Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘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.

‘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 generator 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.