Nathan shrugged and shook his head. ‘It looks very old. Like something an ancestor might have worn. Hey! Where is the original wife?’

Joe pointed to the corner in which the cairn of remains still stood, the shattered head, as before, displayed on its red silk cushion.

It triggered in Nathan the same nauseated revulsion that Joe had felt the previous day. ‘More madness! Anywhere around here a feller can be sick?’ murmured Nathan.

‘No, no! Stiff upper lip, old man!’ advised Joe. ‘Quite enough bodily fluids around here to keep the police busy. Don’t add to them. Tell you what—if you need to pop out for a breath of air, why not go and pick up your bag? You put it down outside. Go and fetch your camera gear. Have you brought a flash?’

‘You’re not thinking …?’

‘I certainly am! First thing we do these days. Photograph the scene. If you object, pass me the equipment and I’ll do it myself. We can be quite certain that the man from Marseille won’t have thought to bring a camera with him.’

‘No! You unfeeling bugger! I won’t do it!’ Nathan protested angrily. ‘I can’t. You’ve no idea what you’re asking. And I’m wondering just exactly when you’re going to get up the courage to speak her name. Or are you waiting for me to say it? Don’t you have to get a close friend to make the identification? I can see you’re going to do everything by the book.’

Joe waited, uncertain whether the American intended ever to address another word to him. He had pushed Joe angrily into the background and his whole attention was focused on the pale features. Finally, he whispered: ‘It’s Estelle. My friend. She’s been lying dead on a cold marble tomb this night when she should have been warm and safe in my bed.’

He turned aside and his body began to shake with dry sobs.

Chapter Eighteen

Nathan was standing frozen and distant, marking his disapproval of the detective’s schemes, when Joe returned with the bag of equipment.

Understanding his revulsion, Joe was almost ready to let the moment pass unrecorded. Professional concern, however, won out over emotion, and he firmly opened the case and took out the Ermanox camera. With relief, he noted that it was the same model as the one owned by his friend Cyril Tate. News photographer and society columnist, raffish Man-About-London, Cyril had nervously agreed to Joe’s borrowing his precious camera for a weekend as a trade-off for information received.

New and very expensive. Joe sensed the same tension he’d provoked in Cyril in every line of Nathan’s body. A true camera-fiend would rather see his lover in Joe’s hands than his camera, he thought grumpily. He affected an air of confidence to reassure the trembling Nathan and was careful to first put the safety strap around his neck. He remembered to allow for the frontal weight of the enormous lens as he adjusted his hands to fit comfortably around the black leather-covered body, his fingers finding their place at once on the buttons and levers. Aware of Nathan’s proprietorial eye on him, he set about his task. His first gesture was to remove the lens cap and automatically put it in Nathan’s waiting hand.

‘Widest aperture, slowest speed,’ Nathan gritted. ‘If you must. You’ll find an exposure meter and a flash attachment in the bag. First plate’s in.’

Joe found what he needed and satisfied himself that the shots he was planning were possible. He silently made some adjustments. ‘These will be no rival for noire et blanche,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The French police will take pictures but I’d like to have our own for reference. Do you have the means of developing these?’

‘Anything. I’ve got a small laboratory next to my studio. The lord provides when he scents success. And he’s interested. He knows a thing or two about photography and he’s got a line to the illustrated journals. You’re standing too far away!’

‘For artistic perfection, perhaps,’ said Joe easily. ‘But for forensic reference, this is just about right. A locating shot. Close-ups will follow.’

As he spoke, he peered through the viewfinder and clicked the shutter. He took an overhead shot of the body and a close-up of the wound, working his way around the three sides of the tomb. At the far end, his foot caught on a solid object. He grunted and bent to examine it.

‘Here’s her attaché case,’ he called to Nathan and, receiving no response, went on: ‘It’s got her red dress in it. The one she was wearing at breakfast yesterday. And here are her shoes. A pair of black espadrilles. She must have brought the change of outfit into the chapel in the case and slipped into Aliénore’s gown and ballet shoes to enact this charade. Why in hell would she do that? Better leave this for the French Inspector to investigate.’

Nathan sighed and forced out words between his teeth. ‘Posing? She was posing! It’s what she did all the time. The outfit’s straight out of the dressing-up chest. She was planning a joke on someone. I’d have guessed—me. Well, it would have worked. I thought for a moment she was going to spring up and laugh at me.’

‘Did you tell her you were coming in to take some slides?’

‘Yes. We talked about it at lunch time.’

‘That may have given her the idea?’

‘Could have. That’s what we’re looking at, Joe—a practical joke. The sort you English like to play on each other … “What a hoot! What a jape! I say, do let’s!”’

Joe was disconcerted to hear in his accent echoes of Estelle’s own very English voice. He ignored the man’s rudeness, sensing his emotions were turning from shock and disbelief and hardening into acceptance and recrimination in a pattern familiar to Joe. Someone was to blame and quite often it was the unfortunate policeman, being on the spot, who was the one to get it in the neck. Joe was prepared for Nathan to demand next to know how he could have let such a thing happen. But he had underestimated the American. Nathan’s mind was running on retribution directed at a deserving target.

‘Who, Joe? Who traded on her sense of fun to lure her into this death trap? Someone she knew. Someone we both know! Has to be. You don’t need to be a smart detective or a pathologist to see that she was stabbed while she was lying down there. I’ve got that right, haven’t I?’

Joe nodded. ‘The lack of vertical blood trail down the dress would indicate that you are correct. What blood there was has ponded in the chest area. If I could bring myself to do it, I’d lift her skirt and check for post-mortem discoloration. There’s always gravitation of the blood to the lowest point of the body—it shows up as a reddish-blue bruising. She was, I think, killed right there where she now lies. But—again—I’m keeping my hands off what is the French Inspector’s scene.’

‘She knew him. Trusted him. You didn’t know Estelle! I tell you she’d have fought like a hell cat if she’d thought she was in danger. Scratched him to pieces! Look at her hands … no, no … I understand. I won’t get too close. No sign of fending off an attack, is there?’

‘Not as far as I can make out. They’ll need to take samples from under her fingernails.’

‘He’s over there, isn’t he? In the hall, finishing his breakfast … Still in bed, exhausted after his night’s activity? But what did he say to her?’ Nathan blundered on, his voice rising to a shrill note of disbelief as he worked through the implications of the grisly scenario. ‘To make her do this? Did he kill her somewhere else and arrange her up here for a laugh?’

Joe saw a flash of panic twist his features. ‘Good God, Joe! You don’t suppose …? Oh, no! I couldn’t bear it!’

‘No immediately obvious sign of a sexual attack—at least a physical one,’ said Joe. ‘But I have to tell you, Nat, I’m not going to pursue the possibility. Not now. That really must be left to the proper authority, properly equipped. I can just say—I think it highly unlikely. No. Whatever our perpetrator had in mind, I don’t think it was rape.’