Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘But the lord had no luck with his wives. Aliénore died in her youth, it’s said in childbirth, on her lord’s return from the Crusade.’ He sighed. ‘Her husband was determined that she would be remembered for ever. He had the most splendid portrait effigy carved in alabaster and set up in the chapel. You must try to see it while you’re up there, sir. It really is the loveliest thing. After all these years, you’d swear she was just sleeping.’

‘How very fascinating. Now tell me, Ferro … I’m planning to stay for another night. May I confidently expect to encounter the smoked haunch of wild boar again on the menu this evening?’

Ferro, hearing dismissal in Jacquemin’s voice, stood and tilted his head agreeably. ‘But of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

The two men waited until Ferro was out of earshot before they laughed.

‘Well, let’s have it, Martineau! Your analysis, please!’

‘I’d have had the cuffs on the young lord straight away, sir! I’d have sweated him to find out what he really thought of this annoying little twerp whose idea of the best way to spend a honeymoon was a game of hide and seek. I’d have wanted to know the size of his wife’s dowry and whether it came to him on her death. I’d have asked about to find out if he had his eye on any other female in the neighbourhood. Someone whose name began with an A perhaps. And-if he was still at liberty after my attentions-watched with interest his further marital exploits.’

‘Ah? I’m speaking to an admirer of the Perrault fairy tale? Do I hear echoes of the story of Bluebeard? Perhaps we should keep an eye out for bloodstained keys and locked cupboards full of dead wives while we’re up there?’

Martineau acknowledged the Commissaire’s sally with a smile. ‘Always on the alert, sir. And I don’t despise fairy tales. I slapped the cuffs on Bluebeard last year. In Marseille. The gentleman was going by quite a different name and he was certainly no lord. But the contents of his cupboards … well, I won’t go into that so soon after breakfast, sir.’

Jacquemin nodded his approval. He liked a chap with the spirit to answer up for himself. And this sharp young officer, Martineau, had stepped in and saved his bacon in Marseille. Perhaps he could be encouraged to pursue his further career in Paris, conveniently in the orbit of the Commissaire? Jacquemin knew the value of a good man at his back. Another advantage to come out of this wild-goose chase? He looked at his wristwatch in great good humour. ‘Bring the car round at ten thirty, will you, Lieutenant? If you’re to work with me, you must understand that when I am not being punctual to the second, I am arriving ahead of time. Greeting suspects before they are quite prepared for you can be very informing and it puts them on the back foot-they are the ones caught burbling excuses. Let’s see if we can surprise these pretentious buggers with their trousers down, shall we?’

The company around the breakfast table at the château seemed equally enlivened and jolly. De Pacy gave out a gentle reminder that they could expect the presence of the Marseille constabulary at eleven and guests should hold themselves ready to welcome the Inspector at their lunch table. Joe interpreted this as a warning to dress suitably and put away any dubious substances.

As people began to disperse, he caught Nathan Jacoby’s eye and both men rose and made their way out to the courtyard.

‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Nathan. ‘Nine o’clock now. We’ve got two hours before the police arrive. I estimate I’ll take an hour at the outside.’

‘You’re on,’ said Joe. ‘At least I think so … Don’t you need equipment? I don’t see you hung about with the usual contraptions of the photographer’s trade.’

‘I left my things out here,’ he said, picking up a small leather Gladstone bag. ‘Travelling light. I’m going to use my Ermanox. There’s such a splendid light pouring in through those east windows it should be a cinch. And this beauty has flash.’

They raised their heads and squinted up into the sun. Nathan sighed with satisfaction. ‘Do you see the way this yard is striped with light and shade at this hour? And look at the pattern on that arched gallery over there where the children are playing! Wonderful!’

Joe took his bag from him and set off across the courtyard, leaving him with two hands to frame his pictures and point out his perceptions as they went. He was looking forward to seeing the chapel again with the benefit of this man’s insights and he was easy in his company. As they approached the big oak door they looked at each other in astonishment.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Nathan.

Joe was running to the door as the second dull thud made itself heard. As he lifted the opening device and the door began to creak open they heard a pitiful wail leak out. Six inches was enough space for a small body to dash out, flash between the men’s legs and hare off, howling.

‘What in hell was that?’ said Nathan. ‘Christ! That kid’s upset. What was he doing in there?’ He made to run after the child who was fleeing barefoot across the courtyard.

Joe held him back. ‘Let him go. We’d frighten him further. He’s on his way to find his mother in the kitchen. It’s the cook’s son. The one who went missing last night.’ He watched on as Dorcas, drawn by the howls, emerged from the gallery and raced across the courtyard to intercept him. She seized the child’s hand and ran on with him.

‘It’s all right. Dorcas has got him. He seems to be safe enough. Now.’

‘Good Lord! The poor little chap’s been trapped in here all that time? Overnight? In that wind?’ said Nathan. ‘That’s one distressed kid!’

‘And he could only have got in here if he’d been put inside by an adult who opened the door,’ said Joe grimly. ‘Or sneaked inside while the door was open. Someone’s been in here. Are you ready for this?’

They entered carefully and waited for the door to swing shut behind them.

The cool beauty of the space was unchanged at first sight and Nathan stood still absorbing it, enchanted. But Joe was looking for details. ‘Look here! Poor child! He must have been terrified out of his wits but he showed some style! Little soldier indeed! He made himself a bivouac.’ He bent and examined the rough nest behind the door. ‘Look-here’s his bed.’ A base of kneeling cushions had been assembled to form a mattress and an old velvet curtain had served as blanket. An inch of yellow fluid in the bottom of a nearby glass flower vase told its tale of night-time emergency. A discarded clog had been put to use to bang on the door and accounted for the dull thuds that had alerted them. Sick at heart, Joe thought of the child hammering through the night, the sounds masked by the infernal wind.

‘Deserves a medal!’ Nathan commented. ‘But listen-if someone was here, he’s not here any longer, would you say? Impressive place! Fourteenth-century?’

‘Probably earlier. Twelfth, according to the guidebook. But with fourteenth-century additions and improvements. The Counts of Provence worshipped here when they were being entertained at the castle. It’s said that the father of Eleanor of Aquitaine attended mass here. William of Touraine, gallant knight, poet and-they say-the first troubadour.’ Joe’s response was mechanical, all his thoughts centring on Marius and his ordeal, eager to be done with this inspection and go and get the boy’s story from him.

‘Can we take a look at Sir Hugues now?’ Nathan asked, making his way over to the monument.

They stood in stricken silence staring at the table-top tomb.

There they were, two figures lying side by side, the lord and his lady.