Joe assessed the age of the priest. The unlined, waxen features were difficult to read but he decided that he must be in late middle age and probably a contemporary of Lacroix and his friends. Joe repeated the half-truths he had given earlier to the bridge group with such success and concluded: ‘So—I would be enormously grateful to hear where I might find this Father Ignace.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you,’ came the cold response. ‘The man you seek does not exist.’

‘I have it on very good authority that he does, or did, in the years before the war. If you are unable to give this matter your personal attention, could you at least direct me to the division of the Church which keeps records of the priesthood? I should like to look him up.’

‘There is no record of such a man available to you, Commander. You will find his name on no church roll.’

To Joe’s surprise, the priest got to his feet, walked to the door and opened it. ‘You must excuse me, Commander. I recall that I have an engagement with a parishioner. My housekeeper will show you out. I suggest you waste no more of your time looking for a phantom priest. There is no Father Ignace.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was five o’clock before Joe wearily parked his car between the Hispano-Suiza and a matched pair of Citroën police cars and presented himself again in the great hall. Someone must have been watching for him at the door. The cry went up at once: ‘He’s here!’

He was assailed without warning from all sides by distraught, angry and demanding voices. Hands tugged at his sleeves, someone trod on his foot. Joe hated mobs. Did twenty people constitute a mob? he wondered. Yes. If they were angry, vociferous and without a leader.

‘It’s a disgrace!’

‘Someone must do something!’

‘This’ll show us what Scotland Yard’s made of!’ Joe thought he caught Petrovsky’s subversive rumble.

The cacophony was quelled by a firm and totally reasonable plea delivered over their heads by Orlando to ‘let the poor bloke have a cup of tea, for God’s sake—before you tear him apart!’

A cup was instantly at his elbow, held out by Jane Makepeace. In a co-ordinated move with Orlando, she managed to cut Joe from the herd and settle him at one end of the table, sitting between them, next to the teapot. The crowd did not disperse but seethed about, looking likely to invade his peace at any moment. He guessed he was immune from them as long as he clutched his teacup in his hand.

‘Am I hearing this aright?’ Joe asked, unbelieving. ‘That lot are falling over themselves to tell me that an arrest has been made? Who’s been arrested? And on what charge?’

‘Much as I hate to echo the sentiments of the crowd,’ gritted Jane, ‘especially this crowd—Joe, you’ve got to do something!’

‘They have a point,’ added Orlando. ‘Think of the fellow least likely to have done it, the one we all love the most—they’ve collared him for it!’

‘They, and by that I mean the senior Frenchman—Jacquemin, is it?—have arrested Frederick Ashwell. Freddie! For the murder of Estelle. That’s as much as we know. They’ve got him in there now—in Guy’s … in the steward’s office. That poor young boy! They’ve been grilling him for over an hour. It’s ludicrous! Fred wouldn’t swat a fly if it settled on his cream bun!’

‘I’ve watched him catch a wasp that was being a nuisance and let it go in the lavender muttering “brother wasp”!’ huffed Orlando.

‘He’s a baby—only just out of the Slade!’ Jane’s face was pink with indignation. Her dark eyes flashed with spirit and she tugged anxiously at a lock of silky hair. Joe wondered why he hadn’t noticed at first sight what a very pretty woman she was.

‘Is there anything you can do, Joe?’

He drained his cup of tea, set it down on the table and got to his feet. Time for Sir Lancelot to parade again. Joe steeled himself. Unflustered and commanding, he turned his battered side to the crowd and eyed them with what he hoped was a repressive glare. It worked a treat on new recruits and old stagers alike. It had signally failed with a tiger but it seemed to be working now with the excitable bunch in front of him. They fell silent.

‘Don’t worry! I’m sure there’s something I can do, Jane.’ His voice was directed over her head at the crowd. ‘I’ll go directly to Jacquemin and sort this out. I’m expecting to find we’re hearing an unconfirmed rumour. What we need is information. When we have the facts we can take the appropriate action.’

Mutters of agreement started to go up on hearing his stressed words. Heads nodded support and they began to move aside, making a way through for him.

‘Could you find Guy, tell him I’m back and ask him to attend with me? There may be useful evidence he can supply—’ he started to say.

Jane replied lugubriously: ‘He’s tried! He’s as angry as we are. But they wouldn’t listen to him. The Commissaire threw Guy out of his own office! He’s stormed off in a temper. I’ll try to find him.’

The rebellious grumbles started up again at the mention of Jacquemin’s overbearing behaviour to the steward. De Pacy was a popular man also in that company. Joe heard anti-French suggestions of an inventive nature being proposed by Ernest Fenton and seconded by Derek Whittlesford and thought the sooner he could bring young Frederick out of the office all in one piece or, for choice, selected body parts of the Commissaire in shreds, the better.

He approached de Pacy’s office, nodding to left and right, feeling like a matador entering the ring. The door was, as before, flanked by two sentinels. The puzzled footmen had been replaced by two flint-eyed policemen from Avignon who seemed prepared to block his way. Joe showed his warrant card and informed them that he was expected. He knocked firmly once and walked straight inside.

He addressed the seated Commissaire from the doorway. ‘Excellent news, Jacquemin! Lord Silmont’s day passed exactly as advertised. No variation. No aberration. Three impeccable witnesses. I’ll let you have my report this evening.’

‘Good. Good. Always a pleasure to hear our lords and masters are in the clear,’ he drawled. ‘Now, what may I do for you?’

‘Fill me in. Where’ve we got to? Have you found her passport? Contacted her next of kin?’

‘Of course.’ He pointed to a battered navy Vuitton suitcase behind the door. ‘That’s hers. We packed all her belongings in there. Nothing of interest or value. Mostly clothes. Her parents—named in her passport—were alerted by the force in Avignon and instructions sought. Some difficulties there,’ he commented. ‘Her father would appear to be some sort of dignitary in the Church with an address in Canterbury.’

He passed a scrap of paper over the desk to Joe. ‘Anything known?’

Joe shook his head.

‘They declined to travel down to view the body or pick up her things. We’ve been asked to dispose of them as we think fit.’

Joe grunted. ‘There’s parental affection for you! No more than Estelle would have expected, I think. Has her body been taken care of?’

‘It’s gone to Avignon, sir,’ said Martineau, eager and deferential. ‘Top priority! We’ll hear back tomorrow—’

‘That will be all, Lieutenant,’ said Jacquemin frostily with a nod indicating the presence of an interviewee in the room.

Joe affected to notice for the first time the blond young man standing, hands cuffed behind his back and swaying slightly, opposite the Commissaire. ‘Ah! Freddie, my boy!’ he said jovially and went to pat him encouragingly on the back. ‘Helping out the PJ, are you? Good boy! But don’t stand on ceremony—have a seat, won’t you?’ Joe pulled a chair over and pushed Frederick on to it.

Frederick turned an anguished face to Joe. His long lashes were damp, his cheeks streaked with orange and green paint and trails of facial effluvia. Joe thought, with a stab of pity, that the young man looked like a pagan villager in The Rite of Spring a minute before the end of the last act, collapsing in a heap and dying of physical and emotional exhaustion. Embarrassed, Freddie twisted his neck and wiped his nose on his lapel.