Strange Images of Death djs-8 Page 24

  Dr Lemaître was clearly used to such behaviour from policemen on receipt of his devastating remarks and fell into a companionable study of the body. The clock on the wall of the morgue ticked loudly twenty times before one of the men moved.

  Joe went to stand by Estelle’s head. Silently, he moved a wisp of damp hair from her forehead, yearning for a last waft of her perfume to rise and torment him. He smelled nothing but carbolic. Lightly he touched her cold cheek with his hand. He leaned over and, not caring whether he was overheard, whispered: ‘I’ve heard you, Miss Smeeth. Loud and clear. I know why you were killed. I think I know how. I just need now to find out which one of three men you trusted, hated you enough to plunge a dagger into that generous heart. And I will find him. Soon.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Joe left his car at the commissariat and walked in towards the centre of the small city. This morning he was going to try to ignore its beauty and its tempting cafés; he was going to ignore the warnings of a stomach that had missed breakfast and was rumbling at every waft of coffee-roasting and bread-baking from the shop fronts he passed along the boulevard.

  He struck out with the river Rhône on his left, heading for the tight swirl of medieval buildings still standing inside the city walls. He steered by the white towers of the Pope’s Palace rising, with a careless disregard for symmetry, to lord it over the huddle of pink-tiled roofs. This was the point of his day. The visit to the morgue, though it had in the end proved more fruitful than he could have expected, was a cover for his next assignation.

  He found what he was looking for in a back street near the Place de l’Horloge and entered the double-fronted premises to the sound of a jangling bell over his head through a door marked ‘For Public Access’. The offices of La Voix de la Méditerranée were not exactly buzzing. He reminded himself that this was August and the middle of the holiday season. The papers were still being produced but probably working with a skeleton staff. On the high mahogany counter a printed notice told members of the public that this was the place to present your news (at any time), your personal advertisements (before twelve noon), or request to consult the archive (between ten and eleven, Wednesday to Saturday). Clearly browsing was not encouraged.

  Joe checked his watch. He was five minutes into the narrow time slot. He rang the counter bell for attention.

  This came two minutes and three rings of increasing volume later and was offered by a distracted and peaky-looking youth in a long green apron. Joe sighed. The skeleton staff. After the exchange of greetings he announced cordially: ‘I’d like to consult your archive, please.’ He presented his credentials. ‘This is a police request for access to certain of your back numbers.’

  ‘Year, please?’ The boy had barely glanced at his warrant card.

  ‘Between 1906 and 1911 …’

  ‘Sorry, sir. You’ll have to be more precise.’ The unhelpfulness turned to truculence. ‘I can’t bring all that lot out. They’re down in the cellar! And they’re bound, you know. By the month. That’s … that’s …’

  ‘Seventy-two bound volumes,’ said Joe. ‘At least it would be if I wanted every month. But let me finish. I want to see the papers printed for the second week of the month of July. That’s six folders only. And look-I’d like some advice from one of your editorial staff-someone over the age of forty for choice.’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. There’s only Monsieur Rozier in and he won’t come. He’s busy.’

  Joe leaned across the counter. He took from his inside pocket the letter of introduction from Jacquemin. With his thumb carefully placed over the ‘Dear Dr Lemaître’, he passed it under the eyes of the clerk. The impressive letter heading and the swirling signature brought a spark of interest.

  Joe heaped kindling on the spark. ‘Recognize this signature? Well, why would you? But you’ll recognize the man who scrawled it next week when his heroic features appear on the front cover of Le Petit Journal. Commissaire Jacquemin is in town, my lad. Yes, The Implacable One himself! And he’s flushing out the villains and personally filling them full of lead. Three dead in Marseille over the weekend. You’ll read about it. He requires co-operation.’

  The boy hurried away with a mumbled ‘Leave it with me, sir … I’ll see what I can do …’

  Rozier took less time to appear than the counter clerk. The bespectacled, moustached man in shirt-sleeves came bustling in, mild annoyance losing the fight with extreme curiosity. He examined Joe’s warrant card, talking as he did so. ‘Rozier. Deputy editor. I’m forty-four. Hair’s going grey but I still have my teeth. Good enough for you? What’s all this shit about Jacquemin? And what’s an English policeman doing in Avignon running errands for that pitiless old prick?’

  ‘Long story. A peek at some of your papers, accompanied by some insights from a man who knows the local area, would help me to solve a fifteen-year-old mystery, reunite a pair of young lovers driven apart by the war and restore a lost child to its mother.’

  ‘Is that all? You drag me from my fat heifer sales report for this?’

  The hard eyes gleamed and Joe decided that, though the man showed no sign of having a heart, at least he had a sense of humour. It was a start.

  ‘Michel says 1906 to 1911, week two of July,’ Rozier went on briskly. ‘I’ve asked him to haul them up and wheel them in. If you’d like to take a seat at the reading table over there I’ll come round and scan them with you. Know what you’re looking for, or are we just browsing?’

  ‘I know exactly. A name. The name of a village.’ Joe presented his problem as an enquiry for a missing person. He added his invention of the question of an inheritance which seemed to go down well with listeners.

  ‘A girl from one of our villages … Hmm …’

  Joe had gently stressed the local aspect of his problem and embroidered on the aspect of mystery.

  ‘Hang on a minute, I’ll call for coffee. How do you take yours? Croissant with that? I usually have one at this time of the morning.’ He yelled into the back quarters: ‘Dorine! Nip next door and tell them to make it two servings of café complet, will you? Priority!’

  The coffee arrived before the volumes and was served in heavy green china from the local café. A basket of croissants was a blissful sight to a man who’d not yet had time for breakfast and Joe helped himself with pleasure.

  When the six bound copies of La Voix appeared on a trolley, Rozier handed the 1906 volume to Joe and himself took the 1911 one, sitting next to him at the table. ‘Twice as fast this way. We’ll start at opposite ends. If you can keep up a reasonable speed, we should meet up in July 1908. Now tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for.’

  ‘I’m interested in a news item for a very particular area. Somewhere between here and Apt.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not Chicago! The inhabitants tend to lead God-fearing, well-ordered, excruciatingly dull lives. Try the centre pages first. “News from the Villages” section.’

  Joe leafed swiftly through his volume and grimaced. ‘See what you mean! Pig-rustling and chicken-snatching would appear to be the crimes of the month. We’re looking for the week announcing the programme for the Bastille Day jollifications, remember. I’ve finished with this one. Pass me the next lot, will you?’

  Rozier was working more slowly, constantly distracted by news items that rang a bell with him. ‘Good God! So that’s how the turd got started! You’d never credit what heights this chap’s risen to! Député now … Before my time, of course … Ah! Storms over the area-that’s what buggered up the vintage …’ His comments were salted with a vocabulary Joe hadn’t heard since the trenches.

  And then: ‘Well, here’s the programme for 1911. July 7th. Opera and plays on at the theatre … folklore extravaganza on the Rocher des Doms, gypsy bands, dancing-wouldn’t you guess? — on the Pont Bénézet. Grand parade on the day itself. Now what are we really looking for?’

  ‘Any reference to a priest by the name of Father Ignace. I need to know in w
hich village he had his cure of souls.’

  ‘Is that it? Couldn’t you just have looked him up in whatever lists the Church keeps? They must know where their blokes are.’

  ‘Well, apart from the fact that I have very little time available to me and you know with what speed the wheels of the Church turn when they’re determined not to be helpful, I don’t think my enquiries would get anywhere. Bit of an obstacle been raised …’ he said conspiratorially. ‘Whoever he was or is, this priest has been effaced from the records.’

  ‘Oh, ho! One of those! No. Sorry. You won’t find any record of him in here either then,’ he said firmly, but Joe noticed that he was continuing to lick one long bony finger and scan the pages as he turned them. ‘Catholic city, you know. The new Vatican in the new Rome from the fourteenth century when the popes took up residence here.

  The Palace has always been the heart of the city, a mighty and controlling presence. Anything disrespectful about the clergy just wouldn’t get through on to the pages. A curé could go berserk, slaughter half his parishioners and rape the rest and you wouldn’t read about it. Now, a bad olive harvest … Oh, Good Lord! Look here!’

  The long finger was pointing to the centre.

  ‘“Mysterious disappearance of priest from village”,’ he read. ‘That’s the headline.’

  The much-loved curé of the church of St Vincent-les-Eaux, near Avignon, has disappeared in mysterious circumstances. Villagers report they had no warning of his departure and his superiors are unable to state what has happened to him or where he has gone.

  It is understood that no steps had been taken to replace him or redeploy him.

  His distraught housekeeper claims that the young priest, 29-year-old Father Ignace, who is as good as a son to her, had packed none of his things and had not called for his suitcase to be made ready.

  Father Ignace, a renowned scholar and musician of note, is a lively and popular member of his village community and will be sadly missed, in particular by the young people to whom he was especially close.

  ‘Heavens!’ said Joe. ‘Rozier, you replace one question with a dozen others! But I have what I was seeking-the name of the village. Now I can find traces of the young girl who was in his confirmation class in 1906. A certain Laure of St Vincent-les-Eaux! She’s firming up. I’m getting close now.’

  The editor snorted, reading the article again. ‘Now how in hell did the old bugger get this one through?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The pre-war editor, old Goutière. He took some risks! Must have stirred up a hornets’ nest. He was in his last year here when I signed on. A raging red! Communist sympathies, you know. Anti-monarchist, anti-Church. You name it-he was against it. But especially the Church. He hated the authorities. Always scrapping with them. Getting back at them by inserting bits of innuendo like this one.’

  ‘Innuendo?’ said Joe. ‘What am I not seeing?’

  ‘Look at the last bit: “lively … popular … missed by the young … especially close …” Shorthand for taking advantage-sexually no doubt-of the young things under his influence. It had to be hand-under-the-skirt-stuff-I doubt fiddling with their minds would have got old Goutière excited. Everybody in the area would know how to interpret this but-clever old sod-there’s nothing there that could trigger a legal challenge.’

  ‘But the Church must have put the boot in,’ said Joe, ‘since this is the one and only reference to the priest. No follow-up, I’m told. Though it’s not all that damaging. I’m surprised they got so hot under their collars.’

  The editor had fallen silent, distracted. The finger pointed to a further column, level with, but at one remove from, the article about Father Ignace.

  ‘What did you say the girl’s name was?’ he asked.

  ‘Laure.’

  ‘Ah. Not the same one then. But all the same, this is interesting. And may be exactly what upset the Church!’ He grinned. ‘Cheeky bugger! Do you see what he’s done? On the same page! Look at the headline! “Mysterious disappearance of young girl from village”. And-wouldn’t you know-it’s the same village! The depopulation of St Vincent-les-Eaux? Is that what we’re looking at? Anyway, it’s not your girl. It’s plain Marie-Jeanne Durand who shows a clean pair of heels. Anxious parents call in the police, reporting the disappearance of their daughter. Ah-now she had packed a case. Her friends claim Marie-Jeanne gave them no reason to believe she was about to abscond.

  ‘… Watch being kept at railway stations … Public asked to be on the alert for a five-foot-three-inch, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, seventeen-year-old. Well, that narrows the field to about ten thousand! And-here it is! — Marie-Jeanne was a member of the church and had been prepared for her communion by the village priest, Father Ignace, to whom she was thought to be very close. If she’d had something on her mind, she would certainly have confessed her problems to him. Father Ignace was unavailable for comment on the disappearance of his young parishioner.’

  ‘Due to his own mysterious disappearance.’

  ‘And the fact that he was himself most likely her problem.’ Rozier sighed gustily. ‘Bloody hell! It’s Abélard and Héloïse all over again. Young girl falls for unattainable man. They will do it!’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I expect he’s joined the Foreign Legion and she’s a worn-out tart plying her trade on the streets of Paris by now. Have you got what you want?’

  ‘More than I want,’ said Joe, grasping the editor’s hand. ‘Sadly, much more. Monsieur Rozier, let me thank you for your excellent coffee, your life-saving croissants, your welcome and your invaluable help. I think you could just have ruined at least three lives.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Orlando was loitering in the courtyard, kicking up the gravel on the path, when Joe drove up. He hurried forward to open the car door and started to speak the moment Joe turned off the engine of his Morris.

  ‘I seem to have been appointed your sheepdog,’ he grumbled. ‘Jacquemin posted me here to warn you … alert you … It’s the lord! He’s come round from his morning sedative, according to his valet, and he’s asking to speak to you. Jacquemin wants you to go straight up before it’s too late. He’s reported to be sinking fast. If you ask me, the Commissaire is a bit miffed that he hasn’t been asked along to hear the last words himself.’

  ‘I’ll just dump this lot on Jacquemin’s desk first,’ said Joe. He leaned behind and picked up the file of notes from the hospital and the bag of Estelle’s belongings. ‘The lord’ll stay afloat for a few minutes more. Possibly much longer than most of us expect and some of us want! And, don’t worry, Orlando, whatever else he has to convey, I’m not expecting a confession to murder. I think a priest is what’s called for. Has anyone thought to …?’

  ‘Of course! There’s one on his way. The Commissaire sent a car, would you believe! Glad to see you’re so relaxed about it. The Commissaire’s climbing up the curtains! Oh … by the way … thinking of priests … your expedition into Avignon … Anything interesting to report?’ He rearranged the gravel nervously with the toe of his boot.

  ‘Oh yes! Indeed! But no urgency to reveal all, I think. Not to a man who’s been in possession of all the pieces of the jigsaw but one all along. Did you think I couldn’t count to thirty-eight? I’ll hear your confession later, Orlando!’

  He hurried towards the steward’s office, smilingly brushing aside anxious people trying to waylay him in the great hall. He noticed as he passed through that it was looking quite medieval in its noisy, colourful disorder. A gendarme was standing posted at the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene with an expression of disbelief.

  Piles of bedding and cushions were littering the floor, easels had been set up under windows, children were playing a noisy game that involved racing around the pillars and screaming. Battling away at the far end of the space, Mrs Fenton was thumping away at a piano which had been dragged in from somewhere. A jolly English tune-CountryGardens, he thought he recognized-was being played in strict rhythm f
or the benefit of the two ballet girls. These two, lost in their activity, were exercising. Barefoot and clad in an improvised costume of rolled-up pyjama bottoms and shirts, they yet managed to be impressive. Joe paused for a moment to admire their lissom movements.

  Loud-voiced and authoritative, the duenna was pacing about in front of them, banging occasionally on the floor with a stout walking stick. As Joe marvelled, she shrieked for a stop, railed at Natalia and demonstrated a position herself on light, precise feet. The bulky, insignificant lady was transformed. The girls listened and nodded and copied.

  ‘I say …’ the wail went up from Mrs Fenton. ‘I adore Percy Grainger as much as the next man but that’s eleven times I’ve played that piece! What about a little Nutcracker? Sugar Plum Fairy, anyone?’

  ‘It’s the siege of Lucknow without the bloodshed,’ Orlando muttered.

  ‘Where’s de Pacy?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Still in a sulk, I’d guess. He won’t come out of his quarters. He’s had a huge bust-up with his cousin. At least that’s what Jane says has sent him into a tail-spin. The servants have clearly not been directed to tidy up the mess. They’re playing cards in the old pantry. It looked worse an hour ago. Then Jane came in and gave everyone a pep talk. Pulling together, keeping calm, putting on a good face for the French … you can imagine the sort of thing. Ah! Here she comes.’

  Joe hurried off down the corridor to the office.

  ‘Here’s the pathologist’s report and here are the things they took from her body.’ Joe placed the bag and the file on the desk and sat down opposite the Commissaire.

  ‘Good man, your Lemaître,’ Joe said. ‘With interesting things to say. I’ll tell you now-the most significant thing he had to report was that our girl was between two and three months pregnant. She would have been aware. And she had no drugs whatsoever in her system.’

  Jacquemin seized the file and began at once to leaf through it. ‘So, she was clear-headed when she went and laid herself down on that stone altar?’ he muttered. ‘How in hell did he …? Hypnosis? What about mesmerism? Isn’t that all the go at the moment in the music halls? Did the doc have any suggestions? They’re worth hearing, you know.’