Joe replied again in French to be sure he was being understood by driver and passengers. ‘Park your vehicle. Get out and escort your ladies back into the great hall.’
‘Not on your life! You’ve no authority to stop me! You’re not directing traffic in Piccadilly now, you know! This is France!’
Without a word said, Martineau drew his gun and trained it on Petrovsky. He bellowed back, echoing exactly Joe’s words: ‘Park your vehicle. Get out and …’ And he added: ‘In the name of the French Republic on whose soil you find yourself.’
‘And you can bugger off, too,’ said Petrovsky with suicidal boldness, Joe thought. He could almost admire the Englishman. He would never himself have risked snarling down the barrel of a Lebel pistol held on him by the practised hand of a Marseille policeman. ‘I’m not French. You’ve no right to tell me what to do!’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Joe, turning to Martineau. ‘The gentleman seems to be suffering from a little ethnic and geographic confusion. Is he awaiting the attentions of a Russian officer of the law, do you suppose? We could be here some time. Perhaps I should explain in his own language?’ He addressed Petrovsky in formal copper’s English: ‘Spettisham Gregory Peters, of Maidenhead, Berkshire, subject of His Britannic Majesty, I am arresting you in English and French on behalf of the Metropolitan Police of London—’
‘And the Police Judiciaire of Marseille,’ Martineau inserted. ‘For the offence of resisting arrest and attempting to flee the scene of a crime in a suspicious manner,’ he added, enjoying his invention. He unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt and advanced on Petrovsky.
The engine roared into life again, the noise covering a string of oaths in mixed Russian and English. But it was a last flourish. Petrovsky engaged reverse gear and the stork, robbed of its prey, flapped off backwards. Petrovsky stormed away in the direction of the great hall, leaving Martineau to reach inside and switch off the engine and Joe to extend a hand to the ladies.
The Russian girls swore at him in Russian and hopped out, disdainfully ignoring his hand. The duenna caught Joe’s eye and began to shake with giggles. With the grace of a prima ballerina she rested her fingers on his hand and floated down from the motor car. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘How good it is to encounter a gentleman at last in this uncivilized place.’
Joe was startled to hear that her accent was pure Provençal.
It is difficult to fill a room with panic when that room is three storeys high and large enough to accommodate hundreds, but the twenty or so people assembled were doing their best. Some, mainly the men, were sitting around the table in noisy conference, banging fists on the boards to underline the points they were making, spluttering denials and accusations, arguing and demanding. The women seemed to have gathered into two or three small groups, seated on cushions they had carried over nearer to the central table. Predictably the loudest and most hysterical voice was that of Cecily. Joe sighed wearily to hear the ‘I told you all so … Well, if one will make oneself a target … Wouldn’t it just be Estelle who gets herself murdered? Silly girl! And who’s going to tell us the name of the next victim? He should allow the women to leave at once!’ Joe rather thought she was repeating this for his benefit.
He looked about him, mentally calling the roll. He caught the sleeve of Mrs Tulliver, the lady sculptor, as she passed. ‘Gillian—where are the children?’
‘The French policeman sent them off into quarantine in the playroom and asked Jane Makepeace to stay with them. Have you heard? The Commissaire won’t let anyone leave until he’s made an arrest! We’re all to bring down blankets and sleep here in the hall tonight. Can you imagine? All mucking in together! Sweating and snoring! Ugh! He says airily that it’s no more than we would have done as a matter of course in the Middle Ages. It’s all right for him! He’s staying at the Hôtel de la Poste. But poor little Estelle—what a terrible, terrible thing. I, for one, shall sleep with my chisel under my pillow tonight.’
As he turned away, she called after him. ‘Oh, Joe—the Frenchman’s looking for you. He’s set up shop in de Pacy’s office—just commandeered it! He said anyone sighting you was to send you straight along there.’
Joe and Martineau presented themselves at the steward’s office to find two footmen had been ordered to stand, in a state of some puzzlement, on either side of the doorway. Joe raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a comic gesture and, encountering no opposition, knocked and entered. He found Jacquemin comfortably installed. The large central table had been cleared and held only a telephone and the contents of Jacquemin’s briefcase. Two chairs had been fetched and ranged on the side of the table facing the Commissaire.
‘Come in—sit down! You took your time. Progress report! Avignon aware. Pathologist and medical conveyance on way. Also small back-up squad of gendarmerie. They’re perfectly happy at the Préfecture to work with us and offer us access to their facilities. Fingerprinting, blood analysis and so on. They’re all tooled up for that sort of thing. As they get about ten times more state funding to work with than the Police Judiciaire—so they ought!’
‘The lord, sir?’ asked Martineau. ‘Is he …?’
‘Safely confined to his apartment. Valet in attendance counting out his pills and mopping his forehead. I took it upon myself to order up a nurse from Avignon. She’ll arrive with the squad. Now—anything more to report from the scene?’ His question was put to Martineau.
‘Prints, sir. On the tomb—we’ve marked the position on a sketch. Footprints likewise. In the dust near the remains of the statue. Oh—Monsieur de Pacy entered to pay his respects. We weren’t quick enough to stop him. He may have left prints.’
‘I’d expect to find that gentleman’s dabs everywhere about the place. He’s going to be the first to give me a sample. Now—got your kit, Lieutenant? We can get started on that lot out there. You print them and I’ll interview.’
Jacquemin cleared his throat and turned his attention to Joe. ‘Which brings me to a consideration of your position in all this, Sandilands. Two thirds of the cast list appear to be English. I shall need some professional help with the interpretation.’
It was reluctantly stated and his tone bordered on the ungracious. Joe’s reply was succinct: ‘I understand the circumstances and whatever linguistic, cultural or forensic skills I possess are, of course, available to the Police Judiciaire.’
‘Good. That’s settled then. I’ll see that you’re suitably deputized should it become necessary. And let’s not forget—’ his eyes became one degree less frosty—‘that technically we are both subordinate to the Lieutenant here.’
Joe and Martineau exchanged smiles.
‘But first, Sandilands, I’m going to give you a résumé of the case as I see it. I expect you to add anything you feel necessary.
‘We seem to have a classic case. We’re looking for a man suffering from some form of … er … psychopathy.’ He glanced at Joe to judge his reception of his modern view.
‘C’est un cinglé!’ Martineau ruined his effect.
‘A nutcase!’ It was what Joe’s own sergeant would have said.
‘Possibly a man who has suffered damage to the brain or emotions in the war,’ Jacquemin said repressively. ‘A misogynist at all events. That much is clear. We’re looking at the work of a man with a deep dislike and murderous grudge against women. He announced himself with his first attack—I refer to the smashing of the effigy. A clear statement of intent. A known harlot gets her comeuppance. And just in case anyone’s missed the point—here’s a rabbit to underline it. As Sandilands has pointed out. And we should listen to his view—Sandilands, after all, is familiar with this style of multiple killings. It was London, was it not, which gave the world Jacques l’Éventreur? And we have a gallery of Englishmen here on site from which to choose.’