Strange Images of Death

Chapter Sixteen

The company around the breakfast table at the château seemed equally enlivened and jolly. De Pacy gave out a gentle reminder that they could expect the presence of the Marseille constabulary at eleven and guests should hold themselves ready to welcome the Inspector at their lunch table. Joe interpreted this as a warning to dress suitably and put away any dubious substances.

As people began to disperse, he caught Nathan Jacoby’s eye and both men rose and made their way out to the courtyard.

‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Nathan. ‘Nine o’clock now. We’ve got two hours before the police arrive. I estimate I’ll take an hour at the outside.’

‘You’re on,’ said Joe. ‘At least I think so … Don’t you need equipment? I don’t see you hung about with the usual contraptions of the photographer’s trade.’

‘I left my things out here,’ he said, picking up a small leather Gladstone bag. ‘Travelling light. I’m going to use my Ermanox. There’s such a splendid light pouring in through those east windows it should be a cinch. And this beauty has flash.’

They raised their heads and squinted up into the sun. Nathan sighed with satisfaction. ‘Do you see the way this yard is striped with light and shade at this hour? And look at the pattern on that arched gallery over there where the children are playing! Wonderful!’

Joe took his bag from him and set off across the courtyard, leaving him with two hands to frame his pictures and point out his perceptions as they went. He was looking forward to seeing the chapel again with the benefit of this man’s insights and he was easy in his company. As they approached the big oak door they looked at each other in astonishment.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Nathan.

Joe was running to the door as the second dull thud made itself heard. As he lifted the opening device and the door began to creak open they heard a pitiful wail leak out. Six inches was enough space for a small body to dash out, flash between the men’s legs and hare off, howling.

‘What in hell was that?’ said Nathan. ‘Christ! That kid’s upset. What was he doing in there?’ He made to run after the child who was fleeing barefoot across the courtyard.

Joe held him back. ‘Let him go. We’d frighten him further. He’s on his way to find his mother in the kitchen. It’s the cook’s son. The one who went missing last night.’ He watched on as Dorcas, drawn by the howls, emerged from the gallery and raced across the courtyard to intercept him. She seized the child’s hand and ran on with him.

‘It’s all right. Dorcas has got him. He seems to be safe enough. Now.’

‘Good Lord! The poor little chap’s been trapped in here all that time? Overnight? In that wind?’ said Nathan. ‘That’s one distressed kid!’

‘And he could only have got in here if he’d been put inside by an adult who opened the door,’ said Joe grimly. ‘Or sneaked inside while the door was open. Someone’s been in here. Are you ready for this?’

They entered carefully and waited for the door to swing shut behind them.

The cool beauty of the space was unchanged at first sight and Nathan stood still absorbing it, enchanted. But Joe was looking for details. ‘Look here! Poor child! He must have been terrified out of his wits but he showed some style! Little soldier indeed! He made himself a bivouac.’ He bent and examined the rough nest behind the door. ‘Look-here’s his bed.’ A base of kneeling cushions had been assembled to form a mattress and an old velvet curtain had served as blanket. An inch of yellow fluid in the bottom of a nearby glass flower vase told its tale of night-time emergency. A discarded clog had been put to use to bang on the door and accounted for the dull thuds that had alerted them. Sick at heart, Joe thought of the child hammering through the night, the sounds masked by the infernal wind.

‘Deserves a medal!’ Nathan commented. ‘But listen-if someone was here, he’s not here any longer, would you say? Impressive place! Fourteenth-century?’

‘Probably earlier. Twelfth, according to the guidebook. But with fourteenth-century additions and improvements. The Counts of Provence worshipped here when they were being entertained at the castle. It’s said that the father of Eleanor of Aquitaine attended mass here. William of Touraine, gallant knight, poet and-they say-the first troubadour.’ Joe’s response was mechanical, all his thoughts centring on Marius and his ordeal, eager to be done with this inspection and go and get the boy’s story from him.

‘Can we take a look at Sir Hugues now?’ Nathan asked, making his way over to the monument.

They stood in stricken silence staring at the table-top tomb.

There they were, two figures lying side by side, the lord and his lady.

The figure on the right, the armoured knight, his feet resting on the crouching lion, remained as impressive as at Joe’s first sighting, but it was the pallid beauty of the figure at his side which seized and held the men’s attention. Her delicate hands were peacefully folded below her breast, her slippered feet rested once again on her greyhound. The knight had lain here in this quiet place carved in white stone for over six hundred years. His lady was of flesh and blood and was newly dead.

The peaceful couple were framed by a canopy of sunlit stone. Hugues de Silmont lay in plate armour, gauntleted hands resting on his chest, helmeted head encircled by a jewelled wreath. At his left hip, on a richly sculpted baldric, was carved a slender dagger of Spanish design with an ornate gilded hilt. A misericord. His features were serene; as the sunlight slid across his face, he seemed almost to smile.

At first sight his lady appeared no less serene. Closed eyes, a dreaming face, her pallor a match for his alabaster. Her long fair hair had been arranged to frame her face before spilling in waves over the edge of the tomb. The white dress she was wearing had been carefully draped and folded.

The two onlookers could not take their eyes from the head of the dagger, sunk very slightly to the left and, very precisely, into the heart. The dagger at the knight’s side and the dagger in the woman’s heart were identical.