Gwinnett knew about the ceiling.
‘I’ve been told it’s not unlike the Villa Valmarana Iphigenia in composition,’ he said. ‘The owner won’t allow it to be photographed.’
He turned to me.
‘Speaking about the Iphigenia again made me think of what we were talking about at that luncheon.’
He picked up from the table the paper he had brought with him, opened it, folding back a page. It was Détective, Içi Paris, or another of those French periodicals that explore at greater length cases, usually already reported, which through expansion promise more pungent details of crime or scandal. Gwinnett singled out two sheets, the central spread. He was about to hand them over, but Dr Brightman, catching the name under a photograph, intercepted the paper.
‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘That ugly little man? I should never have thought it.’
I looked over her shoulder. The headline ran along the top of both pages.
L’APRES-MIDI D’UN MONSTRE?
Two large cut-out photographs stretched across the typeface, the story, whatever it was, fitting round their edges. In spite of Dr Brightman’s lack of principle in appropriating the letterpress to herself, and although I was not close enough to read the sub-titles, the likenesses of the two persons portrayed were immediately recognizable. Both photographs had manifestly been taken some years before, ten at least. In fact that of Ferrand-Sénéschal made him look a man in early middle-age. He had been caught on some public occasion, mouth wide open, hands raised above his head in a passionate gesture, almost as if he, too, were singing Funiculì-Funiculà, miming the ascending cable. No doubt he had been snapped addressing a large audience on some political or cultural theme.
The other photograph, also far from recent, though less time-expired than Ferrand-Sénéschal’s, was more interesting. It was of Pamela Widmerpool. Her hair-do suggested the end of the war, or not long after. The picture could have dated from the year of her marriage to Widmerpool, possibly even taken at the moment of emergence from the ceremony. In spite of heavy touching-up on the part of the blockmaker, the expression was resentful enough for that. This touching-up had added a decidedly French air to her appearance. That could have been acquired not only from the cupid’s bow mouth, brutally superimposed on her own, but, more universally, from the manner in which photographic portraiture in the press automatically assumes the national characteristics of whatever country has processed the blocks, fabricated their ‘screen’; an extension of the law that makes the photographer impose his personal view of them on individuals photographed. Dr Brightman scrutinized carefully both pictures.
‘Lady Widmerpool? A very bedworthy gentlewoman, I understand. But Ferrand-Sénéschal? I am frankly surprised. I should never have guessed … assoiffé de plaisir… dévoré de désir … terrible obsession … How unchanged remains the French view of English life — phlegmatic, sadistic aristocrats, moving coldly and silently from one atrocity to another through the fogs of le Hyde Park and les Jardins de Kensington.’
I tried to peer over Dr Brightman’s shoulder at what was written. Clutching the paper obstinately, she refused to surrender an inch of its surface.
‘The implication is that Lady Widmerpool visited Ferrand-Sénéschal in his luxurious hotel suite — accommodation Sardanapalus would have found over-indulgent — only a few hours before the Reaper. Even that is chiefly my own assumption. Nothing definite is even hinted.’
Gwinnett laughed abruptly, rather uncomfortably. His laugh was high and nervous. He addressed me again.
‘Isn’t that the lady we talked about — Trapnel’s girl?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The implication is she was in bed with this Frenchman after he was dead.’
‘Is that how you read it?’
Dr Brightman disregarded our exchange, too engrossed to hear, or because Trapnel’s name meant nothing to her. From time to time she read out a phrase that took her fancy.
‘Fougueuse sensualité … étranges caprices … amitiés equivoques… We never seem to get anything solid. Odieux chantages… but of whom? Situation gênante.. Then why not tell us about it? Le scandale éclate… It never seems to have done so. I am still not at all sure what happened, scarcely wiser than after reading the headline.’
She handed the paper over at last. Reservations about its interest were more than justified. As usual in such journalism, promise was far short of performance. There was a hint that some scandal about Ferrand-Sénéschal had been hushed up in France fairly recently, no details given, only pious horror expressed. That social engagements since arrival in London sufficiently explained taking an afternoon’s rest, even between sheets, in the light of medical advice, was altogether ignored. References to Pamela — called ‘Lady Pamela Widmerpool’ — were even less specific. Indeed, they were written without serious attempt to fit her into the Ferrand-Sénéschal story, such as it was. Nothing whatever was alleged against her, except that she — apparently other persons too — had visited the hotel suite at one time or another. By implication, Ferrand-Sénéschal’s habits so notorious, that visit in itself was damaging enough. Her own pranks were touched on only vaguely, not very accurately, though more directly than the law of libel would have allowed an English paper. Widmerpool was treated simply as a great nobleman of the Old School.
‘One of my maiden aunts — a social category no longer extant — used to live permanently in that hotel,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘I’m sure she had no idea things like that were going on there. The place did not at all suggest gaiety. She would have been surprised. Rather thrilled too, I think.’
The respectable, unpretentious style of Ferrand-Sénéschal’s hotel disavowed the grand luxe attributed to his two-room suite. It was only a few streets away from the former Jeavons residence in South Kensington, converted by Ted Jeavons after the war into several small flats, one of which he inhabited himself. The fact that Ferrand-Sénéschal was on his way to the Conference later on found no place in the Détective story, probably regarded as a banal detail likely to prejudice inferences that he had come to London with the sole purpose of participating in an orgy. Dr Brightman reached out for the paper again. She examined the picture of Pamela.
‘I can add my own small contribution to the bulletin,’ she said. ‘The lady in question is in Venice at this moment.’
Gwinnett, who had been sitting silent, chewing at his thumbnail, shifted forward.
‘She is, Emily? You’ve seen her?’
This time he sounded quite excited. Dr Brightman made a gesture to indicate she had enjoyed no such luck.
‘I was so informed by a French colleague, who is also attending the Conference. We normally correspond about Gallo-Roman personal names, with special reference to Brittany. On this occasion I fear we descended to gossip. My friend must be unaware of the reference here to Lady Widmerpool, or I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He had witnessed what he described as an extraordinary incident at the French Embassy in London, where Lady Widmerpool, quite deliberately, broke the back of a small gilt chair during supper. That made such an impression, he immediately recognized her profile seen at Quadri’s.’
‘I’d give something to meet that lady.’
Gwinnett did not sound hopeful. Dr Brightman and I assured him there should be no difficulty in arranging that.
‘You’ve just got to sit in the Piazza long enough. You see everyone in the world, if you do that.’
‘But I don’t know Lady Widmerpool.’