Everyone was silent, appreciating Joe’s candour.
‘There! I told you all so!’ crowed Cecily. ‘The Commander agrees with me. There’s a Jack the Ripper in the making prowling the corridors. A Beast! A sadistic killer! A lunatic!’ Cecily had very blue, very large eyes and they were at this moment at their bluest and largest as they swept the table in triumph. They settled on Joe, and Cecily made a further dramatic point: ‘Did you know that the moon was at the full on the night it happened, Commander?’
‘I believe it was, madam,’ said Joe curtly, not wishing to feed her fire.
‘I don’t think Herr Freud would give much weight to the phases of the moon in such a case.’ Jane Makepeace’s response was equally repressive, Joe guessed for the same reason.
‘Huh! Only if the suspect were a woman, I bet,’ chimed in Estelle. ‘Then he’d have plenty to say about monthly madness. Now-have we got to the point where we shall have to go about the place suspecting everyone we rub shoulders with of being a weapon-wielding killer in embryo? Bring me a jug of water, Marcel-and just leave the axe at the door, would you?’ she drawled. ‘Are you happy now you’ve made your point, Jane?’ she finished waspishly.
Joe looked steadily across at Jane Makepeace and raised an eyebrow, underlining the question. She flushed and murmured uncomfortably: ‘No need to get carried away, Estelle. Crowd hysteria is something we should be on our guard against encouraging … In this much, at least, the Commander is quite right and we should listen to him. Though I maintain that ignorance is always a dangerous state. To know is to be able to arm oneself. If one chooses.’
‘But can you tell me, Padraic?’ Joe interrupted in his no-nonsense police voice, picking up the awkwardly expressed plea for calm. ‘As no one will admit to a falling corbel-was there a tool still at the scene? Hammer? Axe? Pick?’
‘No. None. But judging by the damage I saw, I’d say the attack could only have been carried out with a stonemason’s hammer or something of the kind.’ Padraic appeared to welcome his return to the limelight and spoke in the voice of a thoughtful witness.
‘What had been done with the remains?’
‘The sculpture had been smashed into large pieces and then prised away from the rest of the display. Like this …’ He instinctively mimed an action Joe had seen often enough: the swing of a man digging in the trenches, pounding, hacking, levering. ‘Someone had gone to the trouble of hauling the bits off to a corner of the chapel. They’re still sitting there in a pile if you’d like to inspect.’ He shot a questioning glance at Guy de Pacy who nodded soberly and then got to his feet.
Was some careful servant keeping an eye on proceedings through the red baize door which dampened the sounds between the hall and the rear offices? Instantly, a footman appeared with a tray laden with coffee cups and a second followed with a steaming jug.
‘Ah, we have coffee!’ said de Pacy as though surprised.
‘Interesting comments, Sandilands! Very interesting! And I intend to hear more. Right now! Why don’t you help yourself to a cup and come over here where we might be more at ease to continue this conversation? Orlando? May we ask you to join us?’ He spoke in English with the merest French lilt.
The rest of the company helped themselves to coffee and made off to the fringes of the room, moving cushions and rugs here and there to accommodate their gathering groups. Joe would have been intrigued to monitor the placings and affiliations but Guy de Pacy had something more serious in mind for him. Instead of going off to lounge, he set about clearing one end of the table himself before a man had a chance to scurry forward and take the dishes from his hands. Satisfied, he gestured to Joe and Orlando to join him there. In conference, Joe decided.
He embarked directly on the problem. ‘Firstly: Sandilands, on no account are you to feel under any obligation to involve yourself in this mess. I hope I make that clear?’
Joe nodded. So far they were of one mind.
‘I’m aware of your reputation and, being a racing man, I thought “horses for courses”. This is an event for a sturdier breed than you! I insult neither you nor the good Sergeant Lafitte from the village when I say that this is definitely a task for the gendarmerie.’
‘Well, thank God for that,’ was Joe’s silent thought.
‘I entertained the theory that it might be young louts from the area sneaking in and having a bit of fun … Their great, great-grandfathers might well have done the same in the unpleasantness of the revolutionary times. I was confident that the Sergeant, once apprised of the situation, would nod wisely and advise me to leave it to him-a name or two came to mind …’
‘You took steps to preserve the scene, of course?’ Joe asked.
‘Naturally. I went to investigate it myself the moment Padraic returned with his news. I took Jane with me. Miss Makepeace is an authority on medieval art-did you realize? — and a conserver. I thought she might well have insights … be in a position to advise on repair or reconstruction. I-we-judged that we were looking at an unnatural and disturbing occurrence.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I’m speaking to a soldier?’
‘From Mons to Buzancy,’ Joe said succinctly. ‘And the four years of hell in between.’
De Pacy nodded. ‘Aviation Militaire. I flew Spads.’ He looked briefly at his motionless right arm. ‘All wood and canvas. They go up like a match. They were lucky to get most of me out.’
The two men regarded each other quietly and, shibboleths exchanged, continued with more easy understanding.
‘Inhuman acts of destruction were done in war, Sandilands. Even in sacred buildings. Things of beauty and worth were destroyed or stolen away. And in the frenzy, the overheated passion, the fear, all is possible. One understands … one does not forgive but one understands. The act of desecration we saw in the chapel would, in the war years, have been regarded as nothing more than some drunken private’s revenge on the female sex … a howl of protest against a God in whom he can no longer believe. But the war is long behind us. No such excuse is available to us. I decided to treat it as a scene of crime because that is exactly the impression it made on me. We touched nothing. I immediately put the chapel out of bounds to everyone-adults as well as the children. They are, at all events, unable to gain access, even should they wish to, since the opening mechanism is a good four feet above the ground and far too heavy for them to operate.’
‘No more than “out of bounds”?’
‘It is never locked. It is the House of God and open to those who need to speak to Him,’ he said solemnly and then smiled. ‘And if there ever was a key it was lost many years ago. So, people are on their honour to do as I ask. Sergeant Lafitte was fetched. He inspected. He wondered. He surmised. He washed his hands of it. To my disappointment, he had no suitable candidate on his list. He gave me the telephone number of the police in Avignon and told me to contact them should worse occur.
‘I wasn’t prepared to wait for worse, Commander. I was left clutching at the theory you yourself propounded just now. I am not willing to risk the safety of any of the guests under this roof. I was eventually put through to-foisted off on to might be more accurate-the Police Judiciaire in Marseille. An inspector listened politely to my problem. His attention was not caught by the “crime” but the name and standing of the owner of the damaged statuary gave him pause for thought. Quand même …’ he shrugged, ‘we have to take our place in the queue for his services. With a gangland war, three murders and two robberies on his books, a beaten-up bit of alabaster has low priority. He informed me he could attend the scene in five days’ time. In other words, he will arrive the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘An hour’s investigation of the crime scene will leave the officer well placed for lunch. He asked me to ensure the area was sealed off and left ready for his inspection.’