Strange Images of Death djs-8 Page 3

  ‘Joe? Are you all right? What’s the matter?’

  He began automatically to make reassuring noises but she interrupted him. ‘Stop that! You’re making me nervous! Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You’ve gone quite pale, you can’t seem to let go of the wheel and your eyes are swivelling all over the place. Not a pretty sight! What have you seen? If I didn’t know what a thug you are, I’d say you were in a blue funk … Joe?’

  Joe made an effort to ease the constriction in his throat, released the wheel and shuddered. ‘Sorry, Dorcas! Feet of clay, I’m afraid. All those years of soldiering … if you survive them, you never lose it, you know … But you’re right. Blue funk it is! You’re the only person ever to have caught me in one-or, rather, recognized it for what it is: fear. Soldier’s best friend. Keeps you alive. It’s the icicle-between-the-shoulder-blades feeling of a gun barrel sighting on you … the normally steady foot that hesitates and changes course a split second before treading down on something nasty. An instinct for survival.’

  While he muttered on, his eyes were ranging round the tall curtain walls, taking in the dozens of windows and arrow slits from any one of which they could have been under surveillance. ‘Officers were the favourite targets for snipers in the war and easily distinguishable at a distance. Peaked caps, side arms. High casualty rate. Lucky to have survived. For a moment I had a distinct and familiar feeling that someone was drawing a bead on me. Ridiculous! Going a bit barmy? But, of course-when you think about it-I was reacting just as the military architect intended. Freezing like a trapped rabbit! All these defences are carefully worked out and we seem to have parked ourselves right in the centre of an ancient killing ground. The earth under our tyres is probably steeped in blood! I wouldn’t give much for the chances of any rough-tough army of medieval routiers with pillage in mind making it through to the keep from here, would you?’

  ‘But you’re not going mad, Joe. There was something moving up there,’ Dorcas agreed slowly, staring upwards. He noticed that she didn’t point and looked quickly away. ‘I caught a flash of something white. Up there in that turret. North-eastern, would that be?’

  Her voice changed from calming to startled and she gasped as, with a clatter and whoosh of wings, a flock of birds soared into the air. They eddied and swirled and with one mind descended on a different turret roof. Dorcas exclaimed with pleasure and relief. ‘Well, you can come off watch now, Joe! But we weren’t wrong, were we? The lookout turret was occupied. By peaceful white doves!’

  Joe smiled. ‘Yes, doves,’ he agreed.

  ‘And by whoever disturbed them,’ he added silently. He kept the thought to himself. The suspicion that someone had been covertly observing their arrival was vaguely menacing and he wished he had not risked transmitting his fears to young Dorcas.

  He needed to take action. He needed to assert himself and shake off the menacing influence of his surroundings. He gave two peremptory peeps on the hooter and got out of the car.

  The response was shrieks and excited laughter. Half a dozen children appeared from a dark doorway and came tearing over the courtyard. Three of them, two boys and a small girl, hurled themselves at Dorcas, chattering in a mixture of French and English. The oldest boy Joe could just identify as her brother Peter who seemed to have grown over the summer to eye level with Dorcas.

  The boy released his sister from a hug and went to stand shyly in front of Joe. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he began his prepared speech, ‘for bringing her. We’re all just sitting down to lunch in the hall. Will you come? No, no! Leave the luggage. I’ll get someone to help with it later. Now, you’ll be wanting to wash your hands … But first …’

  Well, things were looking up, Joe thought, noting young Peter’s helpful manners. The lad was shooting up in size. Slim like his father and blessed with Orlando’s distinctive thick auburn hair and fine features, he promised to become a handsome young man. In response to a sergeant major’s glare from Peter, the others formed up in height order for presentation.

  ‘Dicky, my brother, and Rosie, my sister, I believe you know, sir. The other three are … um … children of the household. All French.’ Peter made the introductions in their language: ‘Monsieur, je vous présente: Clothilde, René, et le petit Marius … Mon oncle, Joseph.’

  Joe shook a series of sticky hands and murmured the appropriate formulae.

  As intrigued by the round-eyed French contingent as they were by him, he took the time to lean over and talk to each child in turn. He established that the fair-haired Clothilde, plump as a Fragonard cherub, was the daughter of one of the guests. She confided that she was seven and a half years old. The two boys, one eight and the other, le petit Marius, not quite certain of his age-or unwilling to confide it-were the sons of the cook. Joe rather thought, judging by the set of the jaw and the ugly glint in his eye, that Marius did not want it revealed that he was the youngest of this group and didn’t press him.

  But Joe quickly understood that he was not the star of the show. His questions answered, all eyes now slid past him, drawn by the glamour of a motor car. With a conspiratorial wink for Peter, Joe invited them to do what they had clearly been dying to do since they came into the courtyard. He lifted them all into the car and Peter organized a rota for sitting in the driver’s seat and honking the horn. Distracted by the giggles and squabbles, Joe took some time to realize that Orlando had appeared and propped himself in the doorway, watching them with amused indulgence. He called out Dorcas’s name, held out his arms and she ran to him with a squeal of delight, hopping and chattering like a magpie.

  ‘Now-lunch!’ said Peter, remembering his lines. ‘We’ve got a rabbit stew … I hope you can eat rabbit, sir?’ he announced and led the way back to the hall.

  Dorcas stood aside and turned to Joe, allowing her father to greet his friend.

  Tall, handsome, stagily framed in the archway, Orlando stood ready with his easy smile. He was wearing his usual gear of corduroy trousers tied up at the waist with string and a rough cotton shirt dramatically smudged with paint. A red scarf of Provençal pattern was knotted negligently at his throat. All carefully worked out, Joe always suspected. A Punch cartoon could not have more clearly signalled: ‘bohemian artist at work’. But there was nothing studied about his welcome. The unmanly hug was rib-cracking in its enthusiasm.

  ‘Where the blazes have you been?’ Orlando wanted to know. ‘We were looking for you last week! In Champagne? But why? What kept you up there? Was it the local brew or were you intoxicated by your hostess? What was the name of the enchantress? Calypso? Circe? … Aline, eh? Well, come inside! Nothing fizzy to offer you, I’m afraid, but we do have a quite splendid red wine from the vineyard over the wall.’ He grinned. ‘And one or two seductive Sirens to divert the weary traveller.’

  ‘I say-I hope we haven’t fetched up here at an inconvenient time-’ Joe began.

  ‘No, not at all! This is really rather a good moment to drop anchor. We’re all in the refectory. You’ll find everyone at the table so you can get a look at the complete gallery. It’s the one occasion in the day when you’ll find them gathered together. Catch them between hangovers. And indiscretions. One or two stragglers yet to arrive but mostly they’re into their second helping of stew by now.’

  Joe’s eye automatically sought out Dorcas as everyone began to troop into the building, and he enjoyed the sight of her picking up her little sister Rosie for a cuddle and carrying her on her back into the dark interior. Joe hung about ushering the others ahead and was the last to leave the courtyard. He turned and spent some moments staring with a residual unease at the summit of the watch tower silhouetted against a blindingly blue sky. On impulse, he sketched an insolent bow in its direction and went inside.

  Chapter Three

  Joe entered the building with eyes still dazzled by his prolonged scanning of the midday sky and it was a second or two before he was aware of the figure coming towards him down the corridor. Dressed in black and moving on silent feet, the stranger
made straight for him. Once within striking distance, the man grunted an exclamation and raised his hand, the chopping edge lined up on the centre of Joe’s face.

  Joe’s reaction was swift and instinctive. He seized the outstretched arm by the wrist and tugged the man forward, jerking him on to his swiftly extended right foot. The unknown crashed to the stone-flagged floor, falling to his knees with a scream of pain. A second scream rang out as Joe yanked his arm up behind his back.

  ‘What the hell? For Chrissakes, lemme go!’ protested an American voice.

  From the end of the corridor Orlando’s voice rang out, reinforcing the suggestion: ‘Joe! Let him up! Are you mad? What’s going on?’

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Joe asked when Orlando joined them.

  ‘That’s Nathan! Nathan Jacoby. He’s staying with us. He was only coming to say hello.’

  ‘He has a strange way of introducing himself!’ Joe grunted, his anger blocking any embarrassment or regret. He hauled the spluttering American to his feet and addressed him in a tone of false bonhomie: ‘Look, mate, let me explain: if you come at a London copper down a dark corridor dressed like a lascar thug and stick a fist in his face, you must expect to be lifted out of your socks. In polite circles we put out a hand at waist level. Like this.’ Joe demonstrated. ‘How do you do, Mr Jacoby … I’m Joseph Sandilands … And I’m pleased to meet you,’ he added, remembering the American greeting.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’ve been overjoyed to meet you- so far! But thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to hail a British bobby from a safe distance in future … Like the width of the Atlantic. Shall we start over?’

  Orlando gave a nervous burst of laughter. ‘Nat, you twerp! You were doing that gesture again, I’ll bet! That affected business with your hands. You’ll have to forgive him, Joe-he gets carried away. Nat’s one of those photographer chappies. He’s incapable of looking at any new face or vista without framing it.’ Orlando put up his hands, made a box shape and pretended to peer through it. ‘Like this.’

  ‘No, no, Orlando!’ the American said in exasperation. ‘You’re just not seeing what I’m seeing. You haven’t noticed it, have you? Perhaps you’re too accustomed to the sight of this man’s face?’

  ‘Ugly brute to meet for the first time in a dark corridor, I agree,’ said Orlando peering uncertainly at Joe. ‘And perhaps I should have said something.’ The American sighed. ‘Permit me, Sandilands?’ He carefully put up the edge of his hand again, centring on Joe’s nose, and turned it like a flap from side to side. ‘I caught sight of you lit up in the doorway. See that, Orlando? This side you’ve got light, this other darkness. We’ve got ourselves a Janus … a Lucifer in mid-fall … an Oxymoron of War … I’m assuming it is war we have to thank for this fascinating rearrangement of your physiognomy?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Nat! He’s just a bloke, you know,’ Orlando protested. ‘A bit battered but then so are thousands like him … nothing out of the ordinary for an Englishman of his age. You’ll pass a dozen in worse condition between the Ritz and Boodle’s.’

  The photographer raved on: ‘If I put a high wattage bulb over him, up here-’ an elegant hand indicated a spot to the right and above Joe’s head-‘you can imagine the drama! No-a daguerrotype! Old-fashioned perhaps and a pain in the neck to perform but this face is worth the bother. Nothing like them for portraits, you know.’

  ‘Do leave it for later, Nat!’ Orlando pleaded and turned to Joe. ‘He sees everything in black and white, don’t you know. Only to be expected when he spends the hours of daylight squinting through a viewfinder and the hours of darkness closeted away in some garde-robe developing the stuff. I reckon all those chemicals he uses are softening his brain.’ He grinned at the American, who grinned back cheerfully.

  A face much more fascinating than his own, Joe decided now his eyes had readjusted. The smooth tanned oval was framed by an explosion of dark hair which curled in corkscrews, unrestrained by scissors, brilliantine or even a comb, Joe guessed. Startling enough and some preparation for the majesty of the nose which would not have disgraced an eagle owl or a Pathan warrior. But the first intimidating effect was countered by the warmth of the eyes. They disarmed. Deep-set and dark, they shone with humour and were fringed by lashes of an extravagance any cover girl would have envied.

  What had Joe called him? ‘A lascar thug’. He regretted the jibe. It was a common enough insult back home in the London docklands where these tough Eastern seamen had acquired a certain reputation for lawlessness and skill with the knife, but this man, by all appearances, could indeed have his origins in the Middle-or even farther-East.

  ‘I say-do forgive me for implying …’

  ‘I didn’t take it personally. I’m not from Alaska,’ came the easy response.

  He waited for Joe’s jaw to drop and added: ‘But if your reference was to Al Askar and the ruffians who go by that name-well, I guess that’s kind of flattering. It means “a soldier”, they tell me. In Persian. Can’t say I’ve ever been called a soldier before-in any language.’

  So why, Joe wondered, was this intelligent and professional man parading about in his present costume? He glanced with some distaste at the baggy black cotton trousers, the chest-hugging, collarless shirt-also in black-and the black rope-soled espadrilles. All bought in the local market, Joe supposed, and more suited to one of the fishermen who lounged along the sea front at Collioure. Well, Orlando and his smart artist friends set a standard of flamboyant eccentricity a humble photographer might find hard to emulate. Tricking himself out as a devil-may-care cut-throat must be his way of keeping his end up. It was all a house-party game. Tedious stuff! Joe wondered briefly what gambit a humble policeman might use for the same purpose and resolved to annoy them all by simply changing his white shirt for an even crisper white shirt and polishing his already shiny shoes.

  He smiled and, perfectly ready to offer himself to the assembled company as a source of derision or even a comic turn should that be what tickled their fancy, he straightened his Charvet cravat, smoothed down the pocket flaps of his linen jacket and moved off down the corridor. Joe Sandilands was used to singing for his supper.

  Chapter Four

  It was lucky some sharp-eared child had heard the car horn, Joe reckoned, as he made his way along several corridors, or they’d have wandered the maze like Theseus without the benefit of a ball of wool. He noted, as they passed, the contents of the one or two rooms whose doors were open. Mainly they were used as storage for mouldering sports equipment, artists’ easels and encrusted palettes, children’s toys. One contained nothing but an array of stuffed boars’ heads and long-dead birds in glass cases.

  At last they came out into what Orlando had called ‘the refectory’. A word that hardly did it justice, Joe considered. This was the grand hall of a very grand castle. The intimidating space soared to a height of three storeys and was lit by windows contrived at three levels from ground to ceiling. Light was flooding in boldly through the topmost rank of windows, the ancient, lead-paned glass filtering and distorting it into ripples which moved along the stone walls, washing them in southern warmth. The harshness of the limestone was further softened by tapestries and hangings quite ragged enough to be genuinely centuries old.

  While the children trooped straight in followed by Nathan, Orlando paused with Joe in the arched doorway and watched his face, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘Well, I never!’ murmured Joe. ‘Sorry! I’ll think of some more intelligent response when my brain’s adjusted to all this grandeur.’ And, feeling that a more appreciative response was expected: ‘Stunning! Simply stunning! I say-these tapestries are certainly eye-catching. Could they possibly be …?’

  ‘As ancient as they look and worth a fortune,’ said Orlando. ‘Thought you’d like them.’

  Though threadbare in places and greying with age, the greens, the violets and the turquoise blues of Aubusson still told their stories. Joe’s eye was caught and held by the small fierce eye of a wild boar
cornered in a forest glade.

  Powerful and utterly fearless, the splendid animal was rounding on his tormentors. In the next tapestry, he was lying, spectacular in death, a prize at the feet of a lusty royal huntsman. The scenes of venery were interspersed with scenes of courtly life: feasting, dancing, flirting and the playing of instruments most of which were unfamiliar to Joe. Hairy satyrs tootled roguishly on pipes making maidens swoon with delight. Maidens strummed on viols-if those pot-bellied instruments were viols-and youths fainted at their feet. The long-dead participants, apart from the satyrs, were universally young and handsome. Joe’s impression was a blend of dark eyes, expressive hands, muscular thighs, winking jewels around swan necks, white coifs and rich attire.

  ‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ said Orlando. ‘Woven especially for this château-for this very room in fact. I’ll introduce you to the Shades of the Castle later. First you must meet the present incumbents. Not so aristocratic, I’m afraid-you’ll be looking at them for a long time before you spot a tiara or a garter amongst them. And the standard of courtly manners is sadly eroded, you’ll find. Still-you’ll probably hold your end up … I say …’ The normally urbane Orlando was disconcerted to be found speaking disparagingly of his fellows but he soldiered on apologetically: ‘Not sure what you might be expecting but … they are a bit of a mixed crowd, you know. One thing they all have in common is-they know their mind and they speak it. Without fear or favour or regard for authority, if you know what I mean?’