Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [59]
Joe and Moulin murmured in unison.
She peered at it more closely, then shook her head. On the whole, a good witness, Joe thought. When the doctor moved to the head of the sheeted figure she moved with him and stood waiting on the other side. Joe watched her carefully as the cover rolled downwards to the waist. There was at first no reaction. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and whispered: ‘That’s Somerton. My late husband.’ And, as Joe had predicted, there came at last the inevitable question: ‘Tell me, doctor, did he suffer?’
The doctor also was prepared for this. But he was a scientist, not a diplomat, and he gave an honest reply. ‘His death must have come very quickly, madame. He did not linger in pain. But the wound – you may see for yourself – is a savage one, almost severing the head. The initial assault would have caused a degree of pain, yes.’
‘Good!’ said the widow, suddenly bright. ‘But however painful it was, it could never have been painful enough!’
In the stunned silence, she rounded on the corpse and for a moment Joe felt his muscles tense. Fearing what? That she was about to inflict a truly painful blow of her own? Incredibly – yes. The doctor had put out a restraining hand. She gestured it away impatiently and went to stand close by the head. She bent and spoke directly to the corpse, her lips inches from his ear: ‘I hope you’re in hell, you rotter! I hope that Lucifer in person is turning your spit. Look at you! Oozing your stinking essence on to a slab in a foreign dungeon. Dyed hair! Pomaded moustache! You lived – a disgrace; you died – a disgrace.’
She took a step back and gave her last, formal farewell: ‘Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.’
Joe was uneasy. The vehemence was spontaneous but the quotation from Henry VI had been, he calculated, prepared with some forethought. The whole outpouring appeared the distillation of years of resentment. He looked again at the dead face, softening in decay, and speculated on the qualities that could provoke such hatred.
The widow collected herself and struggled for a more level tone, addressing the two men: ‘You may have his remains burned or whatever you do. I don’t want to take them away with me or have them posted on. Send the bill to the Embassy. And now, if you’re ready, Commander . . .? We must be on our way.’
She threaded her arm through Joe’s and turned for the last time to her husband, unwilling even now to let him go in peace, her parting words meant for him: ‘I have an engagement on the Champs-Élysées. At Fouquet’s.’
She began to drag Joe towards the door, calling out still over her shoulder her taunts: ‘Champagne . . . foie gras . . . asparagus . . . the first of the wild strawberries . . .’
Joe paused in the doorway and looked back at the startled doctor, mouthing silently: ‘Not with me, she hasn’t!’
Chapter Thirteen
She swept out ahead of him and stood by the car door until he opened it. When they were settled inside she gave him his instructions. ‘Tell the driver I’ll drop you off before he goes on to Fouquet’s. Where would you like to be set down, Commander?’
Without waiting for his answer, she took a velvet bag from the deep pocket of her cape and fished about until she found a small flacon of perfume. ‘Do you mind if I apply something a little fresh? I’m quite sure I must smell of – what was that fluid? Ugh! Formaldehyde, would it be? That stink?’
‘Death and bleach, Lady Somerton,’ said Joe tersely.
He addressed the driver, who was sitting patiently waiting for instructions. ‘Driver – would you take me across the river on to the Left Bank, please? I’m bound for the place de la Contrescarpe. Do you know it? And then, the lady requires to be set down in the Champs-Élysées. She will direct you.’
The big car moved off and Joe reeled at an overenthusiastic application of perfume. Rose and sandalwood? Chanel’s Number 5 was easily recognized. And what had Mademoiselle Chanel saucily said about her creation? ‘Perfume should be applied in the places where a woman expects to be kissed.’ Joe watched