Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [75]
‘You’ll have a cup of coffee, or do you prefer tea, Commander? Tea? Harry – could you . . .? Let’s sit down, shall we? I won’t waste your time – busy man – I’ll just say how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this mess, Sandilands. Lucky for us you were here on the spot, or in mid-flight to be precise, when all this burst over our heads. But – first things first – how are the Varsity doing?’
‘Varsity? Doing?’ For a moment, Joe was perplexed.
‘The Surrey match,’ Pollock prompted. ‘First fixture of the season.’
‘Ah, yes. Last I heard, I rather think they were losing 3–1 at half-time.’
The stunned silence lasted only a second. Pollock threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course – Edinburgh man, aren’t you? Like my old relative, George. And how you must be cursing him! He might have expected to get into some trouble or other by taking a box at the Folies – might even have been relishing the thought – but surely not trouble of this magnitude. Never heard the like! He has told you that the ticket didn’t come from me, has he? Good! I wouldn’t like it assumed that I was remotely responsible. Not my style! But, I say, Sandilands – if I didn’t send the fatal billet – are we wondering who did? It must be someone, apart from myself, who knew he was going to be in Paris and is aware of our relationship. It could only be known through an ambassadorial contact – here in Paris, in London or in Delhi, I suppose.’
‘You’ve just narrowed it down to a thousand people,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you!’
Jack Pollock grinned, leaned over the desk and added: ‘I can narrow it more usefully to someone who knows that there’s no way in this world my cousin would have recognized my handwriting. I’d swear the last sample he had was the gracious note I wrote in appreciation of the mechanical tiger he sent me when I was at school.’
Pollock’s eyes twinkled at the memory. He looked at Joe, friendly but calculating. ‘Wonderful contraption! With a bit of devilish skill, a dab or two of honey and lashings of schoolboy callousness I contrived to get my tiger to snap up flies!’
‘The Tipu Sultan of the Lower Third?’
‘Exactly! I was allowed to demonstrate it on Sundays after tea. George had taken me to see the original life-sized tiger at the Victoria and Albert – you know – the one Tipu had made . . . His tiger was in the act of eating a British soldier. I’ll never forget the roars and screams it emitted when someone wound it up! And the way the victim’s arm twitched as the tiger held him in his jaws!’
Joe laughed. ‘George would know how to please. He has a certain magic with children. I’ve watched it working.’
‘Pity the old feller has none of his own,’ said Pollock, suddenly serious again. ‘What a waste of many things.’ He snapped back into the conversation he had himself interrupted. ‘But the note – I have no reason to suppose he’d recognize my scrawl. We were never frequent – or even regular – correspondents. Distance and the exigencies of the war rather put paid to intimacy of that kind. And the transition from uncle–nephew to equal adult cousins has never had a chance to take place. Not sure how it will all pan out . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.’
Joe listened to the outpouring of eager speculation and confidences, smiling and agreeing.
‘Now tell me – what have you done with him? I’m assuming you’ve put the boot in imperially and sprung him from whatever hell-hole they’d banged him up in?’ The question was put abstractedly, Pollock’s attention on the tray of tea a manservant carried in. ‘Just set it down over there, will you, Foxton? Milk or lemon, Sandilands?’
‘Milk, please.’
Returning to the first question he’d been asked: ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe carefully. ‘Still incarcerated, I’m sorry to say. Reasonably comfortable, I insisted on that, but still in a lock-up on the island. The authorities appear to be unimpressed by Sir George’s standing. I shall have another try later today. It may come down – or rather up – to a personal representation from the Ambassador