Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

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.’

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.’

‘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?’