Strange Images of Death

Chapter Fifteen

Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. The wind had abated as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving a cool, combed and invigorated countryside behind it.

An equally cool, combed and invigorated Commissaire Jacquemin called for his coffee pot to be refilled and detained with a gesture the landlord of the Hôtel de la Poste who was personally waiting on his distinguished guest. ‘Ferro-tell the Lieutenant over there …’ He nodded at the young man breakfasting by himself at the far end of the room, ‘… to join me at my table, would you? And bring another cup.’

The officer and the additional crockery arrived at Jacquemin’s table at the same time. ‘Ah! Coffee, Martineau? Sleep well? Good, good. Of course, being a native, you must be used to this confounded wind. Now tell me-the motor car-did you manage to get to the bottom of the problem with the … transmission, I think you said? We weren’t handed the cream of the collection for our little jaunt, I think? I want to arrive at the château snorting impressively not jangling like a bag of nails.’

‘Yes. All in order, sir,’ said the young man crisply. His broad brow, intense eyes and tight mouth gave the impression that here was a man incapable of saying or thinking anything but ‘yes’. ‘Snorting like a bull! There’s a mechanic right here in the village who seems to know his business. He sorted it out in no time. All’s ready for our assault on the Devil’s Château.’ He grinned dismissively.

‘Ah, yes! This name … I don’t like to walk unprepared into strange scenes even of the comic opera type I suspect we’re about to experience. A little local guidance is called for, I think.’ He summoned the landlord again and invited him to seat himself. ‘Monsieur Ferro, you know where we’re headed this morning. Tell me-how did the Château de Silmont of venerable name ever acquire the sobriquet of du Diable?’

Monsieur Ferro was delighted to be of assistance. ‘Because devilish things have happened there over the centuries. Oh, the usual murder and rapine, but this castle has always been associated with a particular kind of-I think you have to say, inhuman-evil. The kind that can only come from the Devil.’

‘Monsieur Ferro will be able to point out to you the hill-top lair of the Marquis de Sade of evil repute, not many miles from here, sir,’ the Lieutenant added helpfully. ‘There are many such châteaux dotted about in the villages and each has a reputation worse than the last.’

‘Ah, yes, but the Marquis de Sade was of flesh and blood. It’s at Silmont that the supernatural makes its appearance most strongly through history,’ insisted the landlord, realizing he was talking to a man of Provence. ‘It started with the Devil’s Bride. You must know that story?’

Jacquemin, mildly entertained, exchanged looks with Martineau and poured out more coffee. ‘Do tell. The story hasn’t reached Paris yet.’

It was only slightly encouraging but it was all the invitation Ferro needed.

‘This happened long ago, in the days of the Counts of Provence, when Paris was a backwater and France just a neighbouring kingdom,’ he said with pride. ‘The young heir to Silmont was to be wed. To the lovely daughter of a rich marquis from a nearby estate. The château was en fête for the wedding celebrations. It must have looked like the setting for a fairy tale-guests had come from miles around, days of feasting were planned, there were acrobats and musicians by the score. The young bride-who came with a large dowry-was very taken with her new husband. She must have considered her father’s outlay-some ten thousand crowns, it was said-well spent! The groom was somewhat older than she, in the custom of the times, but handsome and powerful and would inherit one day a splendid castle and lands. Ah! How were they to know …’ He left a dramatic pause, rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘… know that the lord had a rival-a rival more powerful than himself? The girl already had a secret admirer. The Devil! None other!’ Monsieur Ferro made the sign of the cross at the whispered name. ‘Though she was unaware of his plans for her. After the ceremony, the bride, still dressed in her white wedding dress, insisted on playing a game with her friends and all the other little guests who’d been invited to keep her company. It was a game she loved to play. And she was, after all, still a very young thing. A game of hide and seek.

‘She ran away and hid and everyone searched. And searched again. They called and called again. There was never an answer. Everyone feared for her. She did not know the château, her new home, at all. This was her first visit. The child did not reappear that day. And that night the château resounded with sighs and moans in every chimneypiece and no one slept.

‘The search continued for the next day, the next week, the next month. The countryside was combed in the for-lorn hope she had wandered off. Every gypsy tribe within a score of miles was questioned in case they’d snatched her away. But they found no sign. Not even a dropped kerchief. And they were never likely to find her. The Devil had made off with his chosen bride, it was said, from under the lord’s nose. Her lord remarried. He came into his inheritance. The years passed. The first bride was forgotten. I cannot even tell you her name.’

‘Is that it? That’s all?’

Monsieur Ferro paused, shook his head and fixed the men with the glazed eyes of a storyteller who is approaching his climax and resenting an interruption. ‘And then, they say, a hundred years later, when they were rebuilding a part of the castle, they pulled the cover off an oubliette that no one knew was there. And, crouched in the bottom, was a small figure in white. The bride. As they tried to pull out the body, she and her dress crumbled to dust,’ he finished with relish.

‘Not a congenial place, it would seem, for young ladies of flesh and blood-or stone,’ the Commissaire observed.

‘People have so remarked over the years, sir. No one remembers the name of the missing child bride-as I said just now-but everyone knows the name of her successor. One of the young girls who’d played hide and seek on that fateful day was Lord Silmont’s cousin-Aliénore. An impoverished branch of the family … she had no dowry but was famous for her beauty. They made a match of it-no one could deny him this comfort in his sorrow-and she produced a male heir within the year.

‘But the lord had no luck with his wives. Aliénore died in her youth, it’s said in childbirth, on her lord’s return from the Crusade.’ He sighed. ‘Her husband was determined that she would be remembered for ever. He had the most splendid portrait effigy carved in alabaster and set up in the chapel. You must try to see it while you’re up there, sir. It really is the loveliest thing. After all these years, you’d swear she was just sleeping.’

‘How very fascinating. Now tell me, Ferro … I’m planning to stay for another night. May I confidently expect to encounter the smoked haunch of wild boar again on the menu this evening?’

Ferro, hearing dismissal in Jacquemin’s voice, stood and tilted his head agreeably. ‘But of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

The two men waited until Ferro was out of earshot before they laughed.

‘Well, let’s have it, Martineau! Your analysis, please!’

‘I’d have had the cuffs on the young lord straight away, sir! I’d have sweated him to find out what he really thought of this annoying little twerp whose idea of the best way to spend a honeymoon was a game of hide and seek. I’d have wanted to know the size of his wife’s dowry and whether it came to him on her death. I’d have asked about to find out if he had his eye on any other female in the neighbourhood. Someone whose name began with an A perhaps. And-if he was still at liberty after my attentions-watched with interest his further marital exploits.’

‘Ah? I’m speaking to an admirer of the Perrault fairy tale? Do I hear echoes of the story of Bluebeard? Perhaps we should keep an eye out for bloodstained keys and locked cupboards full of dead wives while we’re up there?’

Martineau acknowledged the Commissaire’s sally with a smile. ‘Always on the alert, sir. And I don’t despise fairy tales. I slapped the cuffs on Bluebeard last year. In Marseille. The gentleman was going by quite a different name and he was certainly no lord. But the contents of his cupboards … well, I won’t go into that so soon after breakfast, sir.’

Jacquemin nodded his approval. He liked a chap with the spirit to answer up for himself. And this sharp young officer, Martineau, had stepped in and saved his bacon in Marseille. Perhaps he could be encouraged to pursue his further career in Paris, conveniently in the orbit of the Commissaire? Jacquemin knew the value of a good man at his back. Another advantage to come out of this wild-goose chase? He looked at his wristwatch in great good humour. ‘Bring the car round at ten thirty, will you, Lieutenant? If you’re to work with me, you must understand that when I am not being punctual to the second, I am arriving ahead of time. Greeting suspects before they are quite prepared for you can be very informing and it puts them on the back foot-they are the ones caught burbling excuses. Let’s see if we can surprise these pretentious buggers with their trousers down, shall we?’