Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘No! Do look! You’ll never see another one so wonderful,’ Silmont said, gesturing to the Van Gogh. ‘You are aware of my problem?’

Joe nodded. ‘You’re suffering from the great pox.’ He thought the old-fashioned name would be more acceptable than the modern clinical term.

‘Then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that, should a man make an effort to understand the devastation of this disease, he could either spend weeks reading eminent physicians’ writings on patients’ symptoms or, Sandilands, he could spend one minute looking into that tormented face. I have done both. Believe me-the face has it!’

Accepting the invitation, Joe turned at last and stared into the wild, doomed, self-knowing eyes of the painting.

‘He was at the asylum not many miles from here-you knew that? And there he produced some of his most marvellous works. I have been lucky enough to acquire a few of them. But this one … He gave it away, you know. To one of the warders … nurses … whatever you like to call them. The man didn’t appreciate what he had and it spent many years in his attic, unregarded. I bought it from his daughter for a very modest sum. Sandilands, I could be looking into a mirror!’

‘And the delusions which are symptomatic of the foul scourge you have suffered have directed your behaviour of late? You have contemplated-even carried out-acts which have been contrary to your nature? Acts which you must now confess to your priest?’ Joe asked delicately. How much easier it would have been for him to accuse an out-and-out villain of his premeditated crimes and slap on the handcuffs. And here he found himself treading on eggshells around this damaged penitent, whom, despite his assurances, he could not truly understand.

‘And to you. And I trust you to convey my confession to the Commissaire.’

‘I’m listening. Would you like to start with the destruction of the effigy of Aliénore, sir?’

‘It was Lady Moon who suggested it.’

Joe pursed his lips, uncomfortable with this contribution.

‘Lady Moon, sir?’

‘It’s quite all right, she’s not speaking to me at the moment.’ Silmont’s voice was all reassurance and reason. ‘She’s not even in the room. But when she does come and whisper in my ear, there’s no denying her. She was at her most regal that night. Glowing, powerful. I could only obey. She had asked for a sacrifice. And what more suitable spot, Sandilands? The offering was to be carefully timed for the moment when the moon’s beams illuminated the tomb top. I had to clear it of the original strumpet to place a choicer creature in her place. I knew the moment she arrived that the girl Estelle was the chosen one. And she was even there that night watching me as I crossed the courtyard. There was a moment of epiphany when I looked up and saw her. Her hair was lit up from behind, turned to a silver halo by the moon. My goddess had marked her out for me.’

‘Estelle didn’t identify you that night,’ said Joe, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Your mask-fencing mask, was it? from the box in the sports room? — and your cloak-which you so thoughtfully surrendered to me-did a good job.’

‘Surrendered? To you? My cloak? What are you talking about? It’s in my cupboard. Take it. I expect you’ll want to examine it for evidence.’ He seemed annoyed at the interruption and muttered on: ‘Immaterial. She was the one. The harlot was taunting me-attacking me in the centre of my being, threatening the things I still hold dear-my position … my family name … my possessions. This promiscuous woman had to be got rid of before she could get her filthy fingers on my life’s work. Before she brought down the curse of bad blood once again on the family.’

He looked anxiously at the door and his voice dropped as he made his accusation: ‘She was conspiring with my cousin to be rid of me. He’s not here with you, is he? Guy? You didn’t let him up?’ His voice was rising to a shriek. ‘He’s always treading on my heels, tripping me up, pushing me downstairs. No? You’re sure?’

Joe hurried to reassure him that he’d come alone.

Jane Makepeace would have had a word for this display of the further disintegration of the lord’s character. Tertiary stage neurosyphilitic paranoia or some such. Joe acknowledged he was going to have his work cut out to distinguish truth from vindictive imaginings.

‘I decided to remove her,’ the lord said more calmly. ‘I always expected to be found out but-why care? I am dying. I would be dead before they could sharpen up the guillotine.’

‘With a house full of policemen, sir, it was just a matter of time,’ said Joe easily.

‘It’s close now, Sandilands. This may be my last lucid interval … they grow shorter … and why risk any false accusations lodged against me? The dead cannot defend themselves. So-I say now: the crime I committed, I was entirely free to commit. It was my statue to do with as I wished. And I wished to smash it into dust. But the girl? Much though I longed to plunge a dagger into her pullulating entrails, I was robbed of the opportunity.’

His voice began to rise alarmingly, his face was suffusing with rage. ‘Who was it, Sandilands? My cousin declares he didn’t kill the girl. And I must believe him-if he had, I know he would delight in telling me so. He’s always gone faster and farther, climbed higher, ridden harder, had more women … He’s the one who has the glittering war record, the respect and loyalty of the servants. If not Guy-then who?’ he shouted again, struggling for control. ‘Who first stole my scheme to kill, took my dagger, and snatched from me the satisfaction of forcing her dying breath out through her lying lips? You know, don’t you? Tell me! I insist on knowing!’

The door opened slightly and Joe heard the valet cough a warning.

‘Your priest is coming up the stairs,’ Joe improvised. ‘I must leave. But yes, I do know. Now. And I will tell you. By the end of the day. Do we have until the end of the day?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain.

The lord favoured him with a beaming smile which chilled Joe to the bone. ‘It’s time for you to make your move, Sandilands,’ he said. ‘Bring me the name before the moon rises.’

How easy was it going to be to convince Jacquemin that the lord was innocent of any crime he could arrest him for? Joe thought-not very. Before he returned to face him, he decided to take a detour.

Not being quite certain where exactly in the building Guy de Pacy had his rooms, he greeted an approaching footman and asked him to take him to the steward’s quarters. The man showed no surprise at the request and Joe had a clear impression that he was expected and this escort had been thoughtfully provided.

The man led him to a tower Joe had noted but not yet explored. The one diametrically opposite to the lord’s. It was spacious. It rose to three floors, commanding a good view of the courtyard and the door giving access to the great hall. An excellent military choice for what was, Joe guessed, the command post of the château.

The manservant led him through the ground floor which had been left as an open space, largely plain and unfurnished, though the stone floor had been covered agreeably with a softening carpet of local weave. One boot-rack stacked with highly polished riding boots stood by the door and, at the far end of the room, a mahogany table held a cargo of two heavy wooden church candlesticks in which fat wax candles had been very recently lit and a matched pair of silver vases filled with bunches of white lilies. The scent in the enclosed space was overpowering.

A winding staircase led to a first-floor office with a stout oak door, the twin of the one in Petrovsky’s apartment. The manservant knocked gently and entered. Joe hung back and heard him say: ‘Excuse me, sir. I’ve got that Englishman with me. The policeman.’