Joe turned wondering eyes on the painter and then looked back at his vision of death on the wall before them.
The scene in the chapel was exactly as he remembered it. The table-top tomb was there bearing its grotesque burden. The crusading knight lay, unchanged, and at his side, his wife. But this figure was not Aliénore. The features were clearly those of Estelle. And the dagger in her heart was a faithful rendering of the misericord.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Easy enough to check whether the lad’s telling the truth or not,’ said Martineau when they returned to the office. ‘Shall I go and collar his lordship, sir? That was as good a denunciation as I’ve ever heard! Shall I haul the blighter down and make him answer up?’
‘It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,’ Jacquemin replied. ‘That valet of his …’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Léon something …’
‘Bédoin,’ supplied Joe. ‘Old retainer type. Been looking after his master for decades.’
‘Bossy old bugger! He’s given the lord a stiff dose of something to send him to sleep. Without reference to me! Or to the hospital nurse I’ve sent up to keep an eye on things. The valet’s uttering dire warnings of seizures to come. This fellow appears to be in charge of the pharmacopoeia. Which he keeps under lock and key in his own lair. He’s got a room next door to the master’s in his suite in the south tower.’
‘You’re saying you’ve—?’ Joe began to ask.
‘First thing I did. On the assumption that not a lot goes on under a roof of this sort without the knowledge of the owner, I stepped out and inspected his rooms. He raised no objection but I had to batter down the valet to gain admission.’
‘Anything of note? I should particularly like to hear of what his medication consists. I was fortunate enough this afternoon to have a concerned discussion with his doctor. He confirmed my suspicions regarding the lord’s health. But it would be interesting to hear what the man is actually being prescribed.’
Jacquemin passed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Here you are. I took an inventory.’
Joe glanced down the list. ‘Can you tell me why you’ve divided this into two distinct parts?’
‘Because that’s how we found them,’ said Jacquemin. ‘In two different cupboards and—this is extraordinary—with two different labels. The first group and the largest in number are the bottles and tins marked with the local doctor’s details. The second, amounting to three or four items in all, bear the address of a Harley Street, London, medical establishment. With a name on the label we all recognize. Makepeace. Do you have a comment to make?’ He looked keenly at Joe who had fallen into a silent perusal of the list.
‘Er … not yet. I should like to take the time to check up on one or two of these items. I’m noticing that the London doctor and the local chap have one prescription in common. Both have decided to supply him with potassium iodide. Anything known?’ he asked carefully.
‘Heart and lungs. My predecessor swallowed them down like cachous,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Quite useless. It got him in the end.’
‘May I borrow this? Take a copy and return it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And, tell me Jacquemin, was there anything that took your attention in his quarters? What sort of set-up does he have there?’
Jacquemin pulled a sour face. ‘Austere to the point of monkishness, I’d say. Fixtures and fittings and furnishings all of the very best but simple. Apart from some pretty fancy artwork on the bedroom walls.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘Artwork which would surprise you, Sandilands. I expect it says a lot about the occupant of any room—the choice of pictures—if you think about it. A man can fill his public rooms with whatever he thinks will impress his guests. That’s the face he wants to show to the world but it’s the image he chooses to rest his eyes on before he goes to sleep that tells you who he really is.’
Joe and Martineau were suddenly thoughtful.
‘Passing in review your own walls, gentlemen?’ Jacquemin grinned. ‘Let me guess. The Lieutenant lives with his widowed mother. I’d expect a reproduction of a suitably pious religious scene—an Annunciation or something similar.’ And, as Martineau coloured and shuffled his feet, added: ‘With something more recreative under the bed, I’d guess. Now, Sandilands …’
Joe’s annoyance at this invasion of his privacy bristled in his voice: ‘Before you venture out on to another creaky limb, Jacquemin, I’ll reveal the secrets of my bedchamber walls: horses and angels. Find fault with them if you can. I managed to acquire one of Alfred Munnings’ paintings of the Canadian cavalry horses at war behind the front line before they were much collected. The angels—so buxom and bonny their gilded frame can scarcely contain them—are the subjects of an Italian renaissance drawing left to me by an uncle.’
Jacquemin’s smile was self-congratulatory. ‘Horses and women. One might have guessed.’
‘Please, let us have no further confidences,’ Joe begged. ‘We’ll let you off your round in the revelation game, Commissaire. Some things it’s kinder not to ask, don’t you agree, Martineau? Now, we’re eager to hear what you made of Silmont’s pictorial laudanum.’
‘Ghastly taste! Simply ghastly! They tell us he’s one of Europe’s authorities on modern art—he could have his pick! And what does he choose to surround himself with? Medieval visions of hell!
‘Right there on the wall, facing him as he lies in bed, there’s a painting on wood, over two metres in height. He told me it’s the right-hand panel of a pair commissioned to go over an altar. The Descent into Hell. Funny—from a distance you’d find the colours and composition intriguing but when you focus on what’s actually going on … well! Torture, rape and slaughter by the most inventive means is what’s going on! All being perpetrated by devils equipped with tridents as well as more outré pieces of equipment, but, I can tell you—nothing like the dashing Devil in red that our young set designer envisioned.’
‘I expect the church it was destined for refused to take delivery. You wouldn’t want to expose a congregation to a sight like that for hours on end. Could give them unwelcome ideas,’ Joe suggested. ‘But the artist? Did he say who the artist was?’
‘Some Dutchman with an unpronounceable name … Bosch!’
‘Hieronymus Bosch?’
‘You’ve got him! Strange thing—the other painting that took my eye—and crushed it—was by a Dutchman too. Vincent Van Gogh. A self-portrait painted, I was told, when he was an inmate in the lunatic asylum—quite near here—in St Rémy de Provence. Turned out dozens, apparently, and gave them all away.’ Jacquemin shuddered. ‘I know they’re collected these days but I can tell you, I wouldn’t say thank you for this one! I’ll never forget it. It’s a roughish painting—layers of livid colour slapped on, radiating outwards, and in the centre, a face. What a face! Green and yellow, emaciated flesh. You can tell the man was near death when he did it. Now, the sight of a corpse to me—and I suppose it’s the same for you fellows—long since ceased to stir the emotions, but this was no piece of dead flesh awaiting the pathologist’s attention. It was a living corpse. Sounds barmy, I know, but, if someone you knew had just died and you bent over him to murmur your farewell and he suddenly opened his eyes wide and stared at you … well … you can imagine the effect. Frightful! The eyes pin you to the wall! Dark, dull, blue-black, like a pair of ripe olives. They don’t ask questions, they don’t tell you anything, they don’t accuse. They look at you but don’t know you’re there. And, of course, they wouldn’t know. The man was looking in a mirror when he painted it. You’re standing in the way of a man who’s interrogating himself, judging himself, and finding himself guilty of some appalling sin. A man full of self-hatred and on the edge of death.’