Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Is that so?’ Orlando peered more closely. ‘Small size. You’d hardly get Dorcas into those.’

‘They’ve been set out like that to attract attention … to make a comment … to cock a snook? But at whom?’

‘We have to say-at us,’ said Orlando heavily. ‘You’re saying we were expected?’

Both men jumped perceptibly to hear a rumbling voice calling in French from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Sergei! Are you up there? Sergei?’

‘And now we’re caught!’ whispered Orlando.

‘Who is this? De Pacy?’ muttered Joe.

‘No. Much worse. Much, much worse! It’s the lord himself.’

Surprising Joe, he straightened his shoulders, grinned and said lightly, ‘Look-leave this to me. I’ll do the talking. You just smile politely. Okay? Stay where you are. Put the door back against the wall and hide the fifth position. Oh, and take those gloves off!’

‘Silmont! Is that you?’ he bellowed back in confident French. ‘We’re up here. Looking for Sergei. The whole world’s looking for Sergei this morning! Will you come up or shall we come down to you? Ah, here you are! Didn’t see you at breakfast, sir-I was hoping to introduce my friend Joe Sandilands, who’s doing the tour. I’ll do it now. Come in, come in.’

With aplomb, Orlando made the introductions. He could have been standing in his own drawing room, Joe thought, confident and welcoming.

The lord was all charm. He was delighted to see Joe whom he had been hoping to catch at lunch and regretted that he would have so short a time with him. ‘Just off to visit an old friend and neighbour for the day,’ he apologized, indicating his riding breeches. ‘Only ten miles distant-I usually ride over. Though I’m so enfeebled these days I never know when one of these rides is going to be my last. You get set in your ways once you reach fifty, you’ll find. It becomes increasingly difficult to give up on anything. I look forward to spending one evening each week playing bridge with three old friends of my youth. This week it happens to be a Tuesday when we’re all free. One of us being a doctor, we tend to follow his lead. Sounds depressing, no doubt, to a young man like you but our weeks turn agreeably around the event. I shall make a point of returning by lunch time tomorrow to do my duty! I feel I ought to exchange nods at least with this inspector of police we’ve been promised. I think cousin Guy allowed himself to be pressed into an overreaction by some of the shrill ladies we have on board at the present. What do you say, Sandilands?’

‘In the same situation, sir, I would myself have called on the police-had I not been the police,’ he finished with a smile. ‘There is always the fear that it may be the prologue to a tragedy.’

‘But as to the elusive Sergei, sir,’ Orlando bustled on with his explanation, ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you. Someone said he’d eaten early and come back to his room. The fresco painter is looking for him also-trying to tempt him out to the Val des Fées. The on dit is that our Russian friend is, in fact, a watercolourist of some distinction in addition to his other talents, were you aware? … But of course … We’ll continue our search and pass him a message should we find him before you do … What would you like us to say?’

While Orlando had flannelled himself through this onesided conversation, Joe and the lord had been taking stock of each other. Joe decided he liked what he saw. Of medium height and slender with thinning brown hair and pale, angular features, their host did not at first sight live up to Joe’s imagined aristocratic presence. Or to his fear-some reputation as art connoisseur. Here was one who had been a handsome man and an athletic man, but Joe had an uncomfortable illusion that he was seeing him, his essence diluted, his image reflected in a dust-filmed mirror.

He was wearing breeches and a tweed jacket and seemed to have called in on them-or Sergei, Joe corrected himself-on his way to the stables. He could have been any English country squire preparing to hack around his estate at the weekend. But he had a quality of blended awareness and ease that magnetized the space around him and drew the attention. Dark eyes seemed to gleam with increasing amusement at Orlando’s performance and he risked an exchange of glances with Joe, politely suppressing a smile.

‘The Val des Fées! Of course, you’re quite right, Joliffe,’ he returned smoothly, taking up the cue he was offered.

‘Now I remember it being spoken of. Sergei is immensely interested in the colours and character of the neighbourhood-background for his new ballet, you know.’ He turned to Joe. ‘A local story of devilish horror which you must ask someone to recount to you. In the broad light of day for choice-not before retiring! Everyone’s worst nightmare! He’s seeking not only inspiration for the plot of the ballet but also an artist of some distinction who’s capable of designing and painting the sets. Which must be stunning and fresh. He is unable to secure the attentions of Pablo Picasso or Henri Matisse who would have been his first choices because they are engaged elsewhere by rival companies. But I have introduced him to our young friend Frederick whom I have enlisted to paint a fresco in the north gallery. I have been greatly impressed by the boy’s talent and I’m sure Sergei will be equally impressed. And if they have gone off together to the ochre landscape this is nothing but good news. My schemes would appear to be working!’

He smiled at Joe and confided: ‘One of the pleasures of advancing years is that you have collected a wide acquaintance. You know many people and can move them around like chess pieces on a board. You can put them together-drive them apart should it be necessary-even wipe them from the board if they fail to please. It’s a pity that you will be with us only for a day or two, Commander. I looked forward to watching you perform!’

‘Not as a pawn, I hope?’ said Joe with a smile calculated to veil rather than hide his irritation. ‘I rather see myself as a knight, bounding gallantly about the board.’

‘You are no bounder, Sandilands, unless I miss my mark. No. I picture you as the queen who bides her time, watches the play and swoops with deadly accuracy when the moment comes.’

He turned to Orlando. ‘But carry on with the tour, Joliffe. I understand Guy has given carte blanche to the Commander to begin his swooping when and where he thinks fit.’ An elegant hand flicked out, indicating the turret room. ‘This would seem a strange place to start perhaps but,’ he shrugged, ‘the Commander knows best.’ He edged to the doorway. ‘Are you coming down? Then I shall accompany you and bore you with information about the building …

‘This suite of rooms,’ he began, affecting the tone of a guide, ‘belonged in the thirteenth century to the mistress of the Lord Silmont of the day. Well, one of the mistresses. It’s said that he had four in all, one in each corner turret. His bastard sons-of whom there were many-served him in the traditonal role of page boy or maître d’hôtel. Imagine the domestic disputes … the jostling for promotion … the back-stabbing … the shin-kicking! The sudden unexplained deaths in the struggle for the succession! Thank the Lord I have to face none of that.’

‘You have sons, sir?’ Joe asked as the lord seemed to have left a space for a response.

‘Not so fortunate, I’m afraid. I have never been married. You’re looking at the last survivor in a long chain of inheritance, Commander. The broken link, if you will. And we have Napoleon to blame for the destruction. The decay started with the introduction of the Code Napoléon. A disaster for the landed gentry! The law of primogeniture was swept aside and instead of passing down as one piece to the oldest son of the family, estates, small and great alike, were divided equally between the surviving children-however many of them there were. The inheritances grew ever smaller with each generation. But the families adapted. We always do. There was no longer a compulsion to produce large broods. One son became the preferred production. To be replaced as and when war and disease made it necessary.’