Murder Abroad (7 page)

“Half cracked,” Bobby muttered. “Queer place this altogether.”

He went back into the church. He remembered the way the curé had fidgeted with the dried and fading flowers laid before the Virgin's image. There had been something furtive, something odd in his manner, in the way in which he had kept doing this, in the sidelong glances he had at the same time given Bobby. Probably it did not mean anything but Bobby had learnt to neglect no indication and so, back in the church and getting a chair to stand on, for the shelf before the Virgin was at some distance from the ground, he lifted the flowers. Nothing in them or about them to interest him, but standing on a chair as he was he could now look down on the shelf and he saw where on it, at the foot of the image, in a small crevice or crack in the wood, were five small stones he was able to recognize as uncut diamonds of probably ten or twenty pounds value each.

Bobby descended cautiously from his somewhat uncertain perch and seated himself on another of the rickety straw chairs that occupied in rows the body of the church.

He was a little tempted to take prompt possession of the diamonds in order to hand them over to some one in authority. But this was a foreign country in which he had no official standing whatever. He might well be asked what business it was of his what offerings were made to the statue of the Virgin. There might be some perfectly satisfactory explanation of their presence and though to him it seemed plain enough they must be some of those that had belonged to Miss Polthwaite, of that there was no proof. No identification possible of a few odd stones. Besides, if he took any such action an end would probably be put at once to any hope of the successful accomplishment of his mission. As for what had happened the previous night, it was evidently no good saying anything about an incident which would be at once denied. Bobby perceived ruefully that there are advantages in that subordination against which he had so often inwardly rebelled. At home he would simply have made a report to his superior officers and there his responsibility would have ended. Now he had to decide his course of action for himself.

The curé presumably knew all about the diamonds, who had given them, and why. But that knowledge might have come to him under the seal of confession. Or he might know no more than that the offering had been made. Possibly he did not even realize their value; though the uneasiness he had shown, and that had betrayed to Bobby the presence of something of interest on the shelf at the Virgin's feet, suggested that of that at least he was well aware. Bobby wondered if Miss Polthwaite's assassin could have made the offering with some superstitious idea of placating heaven by sharing the booty. If so, the curé might know his identity, but would he betray the secret?

A more disturbing thought came into Bobby's mind. Was it possible that this priest, with his fierce and sunken eyes, his fanaticism, his strange, burning looks, his dreams of building a great new church to the honour of the Virgin, his need and apparent expectation of money required to carry out his purpose, his evident unease and restlessness that suggested at any rate some degree of mental instability, was in fact in possession of the other missing diamonds, as well as of those that had apparently been offered before the image here? And if so, by what means, in what way, had that come about?

A vision rose before Bobby's eyes of those dark depths, of those straight and damp walls of brick, of the sullen gleam of the water below, of all that he had seen and shuddered at when he lifted the cover of the well by the Pépin Mill.

He tried to put the thought out of his mind, telling himself it was incredible, but none the less it remained there. Abruptly he found himself deciding he would accept it as a possibility to be kept in mind, and he decided, too, that, at any rate for the time being, he would keep his own counsel. That determination come to, he reflected that the light continental breakfast of coffee and rolls lacks the virtue of permanence, and that it was now nearly noon and time for luncheon.

He returned to the hotel accordingly and was soon enjoying an excellent meal, carefully balanced in flavour and substance. In addition to Bobby himself some ten or twelve others were present, some probably local notabilities, the ‘big bonnets' of the village as the French say, but most apparently strangers and visitors. The service was presided over by young Camion, and Bobby was struck by the grave dignity with which the young man conducted affairs. Not the Ritz or the Savoy could have shown a more meticulous care in every detail. It was quite plain that Camion took his duties very seriously, as of one who respected himself in the task he was performing, a task to which he attributed all the importance that, after all, good food does possess in human economy. Especially good food, well cooked, and served with the accessories and refinements that make the difference between feeding and dining. Nor did he show any trace of that unpleasant and unnecessary obsequiousness sometimes shown in restaurants. His air of pride was as marked as ever, he dominated the hors-d'oeuvre, the soup, the other courses, a little like a general marshalling his forces. On any question of the choice of wine, he was specially firm.

“No, monsieur,” Bobby heard him say to one man seated near, “that would not be suitable, that wine. This requires a—”

Bobby did not catch the name of the wine recommended, but the dictum was accepted meekly as from superior authority. Bobby was indeed quite relieved that his own choice, the local ‘cru', was allowed to pass unchallenged. Evidently here dining was an art taken as seriously as the other arts by which man has learnt to express himself in his rise from barbarism to civilization.

All this interested Bobby, for it was new to him to see dining treated thus as an expression of human culture, but what interested him even more was that the some-what strained and uncomfortable attitude shown towards Camion in the café the night before was evident here also. There was a marked tendency to cast uneasy glances at him when his back was turned, to grow silent when he was near. It almost seemed indeed as if some of those Bobby had thought were strangers, had come simply to stare and whisper, and Bobby thought that Camion realized this and resented it bitterly, though his sense of professional duty prevented him from appearing to be aware of it.

Luncheon over, Bobby got out the sketch book with which he had provided himself as with other requisites appertaining to his assumed character of artist, and went out to seek some picturesque spot whereon to exercise his talents. The mill he had decided to leave for the present. Some day he might be glad of an excuse for calling there.

Soon he found a setting of rock and trees he thought not too far beyond the limit of his powers, and set to work accordingly, though, as he worked, his mind was occupied less with what he was doing than with the currents and cross-currents he seemed already to have discovered beneath the placid surface of village life.

It may have been to this absorption, because there is truth in those current theories of the unconscious which teach that all capacities are there, though on them the conscious will acts as a hampering and restraining check, that the result was due. In any case, when Bobby stopped thinking quite so much about the problems troubling him and turned more active attention to what he was doing, he found himself surprised by its excellence.

“Dear me,” he said aloud, “I must be going to turn into a real artist.”

What with his work and his thoughts the hours had slipped by and now it was time to think of dinner.

Over this meal, too, as over luncheon, Camion presided with the same effective and indeed remarkable mixture of quick competence and grave dignity. One felt that to him dinner was a rite and he the presiding priest. There were a good many more present than there had been in the middle of the day. Among them Bobby noticed a tall, bigly-built, imposing-looking man, wearing plus-fours and obviously English. His large, florid face in which his tiny nose and little twinkling eyes seemed lost, beamed with good humour, he expressed a loud appreciation of the dishes offered him and of the recommended wine, compliments Camion accepted as a tribute rightfully due. He even deigned to ask the stranger's opinion on some question of sauce or flavouring, and Bobby noticed that this new-comer's attitude to Camion had in it none of that half-frightened fascination others here seemed so often to show. Bobby noticed, too, that once or twice this new-comer glanced in his direction and he was not altogether surprised when the coffee stage was reached to see the stranger get to his feet and come across to him. In spite of his bulk he moved easily and lightly. Something of an athlete apparently. He said, speaking in English:

“Camion tells me you're an artist, too. Artists may know each other, mayn't they? especially when a coincidence brings them together in a foreign country. I'm Basil Shields. Very likely you don't know my stuff. In private hands, nearly all of it.”

“I'm afraid I'm not as well up in art matters as I ought to be,” Bobby admitted. “Do sit down, won't you?” Even had he not wished to, he would have been almost forced to give this invitation, since Shields was already drawing out a chair for himself. “But I do know your name anyhow.” This was perfectly true, for he remembered Basil Shields was the name of the artist, to be near whom Miss Polthwaite had settled here and from whom she had been taking occasional informal lessons. “My name's Owen,” Bobby continued. “I'm afraid as an artist you'll think me a bit of a fraud. I'm really only trying.”

“Not bitten by any of the 'isms, I hope?” Shields asked genially. “I know I'm old-fashioned. Traditional. I'm the scorn of the impressionist and the wash pot of the cubists. As for the surrealists, they're just a little sorry for me. More than I am for them. I call them criminal. It's a base commercial point of view, I suppose, but I do sell two canvasses for every one the whole boiling of them get rid of. But perhaps you're bitten by that bug. If you are, I do apologize.”

“No need,” Bobby assured him. “I suppose I'm traditional as far as I'm anything.”

“Let me have a look at what you've been doing, may I?” asked Shields, and Bobby, who had brought his portfolio down with him from a vague wish not to be separated from work with which he was so pleased, promptly produced the sketch made that afternoon.

Shields took it, raised his eyebrows, looked surprised, even a little relieved, Bobby thought.

“I know that spot,” Shields said. “I've done it myself. You've a good eye for the right thing to spot it so quickly.” Then he said, almost accusingly: “You've moved that tree.”

“Well, yes,” Bobby admitted. “I suppose I thought it tied up better there.”

“So it does,” agreed Shields. “Composes much better, catches the eye at once. Gives the whole thing more significance, unity. You've an eye for composition all right. Gad, it's quite a relief to find a young fellow doing good sound honest-to-goodness work instead of all this modern inner reality stuff.” He looked at the sketch again. “Good work,” he said briefly.

Bobby beamed. There had been times in his young life when he had dreamed of trying to earn his living by his pencil. Discovery that his eye for colour was defective and that though he had a distinct sense of form and a real ability to draw, his gifts even there were hardly outstanding, had persuaded him that he had small chance of ever being able to ‘muscle in', as the Americans say, on an already much overcrowded profession. All the same, this warm appreciation of his afternoon's work by a professional and apparently unusually successful artist gave him a very warm and comforting interior glow.

Shields began to talk about himself. His work, it seemed, was not much appreciated in London. (‘Paris won't look at it,' he said in parenthesis, ‘and Berlin and Rome are washouts. No money, and if you did get any, you would have to leave it there.') But he had a very useful connection in New York among private friends. Made a baker's dozen of sales last year at an average of four hundred dollars each sale. Not so bad these days. Oh, journeyman's work, it might be called. He never claimed to be a genius, but his stuff gave him pleasure to do and apparently gave pleasure to the people who bought it. At any rate, he knew no other reason why they did buy. God knew it wasn't because it was fashionable. Bobby must come over to Barsac some time and have a look round his studio. He chuckled a good deal over this and admitted that such an invitation to the ordinary tourist sometimes meant a bid for a sale. (‘Walk into my studio, said the artist to the tourist', explained Shields, still chuckling.) Well, a fellow had got to live. But a brother artist was safe. Artists didn't buy pictures, they painted 'em.

Bobby said how pleased he would be to accept the invitation and asked:

“Barsac? Is it near here?”

“Well, that depends,” Shields answered. “It lies between here and Clermont, about fifteen miles as the crow flies, over there.” He pointed north where the land rose into that tangle of hill and rock, ravine and crag, intermixed with long patches of scrub, which Bobby had remarked before. “But it takes three or four hours by train. You have to go round by Clermont and the connection is bad. By road, it is about four or five times as far as it would be direct. The road has to circle right round the Bornay Massif,” and he nodded again towards the desolation to the north where the bleak savagery of the land bore witness still to the convulsions of long ago.

“If it's only fifteen miles direct, it would be almost as quick to walk, wouldn't it?” Bobby asked.

“I never heard of any one trying,” Shields answered doubtfully. The elder Camion had come into the room now and Shields beckoned to him: “Monsieur Camion,” he called, “I suppose one could get across the Bornay Massif on foot, couldn't one?”

The elder Camion came up and again Bobby thought how strange it was that this round, smiling, commonplace little man could have produced that youngster of the fierce and haughty mien who was his son. There was a distinct family likeness though. It was as though Nature had said: ‘Just to show you, I'll take this humble, commonplace type, the very image of the “little man”, and show how easily I can transform it into the type of the leader and the chieftain.' He looked faintly puzzled now, a familiar expression on his countenance, Bobby thought, and said: “But with what object, monsieur? Why should any one make such an attempt?”