Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Something very like that,’ Joe agreed. ‘A warning, Orlando. And here’s the truth-this is not a safe place for the children. You must take them away from here.’

He waited for the automatic protests, the huffing and puffing to roll away. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that. Oh, to be ten years old and free to roam in a pack about the Château de Silmont in summertime! With a dozen indulgent adults to take an interest. Twenty years ago I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven to be among them … But listen- it’s gathering … I’m not sure what, but something dark. If there’s anything more important to me than flushing out a villain who’s committed a crime it’s preventing that crime from ever happening in the first place. There’s no glory in that for a policeman! No front page acclamations in the daily papers. And to hell with all that! Will you help me to take the necessary steps, Orlando?’

Joe waited for and got an understanding nod before he went on. ‘There are one or two things you ought to be made aware of. Listen-I went to take a look at the mess in the chapel yesterday. All as described and disturbing enough, but there was an additional element … a small furry one …’

Orlando listened and, to Joe’s relief, didn’t make the all-too-easy Englishman’s scoffing objections. ‘Not much of a reader, I’m afraid, Joe, and I can’t say I’ve ever opened a book by any of those psychologist chaps you go on about. From what I hear, it all sounds a bit like common sense and I can’t see what the fuss is all about. Perhaps it sounds more impressive being expressed in German? But I can quite see why you-or anybody-would be on the alert. It rang a bell with me-what you had to say at luncheon yesterday-that stuff about progression.

‘There was a girl in the village-yes, a girl-who was a bit queer in the head, you know. Started sticking pins in her dolls, chopping off their limbs … the family cat had kittens and they all mysteriously disappeared one by one. No one noticed.’ Orlando breathed in and out slowly and shuffled his feet. ‘Her baby brother, six months old, was found dead in his cradle one day. Suffocated, the doc said.’

Joe nodded. ‘Classic case. I do hope …?’

‘The doc is a clever man. He put two and two together and saw that the right thing was done.’

‘I don’t think your village gossip is going to be much help with the next problem. I have to ask-any dope-fiends in the neighbourhood?’

‘Dope? Not as far as I know. People say there’s a lot about these days. You can get anything you want in most Paris bars. You just go to the till with your cash. They even have a slang word for the till: la pharmacie ! And the Riviera coast is Paris-by-the-Sea at this time of year. Bloody awful stuff! I’ve watched friends of mine … well, never mind. I drink too much and, yes, I’ve sniffed a little this and that. Lost my nasal virginity at a young age but never got addicted. I don’t think I’m the addictive type. Nothing clings to me and I cling to nothing. Everything and everybody rejects me in the end and moves on. Except for Dorcas. She’ll drop a tear on my coffin.’

‘So. Glad to hear you’re conscious of the dangers.’

‘I don’t want the evil stuff or any rum bugger under the influence of it anywhere near the children. It’s illegal here in France anyway. Throw your weight about, Joe. Lean on whoever it is you’ve flushed out and make them leave. Who? Give me a name!’

Joe took two screwed-up pieces of paper from his pocket. ‘Let’s examine the evidence first. What do you make of these?’

He handed one to Orlando.

Orlando took it and opened it up carefully. ‘It claims to be face powder-shade, wild rose. My mama uses these. Dab, dab, dab on the cheekbones. Useful little things to slip into your handbag. They don’t leak or spill. But this powder’s white. ’ He licked a finger, ran it along the creases and popped it into his mouth. ‘Definitely not cosmetic. It’s cocaine,’ he said.

‘Thought so.’

‘Some folk use a five-pound note for the purpose,’ Orlando offered.

‘All adds to the gaiety, I suppose.’

‘Well, it could have been worse, you know.’

‘What do you mean? Bad enough, I’d have thought.’

‘There are more deadly concoctions about. Until recently, this stuff was sold openly over the counter as a tonic!’

‘Here in France?’

‘Yes. Never heard of Mariani Wine?’

‘Of course. A tonic-as you say. One of my great-aunts swore by it. She imported it by the case.’

‘I bet she did! But she was in good company. Other advocates of this infusion of coca leaves topped up with red Bordeaux wine included Edison-he of the electric light bulbs-Jules Verne, the Prince of Wales and His Holiness Pope Leo XIII. His Holiness actually awarded them a medal! At nine milligrams of the hard stuff per bottle, no wonder they were enthusiastic!’

Joe was entertained, as usual, by Orlando’s worldly knowledge. ‘Good Lord! I had no idea! Edison, eh? Isn’t he the chap who said genius is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration?’

‘He did. Failed to take the nine milligrams into his calculation, it seems.’

‘But someone a lot closer to home is getting supplies of much more serious stuff. I should like to find out how.’

‘If you’ll open up and tell me who , perhaps I might have an answer as to how .’

‘Estelle.’

Orlando spent a few moments absorbing this information before shaking his head sadly. ‘Now you come to mention it … Yes, I can see there were signs there for those sharp enough to pick them up. The eyes! The mistimed gestures! The surges of jollity! Oh, Lord! What am I supposed to think now? I like the girl. So do the children. Why couldn’t it have been that appalling pseudo-Russian? That impresario or whatever he is … Director of the Ballet Impérial de Lutèce-that’s what he calls himself … Pretentious twerp! I’d have enjoyed watching you kick him out. I shall look forward to handing him the keys of his Hispano-Suiza and waving goodbye.’

‘So that’s his car? I had wondered. Well, on the subject of Monsieur Pederovsky-’

‘I think it’s Petrovsky.’

‘Thank you. You may well yet have the pleasure of watching him depart in double-quick time. I’m sure his chiselled profile is known to the Vice back home. And if he’s who I think he is, believe me, you wouldn’t want him under the same roof as the children. But I make accusations without proof. I want you to come along with me to his quarters while he’s at lunch and we’ll look through his drawers.’

‘Oh, I say! Poking about in a chap’s privacy? Not sure I could do that.’

‘You don’t have to. Just stand in the doorway, and keep watch while the Law gets its hands dirty. I don’t think we’ll need to look further than his passport.’

‘What colour are Russian passports? Do they have passports or do the poor blighters still just escape over the border and head for Paris?’

Joe groaned. ‘Go back to your painting when we’ve finished here. At the lunch table, make sure that our ballet-loving friend is sitting there in best bib and tucker and then make a vague statement about regretting sending me off on a wild-goose chase somewhere about the place-I’ll leave that to your invention-excuse yourself and come after me. We’ll roll up, arm in arm, ten minutes later making apologies. Got that?’

‘Got it!’ Orlando tried to get to his feet in relief that his ordeal was over.

‘Not so fast, blood brother!’ Joe put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again. ‘There’s more I want from you. And you’re not leaving until I get it! There’s another little mystery I’ve been asked to clear up. I know you have the answers to my questions. There are just two of them. First: Who is-or was-Dorcas’s mother? And second: Where is the lady now?’