Strange Images of Death (3 page)

She nodded dumbly, unable to come up with a riposte. Joe paused, giving her time to make her own explanation.

She turned on him angrily. ‘Crikey! You must be a difficult man to live with! Sneaking about looking in wardrobes … checking labels! Going through my books! You’ve a nerve!’

Again, he waited.

‘Well, all right.’ She took a moment to collect her thoughts, considering him through eyes narrowed in speculation. He knew the signs and prepared himself to hear one of her easy fabrications but her confession when it came was halting and clumsy, the pain in her voice undeniable. ‘Yes. It seemed too good a chance to waste. I’ve been trying for years, Joe. Every time we’ve come south with my father, for as long as I can remember, I’ve tried. With no co-operation from Orlando. He doesn’t want me to succeed. He really doesn’t. I’ve searched and searched from Orange down to Les Saintes Maries on the coast. I’ve talked with gypsies and men of the road … I’ve checked every new grave in every cemetery. No luck. There’s a limit to what a child can do even down here where there’s more freedom to come and go and talk to anyone you meet. Life’s not so … so corseted … as it is in England. But even so, it’s not easy. And now I’m getting older …’ Dorcas looked uncomfortable for a moment, ‘there will be places I can’t go to, people I just can’t interview without running a risk … I’m sure you can imagine. Gigolos and white slavers and bogeymen of that description. I know how the world works … I’m not stupid!’

‘So you thought you’d latch on to a sympathetic chap who can go unchallenged into these dangerous and shady places and ask the right questions on your behalf—’

‘A nosy fellow with a good right hook!’ she interrupted. ‘And one who speaks French of a sort? That’s always useful.’

‘Mmm … these valuable attributes come at a price.’ Joe nodded sagely. ‘I warn you there’ll be a forfeit to pay. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ She accepted without thought, not bothering to ask what the fee would be. She knew he was just making pompous noises and he knew that she would break any agreement that proved not to suit her anyway.

He pushed on with his pretence: ‘So long as you’re hiring my detective services, I think I should insist on a clear client’s instruction from you. I wouldn’t want to discover you were expecting me to track down that silver bangle you dropped down a drain in Arles the year before last.’

Dorcas smiled. ‘No. I want you to find something much more precious, Joe. Something I lost thirteen years ago. I want you to find my mother.’

Chapter Two

‘Well, according to the innkeeper, this village is indeed the one we’re looking for—Silmont. He gave me a very old-fashioned look when I asked for directions to the château. Made verging-on-the-rude remarks about the acuity of my eyesight and brought my English common sense into question.’ Joe waved a hand towards the end of the village street and grinned sheepishly. ‘Can’t say I blame him! It’s obvious enough, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Like standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square and asking someone where Nelson’s statue is. How embarrassing!’

‘Is this what you were expecting, Dorcas?’

She was sitting in the passenger seat where he’d left her, parked outside the Hôtel de la Poste. Clearly she was taken aback, as he was himself. ‘It’s not what I’d pictured. No, not at all. But then … you never know with Pa.’

‘All his geese are swans?’

‘Yes. People
and
places. You know … every vagabond he meets round a campfire is really an undiscovered genius violin player, every pretty waitress in a café is the twin of Kiki de Montparnasse … any house in the country is a château. I’ve learned never to expect too much. But …’

‘But
this
? What are we to make of
this
? If we’ve got the right place. It seems, for once, to be a true bill. The word “château” doesn’t go far enough. It can, indeed, mean any grand house in the country but this is a
château-fort
, no less! A castle. With all its imposing bits and pieces in place. Impressive! I’m impressed. Overwhelmed might be nearer the mark. Pass me the guidebook from the glove locker, will you? I think we should spend a minute or two getting this place in focus. Something so grand and ancient—it’s bound to get a mention.’

They spent silent moments looking down at the guide and up at the outcrop of rock, a quarter of a mile distant at the end of the village street. The crag reared up in front of them, proudly bearing the weight of limestone masonry that grew imperceptibly from the rock itself to take the form of an imposing fortress.

‘It’s not a bit like the Château Houdart, is it?’ Dorcas murmured. ‘That was welcoming, lived-in, looked pretty on a wine label. This is a jolly scary place, Joe!’

‘Machicolations, crenellations, canonniered arrow slits …’ Joe muttered. ‘Blimey! It’s got the lot. Put your tin hat on, Dorcas! And hope they’ve not boiled the oil up yet.
A l’attaque!
Yes?’

He put the car in gear and moved off slowly.

‘Is this the usual style of accommodation for one of your father’s artistic jamborees?’ he asked cheerfully to dispel her gathering gloom as they wound upwards under intimidating walls. Joe always tried to avoid speaking in a dismissive tone when discussing Orlando’s activities. Privately, he considered it the height of indulgence, an embarrassing bohemian flourish, this habit of congregating together with a coven of fellow artists to spend the summer months daubing away in each other’s company, stealing mistresses from one other, squabbling and boozing, conspiring to exchange one outrageous ‘ism’ for a newer one. Fauvism, Cubism, Dadaism, Futurism, and now, he heard, Surrealism was all the go. Well, that at least seemed to make sense.

‘No. It
is
a bit grand. But his crowd will gather wherever some art-lover, some patron is kind enough—and rich enough—to offer them accommodation for a season.’

They looked up again at the château and Joe voiced the thought: ‘Some accommodation! I do wonder who the generous host might be? Any information on
him
? I shall need to know to whom I should address my bread-and-butter note …’

Dorcas shook her head. ‘No idea. You’ll have to ask. But the artists always pay their rent! In kind, of course. You know—they leave some of their best work behind as a thank-you. They’re very productive. And artists are very generous. Did you know that Van Gogh never
sold
a painting in his life? He gave away more than a thousand of them.’ And, again, she hurried to defend her father and his chosen occupation: ‘But some of Orlando’s pals are getting quite well known in art circles. They’re being offered really high prices for their work in the Paris salerooms. Fortunes have been made. If anyone offers you a canvas while you’re here, Joe—don’t refuse it, will you?’

He promised he would accept anything he might be offered by any of the inmates with a convincing show of pleasure. And pleasure might be just what he experienced, he corrected himself, remembering the one or two attractive and unusual pictures Dorcas had herself been given by her father’s friends. He’d noted—and instantly coveted—one portrait of a dark-haired girl who could be no one but Dorcas, standing barefoot and windblown on a Mediterranean beach. The ugly scrawled signature at the bottom would have been unknown at the time of painting but Pablo Picasso was, these days, a name to be reckoned with in the saleroom.

After a noisy grind upwards in bottom gear, they arrived at a flat turning space in front of the entrance to the castle. Joe paused and put the handbrake on, reluctant at the last moment to commit himself to crossing the drawbridge.

The watcher at the summit of the north-east tower grunted in surprise. What was this? It could only be the brat arriving at last. In the company of the Englishman. But a
hesitant
Englishman? Circumspect and careful?

Lips curled in derision as the dark man jumped lithely from the car, bossily pointed a staying finger at his companion and proceeded to stroll over and subject the drawbridge to an unhurried examination. The underside was checked, the hauling mechanism inspected, the central planks stamped upon by a hefty English brogue and finally the man did what he should have done in the first place: he walked across and noted the presence in the courtyard of two vehicles heavier than his own tin-can conveyance.

‘Get on with it, man!’ the watcher yearned to cry out. ‘You’re already a week late and unwelcome at that! The way is clear before you—just deliver your package and get out. While you can.’ But curiosity took the place of impatience. This was surely a display of untypical behaviour? One would have looked for an arrogant charge across the bridge followed by the squeal of brakes and an uninhibited: ‘Halloooo the château! Anyone at home?’

The castle, over the centuries, had seen its share of English invaders and they’d never knocked politely. Roving gangs of masterless men for the most part, men for whom murdering, robbing and rape were a way of life. The dregs of crusading armies, they had deserted their cause to range unchallenged over a defenceless Europe.

Not quite defenceless.

The watcher smiled and looked to the west in the direction of the mighty Rhône. Distance, even from this vantage point, hid the gleaming towers of the fortress across the river from Avignon, but the image was easily and comfortingly conjured up: a white stronghold glowing against an ethereally blue sky, straight from the pages of a Book of Hours. And, farther yet, Tarascon, Les Baux, Carcassonne, Aigues Mortes. Defences against barbaric invasion.

And here was another northern barbarian at the gate, preparing to cross over.

There were more ways than one of defending a castle. The medieval architects had known their job. If you didn’t want to have your drawbridge hacked down, your walls pounded into rubble, foundations undermined, you could always discreetly leave the way open, invite entry … Once inside the courtyard and completely surrounded, a small army could be—and on several occasions here
had
been—massacred by concealed defenders.

The watcher smiled. ‘Come in! Come in! Test the warmth of our welcome!’

At last, the fastidious Englishman, apparently satisfied, had returned to his car.

‘Well, if a Hispano-Suiza and a heavily laden gypsy cart can survive the trip over, I think we can do it in a Morris,’ Joe announced. ‘It’s usually safe to take the road well-travelled.’ He turned to Dorcas and grabbed her by the shoulder. Excited by the mention of the gypsy cart, she was already halfway out of the car, bare legs and sandalled feet sliding over the running board.

‘Stop wriggling and listen!’ He spoke to her in the guardian’s voice he found he had developed over the past months. ‘Look, Dorcas … last chance to say this … I’ve learned a thing or two about assessing new diggings from billeting officers. Security, hygiene and comfort. That’s what you look for. In that order. Now, I think we can probably say of this handout—walls three yards thick: secure enough! From external assault at least. But the other two requirements? Do you suppose they have running water up here? Decent kitchens and proper ablutions? Flea-free mattresses? I won’t leave you behind in dubious conditions. Aunt Lydia would have my guts for garters!’

Unusually, Dorcas did not pour scorn on his concern. She’d grown accustomed, he guessed, to the high level of cleanliness and comfort maintained in Surrey.

‘Whatever your confidence,’ he went on, ‘always plan for retreat! We learned that much at Mons. I checked with the landlord back in the village that they had rooms to spare at the inn—and the telephone.’

‘Ah! I thought you were taking your time in there.’

‘I was making myself known to Monsieur Ferro and charming his good lady. I pointed you out and sketched for them the rough outline of your situation. Motherless child … arty father … concerned but distracted uncle. I even displayed my warrant card and gave poor old Inspector Bonnefoye’s name as a referee … you can imagine. The upshot is that they’re prepared—and encouraged by a generous deposit!—to take you in at a moment’s notice. Should you want to bale out at any time, you can cut along there and present yourself. And ring me in Antibes. You have my number.’

She didn’t argue but sat back in her seat and thanked him quietly. Then, suddenly alarmed, she clutched his arm. ‘Joe, you’re not going straight off, are you? I thought you’d perhaps stay for a day or two. Meet Orlando’s friends. You might find them interesting. Pablo might be here … He usually turns up … I know Henri Matisse is due to come up from Nice to put on a teaching session like the ones he used to give in Paris. There may be a poet … a dancer or two. You can carouse with Orlando till the small hours …’ Her voice trailed away as she realized that none of her offers was likely to be attractive to a man with his sights on the Riviera.

‘One night,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve brought my sleeping bag and if they can find me some hole or corner to bunk up in, I’ll stay for one night. Long enough to make certain I’m not leaving you in a nest of robber barons, Left Bank lounge lizards or Portuguese pimps. And time enough to inspect the kitchens.’

This was not what Dorcas wanted to hear but her silence was witness to her acceptance of one further night’s protective police presence. A stab of uncertainty, Joe decided.

He was seeing the child’s quite natural response to being catapulted back into her old life. She would soon acclimatize. By the end of the week, she’d be running around brown and barefoot, screeching at her father and herding the younger children, back to being the girl he remembered meeting in the spring.

He patted the hand still clinging to his sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, Dorcas. You took the Château Houdart by storm—this one will be easier. The occupants will all be friendly and you’ll be back in the bosom of your family.’ Feeling no relaxation of her grip, he added: ‘I would never leave you in a bad situation, Dorcas. You know that.’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘Of course,’ he said stoutly. ‘Promise.’

She released his gear lever arm. ‘Sorry, Joe! Nerves. Go on then. Advance!’

The motor car started up again.

The watcher in the airy space above changed position to follow the progress of the car from the vantage point of a narrow slit which widened at the base. A slim hand reached out to touch the cool limestone that an ancient mason had gouged out and rounded to accommodate the barrel of a musket. A trigger finger slid along the groove angled and channelled precisely to aim at the centre of the grassed courtyard and paused, targeting in imagination, one of the dark heads below.

Dorcas yelped with delight at the sight of the hooded gypsy cart parked in the centre of the courtyard as they passed through the narrow entrance. Joe eased over the cobbles and on to the grass to station his Morris alongside. The midday sun beating down on the open, treeless space was, in itself, a weapon deployed against invasion. The architecture surrounding them was so bristlingly military, Joe almost expected to hear the clang of the drawbridge descending behind them, the imperious challenge of a sentry, the rattle and swish of a sword being drawn. But no unfriendly sound reached his straining ears. The clang of a metal pail and the whinny of a horse came from some depth in the building, reassuring and domestic. No human greeting followed. He sat on, hands still clenched around the steering wheel.

‘Joe? Are you all right? What’s the matter?’

He began automatically to make reassuring noises but she interrupted him. ‘Stop that! You’re making me nervous! Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You’ve gone quite pale, you can’t seem to let go of the wheel and your eyes are swivelling all over the place. Not a pretty sight! What have you seen? If I didn’t know what a thug you are, I’d say you were in a blue funk … Joe?’

Joe made an effort to ease the constriction in his throat, released the wheel and shuddered. ‘Sorry, Dorcas! Feet of clay, I’m afraid. All those years of soldiering … if you survive them, you never lose it, you know … But you’re right. Blue funk it is! You’re the only person ever to have caught me in one—or, rather, recognized it for what it is: fear. Soldier’s best friend. Keeps you alive. It’s the icicle-between-the-shoulder-blades feeling of a gun barrel sighting on you … the normally steady foot that hesitates and changes course a split second before treading down on something nasty. An instinct for survival.’

While he muttered on, his eyes were ranging round the tall curtain walls, taking in the dozens of windows and arrow slits from any one of which they could have been under surveillance. ‘Officers were the favourite targets for snipers in the war and easily distinguishable at a distance. Peaked caps, side arms. High casualty rate. Lucky to have survived. For a moment I had a distinct and familiar feeling that someone was drawing a bead on me. Ridiculous! Going a bit barmy? But, of course—when you think about it—I was reacting just as the military architect intended. Freezing like a trapped rabbit! All these defences are carefully worked out and we seem to have parked ourselves right in the centre of an ancient killing ground. The earth under our tyres is probably steeped in blood! I wouldn’t give much for the chances of any rough-tough army of medieval
routiers
with pillage in mind making it through to the keep from here, would you?’