Joe looked around him. ‘And these are his protégés?’

‘His breeding ground. His worker bees. You identify your talent, establish it in stimulating surroundings, satisfy all daily needs and you’re in business.’

‘You’re very acerbic?’

‘My sharp tongue! It keeps getting me the sack! But judge for yourself—our seigneur got rid of three painters he decided weren’t worthy of support in the first week.’

‘Pour encourager les autres?’ Joe asked lightly.

She smiled. ‘No. Because they failed to please. I told you—he knows his stuff. Right decision. He had a blazing row with a Cubist painter whose name—if I were indiscreet enough to mention it—you would certainly know.’ Estelle affected a grumpy man’s baritone: ‘“Looking at this stuff is like looking down a cracked kaleidoscope filled with rusty nails … undigested scraps of flesh … the dismembered leftovers of a crazed axe-man …” were some of the lord’s polite descriptions of our artist’s latest offerings.’

‘Ouch! Poor chap!’ said Joe.

‘Save your sympathy! We all know that this particular artist—who does have a genuine talent, as far as I can judge—agrees with that view in private. After a second bottle, he’s been heard to ask—in genuine mystification—how on earth the public can be taken in so easily by his artistic pretensions. But in an open exchange of views with the boss, he felt he had to stand up for himself and his art and he did. He’s famously persuasive. And—he ended up by selling a dozen or so examples of his “dog’s vomit” to our host, after prolonged haggling, before he flounced off in a well-timed huff.’ She smiled in satisfaction.

‘Followed by the cheers of the crowd?’

‘Oh, rather! We’re a mixed bunch but you’ll find there’s a certain group loyalty. We admire anyone spirited enough to put one over on the powers that be. When you think that those pictures are probably being snatched from the walls of a posh Parisian saleroom as we speak! For twenty times what the artist received! It’s a hard equation to work out and one’s never perfectly certain on which side one stands …’

‘But when x equals rather a lot of cash …?’

She grinned. ‘That’s right, Commander! Always keep your eye on the x! It’s a new concept for many artists but they’re learning.’

‘I’m sad to hear you say so,’ said Joe. ‘I had hoped to fetch up in the company of high-minded creators of beauty … incorruptible visionaries …’

Estelle gave him a hard look and sighed. ‘Another one of those who thinks you paint more effectively on an empty stomach? What nonsense! Would you detect more efficiently if they starved you for a week? Well, then!’

‘And the steward?’ Joe pressed on with his enquiries. ‘Which one is he?’

‘Go on—guess. You’re the detective.’

Joe thought he had already spotted the man in charge. Sartorially, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the gathering in his casually tailored beige linen suit and open-necked shirt. A dark-haired, brown-eyed man in his late thirties, he was chatting amicably with the people about him and blended in with the group in all respects but one. He was the only man at the table who had monitored the comings and goings of the servants, with the discreet but all-seeing eye of a butler.

Joe took a moment to scan the company and then whispered in Estelle’s ear: ‘Got him! Do you see the man who’s the spitting image of Albert Préjean? The film star?’

‘Albert who …? Oh, yes, I know who you mean! He played the pilot in Paris Qui Dort, didn’t he? Craggy good looks. A real heartbreaker. That’s a more perceptive insight than I think you realize.’

‘Yes, that’s the one. And I’m guessing that the gentleman who so resembles him is the man who sits at the lord’s right hand.’

Estelle giggled. ‘He usually hovers behind his left shoulder. And you’re quite right. Well done! I’ll take you over to meet him after the meal. He’ll expect it. Oh, and may I warn you? He shakes hands with his left. Right arm badly burned. He was with the Aviation Militaire in the war. One of the Cigognes Squadron. Meanwhile, although he’s nattering away with Nathan in apparently complete absorption, he’s actually giving you an ever-so-discreet once-over. Smile for the seneschal, my dear! He likes handsome men.’

Something in her tone alerted and annoyed Joe. He found he was torn between satisfying his curiosity and discouraging the girl’s loose gossip. He chose the safer path of distracting her. ‘Tell me two things, Estelle … what is the gentleman’s name and was he late down to lunch today?’

‘Late to lunch? What is this? My first interrogation?’ she gurgled. ‘How thrilling! I’ve no idea. I’m almost always the last to arrive so it’s hard to say. I don’t believe anyone came in after me … Let me think. Guy—that’s his name: Monsieur Guy de Pacy—was already here. He came in through the kitchen door over there. I heard him shouting at one of the staff before the door banged shut. Then he fixed his suave smile on and entered stage left. Something on your mind, Commander?’

‘Only the desperate hope there’ll be enough of this delicious stuff left for second helpings,’ he said. ‘And why not call me Joe?’

‘Here, have some bread to soak up the gravy, Joe. It’s quite all right to do that over here.’

‘Thank you, I shall. And thirdly I’m curious to know how you managed to get caught up with this stimulating company. Are you an artist?’ he asked.

‘Lord no! I’m an artist’s model. I take my clothes off in cold studios and sit or lie for hours on end while some oaf at an easel turns me into something he’s dreamed up—a stick insect, something on a butcher’s slab or, at best, an odalisque in a silken turban and a bangle commissioned for some wealthy client’s boudoir or bar. In the real world, Commander, you wouldn’t know me. You might recognize my family name but they no longer recognize me, I’m afraid.’ She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’m what’s known back home as “a bad lot”! Kicked out of school, banned from darkening any paternal doors ever again. I’ve been adrift in Europe for the last five years. And I’m having a wonderful time!’

‘And which of the company are you attached to—professionally, I mean?’ Joe thought it wise to enquire.

‘Nathan. The photographer. I came down from Paris with him. Nat’s a sweetie-pie! He’s not at all possessive and he’s perfectly ready to lend me out to one of the others.’ She nodded towards the gallery. ‘You’ll find two or three pictures where I’m just about recognizable … the girl and the unicorn on the beach … the concubine in red harem pants … the bride in Frederick’s fresco … But I prefer sitting for Nathan. He makes me laugh and he doesn’t … ogle. Not really possible, I suppose, when it’s all over in—literally—a flash! And at least with a photographer I can be pretty certain that the results look like me.’

‘They say the camera doesn’t lie,’ Joe offered.

‘And that’s another untruth! But it’s more honest than any painting could ever be. I love the black and white clarity of it all. And it’s quick. Click! The image is accurately caught for ever.’

‘But you can have some fun with it,’ Joe suggested with a smile. ‘I remember admiring a shot of the luscious Kiki de Montparnasse, taken from behind. Someone had painted the curving sound-holes of a violin—or was it a cello?—on her bare back.’

‘I know it! Wonderful! One of Man Ray’s. I tried to persuade Nat to do something similar but he laughed and told me I hadn’t got the waist and swelling hips for a cello. He suggested a flute might be more the thing.’

The arrival of fresh steaming bowls of daube coincided with a swirling unrest among the children.

Orlando leaned to Joe. ‘That’s good! It looks as though they’ve finished at the babies’ table. They gobble down their food and get restive so I usually dismiss them.’ He rose to his feet and selected a suitably paternal tone: ‘You may get down now, chaps, and go out to play. You’ve all been very good so you’re allowed sweets from the bowl in the pantry. Dorcas, my dear, you’d better supervise. They’re allowed two—one for each hand. And don’t get lost!’ he shouted after their retreating backs. ‘Chapel and ovens out of bounds, remember! Oh, and better make that Joe’s car as well.’