‘Strange fact I’ve discovered, Jacquemin, about artists,’ said Joe conversationally. ‘They never keep a clean handkerchief about them. Dishclouts of the most dubious provenance in every pocket but not a scrap of cotton to blow your nose on. Here, Freddie, have a good toot!’ He held out his own cotton square and waited pointedly until Jacquemin nodded to Martineau to remove the handcuffs.
‘Thank God you’re here, Joe!’ Freddie burst out. ‘Estelle! She’s dead! Murdered, they’re saying. Why? And these fellows think I killed her! Me!’ He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. ‘Idiots!’ he snarled, gaining courage from Joe’s hand on his shoulder. And, losing all control: ‘Arseholes! I loved her! I loved her!’ he screamed again. Jacquemin sighed. ‘We all heard that, I think? Write it down, Martineau. In English and French. You’d be surprised how often that confession leads to the more serious one we’re looking for. You’ve arrived, once again, Commander, at the moment critique. In at the kill, eh?’
‘Explain yourself, Jacquemin.’ Joe’s tone was easy but menacing. He’d guessed from the Commissaire’s failure to throw him out at once on his arrogant British bum that he had, during Joe’s absence, made that essential phone call to establish Joe’s bona fides and check on his rank. The Yard, if consulted, would have confirmed his high office in the force and most likely—since the enquiry came from France—would have mentioned the role he was playing in establishing Interpol, based in their own city of Lyon. A politically difficult moment. Jacquemin must by now know that he was outranked and outplayed by Commander Sandilands.
So why was he not hopping mad? Why wasn’t he reminding Joe that, however elevated he might be back home, here he was without any authority? His equanimity was alarming.
‘My colleague, Lieutenant Martineau of the local police force, was just about to inform this young person that, following his confession, he is to be taken away to Avignon, there to face the examining magistrate and answer a charge of murder.’
‘I heard him just now confess that he loved Estelle. No more than that. If loving Estelle is a crime, man, you can slip the cuffs on at least five gentlemen baying for your blood out there. Six if you count yours truly.’ Joe stuck out his hands cynically in the receptive position. ‘She was a lovable girl. Her death has left us all distraught. We want to see the guilty man behind bars and soon. But a sacrificial goat shoved off a cliff satisfies no one. And makes the rest of the herd more difficult to handle.’
‘We don’t yet have Ashwell’s confession in so many words,’ said Jacquemin. ‘But we do have it in paint.’ He enjoyed Joe’s puzzlement for a moment and went on: ‘His crime is emblazoned on a wall. Painted two metres high in glorious colour and minute detail. And it’s not merely a faithful portrayal of the crime after the event … oh, no … what we have is a statement of intent. We have a blue-print—an all-colours-of-the-rainbow print—for murder.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s even signed and dated it! I invite you to come and have a look.’
He smiled wolfishly at Ashwell. ‘And we’ll take the great designer along with us to explain his theory and procedure, shall we? His modus operandi, I think we’d call it in the trade.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The small group left the office and headed off back through the hall towards the courtyard. The two French officers, with Frederick walking between them, followed by Joe and one of the gendarmes, raised a few questioning eyebrows but no one tried to bar their way. There was a moment of farce when Jacquemin was on the point of making the wrong turning and the prisoner had to tug the Commissaire by the sleeve and steer him on to the right path.
They emerged into warm late afternoon sunlight. Jacquemin had his bearings now and strode out for the north-facing cloister, a cool and airy spot, sheltered from wind and sun by its width and the arcaded aspect it presented to the courtyard.
‘Outdoors?’ the Commissaire mused. ‘I have to ask: is this a sensible place to create a work of art?’
‘It’s not intended to be permanent,’ said Frederick. ‘I’m experimenting with what is rapidly becoming a lost skill. Lord Silmont, as you know, is an art lover in the true sense and I have found him very ready to support endeavours which may not seem immediately attractive to those who only view art in the saleroom. He understands the need for experimentation. I’ve changed the plaster formula and the schemes for the painting several times already.’
‘What’s all this mess?’ Jacquemin wanted to know. He kicked with his foot at a slew of discarded crayons and scraps of paper that littered the paved floor.
‘The children,’ said Frederick. ‘They gather here in the shade and watch me work. They’ve been trying out their own ideas. They ran off in a hurry when little Marius burst out of the chapel.’ He bent down and started to gather up the remains of his impromptu art school.
‘Oh, leave it, for goodness sake! Now—starting on the left? Good. Explain this … this …’
‘Delectable fresco?’ supplied Joe kindly. ‘It’s stunning! Chagal would admire. But first, tell us, Fred, why is one of the four leaves—would you call them leaves, these sections?—covered over?’
‘There’s an illustration for each of the acts—they follow on each other like chapters in a story—and that’s the last one. Act 4, you could say, the finale. I only finished yesterday. I do one section at a time. One a day. My giornata, it’s called in the trade. Fresco means fresh. You’ve got to finish your picture while the stucco is still damp so that the paint you apply bonds with the plaster. No time for second thoughts or touching up. You have to go at it! In this weather I sprinkle my surfaces evening and morning with water and, to control the rate of drying, I drape a length of fabric over it when I’ve finished. I find it keeps the circulation of air to the minimum. I’m just feeling my way, you understand … using whatever seems to work. Guided by some useful instruction books the lord’s lent me. In Italian. I say—anyone here know any Italian—’
‘We start here,’ Jacquemin interrupted.
‘Ah yes. Now, this one here, the first, is, naturally, the scenery for the opening act of the ballet …’
Fred was getting into his stride, almost losing sight of the reason he was here. ‘There’s been a deplorable audience reaction to some modern ballets—The Rite of Spring, Petroushka, Firebird. Ignorant idiots who thought they were coming to swoon to a performance of Nutcracker or hum along with The Yeomen of the Guard were disappointed. Some hissed and walked out in a marked manner, some got into arguments with others more avant-garde. Fisticuffs broke out in the aisles. Right from the opening bars! In The Rite of Spring a riot ensued. Police were called. Many customers took a dislike to the set. A brilliant design by Nicholas Roerich. The man’s an archaeologist as well as a painter—he knew his stuff. But the design was lacking in the colour the audience wanted. From the title they were expecting yellows and greens and choruses of pink-cheeked virgins crowned with may-blossom. What they were presented with was sombre: shadowy purples and moss greens and glacier white, wonderfully evoking the awakening Steppes of Asia at the moment they begin to shake off winter. Bags of drama! But not comforting. Not the background for a jolly night out. What’s more, the maidens were a disappointment. Clearly from rural Russia not Ruritania—grey-clad scarecrows with painted pagan faces—’
‘I think the audience response may have had more to do with the musical score,’ Jacquemin cut him short. ‘It was the first notes of the bassoon, I understand, that got them on their feet. Monsieur Stravinsky can clear a concert hall faster than the fire brigade. Let us hope that the composer Petrovsky has in mind is more in tune with French ears. Now, guide us over your landscape will you, young man. By the shortest route.’