Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Just as the child reported,’ said Jacquemin.

‘Yes, indeed. Inconveniently, Estelle spots the child Marius in some distress and takes the time to haul him in, with a view to sorting him out when the little photographic session is over. Thinking his presence may not be entirely appropriate to the occasion-what with the disrobing that’s about to occur-she hides the small person in the confessional and proceeds with the lark. She changes into her white costume, clambers up and assumes the recumbent position.’

‘She took her clothes off, right there in front of her killer?’ Jacquemin wondered.

‘Again-there’s the aspect of intimacy in all this. I don’t think Estelle would have stripped off so readily in front of someone unfamiliar. And the photographer armed with camera … and concealed knife … encourages: That’s just perfect. Hair spread. Dress folded just so. Feet on the greyhound. Eyes closed. We’re ready. Oh, drat! Could you just hold my lens cap for me? Thanks, darling.

‘The moment her eyes are shut and she’s keeping rigidly still, the camera is put down, the dagger picked up. If Estelle is conscious of her companion leaning over her, manoeuvring, arranging, breathing deeply perhaps-well, that’s photographers for you. And that’s a photographer’s model for you! She spent her days keeping still in strange poses. The killer can take as long as necessary to position the point exactly where it will do its swift job, Estelle won’t move, because she trusts her killer absolutely. She’s smiling, enjoying the joke, possibly even muttering: “Oh, do get on with it!”

‘A second later it’s over. She probably died instantly, according to the pathologist.’

‘And in the excitement of the moment, and the urge to make a swift exit from the scene, the lens cap clutched in her left hand is forgotten,’ Jacquemin muttered. ‘But why ask the victim to hold it in the first place?’

‘Do you take photographs?’ Joe asked.

‘Never. I get someone to take them for me.’

‘I can tell you-lens caps are a damned nuisance. They have to come off at the last moment and be put straight back on again. And is there ever a safe place to park them? Leave them lying about and they get lost or trodden on. There was no flat surface available at the tomb if you remember it. And the appearance of a lens cap in the shot would have ruined the gruesome medieval flavour somewhat. No-the thing to do is what I always do-put it into the nearest available hand. They always remember to return it.’

‘Unless they’ve died clutching it. Hmm …’ Jacquemin poked at the insignificant object on the table with a pencil. ‘Well, Sweet Cecily Somerset! I told you I’d find your wretched lens cap! I’ll take pleasure in returning it. You won’t thank me for the arrest warrant for murder that accompanies it, though.’

Joe frowned. ‘We know how it was done. But before we say who did it, we need to find out why, Jacquemin. Why. There has to be a desperately strong motive for plunging a dagger into someone’s chest. Cecily? I very much doubt that-’

He was interrupted by a tap on the door. Martineau came swiftly in, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Sir! Commander! You’re wanted at once up in Jacoby’s studio! He’s got the prints of that film you gave him to develop. The one we took out of Cecily what’s-her-name’s camera.’

The handwritten notice on the door-‘No admittance. This includes you, Jacquemin’-was greeted by a harrumph of outrage and a pounding with a fist by the Commissaire. Nathan opened the door after what he considered a suitable interval and the three policemen stepped tentatively into the work room.

It was hot and dark and stank of chemicals. Every dimly discerned working surface was crowded with bottles, jars and trays. Strips of celluloid dangled from the ceiling and the whole room was lit by an unnatural red light. Seen so illuminated from above, Nathan’s mischievous features would have given Frederick inspiration for Beelzebub, Joe thought. He was playing with them, of course. The red light was switched on merely to establish his alchemical credentials, his mastery of the space.

They had interrupted no photographical procedure and Nathan replaced the red with the white room lights the moment he judged the intruders had been sufficiently impressed. He seemed pleased with himself.

‘Don’t touch anything and mind where you put your heads and feet,’ he warned. ‘All developments a success. I’ve made prints from the negatives in the two Kodaks, from the slides of my Ermanox and Miss Somerset’s Leica. Right! First in the programme-overture and beginners. The pocket Kodaks, gentlemen.’

He set out two rows of photographs on the bench in front of them.

‘I’ve forgotten which is whose but I think they’re interchangeable,’ he said.

‘Café terrace … that’s in Aix … le Mont Sainte Victoire … the Dentelles …’ said Jacquemin. ‘Landscapes. Some, I see, with added figures.’ He peered more closely. ‘What is going on here, Sandilands?’

Joe peered alongside. ‘Picnicking? Would that cover it?’

‘Mmm … le déjeuner sur l’herbe seems to be a popular theme with you English.’

‘Well, you know the slogan: A friend, a memory and a pastime-a Kodak ,’ said Joe, smiling. ‘Next exhibit, Nathan?’

‘Now the Ermanox. My camera. See here: I want you to take a careful look at these. First the pictures taken in the chapel on discovery of the body yesterday.’

He spread out on the counter in front of them the eight reproductions of the Ermanox slides. They were numbered one to eight.

‘Well? What can you see?’

‘I’d no idea you’d got these,’ grumbled Jacquemin. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? That’s withholding evidence. Chalk another one up, Martineau. Oh, and I’m taking these away with me. Very handy. It’ll be some time before we get ours back from the labs. What are we supposed to be seeing? Come on, man, it’s no time for a guessing game.’

Joe saw at once. ‘We’re meant to look at the quality rather than the subject, I think.’

A quick nod from Nathan confirmed this.

‘The first four were taken by a keen amateur,’ Joe said with amused self-mockery, ‘and they’ll just about serve-as a record. But the second four were taken by a professional hand and, if the subject were not so lugubrious, could take their place in the pages of Vogue magazine. I see I must get in closer next time, Nathan, and focus up more precisely.’

Jacquemin peered again. ‘It was you two clowns! Now, I can see that. Get on.’

‘Just preparing you for the next lot. Now-I want you to keep in mind what you’ve just seen,’ said Nathan with the encouraging tone of a stage conjuror.

He removed the prints of Estelle’s death scene and began to place on the counter another and clearly inferior set, one by one.

‘This is the film from the Leica belonging to Cecily Somerset. Number one, crossing the Channel. Rough day? Impossible to keep the camera steady at any rate. Number two. Arrival in France. Water calm but we still have the shakes. The strip of grey matter along the top half-inch is the French coastline. The other five and a half inches are the sea. Number three: jolly group of friends posing at the front door of the Hôtel Ambassadeur in Paris. Pity about the passing cycle. Numbers four and five: a selection of the guests at Silmont. You’ll recognize yours truly, well, half of yours truly, far left on the second one. Cecily herself does not appear. Behind the camera, evidently … And still shaking and still trying to find the f-stop ring.

‘Change of subject for six to twelve. Flowers. They all seem to be roses.’