Joe glanced back at the glamorous red silk number draped over the chair back and wondered.

The garment was of dark grey wool and so ordinary it might have escaped the attention of someone who had not heard Estelle’s story the previous night. Joe patted it down like a suspect. Feeling a slight lump in the right-hand pocket, he took out his own handkerchief and used it in lieu of an evidence bag to receive the half-smoked cigar he extracted between finger and thumb. His eye, ranging over the fabric of the gown, was caught by a glint of gold low down near the hem and, cursing his lack of tweezers and magnifying glass, he managed with difficulty to pick out a tiny object which joined the cigar in the safety of his handkerchief.

All very fascinating and Joe would have liked to spend much longer studying the garment but Orlando was growing ever more restive.

And it was the incongruous item protruding from the left-hand pocket that seized Joe’s attention. With that before his eyes, demanding his notice, he’d needed all his detective’s discipline to first carry out his routine inspection of the dull gown itself.

It was artistically arranged, you’d have said. A pair of silken white ballet tights dangled seductively, crossed at the ankles, small feet pointing to the floor, clearly caught in the execution of what Joe believed to be called an entrechat.

Chapter Thirteen

Joe reached out and hauled Orlando into the room.

‘Look at this! What do you make of it?’

‘Great heavens! What do you think I make of it! It’s disgusting! The man’s every bit as bad as we gave him credit for. I shall have to speak out.’

‘No, no! Look. Just imagine a girl’s legs in those.’

‘I beg your pardon! What sort of perverted imagination am I to suspect you of, Joe? I had thought—’

‘Clown! Look at them! They’re dancing! The legs are dancing. Didn’t your sister ever do ballet?’

‘Lord, no! You knew Beatrice! Well, you didn’t exactly … Missed her by a few minutes, I think. But you saw her even though she was dead at the time. Six foot tall with big feet! And not a musical bone in her body.’

‘My sister did ballet.’ Joe pulled a face. ‘Made me lift her about the place and count time for her exercises. I know an entrechat when I see one. And here we have one. On its way up or down, who can tell? At any rate it starts and finishes in the same place—the fifth position.’

‘Is that so?’ Orlando peered more closely. ‘Small size. You’d hardly get Dorcas into those.’

‘They’ve been set out like that to attract attention … to make a comment … to cock a snook? But at whom?’

‘We have to say—at us,’ said Orlando heavily. ‘You’re saying we were expected?’

Both men jumped perceptibly to hear a rumbling voice calling in French from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Sergei! Are you up there? Sergei?’

‘And now we’re caught!’ whispered Orlando.

‘Who is this? De Pacy?’ muttered Joe.

‘No. Much worse. Much, much worse! It’s the lord himself.’

Surprising Joe, he straightened his shoulders, grinned and said lightly, ‘Look—leave this to me. I’ll do the talking. You just smile politely. Okay? Stay where you are. Put the door back against the wall and hide the fifth position. Oh, and take those gloves off!’

‘Silmont! Is that you?’ he bellowed back in confident French. ‘We’re up here. Looking for Sergei. The whole world’s looking for Sergei this morning! Will you come up or shall we come down to you? Ah, here you are! Didn’t see you at breakfast, sir—I was hoping to introduce my friend Joe Sandilands, who’s doing the tour. I’ll do it now. Come in, come in.’

With aplomb, Orlando made the introductions. He could have been standing in his own drawing room, Joe thought, confident and welcoming.

The lord was all charm. He was delighted to see Joe whom he had been hoping to catch at lunch and regretted that he would have so short a time with him. ‘Just off to visit an old friend and neighbour for the day,’ he apologized, indicating his riding breeches. ‘Only ten miles distant—I usually ride over. Though I’m so enfeebled these days I never know when one of these rides is going to be my last. You get set in your ways once you reach fifty, you’ll find. It becomes increasingly difficult to give up on anything. I look forward to spending one evening each week playing bridge with three old friends of my youth. This week it happens to be a Tuesday when we’re all free. One of us being a doctor, we tend to follow his lead. Sounds depressing, no doubt, to a young man like you but our weeks turn agreeably around the event. I shall make a point of returning by lunch time tomorrow to do my duty! I feel I ought to exchange nods at least with this inspector of police we’ve been promised. I think cousin Guy allowed himself to be pressed into an overreaction by some of the shrill ladies we have on board at the present. What do you say, Sandilands?’

‘In the same situation, sir, I would myself have called on the police—had I not been the police,’ he finished with a smile. ‘There is always the fear that it may be the prologue to a tragedy.’

‘But as to the elusive Sergei, sir,’ Orlando bustled on with his explanation, ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you. Someone said he’d eaten early and come back to his room. The fresco painter is looking for him also—trying to tempt him out to the Val des Fées. The on dit is that our Russian friend is, in fact, a watercolourist of some distinction in addition to his other talents, were you aware? … But of course … We’ll continue our search and pass him a message should we find him before you do … What would you like us to say?’

While Orlando had flannelled himself through this onesided conversation, Joe and the lord had been taking stock of each other. Joe decided he liked what he saw. Of medium height and slender with thinning brown hair and pale, angular features, their host did not at first sight live up to Joe’s imagined aristocratic presence. Or to his fear-some reputation as art connoisseur. Here was one who had been a handsome man and an athletic man, but Joe had an uncomfortable illusion that he was seeing him, his essence diluted, his image reflected in a dust-filmed mirror.

He was wearing breeches and a tweed jacket and seemed to have called in on them—or Sergei, Joe corrected himself—on his way to the stables. He could have been any English country squire preparing to hack around his estate at the weekend. But he had a quality of blended awareness and ease that magnetized the space around him and drew the attention. Dark eyes seemed to gleam with increasing amusement at Orlando’s performance and he risked an exchange of glances with Joe, politely suppressing a smile.

‘The Val des Fées! Of course, you’re quite right, Joliffe,’ he returned smoothly, taking up the cue he was offered.

‘Now I remember it being spoken of. Sergei is immensely interested in the colours and character of the neighbourhood—background for his new ballet, you know.’ He turned to Joe. ‘A local story of devilish horror which you must ask someone to recount to you. In the broad light of day for choice—not before retiring! Everyone’s worst nightmare! He’s seeking not only inspiration for the plot of the ballet but also an artist of some distinction who’s capable of designing and painting the sets. Which must be stunning and fresh. He is unable to secure the attentions of Pablo Picasso or Henri Matisse who would have been his first choices because they are engaged elsewhere by rival companies. But I have introduced him to our young friend Frederick whom I have enlisted to paint a fresco in the north gallery. I have been greatly impressed by the boy’s talent and I’m sure Sergei will be equally impressed. And if they have gone off together to the ochre landscape this is nothing but good news. My schemes would appear to be working!’