Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

He reached under the table for the briefcase which never left his side and took out a notebook. ‘Here we are … three murders, no-that’s five after last night … several robberies on my plate and what did I hear myself expansively agreeing to do? Take a day off up in the Lubéron to investigate the hacking to bits of a young lady.’

He enjoyed the surprised lift of Jacquemin’s expressive eyebrows and added: ‘I deceive you! The lady is … was … of alabaster and not so young-six hundred years or there-abouts. Why did I agree to go?’

‘Send one of your chaps. Any of them would welcome a drive into the country,’ said Jacquemin comfortably. ‘Why not reward one of the bold fellers who assisted the other night? What about the young lieutenant who risked life and limb when I was pinned down on that fire escape? He was impressive, I thought.’

‘Martineau, you mean? Yes, he’s keen. But it’s not possible, I’m afraid. Big gun required to deal with the crew up there at the château. Here, look.’ He opened his book at a page of pencilled notes and passed it over. ‘For a start-note the address-it’s the seat of some local bigwig-one who still clings to his aristocratic title. Recognize it? Yes, that Count! Known to you up there in Metropolitan circles, is he? I’m not surprised. Doesn’t cut much ice with me but-they’ve all got friends in the real world, these musical-comedy types. Political mates in high places and they’ll get you a kick up the bum or the sack if you upset them. And, to go on-half the people swanning about the place are foreigners. Half are artists. Some must be both!’ He quivered with distaste.

‘Silmont? Le Château du Diable, does this say?’ Jacquemin pointed and gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Aristide-they’re having you on!’

‘No, I checked. It’s actually plain old Château de Silmont and the other rubbish is a nickname. A little local joke that stuck. I’m wary of jokes that stick-there’s usually a good reason for it.’

‘Romantic though? You have to say it has a certain allure.’ The Commissaire smoothed down his moustache and placed his napkin on the table. His mind already moving ahead to Paris, he caught the eye of the waiter who came forward to clear away. ‘I’m not surprised you agreed to go.’

‘You could say romantic, I suppose. The château is full of summer guests according to the maître d’hôtel with whom I spoke …’ He paused. ‘Funny-the chap sounded quite capable of sorting out any nonsense himself without dragging in the Brigade … Army type, you’d say. Authoritative. Economical with his words. Used to getting his way. I can only imagine he’s been put up to calling us in by all those foreign women he’s got up there twisting his arm.’

‘Foreign women?’

‘It’s some sort of artists’ colony. Half the number are young ladies … models, mistresses, Russian dancers-posers of one sort or another. Intoxicating substances freely available, no doubt. You can imagine the squabbling and hair-tugging that goes on … the bed-hopping … Too much time on their hands and not enough clothes on their backs-you know the sort of thing.’

‘Mmm … sounds interesting.’ The Commissaire focused his iron gaze on the Inspector. ‘Lucky old you!’ He called for cigars. ‘Tell me more about these Lubéron hills of yours. Rushing streams? Shady green forests full of game?’ he mused.

‘Sportsman?’ asked the Inspector.

‘You’ve seen me shoot! And I’m better with a shotgun than a pistol,’ said Jacquemin with relish.

‘Ah! I guessed as much,’ muttered the Inspector. ‘It has no charms for me, I’m afraid. Homme du peuple that I am, I wouldn’t know which way up to hold a sporting rifle. I expect they’ve got whole shooting rooms equipped with the very best game guns from London-wouldn’t you agree? Purdeys-would that be what they call them? Holland and Holland? Thought so. There’s probably wild boar running around up there. I’m just surprised these idiots haven’t taken to knocking each other off, out in the chestnut forest. Oh, yes, we get a dozen or so of those “accidents” every hunting season!’

He murmured on about the attractions and dangers to be experienced in the Provençal hills but Jacquemin was no longer listening.

‘Aristide!’ The Commissaire finally called a halt to the monologue. ‘My friend, Aristide! You have been good to me … no, no! Hundreds would have resented my presence on their patch and attempted even to foul up the case. But you-you have been efficiency itself with nothing in view but the common cause. Look-you must let me, in some small way, repay you.’ He brandished the notebook under the Inspector’s nose and in one dramatic gesture tore out the pencilled sheet. ‘I relieve you of this piece of idiocy! It’s the least I can do. I’ll attend and report back. This place is on my way north. Look-give me a car and a driver from the Brigade and we’ll set off into the hinterland. There’s bound to be a hostelry of some sort in the village-I don’t mind slumming it. I’ll poke about in the rubble, declare the destruction to be the result of a narrowly focused freak earthquake and send the driver straight back to you with a report when he’s dropped me off at the railway station in Avignon. Let me ease your burden as you have eased mine, though to this very small degree.’

The men regarded each other dewy-eyed, exclaimed with mutual delight, protested and conceded and called for cognac.

The Commissaire’s mind was already devising the wording of three telegrams. The phrases were grave and regretful: unavoidably detained … case of international concern … reciprocity of fraternal assistance an imperative … Monique (and her mother), Rachel, Adèle-they could all make what they liked of it.

The Inspector was asking himself how on earth he’d managed to pull it off so easily. Should he warn them up there at the château? No! Let the buggers find out for themselves!

At the moment the two French policemen were settling their new-found agreement and their delicious fish lunch with a brandy, Joe, in the chapel, was working hard not to throw up his rabbit stew into some available urn.

The tiny body was hanging by the neck. Dead for some days, it was already being consumed by wriggling maggots of various kinds and giving off a revolting odour. Joe took a pencil from his pocket and poked at it. It gave signs of spongy resistance and was not yet dried out. A fly buzzed bad-temperedly from the throat and Joe swatted it away in disgust. Where in hell did they come from, these lousy flesh-eaters? He answered his own question: beetles and flies in the ancient woodwork aplenty no doubt. Some might well have been carried into the building in the animal’s own fur.

And what was the significance? ‘A message’, de Pacy had hinted.

What was one dead creature dangling from a vandalized tomb trying to tell him? What had it said to de Pacy?

Joe was seized for a moment by a healthy rush of indignation and an urge to laugh at his ludicrous situation. His last case in London had involved multiple corpses, eviscerations, and disposal of limbs and heads in packing cases left at St Pancras station. It had involved the talents of the clever men who worked with test tubes, swabs, microscopes and Bunsen burners to establish blood groups and identify fingerprints. He heard himself gleefully recounting his exploits in France to his friend, Chief Inspector Ralph Cottingham, on his return to London: ‘Equipped only with a pencil, I examined the entrails of a rabbit for a clue as to who’d smashed up a statue …’ The story would grow in absurdity as he told it.

He remembered with a flash of guilt the statement he’d been provoked into making after lunch. ‘They start with small animals … work their way up to children and weaker members of society’ or some such guff he’d spouted.