joe had an uncomfortable illusion that he was seeing him, his essence diluted, his image reflected in a dust-filmed mirror.

  He was wearing breeches and a tweed jacket and seemed to have called in on them—or Sergei, Joe corrected himself—on his way to the stables. He could have been any English country squire preparing to hack around his estate at the weekend. But he had a quality of blended awareness and ease that magnetized the space around him and drew the attention. Dark eyes seemed to gleam with increasing amusement at Orlando’s performance and he risked an exchange of glances with Joe, politely suppressing a smile.

  ‘The Val des Fées! Of course, you’re quite right, Joliffe,’ he returned smoothly, taking up the cue he was offered.

  ‘Now I remember it being spoken of. Sergei is immensely interested in the colours and character of the neighbourhood—background for his new ballet, you know.’ He turned to Joe. ‘A local story of devilish horror which you must ask someone to recount to you. In the broad light of day for choice—not before retiring! Everyone’s worst nightmare! He’s seeking not only inspiration for the plot of the ballet but also an artist of some distinction who’s capable of designing and painting the sets. Which must be stunning and fresh. He is unable to secure the attentions of Pablo Picasso or Henri Matisse who would have been his first choices because they are engaged elsewhere by rival companies. But I have introduced him to our young friend Frederick whom I have enlisted to paint a fresco in the north gallery. I have been greatly impressed by the boy’s talent and I’m sure Sergei will be equally impressed. And if they have gone off together to the ochre landscape this is nothing but good news. My schemes would appear to be working!’

  He smiled at Joe and confided: ‘One of the pleasures of advancing years is that you have collected a wide acquaintance. You know many people and can move them around like chess pieces on a board. You can put them together—drive them apart should it be necessary—even wipe them from the board if they fail to please. It’s a pity that you will be with us only for a day or two, Commander. I looked forward to watching you perform!’

  ‘Not as a pawn, I hope?’ said Joe with a smile calculated to veil rather than hide his irritation. ‘I rather see myself as a knight, bounding gallantly about the board.’

  ‘You are no bounder, Sandilands, unless I miss my mark. No. I picture you as the queen who bides her time, watches the play and swoops with deadly accuracy when the moment comes.’

  He turned to Orlando. ‘But carry on with the tour, Joliffe. I understand Guy has given carte blanche to the Commander to begin his swooping when and where he thinks fit.’ An elegant hand flicked out, indicating the turret room. ‘This would seem a strange place to start perhaps but,’ he shrugged, ‘the Commander knows best.’ He edged to the doorway. ‘Are you coming down? Then I shall accompany you and bore you with information about the building …

  ‘This suite of rooms,’ he began, affecting the tone of a guide, ‘belonged in the thirteenth century to the mistress of the Lord Silmont of the day. Well, one of the mistresses. It’s said that he had four in all, one in each corner turret. His bastard sons—of whom there were many—served him in the traditonal role of page boy or maître d’hôtel. Imagine the domestic disputes … the jostling for promotion … the back-stabbing … the shin-kicking! The sudden unexplained deaths in the struggle for the succession! Thank the Lord I have to face none of that.’

  ‘You have sons, sir?’ Joe asked as the lord seemed to have left a space for a response.

  ‘Not so fortunate, I’m afraid. I have never been married. You’re looking at the last survivor in a long chain of inheritance, Commander. The broken link, if you will. And we have Napoleon to blame for the destruction. The decay started with the introduction of the Code Napoléon. A disaster for the landed gentry! The law of primogeniture was swept aside and instead of passing down as one piece to the oldest son of the family, estates, small and great alike, were divided equally between the surviving children—however many of them there were. The inheritances grew ever smaller with each generation. But the families adapted. We always do. There was no longer a compulsion to produce large broods. One son became the preferred production. To be replaced as and when war and disease made it necessary.’

  Uncertain as to how he was expected to respond, Joe murmured something that sounded like condolences.

  ‘Oh, one ought not to set much store by a great name in these modern times. When I tell you that the aristocracy in France have flourished to such an extent since the Revolution that they number over two hundred thousand, you will hardly believe me! I know that you English assume we were all but extinguished … losing our heads to Madame Guillotine. It may surprise you to hear that a tiny percentage of the whole class—just over one thousand aristos—lost their heads. The huge majority kept theirs and either emigrated or lay
low on their remote estates until better times arrived. All praise to Louis XVIII! Yes, Sandilands, we have a thousand times the number of gentlemen you have in England! Which might lead a sceptic—and I class myself as such—to say that the Silmont title is of little consequence. I shall leave it and my lands to my cousin Guy. Alas—he also is childless. And therefore, unless he pulls his socks up and remembers his familial obligations while he is yet young enough, the estate is destined, I’m afraid, to be bought up by aspiring neighbours. It will be absorbed by some marquisate or duchy. Or some rich nobody eager to avail himself of the noble particule. Monsieur de Silmont! Two letters, Sandilands! What extraordinary lengths people are prepared to go to in order to acquire them. Now, if you’d care to come this way …’

  The cry went up at the most inconvenient moment. Somewhere deep in the castle a gong had announced it was time to think about assembling for drinks before dinner. Joe checked his watch and waited by the door of his room. Dorcas was late. Or Estelle was late. He found he could no longer remember who exactly was on herding duty this evening.

  He heard the cry a second time and recognized Dorcas’s voice. A moment later she shot up the stairs and into the children’s dormitory. More shouts and yells and she came dashing out again. Joe saw her take a deep breath and try to control her voice as she caught sight of him but she could not deceive him. The terror behind the calm words was very evident.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s one of us missing, Joe.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joe listened on, hoping he’d misunderstood.

  ‘It should be Estelle on duty tonight but nobody’s seen her since teatime so I thought I’d better get on and do the rounding-up myself. I’ve counted six. There’s me, Peter, Dicky, Rosie, Clothilde, René …’ she recited, in her concern using her fingers to demonstrate. ‘We’re all here. It’s the littlest boy who isn’t. Le petit Marius. The cook’s youngest. I sent everybody out again to hunt for him … they’ve not done their teeth yet … to look in all the usual places. Nothing. We’ve yelled his name all about the castle. We’ve looked in every oven and every cupboard he likes to hide in. He’s just disappeared. I don’t know what to do. And it’ll be getting dark soon.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s all right, Dorcas. Look—if you like, I’ll come in and have a word with the others. Perhaps they’re playing a joke on you? Had you thought of that?’

  ‘Of course. First thing I thought of! And I’ve told them what I’ll do to them if they are. They aren’t having me on. Besides, René, his older brother, is crying. He thinks he’ll be blamed and he’s upset. I can’t make any sense of what he’s saying.’

  Joe went into the dormitory to find a huddle of murmuring children gathered together on one bed for consolation. Trying to keep his voice brisk and reassuring, he began to question them. Peter answered first as the oldest boy and confirmed that the last sighting of le petit Marius, who didn’t know how old he was, had been just after tea, before they’d started play again. Awkwardly Peter told Joe he might like at this point to question René.

  Joe took the hint and turned to René. He knelt down and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me if he was sad or happy, your little brother, when you last spoke to him.’

  ‘Sir, he was sad,’ whispered René.

  ‘Why—sad?’

  ‘We’d had an argument. I’d just told him that he couldn’t play with us in the game we were planning for after tea. He’s too little for some things—’

  ‘Don’t be angry with René,’ Dorcas interrupted. ‘Marius can be a pain in the bum. He thinks he can do everything the others do but sometimes he just can’t. And he always shouts the same thing: “I’m Marius! I’m a soldier!” I blame his mother for calling him after a Roman infantryman. Gives him ideas beyond his size.’

  Joe smiled. ‘What was the last thing he said to you, René? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated then asked: ‘You want me to say the exact words? They were rather rude. Well, he said, “Damn you, crétin! I don’t want to play your stupid game anyway. I’m going down to Granny’s!”’

  Joe breathed deeply, the relief washing through him. ‘Did that surprise you?’

  ‘Well, no. He’s done it before, stomping off in a rage. And telling tales. Granny always …’ René’s lips began to quiver and tears began to drip down his nose. Joe silently handed him a handkerchief and patted his head. ‘Granny always takes his side. She always believes him and I get a smack for not looking after him properly. If he’s gone home I’ll be in trouble again after last time. He knows that. He wouldn’t have landed me in it again, would he? He’s a pest but he’s not really bad. He’s my brother … I was sure he’d be about the place just hiding to … to …’

  ‘To pay you back? To make you feel guilty.’

  René nodded.

  ‘Look, all of you. Calm down. I’m sure this is going to be all right. I want to see you with clean teeth when Dorcas and I get back up here. We’re just going down to the kitchen to have a word with René’s mother and see what she has to say. I think it’s most probable that young Marius is, even as we speak, being tucked in and spoiled rotten by his grandma. But I like to be certain.’

  ‘It’s dinner time, sir,’ René pointed out, his face creasing with anxiety. ‘Maman doesn’t let anyone into the kitchen at dinner time and guests never at all. She’ll be cross!’

  ‘Don’t worry! She’ll let me in. I shall know exactly what to say to her. And I tell no tales!’

  Reassured by his calm and friendly voice, the children began to nod and smile and hunt about for their sponge bags. Normality returned.

  ‘Sorry I bothered you, Joe,’ said Dorcas as they made their way downstairs. ‘There are things I don’t understand yet about this set-up. I should have pressed him a bit harder and got the truth out of him. Do we have to disturb Madame Dalbert? She’s a bit of a dragon, according to René.’

  ‘And the steward! And me!’ said Joe lightly. ‘But come and take a look.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Dorcas reluctantly. ‘But—tell you what—let’s not make an entrance through the great hall. There’s a side door into the kitchen that they use for supplies. It leads in from the courtyard. The boys use it when they want to see their mother.’

  Amongst dashing servers and hurrying kitchen hands they had difficulty in picking out the small figure of Madame Dalbert. Dorcas crept in behind on Joe’s heels, apparently wishing herself a million miles away from this bustling scene. The cook stood rigidly watching him approach, confounded by his presence in this place at this time.

  Joe plunged straight in: ‘Madame, my apologies. I’m here to ask if you know where your son is at this moment.’ He reached behind and pulled Dorcas forward. ‘This here’s Monsieur Joliffe’s daughter and she’s just turned the castle upside down searching for him. Unsuccessfully. He’s disappeared. We can’t find him.’

  Joe was alarmed to see Madame Dalbert turn pale and sink down on to a stool, clutching her bosom. He hurried to counter the effect of his bald statement: ‘I speak of the little one—Marius. There is some evidence that he got tired of the games and was heard to say he was going off home to stay with his grandmother. Is this likely, do you think?’

  The cook found her voice again. ‘Oh, thank God for that! Ouf! You gave me quite a turn! Yes, of course it’s likely. Marius! He’s done it before. He knows the way home blindfold. Everyone in the village knows him. He’s always wandering about. He’ll be all right. Now—if you’d said René had gone off, I’d really have been worried!’ She got to her feet again and resumed her imperious stance. Back in control. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m sure it’s not necessary. Marius slipped in here to see me at about four o’clock. He was a bit grumpy. They quarrel a lot, the boys. I listened to him and gave him some bread and chocolate and a glass of milk and he cheered up. I told him he could go and see his granny if he wanted to. It’s hard for him being the youngest and sometimes it’s best for him to have some
time to himself. No harm done. But thank you, sir … miss … for thinking of warning me. And miss—’ she turned now towards Dorcas with a look that was very nearly tender, ‘thank you especially for paying attention to them. Little Marius talks about you all the time since you got here.’

  She wiped a hand on her pinny and tentatively held it out to Dorcas.

  In one of the uninhibited rushes of emotion Joe had come to recognize and dread in Dorcas, the girl ignored the extended hand, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the dusty little figure. They hugged each other in relief for a moment.

  He walked back to the dormitory and distributed the illicit sweets he’d scooped up in the pantry as they passed through. ‘All’s well, chaps!’ he announced. ‘Marius’s mother was aware of the situation. Marius has indeed gone to ground at Gran’s. I’m giving my torch to Dorcas so if there’s any problem in the night, you’ll be able to shed some light on it. And I’m just across the corridor. See you all in the morning! Night night! Oh, just one word, Dorcas, if you wouldn’t mind …’

  She responded to his raised eyebrows correctly and came to join him in the corridor.

  ‘Estelle,’ he whispered. ‘I’m very concerned for her. Would you mind awfully going into the women’s dorm and asking if she’s back yet? If not, see if you can find out where they think she might be.’ Dorcas groaned. ‘Yes, I would mind. Awfully. I’m not going in there! They’re all dressing for dinner—I’d be in the way. You’ve seen what they’re like. And they’re on their best behaviour when you’re around. They’ll rag me! Do I have to? … Oh, all right then … but if I have to kill one of those Russian girls it’ll be all your fault.’

  She went in, leaving the door open, and Joe skulked in some discomfort outside by the jamb. Judging by the noise, they were all still in there, quarrelling about stolen stockings and yelling at each other to be quiet in several languages. Dorcas ignored the cat calls and suggestions that she go straight back into the crèche and, cleverly, Joe thought, directed her question to the sensible Jane Makepeace.