Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

He exchanged a knowing glance with his assistant.

‘Not at all, Jacquemin,’ said Joe, stepping forward to take the fire while de Pacy put his spoon away and regained his aplomb. ‘You arrive, in fact,’ he glanced briefly at his watch, ‘sixteen hours too late.’ He had been irritated by the Frenchman’s supercilious manner. ‘Monsieur de Pacy you have correctly identified. I am Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard, London. But you must explain yourself. We had been promised a local inspector … Isn’t that what we understood, de Pacy?’

The steward was trying valiantly to disguise his bemusement and, like Joe, clearly resenting the cold stare of the French policeman. ‘Yes, indeed. An Inspector Audibert was so good as to offer his services. But we know the force is up to its ears in cases. We’ll just have to accept the attentions of whatever officers they feel able to spare us,’ he murmured, his smile taking the edge off his cynicism. ‘Sandilands, I know you have familiarized yourself with the circumstances of our little lapidary calamity-perhaps you will conduct your confrères to the chapel and introduce them to what remains of the Lady Aliénore?’

He turned an anxious face to Joe and murmured: ‘Find Estelle at once and have her sent to me. That young lady has some explaining to do.’

‘Certainly I’d be glad to do that, but, de Pacy, before we proceed, there’s something you absolutely have to hear …’ Joe looked around at the alert faces, excited by the dramas they were witnessing and eager for more, and he decided on discretion. He spoke into de Pacy’s ear. ‘Regarding Estelle. Before you do anything else, I want you to have a word with Nathan in the hall. He was with me just now when we found Marius. Take Dorcas with you. I’ll conduct the-Commissaire, did he say? — over to inspect the scene in the chapel. And we’ll see you over there in a few minutes.’

He changed into English. ‘Dorcas. There’s something you need to be told also-but not in front of little ears-if you know what I mean. Go with Guy to the hall, listen to what Nathan has to say and do what you can for the children. Try not to frighten them-they’ve had enough disturbance for one day. Jacquemin … Martineau … follow me.’

They stood with Joe by the chapel door and, before entering, Jacquemin decided to establish a thing or two.

‘Sandilands-this rank of yours … Commander? … I’m not familiar with it.’

A stickler for protocol, evidently.

Joe reckoned that at any Interpol conference table, the adjutant whose job it was to care about precedence would probably assign a commander a seat at least one notch higher than a commissaire. Whereas the regional French Brigades had at least eighty-five commissaires whom Joe would have ranked with ‘superintendent’, the Metropolitan Police of London boasted only two commanders and these came immediately above chief superintendent. Early in his police career, Joe had been made up to the extraordinary rank of third commander with special duties, duties resulting from the changes in policing following the war. Resulting also from the changes in the criminals themselves.

The humble bobby, and his not vastly less humble superior, was increasingly ill qualified to deal with the officer-class, battle-hardened men who had emerged from the war with an embittered view of society. They were wrong-footed by the country’s intelligentsia, moving ever towards the left; they were speechless before the reasoned arguments and threats of direct physical action of the suffragettes; left puffing behind on their bicycles by the new motoring thieves. The Commissioner had looked about him for a man who could head a strike squad of fast-moving, socially confident and clever young men to plug these gaps in the service. Joseph Sandilands had come to his attention. Glittering war record, something of a linguist, the man had played a diplomatic role in his years in France and would have no difficulty liaising with Special Branch. Above all he was pronounced, by one of his supporters, to be, ‘Quite the gentleman. Scottish, of course, but aren’t they all these days.’

Far too young for the appointment, but he’d impressed the new and reforming Commissioner at interview. Sir Nevil had thought it wise to dub him, on acceptance of the offer, Commander. It had a certain naval ring to it that would fool some and impress others. A high rank indeed.

‘I understand it to be equal with your own rank, Jacquemin, as far as it’s possible to draw comparisons between our two so different forces,’ Joe said diplomatically.

He knew that a man of Jacquemin’s kidney would lose no time in checking this information and he would be non-plussed by Joe’s response. But, for the moment, Joe wanted to get the best out of this peacock. Better not to set fire to his tail feathers.

‘Indeed? And-tell me-are you a guest here or are you on official British business? Interpol or the like?’ Jacquemin asked.

‘No official capacity whatsoever. I am a guest.’

The response appeared to please the Commissaire. He did not go so far as to smile his pleasure but he smoothed down one side of his moustache in a quietly triumphant gesture.

‘Good. Good. And the scene of the depredation is to be found in this building, are you saying? Then you may safely leave us to investigate.’ He paused before the great door and Martineau set about opening it. ‘I’m not seriously expecting many answers from a broken statue but I’m sure we’ll arrive at a solution that will settle any remaining qualms. I’ll hand you an official and calming line that you may safely give out to the ladies.’

He dismissed Joe with a curt nod.

‘Commissaire, before you enter, there’s something you should hear …’ Joe began, putting out a staying hand, but, presented abruptly with the policeman’s back, he shrugged his shoulders and watched the pair enter the chapel. He lit a cigarette and settled to wait for them to come out again.

Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later they emerged, blinking into the sunlight, subdued and silent.

‘Sandilands!’ the Commissaire’s voice rang out on seeing him. ‘You’ve had your fun! Now bloody well get back in here and tell me what the hell’s going on!’

Joe had been startled to hear the big gun of the Paris Brigade Criminelle announcing himself. He had no idea what this hero was doing down here so far from his own bailiwick or why he was supplanting the Marseille Inspector but could have wished the man a thousand miles away. Reports of Jacquemin and his policing methods had spread across the Channel and had been received with a certain admiring incredulity by some in authority at the Met.

But not by Joe.

The ‘shoot first and kick a confession out of them if they survive’ method of crime-solving favoured by the Frenchman was not to his taste. But the unknown Lieutenant? A local man, clearly, with the bold dark look of a Provençal. His presence could prove useful. With a bit of luck and a nudge in the right direction, the Commissaire might decide their problems were all a bit below his status or out of his purlieu, say farewell after lunch and leave the whole thing in the hands of this Martineau and the local Prefecture of Police.

The scene in the chapel seemed unchanged when Joe entered. He looked around him suspiciously. You couldn’t always count on police officers home-bred or foreign to restrain themselves from meddling with a crime scene but these men knew their business apparently. Joe was impressed to see they had left their shoes by the door and were padding about in their socks. Joe did likewise. Without a word said, the three men went to stand by the tomb and bowed their heads in respect. Even in death, Estelle continued to weave her spell and draw the eye.