Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Not very. Occasionally she’d ask me to take her into the local Catholic church for confession. She insisted on having Dorcas christened.’

‘Then she was certainly a communicant. On somebody’s parish records. Look-every French girl talks of her first communion-did she mention the name of her village church? We could check the rolls if we had a name.’

Orlando stopped walking abruptly. ‘Good Lord! Sometimes I see why they call you a detective … It was the only photograph she had. I brought it with me … in case. I keep it here, in my wallet.’

He took a leather note-case from his inside pocket and produced a dog-eared sepia print. Joe had seen hundreds like it in every photographer’s studio window. Four twelve-year-old girls were standing together in a row, wearing long white dresses and veils. Downcast eyes looking shyly in the direction of the camera, they were clutching a white book in one gloved hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other. A communion group. And taken by a professional photographer in a studio, judging by the painted backcloth showing the inevitable ruined temple on a wooded hillside. Joe looked for the photographer’s name and found to his annoyance that it had been scratched out.

He pointed to the defacement.

‘I told you-she was determined I shouldn’t know anything of her former life. I think she had something to hide.’

Joe was beginning to enjoy the challenge set so many years before by this unknown dark Provençal girl.

‘Well, we could start by showing this to the photographic establishments in the nearest big town which would be Avignon and asking if anyone recognized the scenery-’ Joe began.

‘I’ve done that. And the photographers of Arles and Aix and Marseille. You’d be surprised how many shut up shop in the war. The ones who struggled through didn’t recognize it.’

‘It’s all we’ve got. There must be … Hang on! Only four girls! Four!’

‘So what? Four friends. All the same age and size.’

‘But not the same in looks. I’d say these two here on the left are twins. This beauty next to them rather fancies herself as a dancer-do you see how she’s standing-quite deliberately, I’d say-with her feet in the at-ease ballet position?’

Orlando peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh, yes. Never noticed. And now I can’t see anything else of course. The photographer must have been a bit miffed when he developed it.’

‘But she’s not your Laure. I’m going to guess she’s the one on the right.’

‘You’ve got her!’

‘It’s a very small number for a communion class. That tells us it was a very small village. She was how old when you met her? … Seventeen? … In 1911? And she would have been twelve when this was taken. So we’re looking for a village in the Lubéron which had in 1906 a tiny class of communicants. Every young girl remembers the priest who instructed her. Think, Orlando, did she ever mention the name of-’

‘Ignace. Father Ignace.’ The words fell, leaden, from Orlando’s lips before Joe had finished his sentence. He closed his eyes in a childlike effort to remember or squeeze back an unmanly tear. ‘She once said, “Father Ignace would not approve.” And I’m sure she was quite right,’ he added with a haunted and melancholy smile. ‘It was the first of many things she did that would have raised a priestly eyebrow!’

‘May I keep this?’

Orlando began to splutter, clearly not keen to have the photograph leave his possession, but Joe was already sliding it away into his own wallet. As the last girl in the row, the small one at the end, the only one of the four not to have looked down in modesty, disappeared from sight, it seemed that she caught his eye and he knew he’d seen that look of mock innocence before.

‘Opulent quarters provided for Monsieur Petrovsky! He may not impress us but he would seem to merit some consideration from the lord?’

They climbed the staircase of one of the round towers, possibly the most ancient part of the château. The house was perfectly silent, the full company at lunch in the great hall.

‘Yes. He gets a set. It’s said the lord has a considerable financial investment as well as aesthetic interest in Petrovsky’s undertakings. Perhaps the rooms and hospitality are a quid pro quo of some kind. In here on the lower level, there’s what it pleases him to call his estude. Do you want to sneak a look?’

And what a pleasant study it made, with southern light flooding in from the window on to the desk, bookshelves full of interesting volumes and comforting Turkey carpets on the floor. Joe took a moment to open each of the drawers of the desk with gloved hands. He inspected the neatly arranged documents on the desk top, turning over several envelopes to read the address of the sender on the reverse flap. He moved on to a drawing board, set up on an easel beyond the desk and tilted at an angle to catch the light. After a moment he began to make sense of the pencilled notes and watercoloured sketches.

‘The man designs ballets too? As well as funding them? These are rather good. Outlines for scenery … shorthand for some ballet steps … He would appear to be planning an extravaganza by the name of The Devil’s Bride. Do I have that right? Anything known?’

Orlando replied tersely, uneasy with his role. ‘Yes. He may be some sort of fake but he knows his stuff. Some do say he was a dancer himself in his youth. Understudied for Nijinsky. Partnered Pavlova. That generation. And he’s stayed pretty … er … lithe, wouldn’t you say? Inherited money from his father some years ago just as his career was fading. “War money,” people hiss out of the corner of their mouths, “dirty stuff!” Wherever it came from, it came in large quantities and launched our chap firmly into the higher realms of the ballet. Not sure “higher” is quite right … Anyway, he suddenly had the clout to start up his own company, to employ choreographers of a quality to rival Fokine, Massine and any of the other “ines” you like to mention. Funny that-in the ballet world you’ve got to have a French name to get on in choreography, Russian if you’re dancing. Little Alice Marks of London found her career taking off when, overnight, she became Alicia Markova.’

‘Ah, yes-those little girls he surrounds himself with like handmaidens are …?’

‘Are indeed Russian. They flee to Paris from the Bolshoi and suchlike. The country produces them by the score. And now there are ballet schools springing up all over the place. A plethora of eager little girls showing off their pirouettes in every capital of Europe. Their mothers are desperate to get them noticed by such as Petrovsky. Some as young as twelve, if you can believe!’

‘Oh, Lord! Baby ballerinas! Whatever next? I say, are they properly supervised?’

‘Not always. Well, you saw their duenna last night-totally silent! Is she Spanish? Is she French? How would we know? Unaware and incurious. She’s not there to interfere. She’s there to turn a blind eye. It’s usually the mothers who chaperone these girls. But they get distracted. Bored. Turn their attention to daughter number two or three, run off with gigolos. Have affairs with one of the dancers. Male or female. Having lived life through their offspring, they suddenly decide to enjoy the bright lights for themselves. Some, I suspect, are merely complacent and conniving. Everyone notes that the charmers who make the leap from corps de ballet to a cameo or even lead role tend to be those same girls who are allowed to keep close company with you know who. You see why I’m perfectly ready to think Petrovsky a villain of the worst kind.’

‘Is he a fixture here?’