Estelle, he noticed, was saying appreciative things about the food but scarcely tasting her own portion, merely rearranging the pieces on her plate. Too eager to chatter and make an impression, he thought.
‘The staff would, indeed, appear to be impeccable. They are in the employ of …?’
‘The owner of the château. The Lord of Silmont … can’t remember all his titles. Count or Marquis? Something like that. We just call him “the lord”. His name’s Bertrand but no one would dream of using it. Even the seneschal calls him “sir” and he’s a blood relative.’
‘He has a seneschal, did you say?’
‘Yes. That’s his maître d’hôtel, you know. And I’m using the word “hôtel” in the original sense, of course-’
Smart town house?’ interrupted Joe, piqued by the girl’s condescending tone. ‘And I shall think of the gentleman as “the steward”. How very feudal! Tell me-are they here among us, this medieval pair? Do point them out so that I may direct a courtly bow in the right quarter or tug a forelock.’
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You have a very nice forelock. But don’t tug it just yet. The lord isn’t here at the moment. That’s his place at the head of the table, the empty one, and no one ever sits there but him. He pops in occasionally, he says to practise his English with us, but as he speaks more elegant English than any one of us, I have to think he’s actually checking on progress with the canvases.’
‘Checking progress? What? Like some sort of overseer?’
‘Yes. Exactly that. Keeping us all up to the mark. If you were imagining yourself joining some carefree house party-forget it! In fact it’s a sort of assembly line. I can’t call it a treadmill exactly-that would be too, too ungracious for words-but our host is a bit of a whip-cracker, Commander.’ She waved a hand at the far end of the hall. ‘Do you see the wall down there is doing service as a gallery?’
Joe noted that the tapestries and wall sconces had given way to three ranks of canvases, taking up the whole surface. Several more had been stacked against it.
‘That’s the week’s output. Our patron has an eye to the main chance as well as an eye for a good painting. He’s a collector and a connoisseur. And very well regarded in art circles. He has the critics in his pocket.’
‘And his pockets are deep ones?’
‘You bet! Nothing known for sure but I’d expect he knows exactly how to oil the wheels and grease the palms. The art-smart journalists and opinion-makers echo his views, kowtow to his prejudices, support his enthusiasms. He sets the fashion, having bought extensively into it, then he sells at vast profit to New York or London. He’s made a fortune from his dealings.’
Joe looked around him. ‘And these are his protégés?’
‘His breeding ground. His worker bees. You identify your talent, establish it in stimulating surroundings, satisfy all daily needs and you’re in business.’
‘You’re very acerbic?’
‘My sharp tongue! It keeps getting me the sack! But judge for yourself-our seigneur got rid of three painters he decided weren’t worthy of support in the first week.’
‘Pour encourager les autres?’ Joe asked lightly.
She smiled. ‘No. Because they failed to please. I told you-he knows his stuff. Right decision. He had a blazing row with a Cubist painter whose name-if I were indiscreet enough to mention it-you would certainly know.’ Estelle affected a grumpy man’s baritone: ‘“Looking at this stuff is like looking down a cracked kaleidoscope filled with rusty nails … undigested scraps of flesh … the dismembered leftovers of a crazed axe-man …” were some of the lord’s polite descriptions of our artist’s latest offerings.’
‘Ouch! Poor chap!’ said Joe.
‘Save your sympathy! We all know that this particular artist-who does have a genuine talent, as far as I can judge-agrees with that view in private. After a second bottle, he’s been heard to ask-in genuine mystification-how on earth the public can be taken in so easily by his artistic pretensions. But in an open exchange of views with the boss, he felt he had to stand up for himself and his art and he did. He’s famously persuasive. And-he ended up by selling a dozen or so examples of his “dog’s vomit” to our host, after prolonged haggling, before he flounced off in a well-timed huff.’ She smiled in satisfaction.
‘Followed by the cheers of the crowd?’
‘Oh, rather! We’re a mixed bunch but you’ll find there’s a certain group loyalty. We admire anyone spirited enough to put one over on the powers that be. When you think that those pictures are probably being snatched from the walls of a posh Parisian saleroom as we speak! For twenty times what the artist received! It’s a hard equation to work out and one’s never perfectly certain on which side one stands …’
‘But when x equals rather a lot of cash …?’
She grinned. ‘That’s right, Commander! Always keep your eye on the x! It’s a new concept for many artists but they’re learning.’
‘I’m sad to hear you say so,’ said Joe. ‘I had hoped to fetch up in the company of high-minded creators of beauty … incorruptible visionaries …’
Estelle gave him a hard look and sighed. ‘Another one of those who thinks you paint more effectively on an empty stomach? What nonsense! Would you detect more efficiently if they starved you for a week? Well, then!’
‘And the steward?’ Joe pressed on with his enquiries. ‘Which one is he?’
‘Go on-guess. You’re the detective.’
Joe thought he had already spotted the man in charge. Sartorially, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the gathering in his casually tailored beige linen suit and open-necked shirt. A dark-haired, brown-eyed man in his late thirties, he was chatting amicably with the people about him and blended in with the group in all respects but one. He was the only man at the table who had monitored the comings and goings of the servants, with the discreet but all-seeing eye of a butler.
Joe took a moment to scan the company and then whispered in Estelle’s ear: ‘Got him! Do you see the man who’s the spitting image of Albert Préjean? The film star?’
‘Albert who …? Oh, yes, I know who you mean! He played the pilot in Paris Qui Dort, didn’t he? Craggy good looks. A real heartbreaker. That’s a more perceptive insight than I think you realize.’
‘Yes, that’s the one. And I’m guessing that the gentleman who so resembles him is the man who sits at the lord’s right hand.’
Estelle giggled. ‘He usually hovers behind his left shoulder. And you’re quite right. Well done! I’ll take you over to meet him after the meal. He’ll expect it. Oh, and may I warn you? He shakes hands with his left. Right arm badly burned. He was with the Aviation Militaire in the war. One of the Cigognes Squadron. Meanwhile, although he’s nattering away with Nathan in apparently complete absorption, he’s actually giving you an ever-so-discreet once-over. Smile for the seneschal, my dear! He likes handsome men.’
Something in her tone alerted and annoyed Joe. He found he was torn between satisfying his curiosity and discouraging the girl’s loose gossip. He chose the safer path of distracting her. ‘Tell me two things, Estelle … what is the gentleman’s name and was he late down to lunch today?’