was already devising the wording of three telegrams. The phrases were grave and regretful: unavoidably detained … case of international concern … reciprocity of fraternal assistance an imperative … Monique (and her mother), Rachel, Adèle—they could all make what they liked of it.
The Inspector was asking himself how on earth he’d managed to pull it off so easily. Should he warn them up there at the château? No! Let the buggers find out for themselves!
Chapter Nine
At the moment the two French policemen were settling their new-found agreement and their delicious fish lunch with a brandy, Joe, in the chapel, was working hard not to throw up his rabbit stew into some available urn.
The tiny body was hanging by the neck. Dead for some days, it was already being consumed by wriggling maggots of various kinds and giving off a revolting odour. Joe took a pencil from his pocket and poked at it. It gave signs of spongy resistance and was not yet dried out. A fly buzzed bad-temperedly from the throat and Joe swatted it away in disgust. Where in hell did they come from, these lousy flesh-eaters? He answered his own question: beetles and flies in the ancient woodwork aplenty no doubt. Some might well have been carried into the building in the animal’s own fur.
And what was the significance? ‘A message’, de Pacy had hinted.
What was one dead creature dangling from a vandalized tomb trying to tell him? What had it said to de Pacy?
Joe was seized for a moment by a healthy rush of indignation and an urge to laugh at his ludicrous situation. His last case in London had involved multiple corpses, eviscerations, and disposal of limbs and heads in packing cases left at St Pancras station. It had involved the talents of the clever men who worked with test tubes, swabs, microscopes and Bunsen burners to establish blood groups and identify fingerprints. He heard himself gleefully recounting his exploits in France to his friend, Chief Inspector Ralph Cottingham, on his return to London: ‘Equipped only with a pencil, I examined the entrails of a rabbit for a clue as to who’d smashed up a statue …’ The story would grow in absurdity as he told it.
He remembered with a flash of guilt the statement he’d been provoked into making after lunch. ‘They start with small animals … work their way up to children and weaker members of society’ or some such guff he’d spouted.
And here was stage one, as predicted.
Or was it? Might it be no more than just—a message? De Pacy had clearly interpreted it as such. Joe couldn’t leave the chapel and meet the steward’s quizzical eye still unaware.
He stared on at the pathetic form willing it to speak. Hanging up in pairs outside a game butcher’s shop, he’d have admired rabbits. He’d have known just which ones to choose. Served up to him in a dish with one of Madame Dalbert’s wonderful sauces, he’d have scoffed the lot and dabbed up the juices with a hunk of bread. And complimented the cook. So why was he finding this one little corpse so sinister?
Sinister. There flashed into his mind a woodcut he’d studied with horror when he was a boy. He’d no idea what his age had been at the time but he had certainly been too young to be exposed to such a graphic image. Not exposed exactly! His own cunning and curiosity had led him to the discovery and he’d never confided it to anyone. Left alone with a head cold while on holiday with his London uncles one day, he’d gone along to the library to entertain himself and had straightaway headed for the section his uncles had banned him from approaching. He knew where the key was and in minutes had unlocked the bookcase and wedged the library door in case Simmons should come and thoughtfully offer him a glass of honey and lemon.
And there they were, to be pored over at his leisure: German, French and Italian publications with copious illustrations of naked ladies. And just the kind he liked. Large-breasted, long-legged
The Inspector was asking himself how on earth he’d managed to pull it off so easily. Should he warn them up there at the château? No! Let the buggers find out for themselves!
Chapter Nine
At the moment the two French policemen were settling their new-found agreement and their delicious fish lunch with a brandy, Joe, in the chapel, was working hard not to throw up his rabbit stew into some available urn.
The tiny body was hanging by the neck. Dead for some days, it was already being consumed by wriggling maggots of various kinds and giving off a revolting odour. Joe took a pencil from his pocket and poked at it. It gave signs of spongy resistance and was not yet dried out. A fly buzzed bad-temperedly from the throat and Joe swatted it away in disgust. Where in hell did they come from, these lousy flesh-eaters? He answered his own question: beetles and flies in the ancient woodwork aplenty no doubt. Some might well have been carried into the building in the animal’s own fur.
And what was the significance? ‘A message’, de Pacy had hinted.
What was one dead creature dangling from a vandalized tomb trying to tell him? What had it said to de Pacy?
Joe was seized for a moment by a healthy rush of indignation and an urge to laugh at his ludicrous situation. His last case in London had involved multiple corpses, eviscerations, and disposal of limbs and heads in packing cases left at St Pancras station. It had involved the talents of the clever men who worked with test tubes, swabs, microscopes and Bunsen burners to establish blood groups and identify fingerprints. He heard himself gleefully recounting his exploits in France to his friend, Chief Inspector Ralph Cottingham, on his return to London: ‘Equipped only with a pencil, I examined the entrails of a rabbit for a clue as to who’d smashed up a statue …’ The story would grow in absurdity as he told it.
He remembered with a flash of guilt the statement he’d been provoked into making after lunch. ‘They start with small animals … work their way up to children and weaker members of society’ or some such guff he’d spouted.
And here was stage one, as predicted.
Or was it? Might it be no more than just—a message? De Pacy had clearly interpreted it as such. Joe couldn’t leave the chapel and meet the steward’s quizzical eye still unaware.
He stared on at the pathetic form willing it to speak. Hanging up in pairs outside a game butcher’s shop, he’d have admired rabbits. He’d have known just which ones to choose. Served up to him in a dish with one of Madame Dalbert’s wonderful sauces, he’d have scoffed the lot and dabbed up the juices with a hunk of bread. And complimented the cook. So why was he finding this one little corpse so sinister?
Sinister. There flashed into his mind a woodcut he’d studied with horror when he was a boy. He’d no idea what his age had been at the time but he had certainly been too young to be exposed to such a graphic image. Not exposed exactly! His own cunning and curiosity had led him to the discovery and he’d never confided it to anyone. Left alone with a head cold while on holiday with his London uncles one day, he’d gone along to the library to entertain himself and had straightaway headed for the section his uncles had banned him from approaching. He knew where the key was and in minutes had unlocked the bookcase and wedged the library door in case Simmons should come and thoughtfully offer him a glass of honey and lemon.
And there they were, to be pored over at his leisure: German, French and Italian publications with copious illustrations of naked ladies. And just the kind he liked. Large-breasted, long-legged
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