Strange Images of Death djs-8 Read online

  ‘They say the camera doesn’t lie,’ Joe offered.

  ‘And that’s another untruth! But it’s more honest than any painting could ever be. I love the black and white clarity of it all. And it’s quick. Click! The image is accurately caught for ever.’

  ‘But you can have some fun with it,’ Joe suggested with a smile. ‘I remember admiring a shot of the luscious Kiki de Montparnasse, taken from behind. Someone had painted the curving sound-holes of a violin-or was it a cello? — on her bare back.’

  ‘I know it! Wonderful! One of Man Ray’s. I tried to persuade Nat to do something similar but he laughed and told me I hadn’t got the waist and swelling hips for a cello. He suggested a flute might be more the thing.’

  The arrival of fresh steaming bowls of daube coincided with a swirling unrest among the children.

  Orlando leaned to Joe. ‘That’s good! It looks as though they’ve finished at the babies’ table. They gobble down their food and get restive so I usually dismiss them.’ He rose to his feet and selected a suitably paternal tone: ‘You may get down now, chaps, and go out to play. You’ve all been very good so you’re allowed sweets from the bowl in the pantry. Dorcas, my dear, you’d better supervise. They’re allowed two-one for each hand. And don’t get lost!’ he shouted after their retreating backs. ‘Chapel and ovens out of bounds, remember! Oh, and better make that Joe’s car as well.’

  Dorcas lingered behind, picking up discarded napkins and replacing used cutlery neatly on the dishes as she’d been taught. She directed an earnest stare in Joe’s direction.

  ‘Ovens?’ Joe asked, intrigued.

  ‘In the dungeons down below, where the children go to play hide and seek,’ Estelle explained, ‘there’s a series of perfectly hideous hidey-holes with doors.’ She shuddered. ‘The kids will tell you that they’re ovens where prisoners used to be shut in alive to cook to death. I think they’re really called oubliettes. You know-tiny cells where prisoners could be put out of the way and forgotten.’

  She caught Dorcas’s eye over the table and spoke in a voice meant to be heard by all. ‘So glad you’ve arrived at last, dear! It used to be my job to gather in the brood at the end of the day and do the roll-call. Never was dorm-prefect material, I’m afraid. Not the mother hen type, either! I’m delighted to see I can now hand it over to a competent youngster who will keep a closer eye on them.’

  Dorcas gargled a gypsy oath and flung a knife down on to a dish with a clatter. Joe winced.

  Everyone looked up and stared, sensing a drama. Even two very young girls with abundant dark hair who’d been fluting like finches in a mixture of Russian and French fell silent. The strikingly handsome gentleman sitting between the two beauties Joe had already marked down as possibly Russian, of intimidating aspect and out of place at that table. He was somewhat older than the rest of the company and more formally dressed. His linen jacket was uncrumpled and his silk cravat impeccably draped. Joe looked for a flaw in this ageing Adonis and decided that the hair, slicked back over a well-shaped skull, was suspiciously dark over the ears and, in a year or two’s time, the jowls would have grown heavy.

  The Russian broke off an intense conversation in accented French with Guy de Pacy to glower at Dorcas. He took a monocle from his shirt pocket, fixed it into his right eye-socket, and with all the menace of Beerbohm Tree playing Svengali at the Haymarket, he affected to seek out the source of the interruption. Not much liking what he saw, he glowered again.

  Joe leaned behind Estelle and touched Orlando lightly on the shoulder. Orlando caught and responded to his enquiring look. ‘Monsieur Petrovsky. Ballet-meister. Or so he bills himself,’ he hissed.

  Oblivious of the Russian disapproval, Dorcas began to speak. In a voice whose chilling hauteur brought back memories of the girl’s formidable grandmother, she addressed her father. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Orlando, I won’t take up any child-herding duties on a formal basis … I may not be staying long. The Commander and I are working on a project. We may have to come and go … leave early … get back late … Our schedule must remain elastic. And, anyway, it’s a long time since I saw it as my job to go about extracting half-baked children from ovens at the end of the day.’

  Someone exclaimed, all turned wondering eyes on Orlando, waiting for his reaction to this statement of rebellion. Waiting for him to discharge the musket of paternal authority over her head.

  But the shot came from another quarter. Petrovsky’s voice boomed out: ‘Tell me, child, how old are you?’

  Grudgingly Dorcas replied: ‘I’m fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen? Indeed? May I recommend a few more years in bottle before you uncork your wisdom for the world?’

  The monocled eye swept the audience, gathering approval. The finches tittered dutifully. Joe had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d delivered the line. Or the first time they’d heard it.

  Orlando rose to his feet, distinguished and urbane. ‘I take your point, Dorcas old thing,’ he said calmly. ‘But, I say, darling daughter of mine, may I ask you not to speak to your father in your grandmama’s voice?’ He gave a histrionic shudder. ‘It gave me quite a turn! One termagant in a family is quite enough, thank you! Now, why don’t you come on over to the grown-ups’ table-where you ought to be-and we’ll discuss our domestic arrangements more discreetly? We don’t want to risk wearying the elderly with the frivolous concerns of youth.’

  Dorcas grinned. She came stalking over to Joe’s side and tapped Estelle on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas Joliffe. How do you do? May I ask you to move along a little, madam? There are things I have to discuss with my uncle Joe.’

  After a brief flare of surprise, Estelle shuffled peaceably along the bench and, as Dorcas inserted her skinny frame between them, Joe caught the model’s brown eyes crinkling in amusement over the top of the girl’s head. ‘Understood!’ said Estelle. ‘Look-do you think we could do a deal, Dorcas Old Thing? One day on, one day off for as long as you stay? I’m sure Nunky JoJo wouldn’t object. And considering half the junior contingent are Joliffes of one sort or another anyway, that’s better than a fair offer. I’m not kidding when I say it’s not my forte … All that “Cleaned your teeth? Washed your hands? Done your duty in the garde-robe?” They take no notice of me and it’s so boring! At least share the boredom with me! Otherwise it won’t get done at all.’

  Dorcas extended a hand and took the one being offered her. ‘Done!’ she said with satisfaction. And, surprisingly: ‘I’ll take tonight’s watch if you like? But you’ll have to brief me. What time do they go down? Eight? Not until eight? Estelle, you spoil them!’

  They dived into an easy domestic conversation, leaving Joe free to enjoy the apple tart and cheese and the quantities of wine poured from cooling earthenware pitchers. Joe thought he could safely scratch the kitchen from his list of facilities to check on. He learned a few more names and listened carefully to a series of thumbnail sketches of the people around the table from Orlando.

  ‘They’ll bring coffee in a moment and then we’ll break up into groups,’ Orlando explained, looking at his wristwatch. ‘We aim to be back at work by two-no siestas! But we like to circulate a bit. Exchange views and gossip, make plans for outings into the countryside by charabanc. You’ve no idea how inspiring it is to share and develop ideas. Gives you a certain confidence to know you’re not alone. We usually settle on some of those piles of cushions and furs they keep about the place in lieu of proper furniture. This crowd seems to rather go for the informal approach,’ he added apologetically.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Joe. ‘I can lounge like a sultan, given the chance. Just don’t expect me to talk art and make any sense.’

  There was a lull while the last of the dessert and cheese plates were carried off and one of the company took the opportunity to ask, ‘Have you asked him, Orlando? What’s he say?’

  Orlando shook his head. He seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, come on, man! You said he wouldn’t mind …’

  ‘M
e?’ Joe asked warily, noticing he was the target of all eyes. ‘What won’t I mind?’

  ‘They have some mad idea that you should be asked, although in transit and on vacation, to offer a little professional advice. I didn’t want to impose but … oh, well, they’re so uneasy about it, someone’s bound to bring it up … Might as well be me. Fact is, Joe, we’ve got a little local difficulty.’

  ‘Little local difficulty!’ scoffed one of the women. ‘You call an invasion and sacking by a band of Vandals a “difficulty”?’ Her voice began to climb to a shriek. ‘And when they return? What words will you find to inform the police that we women have all been raped in our beds?’

  ‘Beds, eh? At least we’re to be violated in comfort,’ muttered Estelle to Dorcas who, to Joe’s dismay gave an appreciative giggle.

  Estelle leaned across the table and caught the eye of the speaker, a woman whom Joe might have described as a statuesque redhead-if the statue in question were portraying an Amazon queen. The lady now quivering with anticipated terror appeared to be perfectly capable of repelling a squad of eager Vikings single-handed. And, indeed, dressed for repelling. Joe studied her outfit and tried to repress his subversive thoughts. She was wearing a pair of mannish dungarees, paint-splattered, and the top half flattened an over-generous bosom like a breastplate.

  The elf-like Estelle squared up to her boldly. ‘Put a sock in it, Cecily!’ she said. ‘You’re spreading panic. It’s unfair on Dorcas to greet her with such rubbish. And anyhow-when Orlando says “local” he’s spot on! The drawbridge was up. No one could have got in here from outside after dark, you know that. It’s one of us who’s responsible. He’s probably listening to your hysterical squawks right now and laughing at you. Or we could listen to Guy-it’s most likely one of the live-in staff going on a drunken rampage. No more than that. I’m sure Guy will tell us when he’s discovered his-or their-identity.’

  ‘Orlando?’ said Joe, faintly. ‘Would you care to enlarge? I’m all ears.’

  ‘Better tell him, Pa,’ urged Dorcas. ‘He wouldn’t want to leave me anywhere Vandal-infested, you know.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Orlando heavily. ‘I do so hate a fuss but … it was really rather disquieting …’

  Jeers, hisses and stamping feet urged him to recast his phrases. ‘Very well-it was dashed upsetting! We’re all agreed on that. Who was it who found her? Padraic? Padraic joined us last week on his way through Provence. Would you care to tell Joe what you discovered?’

  A slender man got to his feet and the party fell silent. He had the Irish good looks to go with his name: black hair flopping over his forehead, misty blue eyes and an air of melancholy. The voice that accompanied this romantic outward appearance, though soft, had the resonance of a tenor bell and every word was clear.

  ‘Padraic Connell, Commander. Writer, traveller, song-collector and, when I can no longer fight off the urge, second-rate poet.’

  Good Lord! The man even had that self-disparaging, lop-sided smile that women fell for. Joe glanced sideways to check its effect on Estelle and saw that both she and Dorcas were caught on the hook of his charm. Wide-eyed, mouths ever-so-slightly open, they were eager to hear more. Even the finches at the far end had fallen silent.

  ‘It was two days ago I made the heart-rending discovery.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I was going into the chapel to inspect the medieval fabric: the stones, the statues, the inscriptions-I’d been promised wonders. I’ve a fascination with the Courts of Love which were held in the castles hereabouts. You’ll have heard of the Courts of Love, Commander?’

  Joe didn’t confide that he’d encountered the notion only two hours before in a guidebook. He nodded silently, not wishing to interrupt the man’s flow.

  ‘Well, I’m wandering through this blessed land of Provence in the tracks of these lords and ladies who presided over the birth of a concept so essentially a part of our humanity we are living by it today. I speak of Romantic Love.’ He looked heavenwards for a second while he questioned himself. ‘Now was it the birth or was it simply the acknowledgement of an ideal of love which already existed? An ideal which transcended the boredom and the distasteful duties of noble wedlock?

  ‘Wedlock! The word itself snaps like manacles! In a time of arranged marriages and religious demands it pleased the ladies of the day to turn the phrase “God is Love” on its head. For many “Love is God” drew a warmer response.’ His glance wafted lightly around the table, touching the women with a complicitous and forgiving unction. ‘A wife was her husband’s chattel but she could be queen of her lover’s heart.’

  Joe noted that the men in the audience-with one exception-were staring in disapproval or discomfort at their plates. The women were melting, intrigued. Even Dorcas seemed to be well adrift.

  ‘All over this fair land of Provence, from citadel to citadel they reigned, these clever beauties, patronesses of the arts, spinners of the bright thread of romance which lives on and spells out their names in letters of gold: Stéphanette, Cécile, Blanchefleur, Aliénore, Elys …’

  Having tasted the silver syllables, he surged into an explosion of the ancient Provençal tongue, its muscled certainty celebrating its stout Roman roots:

  ‘Ah! Mounte soun le beu Troubaire

  Mestre d’amour!

  ‘Where is he, the handsome troubadour, past master of love? Where indeed may I find my troubadours, the wandering musicians who enchanted with music and song? I’m trailing them in the hope they will lead me to a queen. A queen of both England and France. A woman who was as clever as she was beautiful: Eleanor of Aquitaine. The wife of kings, the mother of kings, the daughter of a prince. I feel sure my heroine-for so she is, and I don’t blush to declare it-must at one time have arrived here to preside over the revelries. Perhaps she even sat at this table, right there in the place which a beauty of our own day now graces.’ He paused to lift his claret glass to toast a simpering blonde who dimpled and squirmed to find herself unexpectedly the centre of attention.

  The Irishman was taking longer to come to the boil than Orlando, but Joe noted his audience had settled to listen to the hypnotic voice with the wide-eyed anticipation of children turning the last page of a favourite bedtime story. They knew the ending but were enjoying travelling with him towards it. And the whole performance was being put on for Joe’s benefit after all. He assumed a more receptive expression.

  ‘Here, at Silmont, I felt I was drawing closer, entering her world. I had a tryst in the chapel, not with Eleanor herself, but with one almost as well known-her contemporary and namesake: Aliénore. A noble lady whose legendary beauty had drawn me across the breadth of France.

  ‘Aliénore … And there she was-or rather, there she had ceased to be.’

  The handsome features creased in pain for a heartbeat.

  ‘It’s Keats who expresses the deepest emotions in the fewest words, don’t you find? Knowing something of the lady I was about to see and afire with anticipation, my thoughts were captured by two lines of his:

  ‘Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

  Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time …

  ‘Well, that holy place was steeped in silence and the air was heavy with the slow passage of many centuries, but the bride …’ The honeyed flow faltered and resumed, spiked with bitterness: ‘Ah, the bride I was to find was no longer unravished, poor creature! She had been hacked to pieces by a barbarous hand.’

  Chapter Six

  Joe had heard enough.

  He was conscious that in the stillness that followed this sorrowful announcement all eyes had slid over to him, watching for his reaction. That most irritating of challenges-‘So there! What do you make of that, Mr Policeman?’-even when silently delivered, always drew an off-key response from Joe.

  He leaned back and offered the Irishman a sympathetic grin. ‘Commiserations, old chap! So you never got to fix a ceremonial smacker on those famous lips? I understand that’s the tradition in these parts
? My guidebook assures me,’ he patted his pocket, ‘that the carving in question is such a lifelike image and so remarkably lovely that no man can restrain himself from leaning over her and planting a kiss. Table-top tomb, I understand? A double effigy? The Lady Aliénore, dead as a doornail, toes turned up, alongside her crusading warrior lord? The question is: would I have had the temerity to wanton with his wife under the old boy’s bristling gaze? I think I’d have had to drape a handkerchief over his face first. But many are less fastidious, I believe. To the extent that there was some concern over the erosion of the stone?’

  His unemphatic question was heard with the sullen silence and offended stares that greet any child who has flippantly raised a doubt over the existence of Father Christmas.

  ‘But now, if I get your drift, Padraic,’ he went on, unperturbed, ‘you’re telling me the statue has suffered more than the usual osculatory wear and tear? Smashed up, you say? How very disturbing! Has anyone checked the roof overhead and the remains below for a fallen corbel? I’m sorry I can’t be of help … what you need is the name of a good stonemason or an architect specializing in ancient buildings. I’m sure Monsieur de Pacy has the details of both on his books. Good story though-we were all agog!’ An appreciative nod to the Irishman marked the end of his turn in the spotlight.

  Padraic looked about him uncertainly, opened his mouth, closed it and then sat down.

  A pretty young woman with dark brown hair worn in a short bob fixed Joe with a scornful gaze from under her glossy fringe. ‘Jane Makepeace, Commander. I’m a guest of Lord Silmont. From my reading and experience, I judge that you are missing the point by a mile. Calculatedly, I hope. I would not like to discover that the police force we depend on is not trained to pick up the underlying-and disturbing-implications of this event. I can only guess at your motivation-I assume you are wilfully ignoring the potential threat to us all in a public-spirited attempt to calm the rabble.’