Strange Images of Death (11 page)

‘If you’ll open up and tell me
who
, perhaps I might have an answer as to
how
.’

‘Estelle.’

Orlando spent a few moments absorbing this information before shaking his head sadly. ‘Now you come to mention it … Yes, I can see there were signs there for those sharp enough to pick them up. The eyes! The mistimed gestures! The surges of jollity! Oh, Lord! What am I supposed to think now? I like the girl. So do the children. Why couldn’t it have been that appalling pseudo-Russian? That impresario or whatever he is … Director of the Ballet Impérial de Lutèce—that’s what he calls himself … Pretentious twerp! I’d have enjoyed watching you kick
him
out. I shall look forward to handing him the keys of his Hispano-Suiza and waving goodbye.’

‘So that’s
his
car? I had wondered. Well, on the subject of Monsieur Pederovsky—’

‘I think it’s Petrovsky.’

‘Thank you. You may well yet have the pleasure of watching him depart in double-quick time. I’m sure his chiselled profile is known to the Vice back home. And if he’s who I think he is, believe me, you wouldn’t want him under the same roof as the children. But I make accusations without proof. I want you to come along with me to his quarters while he’s at lunch and we’ll look through his drawers.’

‘Oh, I say! Poking about in a chap’s privacy? Not sure I could do that.’

‘You don’t have to. Just stand in the doorway, and keep watch while the Law gets its hands dirty. I don’t think we’ll need to look further than his passport.’

‘What colour
are
Russian passports? Do they have passports or do the poor blighters still just escape over the border and head for Paris?’

Joe groaned. ‘Go back to your painting when we’ve finished here. At the lunch table, make sure that our ballet-loving friend is sitting there in best bib and tucker and then make a vague statement about regretting sending me off on a wild-goose chase somewhere about the place—I’ll leave that to your invention—excuse yourself and come after me. We’ll roll up, arm in arm, ten minutes later making apologies. Got that?’

‘Got it!’ Orlando tried to get to his feet in relief that his ordeal was over.

‘Not so fast, blood brother!’ Joe put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again. ‘There’s more I want from you. And you’re not leaving until I get it! There’s another little mystery I’ve been asked to clear up. I know you have the answers to my questions. There are just two of them. First: Who is—or was—Dorcas’s mother? And second: Where is the lady now?’

Chapter Eleven

‘No good, I suppose, telling you the answer to both your questions is: “I don’t know”? Thought not. And if I added: “None of your bloody business! Go away and leave me in peace, you nosy bugger …”’

Orlando got to his feet rebelliously and made for the door, to find that Joe was already blocking his way.

‘Why don’t we take a walk down to the stables, old man?’ Joe said, unruffled. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard horses somewhere in the distance. I’d like to take a look. You can always get the measure of a man by checking his horses—I’ve heard you say it. And, as the lord himself seems to be eluding me, it’s the best I can do.’ He knew that Orlando loved horses even more than art and would never raise an objection to strolling out to admire a selection. Orlando fell into step willingly enough. ‘We can get a bit of fresh air before the day heats up,’ Joe persisted cheerily. ‘If you care to burble a few confidences into a sympathetic ear as we go, I can assure you of my utter discretion. And it
is
my business, I’m afraid. I’ve been engaged by Dorcas to find her mother. She seems very certain that she’s to be found down here in Provence.’

Orlando sighed. ‘And that’s all the information you can count on. Why do you suppose I come down to this part of the world every summer? I’m still hoping to find her again. Laure. The love of my life. Well, the first love of my life.’

‘Laure?’

‘Yes. Like the name of the poet Petrarch’s inamorata. We met in Avignon. Half the girls there are called Laure. The half that aren’t are called Mireille. I’m not even sure that was her name. She was a bit of a storyteller. And secretive. Dorcas is very like her.’ His smile was tender.

‘Dorcas tells me all she knows is that her mother was a gypsy and a dancer and that she abandoned her at the age of one year and returned to France.’

‘Village gossip. She wasn’t a gypsy—just dark as the Provençaux are. Ancient Greek and Roman ancestry, of course, and it shows—the straight nose, the lustrous eyes, the black curling hair … But, of course, to the good Saxon folk of Surrey, dark equals gypsy. She was slim and lithe and looked like a dancer but she wasn’t one. Not professionally. As far as I know. I found her in a state of destitution. On the street, sleeping in a doorway near the Pope’s Palace. She’d fled her village and come to the big town looking for work.

‘No honest work available for a homeless girl. She’d been earning a crust or two singing outside cafés. There was a sort of folklore festival on. Gypsies and other performers in town. People were more willing to open up their purses for a pretty girl singing the old tunes. But it was clearly not going to last. I was going through my Modigliani phase at the time and here was a girl my idol would have smacked his lips over. Thin, dramatic, enigmatic, beautiful …’

‘Get on, Orlando!’

‘She became my model and my mistress and I took her back home to England with me. I was very young myself … and the money soon ran out … By then, she was pregnant with Dorcas.’

Joe recalled the acid remarks, the hard slaps he’d seen meted out to Dorcas by her grandmother, and cringed. He could imagine the impression that flinty nature and unyieldingly aristocratic bearing would have made on a young and pregnant foreigner.

‘A year? She survived a year under your mother’s roof? A happy time was had by all, then?’

‘You know my mama! I
have
tried to sell her to the Devil but he’s having nothing! Hatred at first sight! She made Laure’s life a misery. Tormented her, rejected the child when she was born. I did what I could. But, after a year, the moment the child was weaned, Laure disappeared. Left me a note asking me not to try to find her and to take care of Dorcas. I haven’t even got a portrait of her. She burned all the canvases. Made a bonfire of them in the orchard while I was away in London. Not that you’d have recognized her from those pictures.’ Orlando grimaced at the memory of his early work. ‘And that’s it. It was the year before the war broke out. For the next five years there was no possibility of travelling through France but every year since then, I’ve done my best.’

‘And your other children?’

‘All illegitimate like Dorcas,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Never married any of their mothers. Or rather
they
wouldn’t have
me.
I told you—nothing and nobody ever sticks to the smooth surface of the life and character of Orlando Joliffe. Money, lovers, children, friends, they all lose their foothold in the end and they drift away, heaving sighs of relief. You will too …’

‘Stupid, self-indulgent sod!’ said Joe mildly. ‘What about that angel, Nanny Tilling? That tower of strength, your groom, old Yallop? They’ve given their lives to you and your progeny. My sister Lydia is not unconcerned and it’ll take more than a bit of self-deprecating hand-wringing to dislodge me, mate!’

‘A good kick then? Will that work?’

‘Not even. Would you like to hear what I’m planning?’

Orlando groaned. ‘I don’t want Dorcas to be hurt. And there’s every chance that she might be if you go on with this ferreting. Hopes may be raised only to be dashed. Even worse—you may find her mother and discover that the woman herself has changed. Hadn’t it occurred to you? What do you think life will have been like for a fallen girl with no protector? She’ll be something quite other after thirteen years. Dorcas has a picture in her mind of a young and lovely dancer. Laure might look by this time more like that raddled pouter-pigeon of a duenna that Petrovsky hauls about with him. Did you notice her at the dinner table?’

‘Spanish-looking? Blue-black hair, wearing something purple and rather décolleté?’

‘That’s the one. Half a ton of gaudy stones cascading down the slopes of an ample bosom!’ Orlando shuddered. ‘Suppose my lovely Laure had turned into
her
! And she could have, you know! She’s the right age. Doesn’t bear thinking about. And, anyway, it’s the last thing she would want—to be presented with a grown-up daughter and an ageing ne’er-do-well foreign lover she discarded in disgust before the war. Listen! If we’re going to do this, and I see from that granite-jawed, mulish expression on your ugly mug that we are, there’s a proviso. A sine qua bloody non!’

‘Go on, I’m listening.’

‘If
you
find her … I insist on being the first to be told. Before Dorcas has any inkling. I insist on the right to assess the woman she is now before you start making the introductions.’

‘I understand. I too would place Dorcas’s peace of mind above all else. Including yours.’

‘Well, that’s honest enough!’ Orlando looked thoughtfully at Joe. ‘The child knew what she was doing, I’m thinking, when she decided to sink her hooks into you. She saw Sir Lancelot riding over the hill, flashing warrant cards, clinking handcuffs and reading the Riot Act to her granny and thought, “That’s for me!” Watch it, Joe … she’s a manipulative rascal.’

‘Don’t I know it!’ Joe agreed easily. ‘Now, come on! The story! And I’ve never enjoyed the love duets from
La Bohème
much so spare me all the romantic rubbish. I want facts. Names. Locations. A village, you said? Near Avignon? Which village? Think! In the Lubéron hills, is that all you know? Vast area. Did she mention her parents? Why had they thrown her out? Did she mention her school life? The name of a teacher? A best friend?’

‘Crikey! Do leave off! I feel like a rat between the jaws of a terrier. You’re shaking me to bits!’

‘I’ve barely started. The girl was with you for two years, Orlando. She must have got a word or two in edgeways in your conversations. No one can talk without giving away something about themselves. Just one name or one fact remembered could give us the key. Life in village France is organized around the parish—the town hall, the school and the church. Let’s start there. Was Laure religious?’

‘Not very. Occasionally she’d ask me to take her into the local Catholic church for confession. She insisted on having Dorcas christened.’

‘Then she was certainly a communicant. On somebody’s parish records. Look—every French girl talks of her first communion—did she mention the name of her village church? We could check the rolls if we had a name.’

Orlando stopped walking abruptly. ‘Good Lord! Sometimes I see why they call you a detective … It was the only photograph she had. I brought it with me … in case. I keep it here, in my wallet.’

He took a leather note-case from his inside pocket and produced a dog-eared sepia print. Joe had seen hundreds like it in every photographer’s studio window. Four twelve-year-old girls were standing together in a row, wearing long white dresses and veils. Downcast eyes looking shyly in the direction of the camera, they were clutching a white book in one gloved hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other. A communion group. And taken by a professional photographer in a studio, judging by the painted backcloth showing the inevitable ruined temple on a wooded hillside. Joe looked for the photographer’s name and found to his annoyance that it had been scratched out.

He pointed to the defacement.

‘I told you—she was determined I shouldn’t know anything of her former life. I think she had something to hide.’

Joe was beginning to enjoy the challenge set so many years before by this unknown dark Provençal girl.

‘Well, we could start by showing this to the photographic establishments in the nearest big town which would be Avignon and asking if anyone recognized the scenery—’ Joe began.

‘I’ve done that. And the photographers of Arles and Aix and Marseille. You’d be surprised how many shut up shop in the war. The ones who struggled through didn’t recognize it.’

‘It’s all we’ve got. There must be … Hang on! Only four girls! Four!’

‘So what? Four friends. All the same age and size.’

‘But not the same in looks. I’d say these two here on the left are twins. This beauty next to them rather fancies herself as a dancer—do you see how she’s standing—quite deliberately, I’d say—with her feet in the at-ease ballet position?’

Orlando peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh, yes. Never noticed. And now I can’t see anything else of course. The photographer must have been a bit miffed when he developed it.’

‘But she’s not your Laure. I’m going to guess she’s the one on the right.’

‘You’ve got her!’

‘It’s a very small number for a communion class. That tells us it was a very small village. She was how old when you met her? … Seventeen? … In 1911? And she would have been twelve when this was taken. So we’re looking for a village in the Lubéron which had in 1906 a tiny class of communicants. Every young girl remembers the priest who instructed her. Think, Orlando, did she ever mention the name of—’

‘Ignace. Father Ignace.’ The words fell, leaden, from Orlando’s lips before Joe had finished his sentence. He closed his eyes in a childlike effort to remember or squeeze back an unmanly tear. ‘She once said, “Father Ignace would not approve.” And I’m sure she was quite right,’ he added with a haunted and melancholy smile. ‘It was the first of many things she did that would have raised a priestly eyebrow!’

‘May I keep this?’

Orlando began to splutter, clearly not keen to have the photograph leave his possession, but Joe was already sliding it away into his own wallet. As the last girl in the row, the small one at the end, the only one of the four not to have looked down in modesty, disappeared from sight, it seemed that she caught his eye and he knew he’d seen that look of mock innocence before.

Chapter Twelve

‘Opulent quarters provided for Monsieur Petrovsky! He may not impress
us
but he would seem to merit some consideration from the lord?’

They climbed the staircase of one of the round towers, possibly the most ancient part of the château. The house was perfectly silent, the full company at lunch in the great hall.

‘Yes. He gets a set. It’s said the lord has a considerable financial investment as well as aesthetic interest in Petrovsky’s undertakings. Perhaps the rooms and hospitality are a quid pro quo of some kind. In here on the lower level, there’s what it pleases him to call his
estude.
Do you want to sneak a look?’

And what a pleasant study it made, with southern light flooding in from the window on to the desk, bookshelves full of interesting volumes and comforting Turkey carpets on the floor. Joe took a moment to open each of the drawers of the desk with gloved hands. He inspected the neatly arranged documents on the desk top, turning over several envelopes to read the address of the sender on the reverse flap. He moved on to a drawing board, set up on an easel beyond the desk and tilted at an angle to catch the light. After a moment he began to make sense of the pencilled notes and watercoloured sketches.

‘The man
designs
ballets too? As well as funding them? These are rather good. Outlines for scenery … shorthand for some ballet steps … He would appear to be planning an extravaganza by the name of
The Devil’s Bride.
Do I have that right? Anything known?’

Orlando replied tersely, uneasy with his role. ‘Yes. He may be some sort of fake but he knows his stuff. Some do say he was a dancer himself in his youth. Understudied for Nijinsky. Partnered Pavlova. That generation. And he’s stayed pretty … er … lithe, wouldn’t you say? Inherited money from his father some years ago just as his career was fading. “War money,” people hiss out of the corner of their mouths, “dirty stuff!” Wherever it came from, it came in large quantities and launched our chap firmly into the higher realms of the ballet. Not sure “higher” is quite right … Anyway, he suddenly had the clout to start up his own company, to employ choreographers of a quality to rival Fokine, Massine and any of the other “ines” you like to mention. Funny that—in the ballet world you’ve got to have a French name to get on in choreography, Russian if you’re dancing. Little Alice Marks of London found her career taking off when, overnight, she became Alicia Markova.’

‘Ah, yes—those little girls he surrounds himself with like handmaidens are …?’

‘Are indeed Russian. They flee to Paris from the Bolshoi and suchlike. The country produces them by the score. And now there are ballet schools springing up all over the place. A plethora of eager little girls showing off their pirouettes in every capital of Europe. Their mothers are desperate to get them noticed by such as Petrovsky. Some as young as twelve, if you can believe!’

‘Oh, Lord! Baby ballerinas! Whatever next? I say, are they properly supervised?’

‘Not always. Well, you saw their duenna last night—totally silent! Is she Spanish? Is she French? How would we know? Unaware and incurious. She’s not there to interfere. She’s there to turn a blind eye. It’s usually the mothers who chaperone these girls. But they get distracted. Bored. Turn their attention to daughter number two or three, run off with gigolos. Have affairs with one of the dancers. Male or female. Having lived life through their offspring, they suddenly decide to enjoy the bright lights for themselves. Some, I suspect, are merely complacent and conniving. Everyone notes that the charmers who make the leap from corps de ballet to a cameo or even lead role tend to be those same girls who are allowed to keep close company with you know who. You see why I’m perfectly ready to think Petrovsky a villain of the worst kind.’

‘Is he a fixture here?’

‘Oh, no. Comes and goes. Seems to use the place as a country retreat. He’s working—if you can call it that—in Avignon. The company’s performing for the summer season on some of the more glamorous stages in Provence. Open-air stuff too. He’s putting on extravaganzas in the Roman amphitheatres in Orange and Arles. Sylphs flitting about the ruins by moonlight … you can imagine.’

‘And what reason does he give for bringing the girls with him?’

‘He doesn’t deign to. Drops hints in conversation that a day or two away from the theatre is a reward. For what, he leaves to our imagination. They don’t stay long—have to get back to the barre and the rehearsal room. Can’t allow their limbs to stiffen up, I suppose. The girls he brings are ever-changing. Practically indistinguishable one from the other, but then, the names are always different. The current pair are Natalia and Natasha.’

‘Weren’t you concerned about his proximity to Dorcas—knowing or suspecting all this?’

‘Dorcas? Lord no! She can’t dance a step and … well, you’ve seen her in action … tongue like a hedge-clipper and all the common sense in the world. She’d have Monsieur Petrovsky for breakfast!’

‘I’ve seen enough here. Shall we move on upstairs?’

‘If you must. This way.’

The door was standing open, which in a strange way eased the path for Joe’s trespass. Orlando would not follow but stood in the doorway and talked to Joe across the bedroom in a stage whisper. ‘The girl’s been in and done, you see.’

‘The girl?’

‘I mean the girl from the village. The lord doesn’t trust a gang of artists to take good care of their surroundings and he has women in every day to keep our rooms in order. So there’ll be nothing in the waste-basket for you to turn over.’

Joe slipped back on the one pair of gloves he’d thought to bring with him to France. Smart black leather but they’d have to do. His training would not allow him to search a room without protection, however superfluous it might appear. And the professional gesture seemed to appease Orlando.

The room was, indeed, perfectly ordered. A chintz cover in blue and white was spread over the made-up bed which seemed to Joe too large and sitting badly in this rounded room. A bunch of white roses graced the night stand. Toiletries were lined up with regimental rigidity ready for use. Penhaligon’s Hammam Bouquet was his scent of choice. Joe removed the stopper and sniffed. Old-fashioned but mildly exotic by reputation. Rather sulphurous and odd, Joe decided.

A red silk dressing gown was draped neatly over the back of a chair. With practised gestures, Joe checked the pockets and found them empty. He looked at the label. Parisian. The contents of the wardrobe he next passed in review were equally expensive and well chosen. Well chosen if your life was lived flamboyantly in the public eye—on the stage or the dance floor or travelling between capital cities. With a smile, Joe calculated he would never have been able to afford even one of the cravats, had he had the dubious taste to want one.

‘Turn away,’ Joe shouted to Orlando. ‘I’m about to be indiscreet!’

He began methodically to examine the contents of the chest of drawers by the bed, starting at the top.

‘Well, that’s one question answered,’ he called into the corridor and, when Orlando turned, flourished a small dark blue book with gold lettering. ‘British passport! Our bird is English and he’s really … let me see now … Ah, he’s really Spettisham Gregory Peters not Sergei Petrovsky.’

‘
Spettisham
? Great heavens! What sort of cad is called after a sneeze? Man must be a lounge lizard. Kinder to think of him as Sergei!’

After a few more moments of stealthy inspection, Joe could not resist attracting Orlando’s attention once more. He flourished a small box at him. ‘Sexually active lizard, you’d have to say. And discreet with it! The very best prophylactic you-know-whats from a Parisian establishment.’

‘
Quelquechose pour le weekend, monsieur?
Is that what you’re saying?’ Orlando was intrigued enough to take a step into the room to make a closer inspection.

‘Quite. But no discernible evidence of a female presence in this love nest. I wonder …’

‘No! Don’t do what you’re about to do!’ said Orlando firmly. ‘Leave the bed made up just as it is. He’d know if it had been disturbed. And the maids are well trained. All evidence of a delicate nature will have been removed anyway.’

Joe rather thought he spoke from experience and conceded the point. Orlando retreated and Joe started to follow him to the door. Doing everything by the book, he dutifully pulled it closed to check the inner side. Many a time he’d found interesting information in the pockets of a dressing gown hanging neglected on a hook. He was not disappointed. He stared for a moment, taking in the offering. Here on a hook was hanging a dressing gown so aged it reminded him of his father’s moth-eaten old school gown. It even had a hood. Every large house had one such hanging about the place. Visitors who’d forgotten to pack one of their own occasionally shrugged gingerly into them in the middle of the night, preferring to risk possible exposure to skin rash rather than the certainty of the cold of the corridor leading to the bathroom.

Joe glanced back at the glamorous red silk number draped over the chair back and wondered.

The garment was of dark grey wool and so ordinary it might have escaped the attention of someone who had not heard Estelle’s story the previous night. Joe patted it down like a suspect. Feeling a slight lump in the right-hand pocket, he took out his own handkerchief and used it in lieu of an evidence bag to receive the half-smoked cigar he extracted between finger and thumb. His eye, ranging over the fabric of the gown, was caught by a glint of gold low down near the hem and, cursing his lack of tweezers and magnifying glass, he managed with difficulty to pick out a tiny object which joined the cigar in the safety of his handkerchief.

All very fascinating and Joe would have liked to spend much longer studying the garment but Orlando was growing ever more restive.

And it was the incongruous item protruding from the left-hand pocket that seized Joe’s attention. With that before his eyes, demanding his notice, he’d needed all his detective’s discipline to first carry out his routine inspection of the dull gown itself.

It was artistically arranged, you’d have said. A pair of silken white ballet tights dangled seductively, crossed at the ankles, small feet pointing to the floor, clearly caught in the execution of what Joe believed to be called an entrechat.