With his free hand the Devil was tugging the mask from his face.
‘Good Lord! I hadn’t noticed!’ said Joe in surprise. ‘But we know him! Isn’t that …’
‘Monsieur Guy de Pacy. Masquerading. Or not,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Interesting, and we look forward to hearing more from you on what prompted your choice of subject, Ashwell. But at last, here we are at the fourth and final setting. Will you unveil it, or shall I?’
Frederick shrugged truculently. ‘I left it covered over because … well, in the circumstances … respect … sensibilities …’ he mumbled and seemed unwilling to proceed. ‘Not because I had anything to hide!’
Martineau moved forward to attend to the drapery.
‘This is experimental, you understand. The ballet could well end with the third act. I’ve added this scene as the final chapter in the folk story. An awful warning-the wages of sin and all that.’
‘And can you tell us at what precise time you put the last brushstroke to it? I’m assuming that the last flourish could well have been your signature?’ Jacquemin leaned over and pretended to examine the scrawling black letters in the corner. ‘It’s always a puzzle to me-that men who have superb control over their fingers and their brushes seem to be incapable of forming their letters with any elegance. F. J. Ashwell, it says,’ he reported unnecessarily. ‘And it bears yesterday’s date. I’m assuming that whatever time you give us will, of course, correspond to the time the laboratory comes up with when they examine the sample of plaster I’ve sent them.’ He pointed to a gap six inches square chiselled from the bottom of the painting.
‘All this has been reported also by Miss Jane Makepeace who observed Estelle Smeeth and the child Marius some yards away on the other side of the courtyard at the same time. Estelle-the young lady who had become, unwittingly, the subject of your last act. A piece devised and worked on for some hours before the young lady died. Completed, down to the signature, minutes before her death. Now, Sandilands, you see why I demand an explanation at the very least. Though a confession is, in fact, what we’re looking at!’
Joe turned wondering eyes on the painter and then looked back at his vision of death on the wall before them.
The scene in the chapel was exactly as he remembered it. The table-top tomb was there bearing its grotesque burden. The crusading knight lay, unchanged, and at his side, his wife. But this figure was not Aliénore. The features were clearly those of Estelle. And the dagger in her heart was a faithful rendering of the misericord.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Easy enough to check whether the lad’s telling the truth or not,’ said Martineau when they returned to the office. ‘Shall I go and collar his lordship, sir? That was as good a denunciation as I’ve ever heard! Shall I haul the blighter down and make him answer up?’
‘It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,’ Jacquemin replied. ‘That valet of his …’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Léon something …’
‘Bédoin,’ supplied Joe. ‘Old retainer type. Been looking after his master for decades.’
‘Bossy old bugger! He’s given the lord a stiff dose of something to send him to sleep. Without reference to me! Or to the hospital nurse I’ve sent up to keep an eye on things. The valet’s uttering dire warnings of seizures to come. This fellow appears to be in charge of the pharmacopoeia. Which he keeps under lock and key in his own lair. He’s got a room next door to the master’s in his suite in the south tower.’
‘You’re saying you’ve-?’ Joe began to ask.
‘First thing I did. On the assumption that not a lot goes on under a roof of this sort without the knowledge of the owner, I stepped out and inspected his rooms. He raised no objection but I had to batter down the valet to gain admission.’
‘Anything of note? I should particularly like to hear of what his medication consists. I was fortunate enough this afternoon to have a concerned discussion with his doctor. He confirmed my suspicions regarding the lord’s health. But it would be interesting to hear what the man is actually being prescribed.’
Jacquemin passed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Here you are. I took an inventory.’
Joe glanced down the list. ‘Can you tell me why you’ve divided this into two distinct parts?’
‘Because that’s how we found them,’ said Jacquemin. ‘In two different cupboards and-this is extraordinary-with two different labels. The first group and the largest in number are the bottles and tins marked with the local doctor’s details. The second, amounting to three or four items in all, bear the address of a Harley Street, London, medical establishment. With a name on the label we all recognize. Makepeace. Do you have a comment to make?’ He looked keenly at Joe who had fallen into a silent perusal of the list.
‘Er … not yet. I should like to take the time to check up on one or two of these items. I’m noticing that the London doctor and the local chap have one prescription in common. Both have decided to supply him with potassium iodide. Anything known?’ he asked carefully.
‘Heart and lungs. My predecessor swallowed them down like cachous,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Quite useless. It got him in the end.’
‘May I borrow this? Take a copy and return it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And, tell me Jacquemin, was there anything that took your attention in his quarters? What sort of set-up does he have there?’
Jacquemin pulled a sour face. ‘Austere to the point of monkishness, I’d say. Fixtures and fittings and furnishings all of the very best but simple. Apart from some pretty fancy artwork on the bedroom walls.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘Artwork which would surprise you, Sandilands. I expect it says a lot about the occupant of any room-the choice of pictures-if you think about it. A man can fill his public rooms with whatever he thinks will impress his guests. That’s the face he wants to show to the world but it’s the image he chooses to rest his eyes on before he goes to sleep that tells you who he really is.’
Joe and Martineau were suddenly thoughtful.
‘Passing in review your own walls, gentlemen?’ Jacquemin grinned. ‘Let me guess. The Lieutenant lives with his widowed mother. I’d expect a reproduction of a suitably pious religious scene-an Annunciation or something similar.’ And, as Martineau coloured and shuffled his feet, added: ‘With something more recreative under the bed, I’d guess. Now, Sandilands …’
Joe’s annoyance at this invasion of his privacy bristled in his voice: ‘Before you venture out on to another creaky limb, Jacquemin, I’ll reveal the secrets of my bedchamber walls: horses and angels. Find fault with them if you can. I managed to acquire one of Alfred Munnings’ paintings of the Canadian cavalry horses at war behind the front line before they were much collected. The angels-so buxom and bonny their gilded frame can scarcely contain them-are the subjects of an Italian renaissance drawing left to me by an uncle.’
Jacquemin’s smile was self-congratulatory. ‘Horses and women. One might have guessed.’
‘Please, let us have no further confidences,’ Joe begged. ‘We’ll let you off your round in the revelation game, Commissaire. Some things it’s kinder not to ask, don’t you agree, Martineau? Now, we’re eager to hear what you made of Silmont’s pictorial laudanum.’
‘Ghastly taste! Simply ghastly! They tell us he’s one of Europe’s authorities on modern art-he could have his pick! And what does he choose to surround himself with? Medieval visions of hell!
‘Right there on the wall, facing him as he lies in bed, there’s a painting on wood, over two metres in height. He told me it’s the right-hand panel of a pair commissioned to go over an altar. The Descent into Hell. Funny-from a distance you’d find the colours and composition intriguing but when you focus on what’s actually going on … well! Torture, rape and slaughter by the most inventive means is what’s going on! All being perpetrated by devils equipped with tridents as well as more outré pieces of equipment, but, I can tell you-nothing like the dashing Devil in red that our young set designer envisioned.’