the dead animal. How dead? No sign of blood on the corpse or surrounding area. The man who’d brought it here had not, evidently, wanted to leave a messy trail to mark his passage. There was no sign that it had been killed on the spot. Broken neck? Most likely. Killed elsewhere and brought in, then strung up. He wondered whether there was any significance in the positioning of the string. Of course there was. The creature had been put to dangle over the words et Alienora uxor sua . The rabbit, the familiar of the whore. A comment on a woman so long dead? Why?
At least he’d have views to exchange with de Pacy when he returned. Even though what he had to say was largely unintelligible.
Joe looked up, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that emotions could leave an imprint on a scene beyond the dispersal time of sweat and other bodily fluids. He wasn’t quite certain, in spite of all the evidence he’d gathered to the contrary, that Evil with a capital E existed. But he knew that if anyone had asked him at that moment to give an opinion he’d have said: ‘This is a bloody oppressive place. Not good. There’s something ancient and wicked here that the sanctity of centuries has done nothing to dispel. And it’s chasing me out.’
The hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He stood up sharply, right hand going instinctively to the waistband where he usually carried his service revolver. Everywhere hidey-holes met his eye. Flounces of velvet drapery, carved wood ornament, pews and cupboards, even a confessional with a half-curtain pulled across. Places enough to hide a battalion. And then he saw the innocent cause of his concern. Innocent? Perhaps not entirely!
He exchanged glares with a trident-wielding devil that seemed to be taking an interest in him. Carved in dark wood and dulled by the candle-soot of ages, he was still clearly playing a robust part in a representation of the final judgement on the west wall. And keeping the visitor under surveillance. Joe gave him a cynical salute and left the chapel.
Chapter Ten
Château du Diable, Tuesday
The morning began too early for Joe.
He lay still for a few moments collecting his thoughts and wondering where on earth he was. The lingering taste in his mouth of Havana cigars and the certainty that he’d drunk rather too much of ‘the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim’, the night before brought back the memory.
Keats! He blamed the poet Keats for his condition. Now there was a minstrel who could stir up emotions and loosen inhibitions in a few superbly chosen words.
Joe considered Orlando Joliffe jointly charged. Just as the earthernware jugs of wine had been brought in at dinner, Orlando had risen to his feet, made a toast and given the company a verse of ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. It ought to have been embarrassing. There should have been shuffling of feet and surreptitious glances exchanged. But the combination of Keats’ sublime words and Orlando’s confident light baritone swept all before them:
‘O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!’
Wine poured from a jug with a generous hand into clay beakers of antique design couldn’t possibly do much damage. This morning Joe discovered his mistake. It had been a pure incitement to drunkenness!
Clattering feet, banging doors and rattling water cisterns were followed a moment later by a peremptory tap on his door. The dashing figure of Nathan Jacoby entered at once, bearing a disarming grin and a cup of tea. Earl Grey by the scent.
‘I come in peace!’ he announced. ‘Seven o’clock! Rise and shine! Orlando said this would be guaranteed to get your motor started. Urgh! Can you really drink this? I’ll put it on the night stand. There’s coffee brewing downstairs if you’re interested. Fresh
At least he’d have views to exchange with de Pacy when he returned. Even though what he had to say was largely unintelligible.
Joe looked up, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that emotions could leave an imprint on a scene beyond the dispersal time of sweat and other bodily fluids. He wasn’t quite certain, in spite of all the evidence he’d gathered to the contrary, that Evil with a capital E existed. But he knew that if anyone had asked him at that moment to give an opinion he’d have said: ‘This is a bloody oppressive place. Not good. There’s something ancient and wicked here that the sanctity of centuries has done nothing to dispel. And it’s chasing me out.’
The hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He stood up sharply, right hand going instinctively to the waistband where he usually carried his service revolver. Everywhere hidey-holes met his eye. Flounces of velvet drapery, carved wood ornament, pews and cupboards, even a confessional with a half-curtain pulled across. Places enough to hide a battalion. And then he saw the innocent cause of his concern. Innocent? Perhaps not entirely!
He exchanged glares with a trident-wielding devil that seemed to be taking an interest in him. Carved in dark wood and dulled by the candle-soot of ages, he was still clearly playing a robust part in a representation of the final judgement on the west wall. And keeping the visitor under surveillance. Joe gave him a cynical salute and left the chapel.
Chapter Ten
Château du Diable, Tuesday
The morning began too early for Joe.
He lay still for a few moments collecting his thoughts and wondering where on earth he was. The lingering taste in his mouth of Havana cigars and the certainty that he’d drunk rather too much of ‘the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim’, the night before brought back the memory.
Keats! He blamed the poet Keats for his condition. Now there was a minstrel who could stir up emotions and loosen inhibitions in a few superbly chosen words.
Joe considered Orlando Joliffe jointly charged. Just as the earthernware jugs of wine had been brought in at dinner, Orlando had risen to his feet, made a toast and given the company a verse of ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. It ought to have been embarrassing. There should have been shuffling of feet and surreptitious glances exchanged. But the combination of Keats’ sublime words and Orlando’s confident light baritone swept all before them:
‘O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!’
Wine poured from a jug with a generous hand into clay beakers of antique design couldn’t possibly do much damage. This morning Joe discovered his mistake. It had been a pure incitement to drunkenness!
Clattering feet, banging doors and rattling water cisterns were followed a moment later by a peremptory tap on his door. The dashing figure of Nathan Jacoby entered at once, bearing a disarming grin and a cup of tea. Earl Grey by the scent.
‘I come in peace!’ he announced. ‘Seven o’clock! Rise and shine! Orlando said this would be guaranteed to get your motor started. Urgh! Can you really drink this? I’ll put it on the night stand. There’s coffee brewing downstairs if you’re interested. Fresh
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