Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

‘Is that it? I don’t agree. That girl is under no one’s thumb-not even yours. But I understand, sympathize, concur … whatever you want me to say. You’re her father. Will you tell the child her position of Sorcerer’s Apprentice has been terminated or shall I?’

‘No, that’s not it! That was a by-the-way remark. What I want to say-after due consultation with my daughter-is that we both, she and I, want you to desist.’

‘Desist from what, precisely?’

‘You know damn well what. I’m telling you to stop looking for her mother, Laure. She’s lost and, after much thought, we’ve both decided that it would lead only to trouble and disturbance if you managed to find her. Go no further, Joe. Clear?’

‘Clear. Look, mate, I’m inviting you to waste a few further minutes of my time and step into this room with me so that I can give you a dressing down without disturbing the castle.’

Joe pushed him though the open door of a games room and closed the door after them. ‘You wouldn’t want anyone to overhear what we have to say to each other, I think. There are chairs over there by the snooker table. Let’s sit for a moment. And last time we sat knee to knee you looked me in the eye and told me less than the whole truth. You’ve been stringing me along … To say nothing of Dorcas. Leaving us both to stumble about in a darkness you could have illuminated. That stops here and now. Imagine yourself in the confessional. There’s nothing you can say to me that will shock or amaze me. Okay?’

‘Okay. It was your snotty remark about thirty-eight weeks that got me thinking. The duration of a pregnancy. I was surprised to hear a bachelor knew that,’ Orlando said resentfully.

‘Part of the job. In fact it was exactly the puzzle of poor Estelle’s similar condition that put me in mind of it. Yes-she was pregnant. Over two months gone. And, no, we can’t be certain who the father was. With your known proclivities, Orlando, I should keep my head down and stay off the firing step until the guns fall silent. You’d be surprised how often a week or two either side of the critical day can lead to mayhem. Though in France I believe they grant themselves a little leeway and count to forty.’

‘Yes, well, whichever it is, you’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’ Orlando said unhappily. ‘I ought to have come clean.’

‘I can see why you didn’t. In your position, I do believe I’d have done the same,’ Joe admitted. ‘And I’d have been a bit more forcefully obstructive if a nosy Scotland Yard bugger had been hassling me with impertinent questions. So, all things considered, old mate, you come out of this, in my estimation, covered in glory.’

Orlando looked doubtful. ‘Not much glory in this for anyone, I’d have thought.’

‘But there is. I’m seeing a young, idealistic, carefree Englishman who on 14th July 1911 or thereabouts stumbles on an outcast girl, little more than a child, and takes her under his wing. Feeds her up, shelters her, paints her picture … gets fond of her.’

‘You make her sound like a starving hedgehog. She wasn’t a bit like that,’ Orlando objected.

‘But here’s the bit that impresses me: the Englishman knows, because she tells him, or it’s becoming obvious, that she’s pregnant. And he takes her home with him regardless and cares for her. And the unknown man’s child.’

Orlando stirred uncomfortably, then nodded.

‘I know this child was born-because she’s been so obliging as to write it in my birthday book-in January 1912. So, her mother got pregnant in May or June at the latest of the previous year. She must have been aware of her condition by the time she met you, and, indeed, this was most likely the reason for her being thrown out of the family home.’

‘You have it right,’ said Orlando dully. ‘Dorcas is not my natural daughter. I have no idea who her father was-some village boy, I expect, or a sweet-talking travelling salesman-isn’t that whom they always blame? But it makes no difference. No difference at all. She’s my daughter. I love her more than most fathers can be bothered to love their daughters. And, I’ll tell you something, Joe-if you ever breathe a word of this to her, I’ll … I’ll make your life hell! I’m not a vengeful man but I really think I might kill anyone who threatened my relationship with my children. Any one of them. And Dorcas is my eldest. Got that?’

‘I have indeed. Understood. I could never think of her as anything else. But, Orlando, I work faster and dig deeper than you give me credit for. Look, old man, and tell me at once if you want to shut down this conversation, I think I do know who the father was. If you want to hear-it’s up to you …’

Orlando considered for a moment then nodded. ‘It might help. Not knowing is always worse than knowing.’

‘Well, he lived in the village as you might expect but he wasn’t the “village boy” you have supposed. He was young, handsome, intelligent, educated and something of a musician.’

‘All that?’ said Orlando. ‘Well, no wonder I failed to impress!’

‘He was also-a priest.’

‘Good God! Not … not …?’

‘Yes. Father Ignace who sounds as old as the hills was, in fact, only twenty-nine on the day he disappeared from the village. The same day Laure went missing. Except that she’s really Marie-Jeanne Durand.’

‘Oh, my poor, poor girl!’ Orlando shook his head in sorrow. ‘No wonder she could never tell me. The shame! She was genuinely a religious person, you know, from a devout family. It must have broken her heart and wrecked several lives. And I was always second best. She never quite managed to love me. She would never want to see me again.’

There was an uncomfortable moment as Orlando pondered and then he repeated: ‘Please, Joe-no further. Promise? For Dorcas. She lost her mother years ago. I don’t want her now to lose her father. Me, I mean. You know what she’s like! If she knew the truth, she might take it into her head to skip off and go hunting down this mystery man. I couldn’t bear to lose her. She must never be told.’

‘I understand perfectly. Her uncle Joe wouldn’t want to lose her either,’ he said more cheerfully, getting to his feet. ‘No further action on this front, eh?’

The two men shook hands solemnly.

Joe found his step was sprightlier, his breathing freer, a load of responsibility off his back, as he continued his interrupted path to the hall.

He needed all his new-found buoyancy to confront the mob.

He was greeted by a crashing wave of outrage. Suitcases had been packed, wristwatches were being ostentatiously consulted. Deadlines were being delivered.

‘No right to keep us here!’ Padraic Connell was standing by the door lamenting, ready for the off, pack on back. ‘I’m expected at the abbey.’

‘No right at all! The British consul must be informed!’ boomed Petrovsky. ‘I demand the return of our passports!’

‘We’re leaving this afternoon for Avignon,’ announced Mrs Whittlesford, slipping on her gloves to underline her message.

‘We sent a servant into the village with a note.’ Derek’s voice was triumphant. ‘We’ve hired the charabanc. Anyone who wants to can climb aboard. It’ll be here in two hours.’

‘Stupid bugger!’ said Fenton. ‘You shouldn’t have told him. He’s hand in glove with the frogs! Now he’ll ring and cancel it.’

‘If Jacquemin needs to know anything more he’s going to have to ask quickly. We’ve all suffered enough.’

‘Dashed if we’re spending another night under this roof!’

‘Just waiting to be picked off! First it was Freddie, then it was Cecily. She’s in a frightful state.’

‘She has no cause to be,’ Joe said. ‘She’s not been arrested. She was merely helping by giving information. I’ll have a word with her.’