Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘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.

‘I owe my present position to George — were you aware of this? When I got here I found that the war was still being fought out amongst the archaeological cliques! And that’s what I was doing at the museum that day. On neutral territory, away from embassies, we were having a meeting, trying to reach an agreement between four nations growling like dogs over a bone. Well, several thousand bones, as it happened. A whole newly discovered burial chamber. And the digging rights were in dispute. Not as straightforward as you might expect — many borders were still being negotiated in those days after the war.

‘We’d come to something approaching a position all could accept and were gratefully on our way home when we were accosted by a frightfully concerned American who thought he’d discovered someone bleeding to death in a coffin case. Well, I assume the doctor who arrived shortly after that has filled you in?’

He paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Moulin did not mislead you. I agree with him. There was something very strange going on. I was so occupied with keeping the peace I was perhaps a bit slow to catch on. It wasn’t until later at police headquarters. . The Americans — the Whites — fled. The wife was feeling ill. Got clean away. But their consciences overcame them afterwards and they duly reported to the police, who set up the interview and took their statement. Mr White asked particularly if I could be present to help with the language. A sensible arrangement and a task I was pleased to carry out. Very nice people, as I said. He was an army sergeant who’d been decorated for bravery on the Marne, I believe. I’ve never understood why they call those Yanks “doughboys”, have you? Most unfortunate. Conjures up images of puffy-faced, spotty youths, soft to the touch. This man was as hard as a well-seasoned oak beam. And smart. We talked later, off the record, so to speak, and he put his ideas to me. I had to agree with him. He’d seen more than I had and made better sense of it. And his wife’s insights were even more acute!

‘Sandilands, the audience were there by invitation, I’d swear it. Someone had arranged the whole thing. A ringmaster of sorts. Set the scene, knowing it would go down well. A much-hated man had got his just deserts.’

‘Would it be too fanciful, do you think, to assume that this, um, ringmaster had gone on cracking his whip? Organizing spectacles of this kind? Perhaps this wasn’t the first? Perhaps it wasn’t the last?’ Joe suggested tentatively as though the idea had just occurred to him. He spoke with the diffidence of one putting such a ridiculous suspicion into words.

Pollock was astonished. Then he smiled. ‘You didn’t know? Well, how could you be expected to know? Just nipped over the Channel for a few days. . no access to records. . Oh, I do beg your pardon! How rude of me! It’s just that. . you’ve shown such insight. . delved so deep in no time at all — the temptation is to assume Scotland Yard is omniscient. It takes a diplomat with fingers in many pies, a nosy bugger like me, someone with months to reflect on it, to get the full picture.’

Joe’s easy smile showed that he was not at all put out by Pollock’s frankness.

‘The murderer was indeed in the room. Enjoying his little show. When I thought about it, I was only surprised he didn’t take a bow or lead the applause.’

Pollock became suddenly serious and Joe caught sight of the tenacity and moral muscle that lay beneath the insouciant surface. ‘There were several nationalities involved, you understand, Sandilands. At least three Englishmen present and participating. There were men I had had dealings with in the past and with whom I could expect to deal in the future, men whose hospitality I would be accepting, men on whose good will I would have to count. But I hadn’t been so long in the business that I no longer cared whether the hand I was shaking had blood on it. I made a few enquiries, put two and two together and came up, I believe, with the right answer.’

‘You have his identity?’ Joe tried to keep his voice level.

‘Certainly have! And the excellent Maybelle White confirmed my suspicions!’

Joe waited, allowing him to savour his moment of intrigue.

‘The murderer wasn’t concealing himself or his motive with very great care. What a show-off! I expect you , sharp fellow that you are, would have been waiting by the door to finger his collar.’

The ball had been patted back into his court and Joe wondered whether he was being tested in some mildly playful way. Readying himself to provide an entertaining belly-flop, he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and checked that what he was seeking was there. He remembered the details of Dr Moulin’s story and plunged in. ‘It was, of course, the jocular prestidigitator who pulled the gold amulet of the god Set out of his victim’s mouth! Rather in this manner. .’

Joe flourished the trinket he’d palmed, holding it between finger and thumb, enjoying Pollock’s astonishment. This was followed swiftly by a burst of laughter.