Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [117]
Bluster, Joe thought with a stab of pity. Even Amélie looked away, uneasy.
‘And her other nightmare is, as she and you would have it – my cousin. My cousin! Little Jackie. No, he’s a good fellow. Self-opinionated, over-active, too clever by half and something of a bounder in his early years but – by God! – the man’s a gentleman!’ He thought intensely for a moment and added: ‘I think you’ll probably recognize me in that description? And you’re right. He’s very like me, you know. Do you seriously believe I would go about taking orders for bespoke crimes?’ He put on the unctuous tones of a Savile Row assistant: ‘“And does Sir have a style in mind? We can offer the assisted leap from the Eiffel Tower, the dagger in the ribs at the Garrick, and, on special offer this week, blood-letting in the Louvre? A snip at two and six!”’
‘I understand, sir, that you have met your cousin at long intervals . . . people change . . . similar men may have just one slight distinction which sends them spinning off in different directions. You’ve heard of the villain Fantômas? Bonnefoye tells me his twin brother was the police inspector Juve of the Brigade Criminelle. Two men incredibly alike in their cunning, perseverance and energy. But at some point in their history, their paths diverged and their similar qualities carried them off towards opposite ends. One good, the other evil.’
George considered this. ‘Balderdash!’ he concluded. ‘Psychological piffle! Fiction! This is real life we’re considering.’
‘But real death also, George,’ murmured Madame Bonnefoye.
‘Amélie,’ he said. ‘My coat! Only one way to settle this. I’ll go and find Jackie and ask him.’ Catching her dismay, he hesitated and then added gently, ‘But not, perhaps, before we’ve sampled the navarin d’agneau printanier. I’ve put a bottle of Gigondas to breathe. Hope that was all right?’
‘Perfect! But, listen! It’s a stew. It will reheat beautifully,’ she said comfortably. ‘Tomorrow, or later this evening. Just come home for it. All of you.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Sir George! At last! Welcome, sir. How good to see you out and about again . . . Gentlemen . . .’
Beneath Harry Quantock’s bluff greeting Joe sensed a trickle of tension flowing.
‘To see Pollock? Well, of course . . . and yes, he is in the building at the moment. Um . . . look – why don’t you come along to his study and wait for him there? I’ll have him paged. He’s upstairs in the salon dancing attendance on the Ambassador’s lady. Actually,’ he confided, ‘this could be rather a bad moment. They’re just about to take off for the opera. His Excellency can’t abide the opera so John usually undertakes escort duties. Are you quite certain this can’t wait?’ Oh, very well . . .’
They went to wait in the study, choosing to stare at the cricket photographs rather than catch each other’s eye. George was looking confident, in his element. Bonnefoye was looking uncomfortable. Joe was just looking, taking in the neatness and utter normality of everything around him. All papers were filed in trays and left ready for the morning’s work. The flowers in one corner of the desk had been replenished. On the mantelpiece, the photograph frame surrounding his mother’s smiling Victorian features had been polished up. In the bin, a week-old copy of The Times, open at the crossword puzzle. Completed.
Pollock swept in a few minutes later, handsome in evening dress. He surprised Joe by heading at once for George, who had risen to his feet, and enveloping him in a hug. The two men muttered and exclaimed together for a while, holding each other at arm’s length to verify that, yes, both were looking in the pink of good health and Paris was obviously agreeing with them.
He turned his attention to Joe and Bonnefoye, and George introduced the young Frenchman. Pleasantries were exchanged. Joe had the clear feeling that Pollock