Folly Du Jour

‘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 Brita

‘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 di

‘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 ru

‘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?’