‘Jane, whilst I must agree with the first of your assertions—that the lord is in the throes of this disease—I cannot agree with the second. I spent the afternoon with his friends and his doctor, splendid men all three, and can tell you that the lord was in their company at the time Estelle was murdered. He has the soundest alibi I’ve ever encountered. Ill he may be in mind and body, deluded and certifiably insane, but he is not guilty of murder.’

She made a small noise in her throat. Dissent? Surprise? Disappointment? It was not relief.

‘You’re perfectly sure of that?’

‘Perfectly.’

She shook her head in embarrassment.’Oh, dear! I have made a mess of that, haven’t I?’ she said. ‘Spreading doubt of the worst kind! You must think very badly of me.’

‘I’ve learned never to come up with a theory and stretch the facts to fit it,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s taken years but I’ve got to the point where I can let evidence, impressions and sound advice from well-meaning friends—such as I’ve just had from you—swirl about until the moment comes when they settle into a convincing pattern.’

‘And for you they’re still swirling?’

‘Yes. Perhaps the pieces will begin to fall together tomorrow when Estelle has spoken to us.’

‘Estelle has spoken?’

‘I’m going to Avignon to see the pathologist. A task Jacquemin seems willing to delegate to me. By then there may be other indications. If I were at all fanciful, I’d say that the dead sometimes try to pass on a message. They stand about on the fringes of perception, unable to influence the living agents involved with their corpse but urging us on.’ Joe didn’t quite like the way her lip curled in disbelief so he pressed on: ‘You’d be surprised how often I’ve watched a pathologist put down his instruments and declare the job finished only to pause, uneasy, think a bit and say, almost to himself: “Hang on a minute … there’s something else I could look at …”’

Jane sighed and this he identified clearly as a blend of derision and impatience.

‘And now I see in your eye what your father saw all those years ago! “Intolerant and intemperate girl!” I shall shout. And possibly stamp my foot. But I shall know that I’ve deserved your scorn.’

She smiled and the hard expression melted away. Jane Makepeace was, indeed, a very pretty girl, Joe considered. But her father had known his own daughter.

Becoming the dry detective again, Joe wondered aloud what—had the lord had the means and opportunity to commit the crime (which he hadn’t)—could possibly be his motive. What on earth would prompt him to attack first his own much-prized effigy and follow this with the murder of a strikingly similar victim? Could they ascribe this to complete, unreasoning dementia? It seemed to him that there was rather too much of a pattern to dismiss it as motiveless violence.

‘Come now, Joe!’ she said annoyingly. ‘You’ve thought this through, as have I. Of course there’s a pattern. And a motive too—a crazy one which might spring from a diseased mind. It comes down to blood.’

‘Blood? There was little or no blood spilled,’ he ventured.

‘You’re wilfully misunderstanding. I mean blood line. Descent. Silmont has never married—and now I think we can guess why—and therefore has no children. He has to deal with the problem of his imminent death and the inheritance of all this. It’s not quite like the English tradition where the name and position are inherited along with the property. A man of a different name, finding himself the owner of the estate, could call himself “de Silmont” and there you have it—yet another member of the aristocracy. Ten a penny but they still set some store by it. The writer, Voltaire, was a plain Monsieur Arouet until he bought the Voltaire estate. After a few years he was Monsieur de Voltaire and had quietly dropped his own family name. What’s the betting that Monsieur de Pacy will seamlessly become Silmont?’

‘Sounds like a good solution to me,’ Joe said.

‘Not if there is bad blood between the two men.’

‘Blood again? Did you use that term intentionally?’

‘Yes. You will have heard that the men are cousins.

This is a polite acceptance. They are not. They are, in fact, half-brothers. Some sort of cousin as well, if you can be bothered to work it out, I suppose. Guy was born somewhat illegitimate.’

‘Somewhat?’

‘It’s not straightforward. He was brought up by Vincent de Pacy and his wife in their household, their acknowledged son. And why not—de Pacy was indeed his father. The man had quite a reputation locally for philandering apparently. But Guy’s mother? Well! Prepare yourself for a surprise. She was, in fact, Ariane, the wife of the Lord Silmont of the day, Bertrand’s own mother.’

‘Ah, here she is again—the Unfaithful Wife!’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was the nineties. La Belle Époque. There were many liaisons of that nature. But are you seeing a pattern? The Lord Silmont already had a son in Bertrand and had no use for another who wasn’t his own. He compelled his wife to hand the baby over to its father, de Pacy. Everything was hushed up and given a veneer of propriety as is the custom but I can only imagine what effect it must have had on both boys.’

‘And both women!’ said Joe, aghast. ‘I’m surprised there wasn’t murder done! I had no idea.’

‘And I trust you to keep it to yourself. Guy is a survivor, something of a stoic, and he’s adjusted to his circumstances. A man to be respected. But he would not be pleased … I feel I’ve betrayed a man who has befriended me. I have said too much.’

‘Not if it has a bearing on this case. But how did you manage to dig so deep?’

She laughed. ‘Me? Bad-tempered, angular, unsympathetic me? I have acquired a certain skill, Joe, over the years. I have learned the techniques of the psychiatrist’s couch. I know when to be silent. I know which phrases will provoke a response. And I know how to interpret those responses.’

‘I suppose I must resign myself to being read by you?’

‘Not at all, Joe. I take you for a clear rock pool. The sunlight and clarity I see on the surface goes all the way down to the white pebbles on the bottom.’

He didn’t believe her but made no denial or affirmation of her challenge, spotting her outrageous comment for the trigger it was. If he’d been lounging on a tapestried couch instead of perched rather gingerly on an ancient chair with a rickety leg he might well have given way to the temptation of sinking into an indulgent bout of self-analysis. Steered by Jane Makepeace in the direction of her choosing. He helped himself to another cup of tea from the pot.

‘So why the frenzied attack on womankind?’ he asked, wondering whether she had reached the same conclusion as himself.

‘Brought up with medieval notions of inheritance, the fascination for the treacherous wife, Aliénore, whom he adores and loathes in equal measure, he finds at an impressionable age that the family tradition continues. His own mother he discovers to be a strumpet—in his vocabulary. I despise the word and seek unsuccessfully for the male equivalent. At any event—a woman who has been unfaithful and given away the product of her unfaithfulness. His own brother. A heartbreaking loss? Or relief that a cuckoo has been pushed out of the nest?’

‘Your father would have a field day with all this,’ said Joe, bemused.

‘And then, we must assume somewhere in his early twenties—that is the most usual time, I understand, for young men to go off the rails, usually with an infected prostitute—he finds through the appearance of a chancre in the groin, and probably a fever, that he has been infected with the most hideous disease known to man. It is incurable. It is unbearably painful. It is transferable. No one is sure of the period of contagion but he knows that if he marries, he risks infecting his wife. And the disease may be passed from a mother to her child. She will bring into the world an infant covered in black pustules and condemned to a life of pain. Silmont does the honourable thing and forbids himself ever to marry.’