The lady Luxuria was in fact Lust. One of the Vices. She was shown reclining in the manner of Venus but this was a parody. (A trip to the English dictionary eventually cleared up this notion.) So—a ‘no better than she ought to be’ lady. The commentator obligingly explained that her skeletal state was due to an overindulgence in the pleasures of the flesh. Joe decided to remain mystified by this. He was more intrigued to learn that the rabbit was known to be a ‘harlot’s familiar’. On account of its ‘mating proclivities’. Joe took a guess at that one. Well, he understood that in fairy stories cats were the familiars of witches so the rabbit must play the same role for harlot women.
Poor creature. Round, sleek and furry, it would have made a beautiful pet. Unfair to give it to a bony frightening woman like the one in the picture. He decided suddenly that he was feeling hot and thirsty. A drink of honey and lemon would be very welcome. He’d replaced everything in order, locked up, removed the wedge, placed The Swiss Family Robinson open on the library table and rung for Simmons.
Joe peered more closely at the dead animal. How dead? No sign of blood on the corpse or surrounding area. The man who’d brought it here had not, evidently, wanted to leave a messy trail to mark his passage. There was no sign that it had been killed on the spot. Broken neck? Most likely. Killed elsewhere and brought in, then strung up. He wondered whether there was any significance in the positioning of the string. Of course there was. The creature had been put to dangle over the words et Alienora uxor sua. The rabbit, the familiar of the whore. A comment on a woman so long dead? Why?
At least he’d have views to exchange with de Pacy when he returned. Even though what he had to say was largely unintelligible.
Joe looked up, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that emotions could leave an imprint on a scene beyond the dispersal time of sweat and other bodily fluids. He wasn’t quite certain, in spite of all the evidence he’d gathered to the contrary, that Evil with a capital E existed. But he knew that if anyone had asked him at that moment to give an opinion he’d have said: ‘This is a bloody oppressive place. Not good. There’s something ancient and wicked here that the sanctity of centuries has done nothing to dispel. And it’s chasing me out.’
The hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He stood up sharply, right hand going instinctively to the waistband where he usually carried his service revolver. Everywhere hidey-holes met his eye. Flounces of velvet drapery, carved wood ornament, pews and cupboards, even a confessional with a half-curtain pulled across. Places enough to hide a battalion. And then he saw the innocent cause of his concern. Innocent? Perhaps not entirely!
He exchanged glares with a trident-wielding devil that seemed to be taking an interest in him. Carved in dark wood and dulled by the candle-soot of ages, he was still clearly playing a robust part in a representation of the final judgement on the west wall. And keeping the visitor under surveillance. Joe gave him a cynical salute and left the chapel.
Chapter Ten
Château du Diable, Tuesday
The morning began too early for Joe.
He lay still for a few moments collecting his thoughts and wondering where on earth he was. The lingering taste in his mouth of Havana cigars and the certainty that he’d drunk rather too much of ‘the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim’, the night before brought back the memory.
Keats! He blamed the poet Keats for his condition. Now there was a minstrel who could stir up emotions and loosen inhibitions in a few superbly chosen words.
Joe considered Orlando Joliffe jointly charged. Just as the earthernware jugs of wine had been brought in at dinner, Orlando had risen to his feet, made a toast and given the company a verse of ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. It ought to have been embarrassing. There should have been shuffling of feet and surreptitious glances exchanged. But the combination of Keats’ sublime words and Orlando’s confident light baritone swept all before them:
‘O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!’
Wine poured from a jug with a generous hand into clay beakers of antique design couldn’t possibly do much damage. This morning Joe discovered his mistake. It had been a pure incitement to drunkenness!
Clattering feet, banging doors and rattling water cisterns were followed a moment later by a peremptory tap on his door. The dashing figure of Nathan Jacoby entered at once, bearing a disarming grin and a cup of tea. Earl Grey by the scent.
‘I come in peace!’ he announced. ‘Seven o’clock! Rise and shine! Orlando said this would be guaranteed to get your motor started. Urgh! Can you really drink this? I’ll put it on the night stand. There’s coffee brewing downstairs if you’re interested. Fresh bread’s come up from the village. All available in the refectory.’
He made his way over to the small high window and flung the shutters open, blinding Joe with daylight and a stream of fresh morning air. ‘Come and take a look at this!’
Joe shrugged into his dressing gown and wandered over. He breathed in gratefully, enjoying the sound of a late cockerel crowing away in the distance and the sight of the hills rolling in a myriad of green interlocking spurs towards the horizon. ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair …’ he commented and found that he meant it.
‘Look, I’m going out with my camera today with young Frederick, one of the painters—the fresco bloke. We’ve hired a car. Plenty of space for you if you’d care to come along.’
‘Ah, yes. I introduced myself. I went to watch him at work after lunch yesterday. Good-looking young bloke from London … preparing to express himself on several square metres of damp plaster. Intimidating! At which end do you start?’
‘A dying art, he tells me. There’s only a handful of artists in Europe who know how to do it. I can paint a bit,’ Nathan admitted, ‘… the only reason some of the company are prepared to put up with me … but I’d never have the dash and sheer courage to embark on something like that. He’s twisted my arm to take him out to the Val des Fées. Silly name for a spectacular sight. Outcrops of ochre—iron-stained rock and soil … colours ranging from creamy white to darkest blood red. Rather eerie and hellish to my mind … But it seems to have a fascination for young Fred. Back home we’d call it Death Creek or Bushwacker’s Gulch or something like that. Here it’s called the Valley of the Fairies! The village houses are mostly painted with the ochre they extract and—you might guess—painters go wild for the colours. The Mont Sainte Victoire at sunset—well, you just have to express it in the local pigments, don’t you? Young Fred had the idea to chip bits off the rocks himself, pound and grind and prepare his own paints. Mmm … He ends up buying them ready prepared by Messrs Mathieu in the village droguerie like everyone else!’
‘And uses them to wonderful effect! He showed me his sketchbook. I saw some terrific ideas for the finished painting. Expressing scenes from local history in colours straight out of the ground—it has a certain appeal. Though I can’t immediately see what financial allure it might have for the lord? Fixed to the wall as it is—it must remain quite unsellable.’
‘Even the lord makes his personal choices. There are several items I know of that’ll never see the light of day outside this château. We’re never given the tour of his own private collection but it’s rumoured that he has one. Must be worth a fortune—he’s been collecting for years. Look—why don’t you come with us to the ochre valley? We’re starting out straight after breakfast.’