‘Oh yes! Indeed! But no urgency to reveal all, I think. Not to a man who’s been in possession of all the pieces of the jigsaw but one all along. Did you think I couldn’t count to thirty-eight? I’ll hear your confession later, Orlando!’
He hurried towards the steward’s office, smilingly brushing aside anxious people trying to waylay him in the great hall. He noticed as he passed through that it was looking quite medieval in its noisy, colourful disorder. A gendarme was standing posted at the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene with an expression of disbelief.
Piles of bedding and cushions were littering the floor, easels had been set up under windows, children were playing a noisy game that involved racing around the pillars and screaming. Battling away at the far end of the space, Mrs Fenton was thumping away at a piano which had been dragged in from somewhere. A jolly English tune—Country Gardens, he thought he recognized—was being played in strict rhythm for the benefit of the two ballet girls. These two, lost in their activity, were exercising. Barefoot and clad in an improvised costume of rolled-up pyjama bottoms and shirts, they yet managed to be impressive. Joe paused for a moment to admire their lissom movements.
Loud-voiced and authoritative, the duenna was pacing about in front of them, banging occasionally on the floor with a stout walking stick. As Joe marvelled, she shrieked for a stop, railed at Natalia and demonstrated a position herself on light, precise feet. The bulky, insignificant lady was transformed. The girls listened and nodded and copied.
‘I say …’ the wail went up from Mrs Fenton. ‘I adore Percy Grainger as much as the next man but that’s eleven times I’ve played that piece! What about a little Nutcracker? Sugar Plum Fairy, anyone?’
‘It’s the siege of Lucknow without the bloodshed,’ Orlando muttered.
‘Where’s de Pacy?’ Joe asked.
‘Still in a sulk, I’d guess. He won’t come out of his quarters. He’s had a huge bust-up with his cousin. At least that’s what Jane says has sent him into a tail-spin. The servants have clearly not been directed to tidy up the mess. They’re playing cards in the old pantry. It looked worse an hour ago. Then Jane came in and gave everyone a pep talk. Pulling together, keeping calm, putting on a good face for the French … you can imagine the sort of thing. Ah! Here she comes.’
Joe hurried off down the corridor to the office.
‘Here’s the pathologist’s report and here are the things they took from her body.’ Joe placed the bag and the file on the desk and sat down opposite the Commissaire.
‘Good man, your Lemaître,’ Joe said. ‘With interesting things to say. I’ll tell you now—the most significant thing he had to report was that our girl was between two and three months pregnant. She would have been aware. And she had no drugs whatsoever in her system.’
Jacquemin seized the file and began at once to leaf through it. ‘So, she was clear-headed when she went and laid herself down on that stone altar?’ he muttered. ‘How in hell did he …? Hypnosis? What about mesmerism? Isn’t that all the go at the moment in the music halls? Did the doc have any suggestions? They’re worth hearing, you know.’
‘He was as puzzled as we were … are,’ he corrected himself.
Jacquemin gave him a cold stare. ‘You can leave this with me, Sandilands. Your presence is requested by the lord. Thinks he’s dying.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Again. His valet claims he’s been doing this every month for the last year. And then he springs back again, hale and hearty, and asking why he sees nothing but long faces about him. But we’ll humour him. You’re to go up to his apartment at once. Try to get up there before the priest arrives and forgives him for everything he’s done … makes him change his mind. And come straight back down here and report to me. Got your notebook? I shall want to hear every word of his confession to murder.’
Joe shook his head. ‘That’s the last thing I expect to hear from his lordship.’ He checked his pockets for his notebook, helped himself to a pencil from a pot on the desk and went out.
‘Bédoin!’ Joe remembered the valet’s name and greeted him with a serious face when the man opened the door to the lord’s quarters. ‘A sad business. I hear Lord Silmont wants to see me.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ murmured the valet. ‘He wishes to make a full confession to you before he sees the priest.’
‘Ah …’ said Joe. ‘Am I to take it his lordship is experiencing a period of … shall we say … lucidity?’
‘Complete lucidity. He’s as sharp as a pin and feeling no pain for once. You arrive at a good moment. If all goes according to past form, he will present his normal self, though he’s a little sleepy as yet. As the last of the soothing dose I gave him wears off he will become somewhat euphoric. And his behaviour less predictable. May I advise you to summon help and withdraw should you be overtaken by circumstances, sir? He is in no way restrained and experience indicates that it would not be wise to attempt to sit out the storm.’ He put a small bell in Joe’s hand. ‘I will be next door. Summon me at once should his lordship become difficult.’
The lord was sitting up in bed, pale but cheerful and leafing through a copy of a Parisian colour magazine.
‘At last! Sandilands swoops in! Glad you could come. Your sensation-seeking Parisian colleague was not best pleased by my request to unburden myself to you. But I can’t say I fancied confessing all to that sour-faced, publicity-seeking Commissaire. He’d have me on the front of one of these rags before you could say knife!’ The lord threw down the magazine in disgust. ‘Gentleman that you are, I think you’ll understand a gentleman’s problems. We’ll do this in French, if you don’t mind? There may be nuances I couldn’t convey in English.’
The walls of the spartan room were, as Jacquemin had told them, adorned by two of the world’s artistic masterpieces and Joe deliberately kept his gaze from them, knowing that, once he looked, he would see nothing else. The lord must have his full attention. He turned his head resolutely away.
But his slight movement had not gone unnoticed.
‘No! Do look! You’ll never see another one so wonderful,’ Silmont said, gesturing to the Van Gogh. ‘You are aware of my problem?’
Joe nodded. ‘You’re suffering from the great pox.’ He thought the old-fashioned name would be more acceptable than the modern clinical term.
‘Then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that, should a man make an effort to understand the devastation of this disease, he could either spend weeks reading eminent physicians’ writings on patients’ symptoms or, Sandilands, he could spend one minute looking into that tormented face. I have done both. Believe me—the face has it!’
Accepting the invitation, Joe turned at last and stared into the wild, doomed, self-knowing eyes of the painting.
‘He was at the asylum not many miles from here—you knew that? And there he produced some of his most marvellous works. I have been lucky enough to acquire a few of them. But this one … He gave it away, you know. To one of the warders … nurses … whatever you like to call them. The man didn’t appreciate what he had and it spent many years in his attic, unregarded. I bought it from his daughter for a very modest sum. Sandilands, I could be looking into a mirror!’
‘And the delusions which are symptomatic of the foul scourge you have suffered have directed your behaviour of late? You have contemplated—even carried out—acts which have been contrary to your nature? Acts which you must now confess to your priest?’ Joe asked delicately. How much easier it would have been for him to accuse an out-and-out villain of his premeditated crimes and slap on the handcuffs. And here he found himself treading on eggshells around this damaged penitent, whom, despite his assurances, he could not truly understand.