Strange Images of Death Page 13

  ‘Miss Makepeace, can you help me?’ he heard Dorcas say.

  ‘Not really a good time, darling. I’m a bit behind … Look, pass me that stocking from the radiator, will you?

  ‘I’m looking for Estelle. She’s disappeared,’ Dorcas persisted.

  And Jane replied, ‘Well, this here’s her bed next to mine and, you see, she’s not in it or on it or in the vicinity of it. Can’t say I’ve seen her lately. Sorry, I’m not much help.’

  ‘No, you aren’t, are you?’ Cecily’s voice. ‘Dorcas has been moved up to the top table now—I think we should give her credit for a little grown-up understanding, don’t you? Listen, my dear—the truth is, Estelle doesn’t often sleep in her own bed. She wasn’t here last night either. She’s most probably spent the afternoon with one of the chaps and she’ll spend the night with him. If he has a room of his own. If he hasn’t they’ll find one somewhere without too much trouble. You could try her boyfriend Nathan—he’s got a room to himself in the north tower where he messes about with his chemistry set.’

  A lazy Russian voice drawled: ‘Or, failing that, my darling, you could always ask your father.’

  The response was a blend of titters and shocked protests.

  ‘You’d do better,’ Cecily went on, ‘to check your uncle—if that’s what he is. Oh, come on now! We all saw it! She was knocked sideways the moment he came in. Alley cat! She was on the prowl before he’d sat down to lunch! And I noticed—we all did—that she left the dining room on his arm last night. Wearing that little blue Worth number. She doesn’t put that on for cocoa in the dorm with us! And none of the men have the sense to resist her. No, that’s what I’d do—nip across the corridor and see what the Law’s got in its long arms.’

  ‘Cecily, you have a mind like a sewer!’ Jane Makepeace again. ‘Remind me to pass you the name of a good alienist in London. I really think you need the psychiatric equivalent of a flue-brush passed between your ears … or a good dose of liver salts. Why are you always so beastly to the girl? She means well.’

  ‘I can’t stand to breathe the same air as that tart!’ Cecily’s voice was vicious and uncontrolled. ‘She’s unhealthy! Goodness knows what we might catch from her!’

  The room went silent, signalling that she’d gone too far.

  The silence was broken by Dorcas. Stiff but polite, she spoke to the room: ‘A child is missing. Commander Sandilands is in the kitchens at this moment interviewing the cook about the disappearance of her son. But thank you all for your help and advice. You’ve told me more than you know.’

  ‘The cook’s son? Well, why didn’t you say?’ Jane Makepeace exclaimed. ‘I can tell you where they both were … oh, between tea and the children’s supper time, if that’s any use?’

  ‘Please, I’d very much like to hear.’

  ‘I’d gone down to take a look at Frederick dashing away at his fresco outside in the gallery. I heard Estelle call out and looked up. She was over by the gateway and she’d clearly just caught one of the children—the smallest one—by the hand. Rounding them up for their evening meal, I thought. In so far as I gave it any thought. It was just the usual routine. So it must have been just before six. You only have scurrilous things to say about Estelle, Cecily, but she does more than her bit with those little ones. Do any of us even know their names? I don’t. So I can’t name the boy she was with. Clogs. Green shirt. She was bending over, talking to him. Sensible girl, I thought. Checking up. If I had to speculate, I’d say the child was going home to the village. They do sometimes. Or perhaps he’d been sent home. Had he been naughty?’

  ‘Did you see Estelle going out over the drawbridge?’

  ‘No. But I expect she did. Well, where else would she go? When I looked up again, they’d disappeared. Good girl, I thought—she’s gone down to the village with him. She was wearing that short red dress she had on at breakfast time and I don’t see it hanging up. Oh, come to think of it—there was something strange about her … she was carrying that little brown attaché case of hers. No room in that for more than a change of knickers and a toothbrush so she wasn’t going away for good. So, she’s probably stayed on down there in town. There are places to stay, I think. They say the inn’s pretty good.’

  ‘Ah! Some village Romeo in the offing, do you suppose?’ ventured someone.

  ‘Just getting away from the rest of us for a bit,’ suggested Jane. ‘It’s rather like being back at school living here. We all want to break out occasionally. Estelle is the one of us who has the courage to do it. I should take yourself off watch, Dorcas dear, and go to bed. Look—if she turns up again at dinner, I’ll tell her to pop her head round the door and say goodnight, shall I?’

  Murmuring her thanks, Dorcas excused herself and came out. She closed the door gently and Joe supported her slight form, quivering with rage, back into the safety of the children’s dormitory.

  Joe snapped awake in the dark hours, alert and listening. He went to his window and set about opening the shutters, surprised by the sudden force of the wind that almost snatched the iron locking bar from his hand. He stuck his head out and listened for a moment to the Mistral booming down the valley. With this northerly wind scouring the buildings, ancient woodwork would be creaking, unearthly howls would sound down narrow chimneys. He found the words of a prayer he’d not spoken since childhood were on his lips:

  In deepest dark no fear I show

  For Thou, O Lord, art here below.

  I feel as safe as in the light,

  Thy hand in mine throughout the night.

  He crept silently into the corridor and went to stand by the door of the children’s room, listening. Reassured by the silence, he went back to his bed, imagining Orlando’s scathing comments if he’d been caught out in this show of sentimental vigilance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. The wind had abated as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving a cool, combed and invigorated countryside behind it.

  An equally cool, combed and invigorated Commissaire Jacquemin called for his coffee pot to be refilled and detained with a gesture the landlord of the Hôtel de la Poste who was personally waiting on his distinguished guest. ‘Ferro—tell the Lieutenant over there …’ He nodded at the young man breakfasting by himself at the far end of the room, ‘… to join me at my table, would you? And bring another cup.’

  The officer and the additional crockery arrived at Jacquemin’s table at the same time. ‘Ah! Coffee, Martineau? Sleep well? Good, good. Of course, being a native, you must be used to this confounded wind. Now tell me—the motor car—did you manage to get to the bottom of the problem with the … transmission, I think you said? We weren’t handed the cream of the collection for our little jaunt, I think? I want to arrive at the château snorting impressively not jangling like a bag of nails.’

  ‘Yes. All in order, sir,’ said the young man crisply. His broad brow, intense eyes and tight mouth gave the impression that here was a man incapable of saying or thinking anything but ‘yes’. ‘Snorting like a bull! There’s a mechanic right here in the village who seems to know his business. He sorted it out in no time. All’s ready for our assault on the Devil’s Château.’ He grinned dismissively.

  ‘Ah, yes! This name … I don’t like to walk unprepared into strange scenes even of the comic opera type I suspect we’re about to experience. A little local guidance is called for, I think.’ He summoned the landlord again and invited him to seat himself. ‘Monsieur Ferro, you know where we’re headed this morning. Tell me—how did the Château de Silmont of venerable name ever acquire the sobriquet of du Diable?’

  Monsieur Ferro was delighted to be of assistance. ‘Because devilish things have happened there over the centuries. Oh, the usual murder and rapine, but this castle has always been associated with a particular kind of—I think you have to say, inhuman—evil. The kind that can only come from the Devil.’

  ‘Monsieur Ferro will be able to point out to you the hill-top lair of t
he Marquis de Sade of evil repute, not many miles from here, sir,’ the Lieutenant added helpfully. ‘There are many such châteaux dotted about in the villages and each has a reputation worse than the last.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but the Marquis de Sade was of flesh and blood. It’s at Silmont that the supernatural makes its appearance most strongly through history,’ insisted the landlord, realizing he was talking to a man of Provence. ‘It started with the Devil’s Bride. You must know that story?’

  Jacquemin, mildly entertained, exchanged looks with Martineau and poured out more coffee. ‘Do tell. The story hasn’t reached Paris yet.’

  It was only slightly encouraging but it was all the invitation Ferro needed.

  ‘This happened long ago, in the days of the Counts of Provence, when Paris was a backwater and France just a neighbouring kingdom,’ he said with pride. ‘The young heir to Silmont was to be wed. To the lovely daughter of a rich marquis from a nearby estate. The château was en fête for the wedding celebrations. It must have looked like the setting for a fairy tale—guests had come from miles around, days of feasting were planned, there were acrobats and musicians by the score. The young bride—who came with a large dowry—was very taken with her new husband. She must have considered her father’s outlay—some ten thousand crowns, it was said—well spent! The groom was somewhat older than she, in the custom of the times, but handsome and powerful and would inherit one day a splendid castle and lands. Ah! How were they to know …’ He left a dramatic pause, rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘… know that the lord had a rival—a rival more powerful than himself? The girl already had a secret admirer. The Devil! None other!’ Monsieur Ferro made the sign of the cross at the whispered name. ‘Though she was unaware of his plans for her. After the ceremony, the bride, still dressed in her white wedding dress, insisted on playing a game with her friends and all the other little guests who’d been invited to keep her company. It was a game she loved to play. And she was, after all, still a very young thing. A game of hide and seek.

  ‘She ran away and hid and everyone searched. And searched again. They called and called again. There was never an answer. Everyone feared for her. She did not know the château, her new home, at all. This was her first visit. The child did not reappear that day. And that night the château resounded with sighs and moans in every chimneypiece and no one slept.

  ‘The search continued for the next day, the next week, the next month. The countryside was combed in the for-lorn hope she had wandered off. Every gypsy tribe within a score of miles was questioned in case they’d snatched her away. But they found no sign. Not even a dropped kerchief. And they were never likely to find her. The Devil had made off with his chosen bride, it was said, from under the lord’s nose. Her lord remarried. He came into his inheritance. The years passed. The first bride was forgotten. I cannot even tell you her name.’

  ‘Is that it? That’s all?’

  Monsieur Ferro paused, shook his head and fixed the men with the glazed eyes of a storyteller who is approaching his climax and resenting an interruption. ‘And then, they say, a hundred years later, when they were rebuilding a part of the castle, they pulled the cover off an oubliette that no one knew was there. And, crouched in the bottom, was a small figure in white. The bride. As they tried to pull out the body, she and her dress crumbled to dust,’ he finished with relish.

  ‘Not a congenial place, it would seem, for young ladies of flesh and blood—or stone,’ the Commissaire observed.

  ‘People have so remarked over the years, sir. No one remembers the name of the missing child bride—as I said just now—but everyone knows the name of her successor. One of the young girls who’d played hide and seek on that fateful day was Lord Silmont’s cousin—Aliénore. An impoverished branch of the family … she had no dowry but was famous for her beauty. They made a match of it—no one could deny him this comfort in his sorrow—and she produced a male heir within the year.

  ‘But the lord had no luck with his wives. Aliénore died in her youth, it’s said in childbirth, on her lord’s return from the Crusade.’ He sighed. ‘Her husband was determined that she would be remembered for ever. He had the most splendid portrait effigy carved in alabaster and set up in the chapel. You must try to see it while you’re up there, sir. It really is the loveliest thing. After all these years, you’d swear she was just sleeping.’

  ‘How very fascinating. Now tell me, Ferro … I’m planning to stay for another night. May I confidently expect to encounter the smoked haunch of wild boar again on the menu this evening?’

  Ferro, hearing dismissal in Jacquemin’s voice, stood and tilted his head agreeably. ‘But of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  The two men waited until Ferro was out of earshot before they laughed.

  ‘Well, let’s have it, Martineau! Your analysis, please!’

  ‘I’d have had the cuffs on the young lord straight away, sir! I’d have sweated him to find out what he really thought of this annoying little twerp whose idea of the best way to spend a honeymoon was a game of hide and seek. I’d have wanted to know the size of his wife’s dowry and whether it came to him on her death. I’d have asked about to find out if he had his eye on any other female in the neighbourhood. Someone whose name began with an A perhaps. And—if he was still at liberty after my attentions—watched with interest his further marital exploits.’

  ‘Ah? I’m speaking to an admirer of the Perrault fairy tale? Do I hear echoes of the story of Bluebeard? Perhaps we should keep an eye out for bloodstained keys and locked cupboards full of dead wives while we’re up there?’

  Martineau acknowledged the Commissaire’s sally with a smile. ‘Always on the alert, sir. And I don’t despise fairy tales. I slapped the cuffs on Bluebeard last year. In Marseille. The gentleman was going by quite a different name and he was certainly no lord. But the contents of his cupboards … well, I won’t go into that so soon after breakfast, sir.’

  Jacquemin nodded his approval. He liked a chap with the spirit to answer up for himself. And this sharp young officer, Martineau, had stepped in and saved his bacon in Marseille. Perhaps he could be encouraged to pursue his further career in Paris, conveniently in the orbit of the Commissaire? Jacquemin knew the value of a good man at his back. Another advantage to come out of this wild-goose chase? He looked at his wristwatch in great good humour. ‘Bring the car round at ten thirty, will you, Lieutenant? If you’re to work with me, you must understand that when I am not being punctual to the second, I am arriving ahead of time. Greeting suspects before they are quite prepared for you can be very informing and it puts them on the back foot—they are the ones caught burbling excuses. Let’s see if we can surprise these pretentious buggers with their trousers down, shall we?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The company around the breakfast table at the château seemed equally enlivened and jolly. De Pacy gave out a gentle reminder that they could expect the presence of the Marseille constabulary at eleven and guests should hold themselves ready to welcome the Inspector at their lunch table. Joe interpreted this as a warning to dress suitably and put away any dubious substances.

  As people began to disperse, he caught Nathan Jacoby’s eye and both men rose and made their way out to the courtyard.

  ‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Nathan. ‘Nine o’clock now. We’ve got two hours before the police arrive. I estimate I’ll take an hour at the outside.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said Joe. ‘At least I think so … Don’t you need equipment? I don’t see you hung about with the usual contraptions of the photographer’s trade.’

  ‘I left my things out here,’ he said, picking up a small leather Gladstone bag. ‘Travelling light. I’m going to use my Ermanox. There’s such a splendid light pouring in through those east windows it should be a cinch. And this beauty has flash.’

  They raised their heads and squinted up into the sun. Nathan sighed with satisfaction. ‘Do you see the way this yard is striped with light and shade at this hour? A
nd look at the pattern on that arched gallery over there where the children are playing! Wonderful!’

  Joe took his bag from him and set off across the courtyard, leaving him with two hands to frame his pictures and point out his perceptions as they went. He was looking forward to seeing the chapel again with the benefit of this man’s insights and he was easy in his company. As they approached the big oak door they looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Nathan.

  Joe was running to the door as the second dull thud made itself heard. As he lifted the opening device and the door began to creak open they heard a pitiful wail leak out. Six inches was enough space for a small body to dash out, flash between the men’s legs and hare off, howling.

  ‘What in hell was that?’ said Nathan. ‘Christ! That kid’s upset. What was he doing in there?’ He made to run after the child who was fleeing barefoot across the courtyard.

  Joe held him back. ‘Let him go. We’d frighten him further. He’s on his way to find his mother in the kitchen. It’s the cook’s son. The one who went missing last night.’ He watched on as Dorcas, drawn by the howls, emerged from the gallery and raced across the courtyard to intercept him. She seized the child’s hand and ran on with him.

  ‘It’s all right. Dorcas has got him. He seems to be safe enough. Now.’

  ‘Good Lord! The poor little chap’s been trapped in here all that time? Overnight? In that wind?’ said Nathan. ‘That’s one distressed kid!’

  ‘And he could only have got in here if he’d been put inside by an adult who opened the door,’ said Joe grimly. ‘Or sneaked inside while the door was open. Someone’s been in here. Are you ready for this?’