Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Exactly. So why …?’

‘Estelle could have got it wrong, you’re thinking? Warning you off like that? And if the fellow did turn her down, one does rather wonder why? It’s not every day a girl like her swims into your life, offering excitement and no strings attached. What could possibly …? Oh, I say … I’m having a terrible thought! He was a pilot, you know. Flew with the Storks. It’s said he was badly injured in a crash landing towards the end of the war. No one has any idea-why would we? — of the extent of those injuries. Perhaps there’s an unpalatable physical reason for the distance he keeps between himself and the women. I mean, apart from the arm.’

‘He gets on well with Miss Makepeace?’

‘Different sort of relationship there. She’s trying to get into his head not his … Formidable woman. A scholar. You have to admire the way she does a man’s job and no one questions her right to her position. They’re good friends. A meeting of minds, I’d say. And good luck to him!’

The two men fell silent, too absorbed by their sombre thoughts and speculations to enjoy the beauty of the countryside they were driving through. Cool stands of oak trees crowding the lower slopes of the hills gave way to an airy upland where cherry orchards and vineyards and corduroy furrows of lavender vied with each other for prominence. In the distance a finger of ancient yellowed limestone rose like an exclamation mark, drawing the eye. It was echoed and softened by the slim, peremptory shapes of cypress trees.

‘That’s where we’re headed,’ said Orlando, suddenly conscious of the reason he’d been sent along for the ride. ‘At least I think that’s where the lord brought me. Wasn’t really concentrating. I remember it was ten miles and he pointed out an Italianate campanile as the marker when we got within range. The house is right underneath it. Pretty place. Not at all grand. Gentilhommière of sorts. Nice man. You’ll like Alphonse Lacroix.’

It had none of the grandeur of Silmont. An eighteenth-century maison de plaisance, the honey-coloured stone house was on a human scale and built, not for defence, but for a comfortable life. It had remained trim and symmetrical over the years, exactly as the architect had first rendered it, with not a trace of the haphazard organic growth of an English house of the same venerable age. A modest two storeys, from a long and emphatic centre, it extended wings forward in a welcome towards the approaching visitor. The rear of the house was protected from wintry blasts from the Alps to the north by a lift of hills, outliers of the Vaucluse, and its façade was carefully angled to miss the full glare of the afternoon sun. Pale grey wooden shutters were folded back revealing tall windows whose panes glittered in the sun’s sloping angle. White curtains billowed, suggesting an airy interior. The central wide entrance door was clearly announced by a low flight of steps flanked by trimmed orange trees in tubs. The carriage sweep was freshly raked.

Joe parked the car a short way off in front of the house and turned off the engine. The noise of the cicadas flooded in, thrumming pleasantly and pierced, in the distance, by the excited whinny of a horse.

‘Well, you could put your foot down here without fearing the blood of centuries will ooze up and ruin your Oxfords,’ Joe commented. ‘I can see why the lord escapes here for a day or two a week.’

Orlando grunted.

Joe tried again:

‘ Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté.

Luxe, calme et volupté …

‘And what do we find inside?’

‘Gleaming furniture, polished by the years,’ Orlando quoted back at him, paraphrasing Baudelaire. ‘What else? Drives you mad after an hour. The measured orderliness … everything in its place … Not sure they’ll be pleased to see untidy old me again. When I stayed here I indulged in a rebellious gesture. The precisely positioned gilt clock in the centre of the mantelpiece in the salon where we played cards had been annoying me. Too loud, too ornate, too gilded! And I didn’t care for the look the goaty god Pan painted on the front had been giving me. I’ll swear he smirked at every duff move I made. Before I left I sneaked in and turned its smug Sèvres porcelain face to the wall.’

‘You stayed here? But why?’

‘One of their bridge party is the local doctor. He was called out to a difficult case unexpectedly one day last month and Silmont invited me to ride over with him to make up a fourth. Yes, I do play. But on this occasion I played so badly they’ve never asked me back.’

‘At least Lacroix will recognize your face. Look, Orlando, before we proceed … I’m not quite sure how best to play this scene …’

‘We’re playing a scene? I thought it was just a wheeze of yours to get out from under the jackbooted feet of that Commissaire?’

‘Only partly. May I ask you, when we go in there, just to follow my lead? What I’m trying to achieve is very simple: to ascertain the time Silmont arrived here yesterday and whether he stayed for the duration. Establish the solidity of his alibi. That’s all. Look-I’ll come clean with you. It was de Pacy himself who told me-rather urgently-to enquire into his cousin’s role in all this. He’s not a man who will brook denial! And-there’s something going on between those two that we have no inkling of.’

‘You mean their intense dislike for each other? The rivalry? The uncomfortable fact that de Pacy is the only living relation Silmont has and he’s eaten away by frustration and sorrow that, on his death, the estate will go to him because there’s no one else in line?’

‘Ah. Yes. That sort of inkling. Look, Orlando, I don’t want this to look like a police enquiry. I don’t want to barge in with notebook and pencil demanding to know where they all were at 6 p.m. yesterday. No direct questions will be asked. All you have to do is stand about affably grinning … burble a few inconsequential remarks … Can you manage that?’

‘When did I ever do otherwise? Oh, come on! Let’s get on with it!’

Orlando greeted the footman by name and was himself recognized. They were ushered into a spacious hallway and asked to wait. Monsieur Lacroix was in the summer salon de compagnie with the other gentlemen.

A moment later, Lacroix appeared, as smiling and friendly as his house. Slight and erect, he moved with the briskness of a military man and his welcome filled the room. ‘Joliffe! How good to see you again! Somehow I thought it would be you who volunteered. And you bring a driver?’ He looked enquiringly at Joe.

‘This is a friend of mine and a fellow guest of Lord Silmont. May I present Commander Joseph Sandilands of …’ Orlando recollected himself and added: ‘of London. Joe, this is Monsieur Alphonse Lacroix.’

‘An English Commander, eh? I should warn you that my great-grandfather died aboard the Redoutable !’ The white moustache swept upwards with his smile in a rush of good humour. The bright blue eyes twinkled.

‘Indeed!’ said Joe, impressed. ‘The first French ship to open fire on Lord Nelson! But, sir, I protest! I’m a Scotsman! I won’t be held responsible for Trafalgar!’

‘A Scotsman? Then you are doubly welcome. But come and meet my friends. We were just about to go out into the garden for lemonade.’ He glanced down at their feet. ‘But you come unprepared! I’ll ask Fernand to go and make arrangements in the stables and, while he’s at it, to look out a spare pair of boots. I’m sure we’ll have a pair large enough for English feet,’ he added dubiously, eyeing Orlando’s size elevens. ‘It will take them a while to saddle up, we’ve plenty of time for a chat. Tell me-have you ridden Mercure before, Joliffe?’