{"product_id":"strange-images-of-death-isbn-9781569479896","title":"Strange Images of Death","description":"Provence,  1926. Scotland Yard detective Joe Sandilands is on leave, driving his  way south to the Riviera while dropping off his niece at an ancient  chateau. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA troubling crime committed just before their arrival  leaves a clear message that more violence is to come. To allay panic,  Joe agrees to stay on and root out the guilty person. But, despite Joe’s  vigilance, a child goes missing and an artist’s beautiful young model  is murdered in circumstances eerily recreating a six hundred-year-old  crime of passion. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHelped and hindered by a rising star of the  French Police Judiciaire, Joe must delve into a horror story from the  castle’s past before he can tear the mask from the diseased soul  responsible for these contemporary crimes.Praise for Barbara Cleverly:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Despite her mastery at vivid scene-setting, Cleverly never loses sight of the historical puzzle that is central to her story. Simply put, it's a stunner.\"—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spectacular and dashing. Spellbinding.\"—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Excellent.... Golden age fans who appreciate deceptive storytelling enhanced by the kind of in-depth characterization lacking in Agatha Christie will be more than satisfied.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This series and its hero age well: the perspicacious Sandilands exhibits an arresting combination of Mary Russell's discernment and Chief Inspector Wexford's tenacious certainty.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cleverly's crisp prose and solid cast of supporting characters ... make the book a delight to read.\"—\u003ci\u003eDenver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stylish and intricate.... Cleverly has perfect pitch for period and place, whether her hero is unearthing evil in India, England or France.\"—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A great blood and guts blockbuster.\"—\u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Atmospheric ... intricately plotted.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003eBarbara Cleverly was born in the north of England and is a graduate of Durham University. A former teacher, she has spent her working life in Cambridgeshire and Suffolk; she now lives in Cambridge. She has one son and five step-children. She is the author of seven books in the Joe Sandilands series, including \u003ci\u003eThe Last Kashmiri Rose, Folly du Jour\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eStrange Images of Death\u003c\/i\u003e. Her Joe Sandilands series, set against the background of the Indian Empire, was inspired by the contents of a battered old tin trunk that she found in her attic.Prologue\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eProvence, South of France, 1926\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He studied her sleeping face for the last time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was lying peacefully on her back, her fair hair\u003cbr\u003e spreading in ripples over the pillow. Warm-gold by day,\u003cbr\u003e the waves now gleamed pale silver, all colour bleached\u003cbr\u003e away by the moonlight. Her features also were drained\u003cbr\u003e and only the lips still showed a trace of emotion. They\u003cbr\u003e were slightly open and uptilted, perhaps in a suggestion of\u003cbr\u003e remembered and recent passion. He smothered the distasteful\u003cbr\u003e notion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Such beauty!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He felt his resolve waver and was alarmed to acknowledge\u003cbr\u003e a moment of indecision. He reminded himself that\u003cbr\u003e this beauty was his – his to spare or to destroy – and a rush\u003cbr\u003e of exaltation swept away the slight uncertainty. It had\u003cbr\u003e been a wobble, no more than a weakness imposed on him\u003cbr\u003e by convention. Convention? Even at this moment of\u003cbr\u003e approaching ecstasy he paused to consider the word. From\u003cbr\u003e the Latin, of course. ‘A coming together’. In agreement and\u003cbr\u003e common consent. Well, convention would never direct \u003ci\u003ehim\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e It was his nature to step away from the crowd, to walk in\u003cbr\u003e the opposite direction, to think his own rebellious thoughts\u003cbr\u003e and to translate those thoughts into action. He would be\u003cbr\u003e true to his nature. He would assert his birthright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He leaned closer until his face was only inches above the\u003cbr\u003e still form. He had a fancy that, if he pressed his lips to hers,\u003cbr\u003e he might catch her dying breath. The thought revolted and\u003cbr\u003e fascinated him in equal measure and he lifted his head. He\u003cbr\u003e took a deliberate step backwards. He would not touch her.\u003cbr\u003e No part of his body would make contact with hers. To test\u003cbr\u003e his resolve he contemplated trailing a lascivious finger\u003cbr\u003e along her smooth throat as others had, of allowing that finger\u003cbr\u003e to ease over the left collar bone until it encountered the\u003cbr\u003e imperfection of a tiny mole half-hidden by a fold of her\u003cbr\u003e white gown. His hand remained safely in his pocket. He\u003cbr\u003e would look. Admire. Hate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stood for a moment, a shadow among shadows. The\u003cbr\u003e garment he’d put on had been carefully chosen: an oldfashioned\u003cbr\u003e hunting coat (English tailoring, he did believe),\u003cbr\u003e it had been abandoned on a hook by the door in the cloakroom\u003cbr\u003e by some visiting milord, years, possibly decades,\u003cbr\u003e ago. The thick grey tweed was a perfect camouflage – it\u003cbr\u003e even had a hood – and, essential for his purpose, not one\u003cbr\u003e but two concealed poacher’s pockets. His fine nose was\u003cbr\u003e revolted by the smell of decay that lurked in the tweedy\u003cbr\u003e depths, still stained with the blood of long-dead creatures,\u003cbr\u003e but they accommodated the very special equipment he had\u003cbr\u003e needed to carry, covertly, along the corridors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He played with the notion of taking out the heavy-duty\u003cbr\u003e military torch and lighting up her last moments, but an\u003cbr\u003e innate caution made him dismiss the idea. The moonlight\u003cbr\u003e was all the illumination he could wish for. A resplendent\u003cbr\u003e August moon shone through the uncurtained windows,\u003cbr\u003e coating the alabaster-fair features with an undeserved\u003cbr\u003e glaze of sanctity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Moon. Generous but demanding deity! He adored\u003cbr\u003e her. She was his friend, his accomplice. He welcomed the\u003cbr\u003e white peace and forgiveness she brought at the end of each\u003cbr\u003e day’s red turmoil and sin. Like some sprite from a northern\u003cbr\u003e folk tale, he came to life in the dark hours. His eyes\u003cbr\u003e grew wide, his thoughts became as clear and cold as the\u003cbr\u003e moon herself. His senses were sharpened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He listened. He turned abruptly as a distant owl\u003cbr\u003e screeched and claimed its prey. A farm dog across the valley\u003cbr\u003e responded with a half-hearted warning howl and then\u003cbr\u003e fell silent, duty done. But from within the walls there was\u003cbr\u003e no sound. His stretched senses detected nothing though he\u003cbr\u003e could imagine the drunken snores, the unconscious mutterings,\u003cbr\u003e the hands groping blindly for a pitcher of cool\u003cbr\u003e water as his fellows slept, divided from him by several\u003cbr\u003e thick walls and a courtyard. He would be undisturbed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The weight in his right pocket banged against his thigh\u003cbr\u003e and prompted his next move. He took out the heavy claw\u003cbr\u003e hammer and ran a hand over the blunt metal head; with\u003cbr\u003e the pads of his fingers he tested the sharpness of the upcurving,\u003cbr\u003e V-shaped nail-wrench that balanced it at the rear.\u003cbr\u003e He required the tool to perform well in both its capacities.\u003cbr\u003e It would smash with concentrated force and, with a twist\u003cbr\u003e of his hand, would lever and rip. It would be equal to the\u003cbr\u003e task. But there would be noise. He took a velvet scarf from\u003cbr\u003e his neck and wound it securely around the hammer head\u003cbr\u003e to muffle the blows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was being overcautious. No one would respond,\u003cbr\u003e even if the sounds cut through their wine-fuelled stupor. A\u003cbr\u003e strange light might possibly have excited curiosity and\u003cbr\u003e investigation by some inquisitive servant. No, he didn’t\u003cbr\u003e discount a dutiful response from one of these domestics if\u003cbr\u003e he were careless enough to draw attention. The live-in staff\u003cbr\u003e were well chosen, adequately paid and highly trained. So,\u003cbr\u003e no wandering lights. But a few distant creaks and bangs in\u003cbr\u003e a crumbling old building went, like the dog’s howl,\u003cbr\u003e unheeded by everyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He’d savoured the moment for too long. Enough of musing.\u003cbr\u003e Enough of gloating over her loveliness. Time to move\u003cbr\u003e on. Time to clear this filth from his path to make way for\u003cbr\u003e a worthier offering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He took out the fencing mask he’d thought to bring with\u003cbr\u003e him and put it over his face. He wanted no tell-tale\u003cbr\u003e scratches raising eyebrows at the breakfast table. He pulled\u003cbr\u003e up the hood of the hunting coat to cover his hair. There\u003cbr\u003e would be no traces of this night’s activity left clinging to\u003cbr\u003e his person, attracting the attention of that sharp-eyed girl\u003cbr\u003e who cleaned out his room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was ready.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As a last flourish, he muttered cynically an abbreviated\u003cbr\u003e prayer for a lost soul in Latin: ‘\u003ci\u003eQuaesumus, Domine, miserere\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efamulae tuae, Alienorae, et a contagiis mortalitatis exutam, in\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eaeternam salvationis partem restitue. \u003c\/i\u003eHave mercy on the soul\u003cbr\u003e of your maidservant, Aliénore, and free her from the defilement\u003cbr\u003e of her mortal flesh . . .’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As he murmured, his supple fingers ran with satisfaction\u003cbr\u003e along the smooth wooden handle of the ancient hammer.\u003cbr\u003e He’d used it often and knew its strength. The muscles of\u003cbr\u003e his arms were accommodated to its use as those of a tennis\u003cbr\u003e player to his racquet, and they responded now with\u003cbr\u003e familiar ease as he swung the weight upwards over his\u003cbr\u003e head and brought it crashing down into the centre of the\u003cbr\u003e delicate face.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eFrance, August 1926\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘To wake or not to wake the pest?’ was Joe’s silent question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Would she really welcome an elbow in the ribs only half\u003cbr\u003e an hour after sinking so ostentatiously into sleep? He\u003cbr\u003e glanced again at the suspiciously still form in the passenger\u003cbr\u003e seat next to him and the half of the face that was\u003cbr\u003e visible. The pure profile and slight smile were deceptively\u003cbr\u003e angelic, and he decided to leave her to her daydreams. But\u003cbr\u003e a road sign had just announced that they were a mere five\u003cbr\u003e kilometres north of the town of Valence. Here they were,\u003cbr\u003e booming on south at a speed the Morris Oxford cabriolet\u003cbr\u003e could never have reached, let alone sustained, on English\u003cbr\u003e roads. Joe Sandilands was no car-worshipper, but he could\u003cbr\u003e almost have persuaded himself that it (he refused to call\u003cbr\u003e this ingenious arrangement of metal ‘she’) was enjoying\u003cbr\u003e swallowing up the huge French distances.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The day was hot; the hood was down. Avenues of plane\u003cbr\u003e trees lined the route, offering, for mile after mile, a beneficent\u003cbr\u003e shade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl in the passenger seat was fast asleep – or pretending\u003cbr\u003e to be. You could never tell with Dorcas. Joe was\u003cbr\u003e quite certain that she frequently rolled up her cardigan and\u003cbr\u003e pushed her head into it, facing away from him, the minute\u003cbr\u003e they got into the car, deliberately to avoid making polite\u003cbr\u003e conversation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And that suited Joe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Was she being considerate? Or was she bored out of her\u003cbr\u003e mind by him? He decided – bored. A seasoned police\u003cbr\u003e officer more than twice her age would never be an ideal\u003cbr\u003e companion for a fourteen-year-old English girl, however\u003cbr\u003e well travelled she might be. Lord! How old was he these\u003cbr\u003e days? Thirty-three! But at least no one had yet taken him\u003cbr\u003e for her father and Joe was thankful for that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘My uncle Joseph Sandilands. Commander Sandilands\u003cbr\u003e of Scotland Yard,’ was all the introduction Dorcas was\u003cbr\u003e prepared to supply when she felt their travelling arrangements\u003cbr\u003e called for clarification. But it was all the reassurance\u003cbr\u003e people seemed to need. The suggestion of a blood relationship\u003cbr\u003e and an impressive title put Joe beyond reproach\u003cbr\u003e or even question. Particularly when he hurried to add,\u003cbr\u003e allowing just the briefest flicker of martyrdom to flit across\u003cbr\u003e his agreeable features, that he was escorting his niece down\u003cbr\u003e to her father who was spending the summer at the Château\u003cbr\u003e du Diable \u003ci\u003e– \u003c\/i\u003eor whatever its pantomime name was – in\u003cbr\u003e Provence. Dropping her off as he himself flighted south to\u003cbr\u003e the delights of the Riviera. As he’d jokingly told his sister\u003cbr\u003e Lydia who’d engineered the unwelcome escort duty, he\u003cbr\u003e would be held up as an example from Calais to Cannes of\u003cbr\u003e self-sacrificing unclehood. And so, to his surprise, it had\u003cbr\u003e proved. The slight deceit, embarked on in the interests of\u003cbr\u003e an oversensitive English concern for the proprieties, had\u003cbr\u003e gone unchallenged and undiscovered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eUncle \u003c\/i\u003eJoseph! The word made him feel old. In his world,\u003cbr\u003e uncles were elderly and rather decrepit survivors of the\u003cbr\u003e war before the last. They sat in armchairs, smiling benignly\u003cbr\u003e at their descendants, muttering of Mafeking, their lower\u003cbr\u003e limbs rugged up in tartan. After a shifty glance to make\u003cbr\u003e certain Dorcas still had her eyes closed, Joe pushed his sun\u003cbr\u003e goggles on to his forehead, tilted his head and squinted\u003cbr\u003e critically into the useful mirror he’d had fixed to his windscreen\u003cbr\u003e in Lyon to keep an eye on traffic behind. They were\u003cbr\u003e all there on his face: the lines and the crow’s feet sketched\u003cbr\u003e in by a tough life lived mostly outdoors. And undeniably\u003cbr\u003e on the advance. But at least his grey eyes were taking on\u003cbr\u003e an interesting brilliance as his face grew darker in the\u003cbr\u003e southern sun. He narrowed his eyes, trying on an air of\u003cbr\u003e menace and mystery. All too easily achieved when the left\u003cbr\u003e side of your face was slightly distorted. He’d never found\u003cbr\u003e the time to have the battlefield surgery corrected and now\u003cbr\u003e it was too late – he’d grown into his shrapnel-scarred\u003cbr\u003e features. He wore the damage like a medal – with a silent\u003cbr\u003e and bitter pride.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘For goodness’ sake, Joe! Book yourself into St Mary’s\u003cbr\u003e and have that repaired,’ his sister Lydia constantly urged.\u003cbr\u003e ‘Surgeons are so much more skilled these days. They can\u003cbr\u003e rebuild whole faces – your little piece of mis-stitching\u003cbr\u003e would hardly begin to test them. You’d be in and out in no\u003cbr\u003e time and we’d have our handsome old Joe back again the\u003cbr\u003e moment the bandages came off.’ She’d waggle a minatory\u003cbr\u003e finger at him and add: ‘And never forget what they say!\u003cbr\u003e “The face is the mirror of the soul.” Aplatitude, I agree, but\u003cbr\u003e a sentiment I’ve always put some store by. It’s deceitful of\u003cbr\u003e you to present this distorted funfair reflection of yourself\u003cbr\u003e to the world.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But he’d resisted. Quibbled. Procrastinated. In eight\u003cbr\u003e years of police work, he’d discovered the power of intimidation\u003cbr\u003e he could exert by presenting his battered left side\u003cbr\u003e to the suspects he was interrogating. It spoke of battles\u003cbr\u003e survived, pain endured, experience acquired. With a turn\u003cbr\u003e of the head, he could trump the villainy of any man he’d\u003cbr\u003e confronted across the interview table. ‘You think you’re\u003cbr\u003e tough?’ he challenged silently. ‘How tough? As tough as\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethis\u003c\/i\u003e?’ Men who’d evaded the draft found themselves\u003cbr\u003e wrong-footed, fellow soldiers recognized an officer who’d\u003cbr\u003e clearly led from the front and accorded him a measure of\u003cbr\u003e silent respect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joe underlined the effect of the drama he was assessing\u003cbr\u003e in his rear-viewing mirror with the cruel grin and slanting\u003cbr\u003e flash of white teeth of a music-hall villain. Not quite\u003cbr\u003e Ramon Novarro in \u003ci\u003eScaramouche \u003c\/i\u003ebut, even so – not bad! Not\u003cbr\u003e bad at all! He could use that sardonic look at the casino or\u003cbr\u003e strolling along the promenade in Nice. He recalled, with a\u003cbr\u003e stir of excitement, the words his superior in the War Office\u003cbr\u003e had used when encouraging him, for Reasons of State, to\u003cbr\u003e undertake this journey to France: ‘I’m sure I don’t need to\u003cbr\u003e remind you, Sandilands, that female companionship – if\u003cbr\u003e that’s what you’re after – is available and of a superior\u003cbr\u003e style in France.’ The Brigadier’s remark was uncharacteristically\u003cbr\u003e indiscreet, unwittingly arousing. Joe had been surprised,\u003cbr\u003e amused and then dismissive but the titillating\u003cbr\u003e notion had stayed with him. His foot unconsciously\u003cbr\u003e increased its pressure on the accelerator. Yes, he was eager\u003cbr\u003e to be down there, sipping his first pastis under a blistering\u003cbr\u003e Riviera sun, eyeing pretty women parading about in tennis\u003cbr\u003e skirts and swimming costumes. And if they were enticing\u003cbr\u003e your ear with a French accent – so much the better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Ah! Bulldog Drummond races south, pistol in his hip\u003cbr\u003e pocket, ready for a shoot-out with Le Bossu Masqué,’\u003cbr\u003e commented a lazily teasing voice. Dorcas gave a showy\u003cbr\u003e yawn to indicate she was open to conversation. ‘Only one\u003cbr\u003e thing wrong. Pulling a face like that, you really ought to be\u003cbr\u003e driving a Sports Bentley. You don’t cut much of a dash in\u003cbr\u003e a Morris.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘\u003ci\u003eTwo \u003c\/i\u003ethings wrong. My female companion – that’s \u003ci\u003eyou –\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ought to be bound and gagged and wriggling helplessly on\u003cbr\u003e the back seat with her head in a bag.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Le Bossu’s wicked accomplice whom you’ve taken\u003cbr\u003e hostage?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Very likely. Female of the species being what she is and\u003cbr\u003e all that . . .’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dorcas looked about her. ‘Oy! Didn’t I ask you to be sure\u003cbr\u003e and tell me when we got to Valence?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘I was just about to wake you, though I can’t imagine\u003cbr\u003e why I should bother. It’s not much of a place and we’re\u003cbr\u003e driving straight by it.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Family tradition! Father always marks our passage\u003cbr\u003e through the town by shouting, “\u003ci\u003eA Valence, le Midi com-\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003emence!\u003c\/i\u003e” Though at the speed my family plods along in a\u003cbr\u003e horse-drawn caravan we have more time to enjoy the\u003cbr\u003e moment. Listen, Joe! In a minute or so, if you slow down\u003cbr\u003e a bit, you’ll hear them. The cicadas. The sound of\u003cbr\u003e Provence.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joe smiled. She was right. In a strange way, everything\u003cbr\u003e behind them was of the north: green and quiet. The snowclad\u003cbr\u003e Alps still funnelled their cold breath down the valley\u003cbr\u003e of the river the road was following. But the land ahead was\u003cbr\u003e tilted towards the sun. The atmosphere grew suddenly\u003cbr\u003e more brilliant, the rush of air warmer. The vegetation was\u003cbr\u003e changing and he welcomed the sight of the first outlying\u003cbr\u003e umbrella pines and the narrow dark fingers of cypress\u003cbr\u003e trees leaning gently before the wind, beckoning them on.\u003cbr\u003e Soon there would be olives fluttering the silvery underside\u003cbr\u003e of their leaves at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He took his foot off the accelerator and, hearing his first\u003cbr\u003e cicada, decided to stand in for her absent father, Orlando.\u003cbr\u003e The girl had little enough in the way of family life; the least\u003cbr\u003e he could do was reinforce the few happy memories she\u003cbr\u003e chose to share with him. ‘\u003ci\u003eLe Midi commence!\u003c\/i\u003e’ he shouted.\u003cbr\u003e ‘Here comes the South!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Satisfied, the ritual complete, Dorcas breathed in the\u003cbr\u003e changing perfumes and asked for the umpteenth time: ‘Are\u003cbr\u003e we nearly there, Joe?’ to annoy him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He decided to bore her back to sleep again with a recitation\u003cbr\u003e of distances, speeds and map references but a rush of\u003cbr\u003e good humour cut him short. ‘No! Miles to go before bedtime.\u003cbr\u003e Big place, Provence. I was planning to spend the\u003cbr\u003e night in Avignon then set off into the hills straight after\u003cbr\u003e breakfast to track down your pa. Silmont? That’s the place\u003cbr\u003e we have to find. Outskirts of the Lubéron hills. Olivesilvery\u003cbr\u003e Silmont?’ he speculated. ‘I wonder if there’ll be\u003cbr\u003e vines growing there? And lavender. Honeysuckle. All those\u003cbr\u003e herbs . . . wild thyme . . . rosemary . . . oregano,’ he murmured.\u003cbr\u003e ‘Dorcas?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was feigning sleep again. Botany also was a bore,\u003cbr\u003e clearly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joe fought down a spurt of irritation with the child’s\u003cbr\u003e father. As a friend, Orlando Joliffe came in for a good\u003cbr\u003e measure of regard, even affection, from Joe. Joe found –\u003cbr\u003e and was surprised to find – that he admired his skills as an\u003cbr\u003e artist but he also enjoyed the man’s company. He appreciated\u003cbr\u003e his intelligence and his worldly ways. When Joe\u003cbr\u003e made himself evaluate the relationship which would have\u003cbr\u003e been frowned on in his own staid professional circle, he\u003cbr\u003e came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was in\u003cbr\u003e Orlando a quality of raffish insouciance, a childlike delight\u003cbr\u003e in sensual indulgence that struck a chord in Joe’s being,\u003cbr\u003e that spoke to something long buried under layers of\u003cbr\u003e Quaker respectability.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yes, as a drinking companion there was none better but,\u003cbr\u003e judged as a father, Orlando failed on all counts to satisfy.\u003cbr\u003e He wasn’t uncaring exactly but careless, ready to leave the\u003cbr\u003e upbringing of his four motherless children to anyone he\u003cbr\u003e could persuade or pay or blackmail into attending to their\u003cbr\u003e needs. When Joe’s sister, in dire emergency, had shown\u003cbr\u003e neighbourly concern and rashly offered to take Dorcas\u003cbr\u003e under her wing, Orlando had accepted with shaming\u003cbr\u003e alacrity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lovely, good-hearted Lydia! Joe felt a pang of guilt\u003cbr\u003e whenever he thought of his sister’s involvement with the\u003cbr\u003e wretched Orlando’s family circus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It had all been Joe’s fault.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In a moment of concern for the family’s situation, he’d\u003cbr\u003e handed over Lydia’s telephone number. ‘This here’s my\u003cbr\u003e sister’s number. You’ll see she lives close by. She has children\u003cbr\u003e of her own and she’s a trained nurse. You can depend\u003cbr\u003e on her. Give her a ring if there should be an immediate\u003cbr\u003e problem and you can’t raise me.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And Dorcas had taken him at his word. With lifechanging\u003cbr\u003e results for several people, not least poor Lydia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Appalled by the circumstances of the children’s hand-tomouth,\u003cbr\u003e bohemian existence Lydia had swept them all away\u003cbr\u003e to the safety of her own comfortable home. Dorcas had\u003cbr\u003e stayed on longer than the rest, and, with her uncivilized\u003cbr\u003e ways of going on, she’d become a project for Lydia, her\u003cbr\u003e upbringing a social duty. ‘Give me that girl for two years\u003cbr\u003e and I’ll have her fit to present to the Queen at a\u003cbr\u003e Buckingham Palace reception,’ she’d been unwise enough\u003cbr\u003e to declare in Orlando’s hearing. He’d hurried to take her\u003cbr\u003e up on the offer and Dorcas had become a fixture in the\u003cbr\u003e household. And Joe had acquired ‘a niece’.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Months had passed but ‘Auntie’ Lydia was still a long\u003cbr\u003e way short of her target, Joe reckoned. As his brother-in-law\u003cbr\u003e commented, ‘Buckingham Palace be blowed! I wouldn’t\u003cbr\u003e trust that scallywag to behave herself at a Lyon’s Corner\u003cbr\u003e Café.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then, on their journey through France, the child had\u003cbr\u003e surprised Joe. Lydia’s training and preparation had not\u003cbr\u003e been in vain, it seemed. Dorcas had put on gloves and –\u003cbr\u003e alarmingly – silk stockings and behaved impeccably for the\u003cbr\u003e family at the Champagne Château Houdart where they’d\u003cbr\u003e stayed near Rheims. He glanced at the shiny dark head\u003cbr\u003e with its newly acquired and very fashionable fringed bob\u003cbr\u003e and smiled a smile that was both sad and tender. The\u003cbr\u003e wretched girl, he did believe, had fallen in love. With the\u003cbr\u003e highly suitable and totally admirable son of the house.\u003cbr\u003e Aged all of sixteen, Georges Houdart had seemed equally\u003cbr\u003e smitten and the two had been inseparable for the length of\u003cbr\u003e their stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was all too premature, Joe feared. A scene from \u003ci\u003eRomeo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eand Juliet \u003c\/i\u003ein preparation? Joe grinned as he happily dismissed\u003cbr\u003e the thought. These two were old beyond their\u003cbr\u003e years; they’d both, in their different ways, grown up taking\u003cbr\u003e too much, too early, on young shoulders. But this too\u003cbr\u003e had happened on his watch. Perhaps he should have a\u003cbr\u003e word with Orlando when they finally tracked him down?\u003cbr\u003e Issue some sort of warning? Urge a belated paternal\u003cbr\u003e concern? ‘Well, here’s your daughter back, old man. No –\u003cbr\u003e no trouble at all . . . In fact she’s been most helpful. And\u003cbr\u003e here she is – delivered safe and sound in wind and limb,\u003cbr\u003e as you see, but – have a care – there may be unseen\u003cbr\u003e wounds in the region of the heart . . .’ No. Joe knew it\u003cbr\u003e would be a waste of time. He’d wait and report back to\u003cbr\u003e Lydia when he returned to Surrey. Lydia would know\u003cbr\u003e whether to speak out or be silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With her uncomfortable ability to intercept and respond\u003cbr\u003e to his thoughts, Dorcas, eyes still closed, was muttering:\u003cbr\u003e ‘Do you think Orlando’ll notice I’ve changed a bit? So\u003cbr\u003e many things to tell him when we get to him.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Yes, lots to tell Orlando,’ Joe agreed. ‘But I was wondering,\u003cbr\u003e Dorcas, when – if, indeed, \u003ci\u003eever \u003c\/i\u003e– you were going to\u003cbr\u003e come clean with \u003ci\u003eme \u003c\/i\u003eand confess all. Would this be a good\u003cbr\u003e moment to tell me what you need to tell me?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her eyes popped open and he felt an undignified rush\u003cbr\u003e of triumph to see he’d surprised her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Whatever are you talking about? Confess? To you?\u003cbr\u003e You’re a policeman not a priest!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He grinned. ‘I think it’s entirely possible that you’ll be\u003cbr\u003e needing me in \u003ci\u003eboth \u003c\/i\u003ecapacities before we go much farther.\u003cbr\u003e Do you want me to spell it out? Would it ease your confession\u003cbr\u003e if I were to say: \u003ci\u003eI know what you’re up to!\u003c\/i\u003e’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joe left a space for the inevitable outburst of denial to\u003cbr\u003e run its course but there was a long silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘When did you guess?’ Her voice was suddenly\u003cbr\u003e uncertain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘I don’t guess. I work things out. It’s what I do. But, to\u003cbr\u003e answer your question: it occurred to me before we left\u003cbr\u003e Surrey. All that nonsense about not wanting to go to\u003cbr\u003e Scotland with Lydia’s family for the holidays? You were\u003cbr\u003e given every chance to come south with your father and his\u003cbr\u003e menagerie when he set off at the start of the summer but\u003cbr\u003e you refused. And I \u003ci\u003ehad \u003c\/i\u003enoticed you’d been devouring\u003cbr\u003e Walter Scott’s novels one after the other and you’d got\u003cbr\u003e together a whole collection of hill-walking clothes from\u003cbr\u003e Lillywhite’s – from boots to tam-o’-shanter and everything\u003cbr\u003e in between. You were looking forward to Scotland but the\u003cbr\u003e moment you discovered that – just for once – \u003ci\u003eI \u003c\/i\u003ewasn’t\u003cbr\u003e going north with Lydia but motoring down to spend a\u003cbr\u003e month in Antibes with an old army mate, you changed\u003cbr\u003e your plans. You used every possible means of persuading\u003cbr\u003e my sister to talk me into bringing you along with me. Out\u003cbr\u003e went the woollies – sandals and shorts were chucked into\u003cbr\u003e a bag. Walter Scott was put back on the library shelves\u003cbr\u003e and Alphonse Daudet and something coyly entitled \u003ci\u003eSo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eYou’re Going to Provence? \u003c\/i\u003ewere done up with string and\u003cbr\u003e put out ready for the journey. Not one of my most challenging\u003cbr\u003e puzzles, Dorcas! For some reason, you wanted to\u003cbr\u003e be here with me in Provence. Am I getting this right? Say\u003cbr\u003e something!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded dumbly, unable to come up with a riposte.\u003cbr\u003e Joe paused, giving her time to make her own explanation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She turned on him angrily. ‘Crikey! You must be a\u003cbr\u003e difficult man to live with! Sneaking about looking in\u003cbr\u003e wardrobes . . . checking labels! Going through my books!\u003cbr\u003e You’ve a nerve!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Again, he waited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Well, all right.’ She took a moment to collect her\u003cbr\u003e thoughts, considering him through eyes narrowed in\u003cbr\u003e speculation. He knew the signs and prepared himself to\u003cbr\u003e hear one of her easy fabrications but her confession when\u003cbr\u003e it came was halting and clumsy, the pain in her voice\u003cbr\u003e undeniable. ‘Yes. It seemed too good a chance to waste. I’ve\u003cbr\u003e been trying for years, Joe. Every time we’ve come south\u003cbr\u003e with my father, for as long as I can remember, I’ve tried.\u003cbr\u003e With no co-operation from Orlando. He doesn’t want me\u003cbr\u003e to succeed. He really doesn’t. I’ve searched and searched\u003cbr\u003e from Orange down to Les Saintes Maries on the coast. I’ve\u003cbr\u003e talked with gypsies and men of the road . . . I’ve checked\u003cbr\u003e every new grave in every cemetery. No luck. There’s a limit\u003cbr\u003e to what a child can do even down here where there’s more\u003cbr\u003e freedom to come and go and talk to anyone you meet.\u003cbr\u003e Life’s not so . . . so corseted . . . as it is in England. But even\u003cbr\u003e so, it’s not easy. And now I’m getting older . . .’ Dorcas\u003cbr\u003e looked uncomfortable for a moment, ‘there will be places I\u003cbr\u003e can’t go to, people I just can’t interview without running a\u003cbr\u003e risk . . . I’m sure you can imagine. Gigolos and white\u003cbr\u003e slavers and bogeymen of that description. I know how the\u003cbr\u003e world works . . . I’m not stupid!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘So you thought you’d latch on to a sympathetic chap\u003cbr\u003e who can go unchallenged into these dangerous and shady\u003cbr\u003e places and ask the right questions on your behalf –’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘A nosy fellow with a good right hook!’ she interrupted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘And one who speaks French of a sort? That’s always\u003cbr\u003e useful.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Mmm . . . these valuable attributes come at a price.’ Joe\u003cbr\u003e nodded sagely. ‘I warn you there’ll be a forfeit to pay.\u003cbr\u003e Agreed?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Agreed.’ She accepted without thought, not bothering to\u003cbr\u003e ask what the fee would be. She knew he was just making\u003cbr\u003e pompous noises and he knew that she would break any\u003cbr\u003e agreement that proved not to suit her anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pushed on with his pretence: ‘So long as you’re\u003cbr\u003e hiring my detective services, I think I should insist on a\u003cbr\u003e clear client’s instruction from you. I wouldn’t want to\u003cbr\u003e discover you were expecting me to track down that silver\u003cbr\u003e bangle you dropped down a drain in Arles the year before\u003cbr\u003e last.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dorcas smiled. ‘No. I want you to find something much\u003cbr\u003e more precious, Joe. Something I lost thirteen years ago. I\u003cbr\u003e want you to find my mother.’","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":44866670624997,"sku":"NP9781569479896","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781569479896.jpg?v=1767737401","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/strange-images-of-death-isbn-9781569479896","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}