‘Fill me in. Where’ve we got to? Have you found her passport? Contacted her next of kin?’
‘Of course.’ He pointed to a battered navy Vuitton suitcase behind the door. ‘That’s hers. We packed all her belongings in there. Nothing of interest or value. Mostly clothes. Her parents-named in her passport-were alerted by the force in Avignon and instructions sought. Some difficulties there,’ he commented. ‘Her father would appear to be some sort of dignitary in the Church with an address in Canterbury.’
He passed a scrap of paper over the desk to Joe. ‘Anything known?’
Joe shook his head.
‘They declined to travel down to view the body or pick up her things. We’ve been asked to dispose of them as we think fit.’
Joe grunted. ‘There’s parental affection for you! No more than Estelle would have expected, I think. Has her body been taken care of?’
‘It’s gone to Avignon, sir,’ said Martineau, eager and deferential. ‘Top priority! We’ll hear back tomorrow-’
‘That will be all, Lieutenant,’ said Jacquemin frostily with a nod indicating the presence of an interviewee in the room.
Joe affected to notice for the first time the blond young man standing, hands cuffed behind his back and swaying slightly, opposite the Commissaire. ‘Ah! Freddie, my boy!’ he said jovially and went to pat him encouragingly on the back. ‘Helping out the PJ, are you? Good boy! But don’t stand on ceremony-have a seat, won’t you?’ Joe pulled a chair over and pushed Frederick on to it.
Frederick turned an anguished face to Joe. His long lashes were damp, his cheeks streaked with orange and green paint and trails of facial effluvia. Joe thought, with a stab of pity, that the young man looked like a pagan villager in The Rite of Spring a minute before the end of the last act, collapsing in a heap and dying of physical and emotional exhaustion. Embarrassed, Freddie twisted his neck and wiped his nose on his lapel.
‘Strange fact I’ve discovered, Jacquemin, about artists,’ said Joe conversationally. ‘They never keep a clean handkerchief about them. Dishclouts of the most dubious provenance in every pocket but not a scrap of cotton to blow your nose on. Here, Freddie, have a good toot!’ He held out his own cotton square and waited pointedly until Jacquemin nodded to Martineau to remove the handcuffs.
‘Thank God you’re here, Joe!’ Freddie burst out. ‘Estelle! She’s dead! Murdered, they’re saying. Why? And these fellows think I killed her! Me!’ He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. ‘Idiots!’ he snarled, gaining courage from Joe’s hand on his shoulder. And, losing all controclass="underline" ‘Arseholes! I loved her! I loved her!’ he screamed again. Jacquemin sighed. ‘We all heard that, I think? Write it down, Martineau. In English and French. You’d be surprised how often that confession leads to the more serious one we’re looking for. You’ve arrived, once again, Commander, at the moment critique. In at the kill, eh?’
‘Explain yourself, Jacquemin.’ Joe’s tone was easy but menacing. He’d guessed from the Commissaire’s failure to throw him out at once on his arrogant British bum that he had, during Joe’s absence, made that essential phone call to establish Joe’s bona fides and check on his rank. The Yard, if consulted, would have confirmed his high office in the force and most likely-since the enquiry came from France-would have mentioned the role he was playing in establishing Interpol, based in their own city of Lyon. A politically difficult moment. Jacquemin must by now know that he was outranked and outplayed by Commander Sandilands.
So why was he not hopping mad? Why wasn’t he reminding Joe that, however elevated he might be back home, here he was without any authority? His equanimity was alarming.
‘My colleague, Lieutenant Martineau of the local police force, was just about to inform this young person that, following his confession, he is to be taken away to Avignon, there to face the examining magistrate and answer a charge of murder.’
‘I heard him just now confess that he loved Estelle. No more than that. If loving Estelle is a crime, man, you can slip the cuffs on at least five gentlemen baying for your blood out there. Six if you count yours truly.’ Joe stuck out his hands cynically in the receptive position. ‘She was a lovable girl. Her death has left us all distraught. We want to see the guilty man behind bars and soon. But a sacrificial goat shoved off a cliff satisfies no one. And makes the rest of the herd more difficult to handle.’
‘We don’t yet have Ashwell’s confession in so many words,’ said Jacquemin. ‘But we do have it in paint.’ He enjoyed Joe’s puzzlement for a moment and went on: ‘His crime is emblazoned on a wall. Painted two metres high in glorious colour and minute detail. And it’s not merely a faithful portrayal of the crime after the event … oh, no … what we have is a statement of intent. We have a blue-print-an all-colours-of-the-rainbow print-for murder.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s even signed and dated it! I invite you to come and have a look.’
He smiled wolfishly at Ashwell. ‘And we’ll take the great designer along with us to explain his theory and procedure, shall we? His modus operandi, I think we’d call it in the trade.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The small group left the office and headed off back through the hall towards the courtyard. The two French officers, with Frederick walking between them, followed by Joe and one of the gendarmes, raised a few questioning eyebrows but no one tried to bar their way. There was a moment of farce when Jacquemin was on the point of making the wrong turning and the prisoner had to tug the Commissaire by the sleeve and steer him on to the right path.
They emerged into warm late afternoon sunlight. Jacquemin had his bearings now and strode out for the north-facing cloister, a cool and airy spot, sheltered from wind and sun by its width and the arcaded aspect it presented to the courtyard.
‘Outdoors?’ the Commissaire mused. ‘I have to ask: is this a sensible place to create a work of art?’
‘It’s not intended to be permanent,’ said Frederick. ‘I’m experimenting with what is rapidly becoming a lost skill. Lord Silmont, as you know, is an art lover in the true sense and I have found him very ready to support endeavours which may not seem immediately attractive to those who only view art in the saleroom. He understands the need for experimentation. I’ve changed the plaster formula and the schemes for the painting several times already.’
‘What’s all this mess?’ Jacquemin wanted to know. He kicked with his foot at a slew of discarded crayons and scraps of paper that littered the paved floor.
‘The children,’ said Frederick. ‘They gather here in the shade and watch me work. They’ve been trying out their own ideas. They ran off in a hurry when little Marius burst out of the chapel.’ He bent down and started to gather up the remains of his impromptu art school.
‘Oh, leave it, for goodness sake! Now-starting on the left? Good. Explain this … this …’
‘Delectable fresco?’ supplied Joe kindly. ‘It’s stunning! Chagal would admire. But first, tell us, Fred, why is one of the four leaves-would you call them leaves, these sections? — covered over?’
‘There’s an illustration for each of the acts-they follow on each other like chapters in a story-and that’s the last one. Act 4, you could say, the finale. I only finished yesterday. I do one section at a time. One a day. My giornata, it’s called in the trade. Fresco means fresh. You’ve got to finish your picture while the stucco is still damp so that the paint you apply bonds with the plaster. No time for second thoughts or touching up. You have to go at it! In this weather I sprinkle my surfaces evening and morning with water and, to control the rate of drying, I drape a length of fabric over it when I’ve finished. I find it keeps the circulation of air to the minimum. I’m just feeling my way, you understand … using whatever seems to work. Guided by some useful instruction books the lord’s lent me. In Italian. I say-anyone here know any Italian-’