Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [74]
Pitt smiled, and ate a whole slice of bread and sipped his wine before he pursued the reason he had come.
‘I need to make some very discreet enquiries: government, you understand?’
‘Of course. What can I tell you?’ McIver nodded.
‘Frobisher,’ Pitt replied. ‘Expatriate Englishman living here in St Malo. Would he be the right man to approach to ask a small service to his country? Please be candid. It is of . . . importance, your understand?’
‘Oh quite – quite.’ McIver leaned forward a little. ‘I beg you, sir, consider very carefully. I don’t know your business, of course, but Frobisher is not a serious man.’ He made a slight gesture of distaste. ‘He likes to cultivate some very odd friends. He pretends to be a socialist, you know, a man of the people. But between you and me, it is entirely a pose. He mistakes untidiness and a certain levity of manner for being an ordinary man of limited means.’ He shook his head. ‘He potters around and considers it to be working with his hands, as if he had the discipline of an artisan who must work to live, but he has very substantial means, which he has no intention of sharing with others, believe me.’
Although Pitt had begun to wonder if there were anything more to Frobisher than the comfortable way of life there seemed, he still felt a sinking of bitter disappointment from McIver’s words. If this were not what West had been going to tell them about, and for which he had been killed, then why was Wrexham still here? Why had men like Linsky and Meister visited?
‘Are you sure?’ he said as politely as he could. However he said it, he was still questioning McIver’s judgement.
‘As sure as anyone can be,’ McIver replied. ‘Made a lot of noise, prancing about striking poses, but never done a thing in his life.’
‘He had some very violent and well-known people visiting him.’ Pitt clung to the argument, unwilling to concede that they had spent over a week here for nothing, still more, that West had died for a farce, a piece of pointless pretence.
‘See ’em yourself?’ McIver asked.
‘Yes. One of them in particular is very distinctive,’ Pitt told him. Then even as he said it, he realised how easy it was to ape a man as unusual as Linsky. He had never seen Linsky except in photographs, taken at a distance. The hatchet features, the greasy hair would not be so hard to copy. And Jacob Meister was ordinary enough.
But why? What was the purpose of it all?
That too was now hideously clear – to distract Pitt and Gower from their real purpose. It had succeeded brilliantly, until this moment. Even now, Pitt was confused, struggling to make sense, and with no idea what to do next.
‘I’m sorry,’ McIver said sadly. ‘But the man’s an ass. I can’t say differently. You’d be a fool to trust him in anything that matters. And I hardly imagine you’d have come this far for something trivial. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I don’t get into St Malo very often, but if there’s anything I can do, you have only to name it, you know.’
Pitt forced himself to smile. ‘Thank you, but it would really need a resident of St Malo. But I’m grateful to you for saving me from making a bad mistake.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ McIver brushed it away with a gesture. ‘I say, do have some more cheese. Nobody makes a cheese like the French – except perhaps the Wensleydale, or a good Caerphilly.’
Pitt smiled. ‘I like a double Gloucester, myself.’
‘Yes, yes,’ McIver agreed. ‘I forgot that. Well, we’ll grant the cheese equal status. But you can’t beat a good French wine!’
‘You can’t even equal it,’ Pitt agreed.