‘I understand it to be equal with your own rank, Jacquemin, as far as it’s possible to draw comparisons between our two so different forces,’ Joe said diplomatically.
He knew that a man of Jacquemin’s kidney would lose no time in checking this information and he would be non-plussed by Joe’s response. But, for the moment, Joe wanted to get the best out of this peacock. Better not to set fire to his tail feathers.
‘Indeed? And-tell me-are you a guest here or are you on official British business? Interpol or the like?’ Jacquemin asked.
‘No official capacity whatsoever. I am a guest.’
The response appeared to please the Commissaire. He did not go so far as to smile his pleasure but he smoothed down one side of his moustache in a quietly triumphant gesture.
‘Good. Good. And the scene of the depredation is to be found in this building, are you saying? Then you may safely leave us to investigate.’ He paused before the great door and Martineau set about opening it. ‘I’m not seriously expecting many answers from a broken statue but I’m sure we’ll arrive at a solution that will settle any remaining qualms. I’ll hand you an official and calming line that you may safely give out to the ladies.’
He dismissed Joe with a curt nod.
‘Commissaire, before you enter, there’s something you should hear …’ Joe began, putting out a staying hand, but, presented abruptly with the policeman’s back, he shrugged his shoulders and watched the pair enter the chapel. He lit a cigarette and settled to wait for them to come out again.
Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later they emerged, blinking into the sunlight, subdued and silent.
‘Sandilands!’ the Commissaire’s voice rang out on seeing him. ‘You’ve had your fun! Now bloody well get back in here and tell me what the hell’s going on!’
Chapter Nineteen
Joe had been startled to hear the big gun of the Paris Brigade Criminelle announcing himself. He had no idea what this hero was doing down here so far from his own bailiwick or why he was supplanting the Marseille Inspector but could have wished the man a thousand miles away. Reports of Jacquemin and his policing methods had spread across the Channel and had been received with a certain admiring incredulity by some in authority at the Met.
But not by Joe.
The ‘shoot first and kick a confession out of them if they survive’ method of crime-solving favoured by the Frenchman was not to his taste. But the unknown Lieutenant? A local man, clearly, with the bold dark look of a Provençal. His presence could prove useful. With a bit of luck and a nudge in the right direction, the Commissaire might decide their problems were all a bit below his status or out of his purlieu, say farewell after lunch and leave the whole thing in the hands of this Martineau and the local Prefecture of Police.
The scene in the chapel seemed unchanged when Joe entered. He looked around him suspiciously. You couldn’t always count on police officers home-bred or foreign to restrain themselves from meddling with a crime scene but these men knew their business apparently. Joe was impressed to see they had left their shoes by the door and were padding about in their socks. Joe did likewise. Without a word said, the three men went to stand by the tomb and bowed their heads in respect. Even in death, Estelle continued to weave her spell and draw the eye.
Jacquemin broke the silence. ‘Your notes, Lieutenant, if you please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The officer flipped open his notebook. ‘I summarize: Date, time, place and all that … Three victims noted.’ He paused and offered: ‘Oh-and two suspects.’
Joe intercepted a warning glance from Jacquemin and the young man, brought to heel, continued: ‘In date order of commission of crime:
‘First victim. Stone carving. Smashed by hammer or similar. Remains removed from original site and piled where shown on sketch. Provocatively displayed.
‘Second victim. One rabbit. Death from a broken neck estimated to have occurred a week before inspection. Provocatively displayed where shown on sketch.
‘Third victim. Young lady. Identity to be established. Fatal stab wound to heart. Weapon ancient dagger, still in wound. Estimated time of death-sixteen to twenty hours before time of inspection. Full rigor still evident. Body provocatively displayed.
‘Noteworthy feature: signs near door of temporary occupation by intruder. Flower vase containing suspected urine bears traces of fingerprints. Tramp/wanderer of some sort seeking shelter or setting up an ambush position?’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Now, Sandilands, perhaps you are in a position and of a mind to fill in some of our gaps … answer a few questions such as: Who? What? And why the bloody hell? We’re listening!’
‘She’s English and her name’s Estelle …’ he began.
And concluded: ‘Well, there you are, gentlemen. That’s as much as I can tell you. You’ll probably find more personal information if you locate her belongings. She had a place in the women’s dormitory. Miss Makepeace will be able to show you. There’s clearly a meaning-a message-here that strangers such as ourselves are not able to make sense of at first sight. The element of display you’ve noted I don’t believe was intended for our eyes-transient visitors that we are.’
‘Yes, visitors. I understand the place to be full of visitors. Art school in progress or some such?’
Joe reached into his pocket and brought out a sheet of paper. ‘Here, take this. I’ve made a copy. It’s a list of everyone who’s spent time under the castle roof since the beginning of the season. With a few details I’ve added myself as they became known to me.’
‘Thank you, Sandilands. Very useful.’
‘It’s incomplete. For more information you must refer to the steward or the lord himself when he returns.’
‘Returns? From where? How long’s he been gone?’
‘He left after lunch yesterday. He rode over to spend the afternoon and the night with his friend some ten miles away but declared he would be back in time to greet you. Perhaps we should open the door and declare we’re ready for business?’
He opened the door and stepped out to catch sight of the lord walking across the courtyard from the great hall towards them, a motoring coat flung across his shoulders like a cape.
He hailed Joe. ‘Sandilands! I return not a moment too soon! Guy tells me I must prepare myself for a pitiful and distressing sight. Perhaps you’d show me? And introduce me to our French policemen.’ He took off the coat on entering the building and threw it over a chair. ‘Jacquemin? Martineau? Do I have that right? Welcome to Silmont. Horse went lame. Had to leave him in Alphonse’s stable and accept a lift in his Delage. Now, gentlemen, what do we have?’
He approached the tomb and began to falter as he took in the unearthly scene. At that moment the sun shifted its angle and a shaft of light, diffused through a pane of coloured glass, dusted Estelle’s cheeks with the rosy glow of life. The lord staggered, and for the second time that morning Joe found himself offering an arm in support. He did not brush it away but clung, trembling and panting. All animation drained from his features, his mouth tightened. In an automatic gesture, he put a steadying hand over his heart. He tried to speak but no word would come.
In one swift movement, Martineau produced from his pocket a small silver flask. He held it out tentatively to Silmont.
‘A little cognac sometimes helps in these circumstances, sir,’ he murmured.
Silmont accepted it with a grateful nod and downed a gulp, breathed heavily, and took another.
Joe was trying to identify the strong emotion that was racking the lord. Shock? Distress? Both elements were present but there was something more, it seemed to Joe, something bitter he was trying to repress. Anger, perhaps? He could not wrest his eyes from the form of Estelle. Finally, a little colour returned to his face and he found his voice. ‘I’m sorry to show such weakness of spirit, gentlemen. I am physically not what I once was but that can be no excuse. I will just say that the shock of seeing a young girl who is … was … known to me in these circumstances is overwhelming. And the weapon! Do you see the dagger? It’s mine. The bloody nerve of the man! She’s been done to death with a misericord from my own collection. I have two on display in the armoury. We’ll go over and take a look. I think we’ll find there’s only one remaining. You know-it’s the element of parody that is ultimately distressing. None of you will have seen the original sculpture of my ancestress … This young woman has been done up to resemble the original.’