Strange Images of Death djs-8 Page 6

  ‘Jane’s making a study of the science of psychology.’ Orlando leaned to Joe and hissed a warning in his ear under cover of refilling his wineglass. ‘Conserver of ancient artefacts with the British Museum and presently on loan to the lord for the summer. Worth hearing, Joe!’

  ‘Miss Makepeace, you overestimate my sense of duty,’ Joe replied jovially enough. ‘My motivation in attempting to sweep the shards of this nasty business under the nearest carpet is a purely selfish one. By the morning I shall be gone. By the evening I shall be dining in Antibes. What I do is investigate crime-principally murder. Venting one’s wrath on a stone effigy may not be in the best of taste but it does not constitute a capital offence. Wanton damage at the most. Deplorable. But surely there’s a local gendarmerie who could interest themselves? I really don’t think this affair would ever secure the attention of Commissaire Guillaume of the Brigade Criminelle, were you to approach him …’

  Her next comment was delivered with an extra helping of scorn. ‘Commander, you are being a very great disappointment. You really haven’t seen the danger, have you?’

  Joe didn’t quite like to see the triumph in her eyes. Too late he recognized that his aversion to Padraic’s plangent delivery had led him into too brisk a reaction. He’d oversteered and would have to correct his course. He sighed and conceded stiffly: ‘You’re referring to the probable repetition and escalation in the violence, of course?’

  Jane Makepeace favoured him with an encouraging smile. She had a very nice smile, he was irritated to notice, and he corrected the balance of his approval with the observation that she was one of those over-tall gawky women, all wrists and elbows.

  ‘It had occurred to me. Very well. I give you my thoughts: I dismiss the notion that we are dealing with the efforts of a disgruntled art critic. In six hundred years, the lady has attracted nothing but praise and admiration, after all. So what exactly has been attacked? Her beauty? Her sex? Her nobility? All of these? Perhaps we’re contemplating a statement by some ugly misogynistic Bolshevik? Anyone here fit the description?’

  Stifled laughter greeted this and a shout of ‘Derek! He’s got your number. Confess at once!’

  Suddenly serious, Joe added: ‘But we ought to consider that the lifeless image may well have been merely an unresisting substitute for a living, flesh and blood object of hatred. Could such a thing happen again? It’s a valid question. And one we must ask.’

  Nods of agreement broke out around the table and, in response to a further challenge from Jane Makepeace, Joe was led to make a further confidence: ‘Yes, I have to say that your assumption is well founded, madam. I could reveal that, in my own studies of real-life criminals to whom I have access, I have noted that the worst, the most cruel, the craziest if you like, murderers have begun their bloody careers in petty and largely unremarked areas. Dolls disembowelled, domestic animals taken and tortured. And then smaller, weaker humans may follow: children or the mentally enfeebled. Family members may be attacked. And in his search for ever more satisfying outlets for his insane anger, the villain casts his net wider. Strangers are caught in it. And it’s at that moment that he comes to our-and the public’s-attention. Too late, you will say. He is already launched.’

  Everyone was silent, appreciating Joe’s candour.

  ‘There! I told you all so!’ crowed Cecily. ‘The Commander agrees with me. There’s a Jack the Ripper in the making prowling the corridors. A Beast! A sadistic killer! A lunatic!’ Cecily had very blue, very large eyes and they were at this moment at their bluest and largest as they swept the table in triumph. They settled on Joe, and Cecily made a further dramatic point: ‘Did you know that the moon was at the full on the night it happened, Commander?’

  ‘I believe it was, madam,’ said Joe curtly, not wishing to feed her fire.

  ‘I don’t think Herr Freud would give much weight to the phases of the moon in such a case.’ Jane Makepeace’s response was equally repressive, Joe guessed for the same reason.

  ‘Huh! Only if the suspect were a woman, I bet,’ chimed in Estelle. ‘Then he’d have plenty to say about monthly madness. Now-have we got to the point where we shall have to go about the place suspecting everyone we rub shoulders with of being a weapon-wielding killer in embryo? Bring me a jug of water, Marcel-and just leave the axe at the door, would you?’ she drawled. ‘Are you happy now you’ve made your point, Jane?’ she finished waspishly.

  Joe looked steadily across at Jane Makepeace and raised an eyebrow, underlining the question. She flushed and murmured uncomfortably: ‘No need to get carried away, Estelle. Crowd hysteria is something we should be on our guard against encouraging … In this much, at least, the Commander is quite right and we should listen to him. Though I maintain that ignorance is always a dangerous state. To know is to be able to arm oneself. If one chooses.’

  ‘But can you tell me, Padraic?’ Joe interrupted in his no-nonsense police voice, picking up the awkwardly expressed plea for calm. ‘As no one will admit to a falling corbel-was there a tool still at the scene? Hammer? Axe? Pick?’

  ‘No. None. But judging by the damage I saw, I’d say the attack could only have been carried out with a stonemason’s hammer or something of the kind.’ Padraic appeared to welcome his return to the limelight and spoke in the voice of a thoughtful witness.

  ‘What had been done with the remains?’

  ‘The sculpture had been smashed into large pieces and then prised away from the rest of the display. Like this …’ He instinctively mimed an action Joe had seen often enough: the swing of a man digging in the trenches, pounding, hacking, levering. ‘Someone had gone to the trouble of hauling the bits off to a corner of the chapel. They’re still sitting there in a pile if you’d like to inspect.’ He shot a questioning glance at Guy de Pacy who nodded soberly and then got to his feet.

  Was some careful servant keeping an eye on proceedings through the red baize door which dampened the sounds between the hall and the rear offices? Instantly, a footman appeared with a tray laden with coffee cups and a second followed with a steaming jug.

  ‘Ah, we have coffee!’ said de Pacy as though surprised.

  ‘Interesting comments, Sandilands! Very interesting! And I intend to hear more. Right now! Why don’t you help yourself to a cup and come over here where we might be more at ease to continue this conversation? Orlando? May we ask you to join us?’ He spoke in English with the merest French lilt.

  The rest of the company helped themselves to coffee and made off to the fringes of the room, moving cushions and rugs here and there to accommodate their gathering groups. Joe would have been intrigued to monitor the placings and affiliations but Guy de Pacy had something more serious in mind for him. Instead of going off to lounge, he set about clearing one end of the table himself before a man had a chance to scurry forward and take the dishes from his hands. Satisfied, he gestured to Joe and Orlando to join him there. In conference, Joe decided.

  He embarked directly on the problem. ‘Firstly: Sandilands, on no account are you to feel under any obligation to involve yourself in this mess. I hope I make that clear?’

  Joe nodded. So far they were of one mind.

  ‘I’m aware of your reputation and, being a racing man, I thought “horses for courses”. This is an event for a sturdier breed than you! I insult neither you nor the good Sergeant Lafitte from the village when I say that this is definitely a task for the gendarmerie.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that,’ was Joe’s silent thought.

  ‘I entertained the theory that it might be young louts from the area sneaking in and having a bit of fun … Their great, great-grandfathers might well have done the same in the unpleasantness of the revolutionary times. I was confident that the Sergeant, once apprised of the situation, would nod wisely and advise me to leave it to him-a name or two came to mind …’

  ‘You took steps to preserve the scene, of course?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Naturally. I went to investigate it myself the moment Padraic ret
urned with his news. I took Jane with me. Miss Makepeace is an authority on medieval art-did you realize? — and a conserver. I thought she might well have insights … be in a position to advise on repair or reconstruction. I-we-judged that we were looking at an unnatural and disturbing occurrence.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I’m speaking to a soldier?’

  ‘From Mons to Buzancy,’ Joe said succinctly. ‘And the four years of hell in between.’

  De Pacy nodded. ‘Aviation Militaire. I flew Spads.’ He looked briefly at his motionless right arm. ‘All wood and canvas. They go up like a match. They were lucky to get most of me out.’

  The two men regarded each other quietly and, shibboleths exchanged, continued with more easy understanding.

  ‘Inhuman acts of destruction were done in war, Sandilands. Even in sacred buildings. Things of beauty and worth were destroyed or stolen away. And in the frenzy, the overheated passion, the fear, all is possible. One understands … one does not forgive but one understands. The act of desecration we saw in the chapel would, in the war years, have been regarded as nothing more than some drunken private’s revenge on the female sex … a howl of protest against a God in whom he can no longer believe. But the war is long behind us. No such excuse is available to us. I decided to treat it as a scene of crime because that is exactly the impression it made on me. We touched nothing. I immediately put the chapel out of bounds to everyone-adults as well as the children. They are, at all events, unable to gain access, even should they wish to, since the opening mechanism is a good four feet above the ground and far too heavy for them to operate.’

  ‘No more than “out of bounds”?’

  ‘It is never locked. It is the House of God and open to those who need to speak to Him,’ he said solemnly and then smiled. ‘And if there ever was a key it was lost many years ago. So, people are on their honour to do as I ask. Sergeant Lafitte was fetched. He inspected. He wondered. He surmised. He washed his hands of it. To my disappointment, he had no suitable candidate on his list. He gave me the telephone number of the police in Avignon and told me to contact them should worse occur.

  ‘I wasn’t prepared to wait for worse, Commander. I was left clutching at the theory you yourself propounded just now. I am not willing to risk the safety of any of the guests under this roof. I was eventually put through to-foisted off on to might be more accurate-the Police Judiciaire in Marseille. An inspector listened politely to my problem. His attention was not caught by the “crime” but the name and standing of the owner of the damaged statuary gave him pause for thought. Quand même …’ he shrugged, ‘we have to take our place in the queue for his services. With a gangland war, three murders and two robberies on his books, a beaten-up bit of alabaster has low priority. He informed me he could attend the scene in five days’ time. In other words, he will arrive the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘An hour’s investigation of the crime scene will leave the officer well placed for lunch. He asked me to ensure the area was sealed off and left ready for his inspection.’

  Joe was beginning to relax. He liked Guy de Pacy’s brisk delivery. He nodded approval of his arrangements. And, with the élite Police Judiciaire, the respected equivalent of the London CID, in control of proceedings, a visiting English policeman was surplus to requirements. Joe could, with good conscience, bow himself off stage. He concluded he was, in the politest possible way, being excused from further participation.

  ‘So, I was wondering, Sandilands, if we could persuade you to stay on for a couple of days to meet this policeman? To confer with him? You speak excellent French, Orlando tells me, and have used it in a military and diplomatic role during the war?’ He smiled his genial smile again. ‘A man who has the ability-and tact! — to deal with our French generals can safely be set to deal with a provincial policeman, I’m thinking. I would like you to use your knowledge of the profession to get inside his skull and discover his theories and his strategy for dealing with our problem. If, indeed, he has any. If he hasn’t, I should very much like you to plant some in his head.’

  He was silent for a moment before adding quietly: ‘Some of the people gathered here under the castle roof are your friends, I understand, and a good number are your compatriots, Sandilands. This episode-an attack on beauty in a holy place-strikes me as being very un-French and coincides with the presence of a dozen foreigners of artistic temperament. There are undercurrents here I cannot account for in a public place over a cup of coffee to a stranger … But then again … it could well be that a clear-eyed stranger will see something obvious that has not manifested itself to me. It’s a question of focus. I’ll just say, I would be happy and relieved if you would accept to stay on and lend a hand.’

  The furrows on the brow deepened, the dark eyes were earnest, conveying more than he had articulated. He waited again, taking the measure of Joe’s silent indecision, then, finally: ‘I’m not a man to run about squawking with panic, Sandilands. I do not easily ask for help. You hear me asking now. Will you stay on?’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur de Pacy. I’d be delighted,’ Joe heard himself saying.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Now. Before this crowd trails off back to its various occupations, would you like me to detain any of them for you? Any individual you’d like to speak to before I show you to your quarters?’ de Pacy offered.

  ‘And instantly light the fuse of suspicion under some poor bloke? No, thank you. Let them go about their business. I’d like two things from you, Monsieur de Pacy. The first, a list of everyone living or working in the building over the past season, the second, blanket permission to go wherever I need to go about the building and speak to guests or staff at will. I cannot function in any other way.’

  ‘But of course!’ De Pacy spread his hands in an expansive gesture.

  ‘And I thought I’d start in the kitchens. No. No need to escort me! I’m sure I can pick out the cook.’

  ‘The cook?’ De Pacy swallowed his surprise to mutter: ‘You want to start with the cook? Not as straightforward as you might imagine. Our chef de cuisine does not welcome incursions by the guests. In fact they are expressly for-bidden from passing through the red baize door.’

  ‘Then you must introduce me as an employee. I have just undertaken a commission for you, I think? With permission to rove about, did we agree?’

  ‘Ah! A test! And I’ve stumbled at the first fence! At least let me take you in … the staff, after all, stand on some ceremony … even though Scotland Yard may have abandoned all decorum.’

  He smiled as he got to his feet.

  Followed by the mystified eyes of the gathering, they made their way through the swinging door covered in red baize and studded with brass-headed nails, along a short stone corridor and round a corner into a cavernous and apparently deserted kitchen. Joe passed a range the size of a Rolls-Royce rusting in neglect under a stone arch. He noted a row of brass taps dripping into a mottled sink which would have been quite large enough to wash a medium-sized corpse in. A dresser which had once been of the finest oak leaned goutily to one side, its matchboard backing seamed with the vertical cracking associated with wet rot.

  ‘This is the old kitchen,’ said Guy de Pacy. ‘We don’t use it any more.’

  ‘I’m quite seriously glad of that,’ said Joe and followed him into the further depths.

  They passed below an archway into a stone-flagged, large, square space full of activity, the clashing of copper pans, laughter, exclamations and light.

  ‘This is the new kitchen,’ Guy announced unnecessarily. ‘Our chef de cuisine moved in two years ago and insisted on dismantling the-er, Victorian, would you say? — facilities you have just passed and restoring the original and larger medieval space to its former grandeur. With certain modern additions, of course.’

  ‘The refrigerator?’ Joe asked, all admiration for the gleaming monster at the far end of the room. ‘You’re wired for …?’

  ‘Yes. The lord installed a genera
tor some years ago and we enjoy a reasonably effective electrical system. Our cook spent some time in the kitchens of the Splendide in Paris during the war years when it was easier for women to take up employment and she came away with notions of grandeur. And some fabulous receipts for iced-cream desserts. I must order up one of Madame Dalbert’s soufflés glacés aux framboises as your reward before you leave! You’ll be impressed. And there she is.’

  A small dark woman, well rounded and much girt about with grey pinnies and the black skirts of a widow, was shrieking in what to Joe was a foreign language at a youth struggling to roll out a sheet of pastry. He watched as she snatched the rolling pin from the boy’s hands, gave him a playful crack over the knuckles and demonstrated a lighter touch, wiry brown hands and wrists moving in practised gestures. The boy began again and she cooed and patted his head.

  She came over to greet them and Joe realized that she had been aware of their intrusion from the moment they set foot in the room. She had chosen her own time to acknowledge their presence, marking out her territory and standing confidently within it. He would be respectful of the borders.

  He reached for her floury hand and held it for a moment, smiling and listening to de Pacy’s introduction.

  ‘Well, there you are. Madame Dalbert, Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard who has asked to speak to you, I’ll leave you to … er … get acquainted.’ De Pacy bowed and made for the door.

  The woman took a step backwards, snatching away her hand on learning who he was, and Joe knew he’d made a clumsy mistake in coming here. There was no retreating so he advanced.

  ‘First things first, madame,’ said Joe briskly in French, eyeing the hostile face in front of him, ‘in fact: two things. The compliments of an ignorant Englishman on French cooking. The main dish at luncheon was a countryman’s dream! Honest meat from the terroir, simply cooked to perfection with local herbs. I so enjoyed it!’

  ‘Faites simple! Faites toujours simple, monsieur,’ she said. Her voice was low and strongly accented with the rugged Languedoc accent. ‘Escoffier knew what he was talking about. And your second comment?’ She was uneasy in his presence, already glancing sideways at the young pastry chef, eager to be released to her duties.