Folly Du Jour (17 page)

‘Like – “Remember me to your brother and tell him to count on my help. The Revolution’s next Tuesday, is it? I’ll be there!”’

Bonnefoye grinned. ‘In fact, my man said, “Remember me to your wife. Her soirée’s next Saturday, isn’t it? I’ll be there!” It was the bit he added that was worth hearing. At least I
think
it was worth hearing. You must be the judge. He leaned over and in a hearty, all-chaps-together voice said: “I’m just off to the land of wonders . . . interested? No?” And he walked out through the back door.’

‘Say it again – that last bit,’ said Joe uneasily. ‘The bit about wonders. Where did he say he was going?’

Bonnefoye repeated his words in French: ‘. . .
au pays des merveilles
. . .’

‘
Au pays des merveilles
,’ murmured Joe. He was remembering a book he’d bought for Dorcas the previous summer to help her with her French reading. It hadn’t been well received. ‘Gracious, Joe! This is for infants or for grown-ups who haven’t managed to. It’s sillier than Peter Pan. I can’t be doing with it!’ His mind was racing down a trail. He was seeing, illuminated by a beam of hot Indian sunshine, a book, fallen over sideways on a shelf in an office in Simla, the cover beginning to curl, a peacock’s feather marking the place. The same edition.
Alice au pays des merveilles. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. Alice.

Surely not. He knew what Dorcas’s judgement would have been if he’d confided his mad notion: ‘Sandilands in Fairyland.’

The idea would not go away. Alice Conyers, fleeing India, Gladstone bag stuffed with ill-gotten gains of one sort or another, stopping over in Paris – might she have used her formidable resources to set herself up in a business of which she had first-hand knowledge? She might well. Bonnefoye waited in silence, sensing that Joe was struggling to rein in and order his thoughts.

‘Tell you a story, Bonnefoye! At least Part One of a story. I think you may be about to make a bumbling entrance with me into Part Two. As the Knave of Hearts and the Executioner, perhaps?’

Bonnefoye was intrigued but scornful. ‘That’s all very fascinating but it’s as substantial as a spider’s web, Joe!’

‘But we’ll only find out the strength by putting some weight on it, I suppose. Your face is known there now. My turn to shoot down the rabbit hole. It’s my ugly mug that they’ll see leering in their mirrors next time! And, if madame’s there, I think I know just the formula to persuade her to let me in. There’s something I shall need . . . Two items. Didn’t I see a ladies’ hat shop down there in the Mouffe? Two doors north of the boulangerie? Good. What time do they open, do you suppose?’

Chapter Sixteen

Harry Quantock was again performing front-of-house duties at the Embassy. He recognized Joe at once and greeted him breezily.

‘Good morning, Commander! Good morning! We got your message and it’s all laid on. Come along to the back quarters, will you? You don’t merit a
salon rouge
reception today,’ he teased. ‘Much more workaday surroundings, I’m afraid. Jack Pollock’s expecting you in his office. Being on the Ambassador’s staff, an attaché, if you like, at least he’s housed in relative comfort.’

Joe was shown into a ground-floor office at the rear of the building, looking out on to a courtyard garden. It was high-ceilinged, wood-panelled and stately. The walls were studded at intervals with sepia photographs of pre-war cricket teams. Joe noted the progression from public schoolboys to the undergraduates of an Oxford college whose first eleven was outstanding for its striped blazers, striped caps and ugly expressions. These were followed in the line-up by examples of the University side. The only touch of modernity was a black and gold telephone sitting on a mahogany desk next to a silver vase of spring flowers. A tall window was open, letting in the scent of lilac blossom and the sound of traffic rumbling along the Champs-Élysées.

The attaché was seated behind his desk thumbing through a file, one eye on the door.

Joe was prepared for a family resemblance but, even so, he was taken aback by the young version of Sir George who leapt from his seat and bounded across the room to greet him with a cheerful bellow. Pollock’s handshake was dry and vigorous, his welcome the equal of – and reminiscent of – that of any large yellow dog that Joe had ever met.

‘You’ll have a cup of coffee, or do you prefer tea, Commander? Tea? Harry – could you . . .? Let’s sit down, shall we? I won’t waste your time – busy man – I’ll just say how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this mess, Sandilands. Lucky for us you were here on the spot, or in mid-flight to be precise, when all this burst over our heads. But – first things first – how are the Varsity doing?’

‘Varsity? Doing?’ For a moment, Joe was perplexed.

‘The Surrey match,’ Pollock prompted. ‘First fixture of the season.’

‘Ah, yes. Last I heard, I rather think they were losing 3–1 at half-time.’

The stunned silence lasted only a second. Pollock threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course – Edinburgh man, aren’t you? Like my old relative, George. And how you must be cursing him! He might have expected to get into some trouble or other by taking a box at the Folies – might even have been relishing the thought – but surely not trouble of this magnitude. Never heard the like! He has told you that the ticket didn’t come from
me
, has he? Good! I wouldn’t like it assumed that I was remotely responsible. Not my style! But, I say, Sandilands – if
I
didn’t send the fatal billet – are we wondering who did? It must be someone, apart from myself, who knew he was going to be in Paris and is aware of our relationship. It could only be known through an ambassadorial contact – here in Paris, in London or in Delhi, I suppose.’

‘You’ve just narrowed it down to a thousand people,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you!’

Jack Pollock grinned, leaned over the desk and added: ‘I can narrow it more usefully to someone who knows that there’s no way in this world my cousin would have recognized my handwriting. I’d swear the last sample he had was the gracious note I wrote in appreciation of the mechanical tiger he sent me when I was at school.’

Pollock’s eyes twinkled at the memory. He looked at Joe, friendly but calculating. ‘Wonderful contraption! With a bit of devilish skill, a dab or two of honey and lashings of schoolboy callousness I contrived to get my tiger to snap up flies!’

‘The Tipu Sultan of the Lower Third?’

‘Exactly! I was allowed to demonstrate it on Sundays after tea. George had taken me to see the original life-sized tiger at the Victoria and Albert – you know – the one Tipu had made . . .
His
tiger was in the act of eating a British soldier. I’ll never forget the roars and screams it emitted when someone wound it up! And the way the victim’s arm twitched as the tiger held him in his jaws!’

Joe laughed. ‘George would know how to please. He has a certain magic with children. I’ve watched it working.’

‘Pity the old feller has none of his own,’ said Pollock, suddenly serious again. ‘What a waste of many things.’ He snapped back into the conversation he had himself interrupted. ‘But the note – I have no reason to suppose he’d recognize my scrawl. We were never frequent – or even regular – correspondents. Distance and the exigencies of the war rather put paid to intimacy of that kind. And the transition from uncle–nephew to equal adult cousins has never had a chance to take place. Not sure how it will all pan out . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.’

Joe listened to the outpouring of eager speculation and confidences, smiling and agreeing.

‘Now tell me – what have you done with him? I’m assuming you’ve put the boot in imperially and sprung him from whatever hell-hole they’d banged him up in?’ The question was put abstractedly, Pollock’s attention on the tray of tea a manservant carried in. ‘Just set it down over there, will you, Foxton? Milk or lemon, Sandilands?’

‘Milk, please.’

Returning to the first question he’d been asked: ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe carefully. ‘Still incarcerated, I’m sorry to say. Reasonably comfortable, I insisted on that, but still in a lock-up on the island. The authorities appear to be unimpressed by Sir George’s standing. I shall have another try later today. It may come down – or rather up – to a personal representation from the Ambassador himself.’

Pollock was angry. Whoever said that blue eyes could only be cool should have seen Pollock’s at this moment, Joe thought. They blazed. ‘What impertinence! Poor old George! He must be let out before the end of the day. Ring in and reassure me he is comfortably settled back in his hotel – where’s he staying? The Bristol? Of course. Well, the moment he gets there I’ll go and see him. And you, Sandilands – where are you staying?’

‘I’m at the Hotel Ambassador on the boulevard Haussman.’

Pollock made a note.

‘And all went well with the widow yesterday? Thank you for undertaking that unpleasant task!’

‘Unpleasant perhaps but not the harrowing experience it most often is. The lady seemed not particularly grieved to find her husband dead.’ Joe wondered how far he could pursue this line but the slight nod of agreement he received from Pollock encouraged him. ‘In fact she emerged from the identification scene a changed woman, I’d say. Reassured. Confident. Feeling a certain amount of release, no doubt? She was looking forward to an evening’s assignation at Fouquet’s with a companion whose identity is as yet unknown to us.’ He caught the echo of deadly police phrasing and added: ‘Give a lot to know who the lucky chap was!’

‘Oh, I think I can help you with that!’ said Pollock, enjoying the intrigue. ‘Doubtless the gentleman she sat next to on the plane – her travelling companion. Her constant companion for the past year, I understand. A Major Slingsby-Thwaite.’ Pollock lowered his voice though there was no risk of his being overheard. ‘Between you and me – bit of an adventurer! But then . . . perhaps that’s exactly what the lady’s after – a bit of an adventurer – after all those bleak years of being married to a murderous swine. I take it my cousin has filled you in on the activities of the unlamented Somerton?’

‘I’ve had a pungent account of the case. And agree with Sir George – the man got no less than he deserved. But you seem to be very well informed as to his movements, Pollock? Why does His Britannic Majesty’s Government take such an interest in an ex-this, a disgraced-that? A wandering has-been?’

‘Current nuisance! For many a year. We’ve always kept tabs on him, watched his movements around Europe. Passed him on to the next chap with a sigh of relief. The man made many enemies – he was always likely to be a target for revenge or embarrassing mayhem of one sort or another. And a thorough cashiering, though well-deserved, doesn’t, in my experience, turn a villain into a saint overnight. “Off with his buttons!” is in no way as effective as “Off with his head!”’

Pollock frowned for a moment and looked at Joe with speculation. ‘You may not approve, of course. But I see you are a military man. You must agree with Richard III when he was having his problems with . . . now who was it . . .?’

‘Lord Hastings, it was, who provoked that famous order for execution, I believe,’ said Joe, coming to his rescue. ‘In Shakespeare’s play.’

‘Quite right! Someone ought to have advised Sir George similarly at the time – “Off with his head!” Overtly or covertly if necessary. Either method easily available in that locale, you understand. No questions asked. Death closes all. George slipped up there. When they’re given the sack, some of these villains take the honourable way out of their situation – the revolver and the brandy on the terrace after a good dinner, a friend’s steady hand on the elbow – but the ones who go on fighting the judgement – you need to keep an eye on
them
. Trained soldiers, used to command, wily and unscrupulous – can cause havoc if they take it badly! Even in death, the wretch Somerton’s causing problems. And it all happened on my watch! I’d have thought he was harmless enough boxed up at the Folies. Glad he’s gone!’

‘As perhaps may be his son? I understand that Somerton was a baronet? So, the title is a hereditary one and will pass – has already passed – down to his only son.’

‘Yes. The world now has Sir Frederick Somerton to reckon with. An effortless way of acquiring a degree of nobility. Though a tarnished title. And one some might not be eager to parade. I’ll look into all this. The contents of the will, if the man left one, are not yet known. I’ll inform you if anything interesting comes up. Are you thinking that the young man got fed up with waiting for his absent reprobate father to drop off the twig? Young Frederick can’t have been easy, aware that the old man was roving about Europe, spending the family fortune. I understand this to have been quite sizeable at one time. Perhaps he decided to hurry things along a bit? Makes sense to me. He’ll have an uphill task, trying to burnish up the family name again, though. Old Somerton left quite a stink behind him!’

Intrigued by the nuances of speech and the unusual ideas they hinted at, Joe felt himself steered into asking with more familiarity than he would normally have assumed: ‘How are you placed, Pollock – dynastically speaking?’

He seemed ready enough to reply. ‘I’m not impressed by dynasties, successions, and all that family rubbish. I suppose I take that attitude from my father. My mother – oh, it’s well known – married beneath her, as they say, and my father brought me up to be very dismissive of all that inheritance nonsense. I went to a Good School where the other boys merely confirmed me in my prejudices. On the whole, the grander the nastier, I concluded. But – the system seduces us all, I suppose you’d say. Did I refuse my cousin’s offer of a recommendation to the right person? No. And I have to confess, Sandilands, that . . .’ Again he lowered his voice, taking Joe into his confidence, slightly embarrassed at what he was about to reveal. ‘ . . . there’s a chance . . . a good chance . . . that there’ll be an honour in the offing for me before very long. Knee on the velvet cushion, sword on the shoulder, “Arise, Sir John” stuff! And, do you know – I shan’t feel inclined to turn it down. I’ll have earned it. It will be my own achievement and will owe nothing to a scheming old ancestor having pleased some capricious monarch in the dim and distant.’

‘So, if we were making a book on the runners and riders in the Somerton slaying, we’d be giving short odds on the new baronet?’

‘I’d certainly leave him on the list until we have more information. And his mother. At slightly longer odds, of course. Any more suspicions?’

‘Vague ones. Tell me, Pollock – there’s been a suggestion that the whole thing was staged deliberately to be witnessed by Sir George . . . or for the delectation of someone else in the audience. What’s your opinion on that?’

Pollock frowned. ‘A bit far-fetched but not out of the question, I suppose,’ he replied cagily.

‘I wonder if it had occurred to you that there might be a similarity with another crime scene you were dragged into some four years ago? I only mention this because the officiating pathologist at both crimes turns out to be one and the same – efficient fellow called Moulin.’

Pollock’s face livened at the name. ‘I remember. Yes, indeed. Good man! Effective and businesslike. And the scene was in the Louvre of all places! Good God, is it really four years? To me it’s as clear as if it happened yesterday. Did he fill you in . . .?’

‘Yes, he gave me the details of the discovery of the body, the means of killing, the identity of the corpse and so on. But the most interesting thing he had to say was that, in common with that of Somerton, the murder was undertaken as a form of display to an invited audience of Egyptologists and academics, who all had reason to hate the man. Did you have the same feeling, I wonder?’

‘Certainly did! The whole event was – well, just that! – an event. Apart from the representatives of law and order, there were three of us non-combatants, so to speak, caught up in the sorry scene. A very nice couple of Americans who raised the alarm when they caught sight of the blood pool under the coffin box – and me.’

‘What on earth were you doing in the Louvre? Did anyone orchestrate
your
movements on that day?’

‘Do you know – that thought never occurred to me! No . . . I’d say it was impossible. I was newly at the Embassy. Relatively low-ranking, of no significance in this context. Has George told you how I spent the war years? No? Well, knowing something of Egypt, and speaking a few languages, I was posted into Intelligence there. I picked up first-hand experience of the tricky political situation in the country. Powder keg! Wanting its independence from Britain, France, Italy, Turkey and every other piratical nation that thought it had a claim on its archaeological resources, to say nothing of its strategic and geographical advantages. After demob which came at very long last – always one more dispute to preside over – it was thought I could use the skills I’d acquired on the ground, here in Paris.