The rest of the company helped themselves to coffee and made off to the fringes of the room, moving cushions and rugs here and there to accommodate their gathering groups. Joe would have been intrigued to monitor the placings and affiliations but Guy de Pacy had something more serious in mind for him. Instead of going off to lounge, he set about clearing one end of the table himself before a man had a chance to scurry forward and take the dishes from his hands. Satisfied, he gestured to Joe and Orlando to join him there. In conference, Joe decided.

He embarked directly on the problem. ‘Firstly: Sandilands, on no account are you to feel under any obligation to involve yourself in this mess. I hope I make that clear?’

Joe nodded. So far they were of one mind.

‘I’m aware of your reputation and, being a racing man, I thought “horses for courses”. This is an event for a sturdier breed than you! I insult neither you nor the good Sergeant Lafitte from the village when I say that this is definitely a task for the gendarmerie.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ was Joe’s silent thought.

‘I entertained the theory that it might be young louts from the area sneaking in and having a bit of fun … Their great, great-grandfathers might well have done the same in the unpleasantness of the revolutionary times. I was confident that the Sergeant, once apprised of the situation, would nod wisely and advise me to leave it to him—a name or two came to mind …’

‘You took steps to preserve the scene, of course?’ Joe asked.

‘Naturally. I went to investigate it myself the moment Padraic returned with his news. I took Jane with me. Miss Makepeace is an authority on medieval art—did you realize?—and a conserver. I thought she might well have insights … be in a position to advise on repair or reconstruction. I—we—judged that we were looking at an unnatural and disturbing occurrence.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I’m speaking to a soldier?’

‘From Mons to Buzancy,’ Joe said succinctly. ‘And the four years of hell in between.’

De Pacy nodded. ‘Aviation Militaire. I flew Spads.’ He looked briefly at his motionless right arm. ‘All wood and canvas. They go up like a match. They were lucky to get most of me out.’

The two men regarded each other quietly and, shibboleths exchanged, continued with more easy understanding.

‘Inhuman acts of destruction were done in war, Sandilands. Even in sacred buildings. Things of beauty and worth were destroyed or stolen away. And in the frenzy, the overheated passion, the fear, all is possible. One understands … one does not forgive but one understands. The act of desecration we saw in the chapel would, in the war years, have been regarded as nothing more than some drunken private’s revenge on the female sex … a howl of protest against a God in whom he can no longer believe. But the war is long behind us. No such excuse is available to us. I decided to treat it as a scene of crime because that is exactly the impression it made on me. We touched nothing. I immediately put the chapel out of bounds to everyone—adults as well as the children. They are, at all events, unable to gain access, even should they wish to, since the opening mechanism is a good four feet above the ground and far too heavy for them to operate.’

‘No more than “out of bounds”?’

‘It is never locked. It is the House of God and open to those who need to speak to Him,’ he said solemnly and then smiled. ‘And if there ever was a key it was lost many years ago. So, people are on their honour to do as I ask. Sergeant Lafitte was fetched. He inspected. He wondered. He surmised. He washed his hands of it. To my disappointment, he had no suitable candidate on his list. He gave me the telephone number of the police in Avignon and told me to contact them should worse occur.

‘I wasn’t prepared to wait for worse, Commander. I was left clutching at the theory you yourself propounded just now. I am not willing to risk the safety of any of the guests under this roof. I was eventually put through to—foisted off on to might be more accurate—the Police Judiciaire in Marseille. An inspector listened politely to my problem. His attention was not caught by the “crime” but the name and standing of the owner of the damaged statuary gave him pause for thought. Quand même …’ he shrugged, ‘we have to take our place in the queue for his services. With a gangland war, three murders and two robberies on his books, a beaten-up bit of alabaster has low priority. He informed me he could attend the scene in five days’ time. In other words, he will arrive the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘An hour’s investigation of the crime scene will leave the officer well placed for lunch. He asked me to ensure the area was sealed off and left ready for his inspection.’

Joe was beginning to relax. He liked Guy de Pacy’s brisk delivery. He nodded approval of his arrangements. And, with the élite Police Judiciaire, the respected equivalent of the London CID, in control of proceedings, a visiting English policeman was surplus to requirements. Joe could, with good conscience, bow himself off stage. He concluded he was, in the politest possible way, being excused from further participation.

‘So, I was wondering, Sandilands, if we could persuade you to stay on for a couple of days to meet this policeman? To confer with him? You speak excellent French, Orlando tells me, and have used it in a military and diplomatic role during the war?’ He smiled his genial smile again. ‘A man who has the ability—and tact!—to deal with our French generals can safely be set to deal with a provincial policeman, I’m thinking. I would like you to use your knowledge of the profession to get inside his skull and discover his theories and his strategy for dealing with our problem. If, indeed, he has any. If he hasn’t, I should very much like you to plant some in his head.’

He was silent for a moment before adding quietly: ‘Some of the people gathered here under the castle roof are your friends, I understand, and a good number are your compatriots, Sandilands. This episode—an attack on beauty in a holy place—strikes me as being very un-French and coincides with the presence of a dozen foreigners of artistic temperament. There are undercurrents here I cannot account for in a public place over a cup of coffee to a stranger … But then again … it could well be that a clear-eyed stranger will see something obvious that has not manifested itself to me. It’s a question of focus. I’ll just say, I would be happy and relieved if you would accept to stay on and lend a hand.’

The furrows on the brow deepened, the dark eyes were earnest, conveying more than he had articulated. He waited again, taking the measure of Joe’s silent indecision, then, finally: ‘I’m not a man to run about squawking with panic, Sandilands. I do not easily ask for help. You hear me asking now. Will you stay on?’

‘Of course, Monsieur de Pacy. I’d be delighted,’ Joe heard himself saying.

Chapter Seven

‘Now. Before this crowd trails off back to its various occupations, would you like me to detain any of them for you? Any individual you’d like to speak to before I show you to your quarters?’ de Pacy offered.

‘And instantly light the fuse of suspicion under some poor bloke? No, thank you. Let them go about their business. I’d like two things from you, Monsieur de Pacy. The first, a list of everyone living or working in the building over the past season, the second, blanket permission to go wherever I need to go about the building and speak to guests or staff at will. I cannot function in any other way.’

‘But of course!’ De Pacy spread his hands in an expansive gesture.