Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [113]
‘I agree to your terms,’ Bonnefoye said after a long pause. ‘And, madame, please do not think of deceiving me. I too have a very long reach.’
‘John Pollock,’ she said simply and held out her mug for more coffee.
Joe got to his feet, agitated, barely able to keep his hands off her. He wanted to shake her until she told the truth. A different truth. ‘I don’t believe a word of this. Nonsense! I’ve met the man. A cousin of Sir George’s would never . . .’ He stopped himself from further reinforcing her jaundiced view of men. He was quite certain that she resented the easy camaraderie between them. Why should he trust John Pollock after a half-hour’s interview and herself not at all after five years, was her flawed reasoning.
‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Bonnefoye, icily polite, ‘but to clarify: you are accusing Sir George’s cousin not only of masterminding a series of improbable murders in the French capital and now we must understand in London also – but of accepting a commission from a fellow countryman to kill his own cousin? You say he did not question the projected crime but went along with it, planned it, and had it not been for your intervention, would have executed it?’
Alice considered. ‘Yes. That’s just about it. Well done. Will you write that down or shall I?’
‘I think we ought at this point to mention the word “motive”. Why on earth would he do that?’
‘Oh, come on! Can you be so unaware? What sort of detectives am I dealing with? Must I do all the work?’
‘Be kind, Alice,’ warned Joe.
‘Very well. George doesn’t talk much of it but he’s actually filthy rich, you know. Stands to reason! The man had a finger in every pie in India and many of them are full of plums. That’s what India was all about, you know. John Company . . . exploitation . . . Empire . . . it all boils down to cash. In accounts in Switzerland in many cases. George, with his knowledge of the way things would go – and he it was who pushed them where he wanted them to go on occasions – was well placed to make the most spectacular investments. He’s retired and come home to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He has no heir. For many years his cousin has been – still is – named in his will as recipient of his wealth. But John has lately become concerned about his cousin’s intentions . . . his state of mind . . . Unleashed from the stifling routine of India, he seems about to plunge into a world of gaiety. Who knows? Perhaps he might even be entrapped into marriage by some girl on the make? And produce an heir of his own within the year? It happens a dozen times a season in Paris! Pity I didn’t think of it myself! Much safer to accept Somerton’s timely commission. After all – the responsibility lies with the client, doesn’t it?’
‘Jack Pollock earns a perfectly decent salary. He may well be ennobled in the near future off his own bat. He doesn’t need, like Frederick Somerton, to wait around to inherit a title.’
Again he was rewarded with the pitying, world-weary gaze. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to underpin the life of a titled man? The estate? The household? The ceremony? The motor cars? The city house? The upkeep of a future Lady Pollock? He is like, yet not like George. Don’t be deceived. They are opposite sides of the same coin. Made from the same metal but the features are different. Jack is extravagant, fast-living. Ruthless, they are both ruthless, but, unlike George, his cousin has no conscience.’
‘Set and Osiris,’ Bonnefoye murmured. ‘I knew that ugly creature would stick his bent nose in before long. Good God! That little scene at the Louvre must have given him the idea for all this carnage! Planted a seed!’
Alice looked from one to the other in puzzlement. They didn’t bother to explain.
Half an hour later, a document had been drawn up to Alice