Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [27]
For George’s sake, he calmed himself. His old friend, he calculated from the evidence of his senses, had been kept standing here in this ghastly room for twelve hours with no water or food while his interrogator lounged, coffee in hand, taking time off from his questioning through the night, relieved by his sergeant at intervals. Joe imagined Fourier had a camp bed somewhere about the place to which he could retire when the proceedings began to bore him.
Joe glanced with concern at George’s legs. Long, strong old legs, a polo player’s legs, but he was aware of an involuntary twitching in the region of the knees. There were shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. One of those eyes was almost closed now by the spreading purple bruise. The other bravely essayed a wink. With a stab of pity, Joe determined to make a clandestine but close inspection of the knuckles of both Chief Inspector and sergeant. Whichever had done the damage to George’s face would pay.
Fourier gave him sufficient time to absorb the prisoner’s condition and to spring an attack and, as it did not materialize, he added further fuel to Joe’s anger. ‘Breakfast? Not quite sure where milord thinks he is . . . the Crillon, perhaps? As he seems to be prepared to react to you perhaps you could convey my regrets. No information, no refreshment. I can keep him here for a further twelve hours, though I would not like to mar my reputation with the magistrate for speed and efficiency.’
The scornful ‘milord’ had given Joe an insight into Fourier’s character. He had already noted the countryman’s accent. He was not experienced enough to identify it but it quite definitely was not a Parisian voice and it was not the voice of a man who prided himself on his culture as did most of the Frenchmen Joe had met. This implacable, humourless man could, in a past century, have taken his place on the Committee of Public Safety alongside Danton, Marat, Robespierre and the other bloodthirsty monsters who had spawned the Revolution. Only three generations separated him from his sans-culotte ancestor, Joe supposed. And here was the descendant, still flaunting his traditional twin hatreds: the aristocracy and the English. George was doubly his target.
Joe’s fists clenched at his sides but it was Bonnefoye who cracked first.
Chapter Seven
Joe had been aware for some time that shame had been doing battle with disciplined deference in his friend. But the young Inspector was a Burgundian by birth and possessing the Burgundian traits almost to the point of caricature. Merry, deep-drinking, wily and – above all – proud.
Bonnefoye stalked to the desk, seized the Perrier bottle by its elegant neck and proceeded to fill the water glass with the deft movements of a waiter. ‘The Crillon it clearly is not,’ he said affably, ‘nor yet is it the Black Hole of Calcutta.’
He presented the glass to George and watched him empty it with one draught, bubbles and all. George handed it back with an appreciative belch.
‘Eternally grateful, young man.’
‘George, this is my colleague Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye. Inspector Bonnefoye,’ said Joe. ‘Though not for much longer,’ he added to himself with an eye on Fourier. Expressionless, the Chief Inspector had unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and was making a note on a pad at his elbow.
Was recklessness a Burgundian characteristic? Or was it Gascon? Joe wondered. Whichever it might be, Bonnefoye was demonstrating it with relish. His next act of defiance was to reach over and ring the bell. The sergeant came in at once. ‘We need some chairs in here. Fetch three,’ said Bonnefoye.
‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the sergeant. He looked sideways for a countermanding order, but, receiving none, bustled out.
Another note was scratched on the pad. Fourier’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant grimace which Joe was alarmed to interpret as a smile.
A moment later three stacked chairs made their appearance and