‘Well, Powerscourt,’ she began as they reached the bottom of the great steps that led into Blenheim Palace, ‘I thought I had forbidden you entrance here this evening. But you turn up nonetheless. We’ll let that pass for a moment. My people and I employed you to find out who killed that understudy down in London.’
She made the word ‘understudy’ sound like a packet of tea you might have to pick up at the grocer’s when the Fortnum and Mason delivery hadn’t arrived on time.
‘You have failed. And now your prowess has led to a second murder, one you were powerless to prevent. What do you have to say for yourself? If you were one of my servants or my staff, I should dismiss you on the spot. But I would have to consult with the board of the Royal Opera House who are, alas, not here at the moment.’
‘I am truly sorry about the second murder, if murder it was-’ Powerscourt began.
‘Don’t give me this if it was murder nonsense, Powerscourt. Everyone can see it was a murder. That’s why all these policemen are charging about all over the place, making marks on the floors where they shouldn’t, knocking over valuable pieces of porcelain, no doubt. You couldn’t survive a fall like that onto a marble floor. It’s not possible. Don’t tell me all this would be going on for a mere suicide of a junior member of the corps de ballet.’
Powerscourt told her precisely that. ‘And, let me tell you Lady Ripon, it is only right and proper that a young girl should receive the same attention if she was a suicide or a murder victim.’
‘Your observations are outrageous, Powerscourt. Your performance is pathetic. Your record as an investigator is in ruins. Your future employment prospects are zero. Have no doubt that I shall tell all the society members — a select band in which you are not included — of your failures and your incompetence.’
With that Lady Ripon drew her cloak around her and swept back into the hall. Powerscourt had to admit that he was not sorry to see her go.
The French Secret Service believed that Argaud and his small band of confederates were passing their views on to a hostile power. Quite who this hostile power was, they were not entirely sure, but they felt it was unlikely it was to England, and possible but unlikely it was to Russia. Germany was the obvious place. If the German High Command knew that wave after wave of Frenchmen were going to pour out of their trenches in their ridiculous coloured uniforms and charge the German trenches, then victory would be assured. For a German victory, it would just be a matter of making sure there was enough ammunition for the machine guns.
Olivier Brouzet was certain that his visitor was passing secret information to the enemy. He did not know how or through whom the intelligence was transmitted. He intended to find out with his own very special form of torture.
‘Come, mon Colonel,’ he began, ‘we both know that the French Army is always conducting manoeuvres, is that not so? Well, I have for you today details of a slightly unusual form of manoeuvre that could be repeated any time on those officers whose wives and daughters are living in the country. Plans have been laid, you understand.’
Brouzet knew that Colonel Argaud had a beautiful wife and two equally beautiful daughters. A slight look of alarm passed across his face.
Olivier Brouzet reached into a drawer on his desk and produced a large envelope. It contained a series of photographs, face down, all with a number written on the back in large letters. He brought out the first one. This showed an elegant maison de maître in peaceful rolling countryside. The proportions, with the double staircase and the large windows, were clearly those of the late eighteenth century.
‘Look at this, my friend. It is a beautiful house with gardens and the odd statue on guard at the front of the house. But today there are visitors.’
He produced photograph number two, which showed a group of about twenty French soldiers marching along the road outside. They were not yet quite level with the entrance.
‘Now we see, mon Colonel, who these visitors might be. It looks as if the men are on marching practice, but who knows what may happen? I wonder if the wife or either of the young ladies are on the lookout for visitors.’
Out came photograph number three, which showed that the little column had turned left and were now almost up to the front door.
‘What can this be?’ asked Brouzet, ‘the soldiers have come to call. What on earth do they want?’
Photograph number four showed the men, still standing in line, listening now to an officer who seemed to be addressing them from the top of the steps. A sergeant and a private had been sent inside. ‘See,’ Brouzet purred, looking carefully at his victim, ‘the Captain brings good news, a rare event for anybody to hear good news from their officers!’
Photograph number five showed the first detachment of soldiers making their way up the stairs. Those at the front had begun taking off their greatcoats; it looked to be a warm day.
Colonel Argaud was clasping his hands together and rocking slowly in his chair. The next picture was taken higher up and showed that the first four had taken their greatcoats off and were busy unbuttoning their trousers. To their left was a madame, traditional keeper of the rules in French Army establishments of this sort. She was knitting vigorously as she kept watch on her charges.
Photograph number six showed the men outside, chatting and laughing and punching their fists in the air. Half of them were making obscene signs with their hands and fingers.
Photograph number seven was not one of the clearest. It appeared to show a woman’s knees, very indistinct, a couple of rough ropes they might have used to tie her feet to the bedposts at the bottom, and a second madame, also knitting happily in the corner.
‘See how our French photographers take care not to show what should not be seen,’ cried Olivier Brouzet. ‘This photograph is not at all clear. I should have told you before that the men were told that this is a set menu here today: first the wife, then the beautiful daughters, with the youngest one last, if the poilus have any fire left in their bellies. It is customary, I believe, in these cases, to afford a pillow to the women to make life more comfortable and to drown out any screams. Even French privates can be squeamish at times. But the madame is keeping watch at all times.’
Colonel Argaud was sweating now, wiping his face with his monogrammed handkerchief.
Photograph number eight showed the first soldiers on their way out. They were laughing and joshing. One or two waved their rather limp equipment in the air, as if they had won a major victory. Photograph number nine showed the queue still waiting at the bottom of the steps.
‘See, Colonel, the parade of the satisfied is now making its way down the stairs. But look!’
Photograph number ten showed the last group of soldiers kicking their heels outside, grinning and joking.
‘There is more to come, Colonel, there is indeed more to come. The sport is only just beginning.’
The Colonel was turning pale. Brouzet moved in for the kill.
‘We know where you live, Colonel Argaud. We know your son is away at St Cyr. How sad he will be to have missed all the fun this afternoon. We know the times the daughters are in the house and when they are away.’
Photograph number eleven showed a long queue coming down the stairs and only a few unfulfilled ones waiting at the bottom.
‘Come, Colonel, this is only the first course. The men will receive some refreshment when have finished the hors d’oeuvres. Then it is time for the eldest daughter! She will be put in the same bed, of course. No point causing a lot of dirty washing for the staff, who are currently locked up in the basement. And then the youngest for pudding! What a feast!’