Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

His things had already been brought up and unpacked while he was at lunch on the first day so he’d conceded with good grace and settled to enjoy his solitary state.

Why in blazes was he staying on? He asked himself the question constantly and the same answers came back ever more strongly. Two answers.

There had been the surprise of discovering that one of the faces around the lunch table had been familiar to him from photographs and newspaper articles he’d seen some years ago in his early days at the Yard: Earl’s Daughter lets her hair down at the Savoy with Dancing Dreamboat … Every playgirl’s favourite partner cuts a rug at Ciro’s … That sort of nonsense, he remembered. But Joe’s professional antennae had quivered at the sight of this guest who he was reasonably sure had a darker side to him than the limelit, cocktail-fired image the press displayed. He was known to the Vice Squad back home in London. But Joe’s hands were tied. There was no way he could make an accusation or even a discreet enquiry based on a piece of sketchily recalled Scotland Yard gossip.

And yet the man’s reported proclivities were too objectionable for Joe to ignore in the circumstances. He had to ask himself whether it would be sensible at least to alert Orlando, and decided that it was more than sensible-it was essential.

And then-the most surprising part of his day-there’d been Estelle’s strange behaviour.

The drinking and the yarning and the laughter had gone on until past midnight, he remembered, and the women had defiantly stayed on at the table. When the moment arrived, he’d looked questioningly at de Pacy and wondered which of the women would take it upon herself to rise and suggest that the ladies might like to withdraw. De Pacy had grinned and, in a marked manner, had launched into a conversation with Jane Makepeace, inviting her opinion on the mental state of Vincent Van Gogh at the moment he severed his own ear. Instead of the heavy psychological diatribe Joe had feared, her crisp answer had raised a shout of laughter around the table.

‘Formidable woman,’ he’d commented to Estelle.

‘You don’t say!’ she’d drawled. ‘Forget it, Joe! You’d need steel-lined underpants to tangle with that one! She wouldn’t be interested in you.’

Estelle had offered to walk him back up to his room after dinner and taken his arm firmly in hers. And the flourish had not gone unremarked by the crowd remaining in the hall. She was wearing a fetching midnight blue gown in a silky fabric cut on the bias. The gown clung flatteringly to her slim figure and her slim figure clung flatteringly to him. Her hair brushing his shoulder smelled heavenly-Après l’Ondée, he thought, or something equally special. She’d been scintillating and funny over dinner; a girl with further plans for her evening, he’d have said. But whom did her plans involve? She’d flirted openly with several of the men. And yet it was on Joe that her choice had fallen when she left.

Intrigued, excited but slightly alarmed, Joe began to try to estimate the quantity of wine he’d downed at dinner and could only conclude: too much. Should he say something … issue a caution? Or hope for the best? They’d arrived at his stout oak door and he’d turned to her apologetically. ‘I say, Estelle-’ was as far as he got before she put a finger over his lips.

‘Shush!’ She’d made a pantomime of listening. Cheery sounds of the women settling down for the night came from their dormitory; a drunken chorus from Iolanthe rose up from the floor below and was quickly extinguished by yells of protest and possibly the application of a pillow. A child called out in its dreams and instantly fell silent.

Reassured by what she was hearing, Estelle whispered: ‘Got a torch, Joe?’

He took one from his pocket. ‘A torch? Never walk castle corridors without one. Er … what do you have in mind? If you’ve found the bloodstained key to Bluebeard’s lair, we’ll have to come back in the daylight. Not at my sharpest at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘Can you at least stagger along to the end of this corridor? That’s all you have to do.’ She’d squeezed his arm reassuringly.

She led him along to the end of the corridor, eased open a window and let herself through on to a flat square of roof contrived between two dormers. Joe followed to find himself on a lookout platform with a low balustrade to ward off vertigo. From up here there was a clear view over the courtyard closed off at one end by the bulk of the chapel.

The cigarette butts underfoot explained the girl’s interest in this private little space, he guessed. He shone his torch on to the roof tiles below, lighting up several packets’ worth of mostly half-smoked ends. And a scattering of something else.

When Estelle turned to close the window behind them, he bent quickly and gathered up two pieces of screwed-up paper and slipped them into his pocket. Unwanted love-notes? He didn’t think so. He managed in his torchlight to catch a glimpse of the name Houbigant printed on one of the flimsy pink sheets. Face powder papers? Discarded out here amongst the cigarette ends? An outlandish and unwelcome thought delayed for a moment his automatic offer of help with the window.

‘Sometimes, when I’ve drunk too much or if Cecily’s snoring, I can’t sleep. Especially these hot nights. So I come out here, sit on the window sill and smoke. The others can’t stand the smell of tobacco and I’m banned from doing it in the dorm. It’s rather like being back at school! I was out here the night of the full moon. It was quite magical. The moon was over there.’ She pointed behind her. ‘A huge harvest moon shining down on the courtyard. It was almost as bright as day but of course the shadows were deeper. But then it all got a bit strange. I heard some dull thuds coming from the chapel and I stood up to have a look. There were no lights on so I sat down again. I thought it must be rocks settling, woodwork contracting after the day’s heat … you know what old buildings are like. I’ve lived in some pretty decrepit places and nothing surprises me! About half an hour later I saw him.’

‘Him?’

Estelle began to tremble and instinctively Joe threw a comforting arm around her shoulders and tucked her shawl more closely about her. The girl felt small-boned and about as substantial as gossamer in his arms but her voice when she replied was throaty and determinedly bold.

‘Him? It? A ghost. At least that’s what I thought I saw. Yes, really! That was my first thought.’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘Dark grey. Solid shape. It could have been male or female. I saw it very clearly. It was wearing a long hooded robe, just as you might expect, and moving along soundlessly. Coming from the chapel towards me. Like this … Head down, hands together in front …’ She demonstrated. ‘Not skulking or trying to hide. Floating along as though it did this every night. Perhaps it does …’

‘Were you able to make out a face?’

Again Estelle quivered. ‘It was hidden by the hood as it came towards me but, without breaking stride, it suddenly looked up in my direction. This is the sickening bit, Joe. It had no face. Where you’d expect to see features there was nothing but a white space. It was a faceless monk.’

‘It looked up at you? Are you quite certain about that?’

‘Yes. Almost as though I’d called out to him. I hadn’t. I made no noise at all. I didn’t move and he couldn’t have seen me in the shadows. He had no eyes, in any case.’

‘Listen, Estelle. I have to ask-could this … um … sighting have been a nightmare? Or a hallucination with a physical cause? Alcohol? Other stimulating and vision-inducing substances?’