Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Not a very flattering picture but I do hope you’re right,’ said Joe soberly. ‘Because the alternative might be to suppose that Heather and George were standing a whisker away from the stilettos of the Sons of the Apaches.’

  Bonnefoye laughed silently.

  ‘But before you write off my fishing expedition as a trip down the garden path, answer me this – is there any reason why Francine Raissac might decide to confide in a bloke like me? I didn’t invoke my charm particularly, nor did I resort to strong-arm tactics . . . A little light coercion, perhaps, but nothing she couldn’t have seen through and side-stepped if she’d wanted to. I’d say she was playing my game. Why would she choose to pass on to a man she’s never met before, and a foreign policeman at that, a piece of information that might be vital to the solution of last night’s murder?’

  Bonnefoye was silent, tugging at his moustache, unable to meet his eye.

  ‘What reason?’ Joe insisted.

  Finally, ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you I had three urgent cases on my books?’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘I was supposed to shelve them or delegate them until the end of the week for this conference. But, you know how it is . . .’

  Again Joe nodded. ‘Can’t be done. Especially when you see threads running through them which fresh eyes might not be able to connect.’

  ‘Right. Well, one of them involves this hooligan brother, this Alfred. It’s thought he was in a fight with three or four other men down by the Canal St Martin. Some bargees reported a scuffle and screams. Nightly occurrence! No one took much notice. Alfred disappeared on that night and hasn’t been seen again since. His sister reported him missing. She was supposed to be having coffee with him as she always does on a Sunday afternoon – passing on some of her wages no doubt. She gets paid on a Saturday. He didn’t turn up. She made an incursion – brave girl – into his territory and caught hold of one of his pals. He told her nothing but the terror in his reaction, she reports, was enough to make her fear the worst. And then, late last night, before I came out to meet you at the airport, on my desk, a note from the morgue.

  ‘A body of a young man fished from the canal. No identification but the description fits Alfred.’

  ‘Have you had time to go and see it?’ said Joe.

  He had a memory of walking past three dripping bodies on slabs on his way to view Somerton. ‘The night’s catch,’ the pathologist had commented. ‘A poor haul.’

  ‘No. Been too caught up with your business, Joe.’

  ‘Cause of death? Is it known?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was very clear. And it wasn’t drowning.’ Bonnefoye’s sentences were growing shorter and shorter as his tension increased. ‘The ultimate cause of death was a stiletto to the heart.’

  ‘Ultimate?’ Joe picked up the word.

  ‘Yes. That’s what killed him. Finished him off. But before he died, his lips had been sewn together. With a length of black cobbler’s thread.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Joe groaned and put his head in his hands.

  Not histrionics, he thought, but hysterics or verging on it. Francine Raissac had been mourning her brother, still raw from the Inspector’s description of his death, bruised, no doubt, by what Bonnefoye called ‘his rough-tough image’, when the English policeman had come bumbling in on his two left feet, making, with insouciance, silly remarks about her panda’s eyes. Eyes swollen not, as he’d unthinkingly assumed, by interrupted sleep but by grief. Mascara smudged by tears.

  Joe tormented himself and Bonnefoye by insisting on going over some of his worst remarks. ‘“Bespoke killing . . . made-to-measure murder,” I said! Can you believe that? How crass! How hurtful!’

  ‘How were you to know? You weren’t, Joe. And with all that sewing equipment about the place – I have to say – rather an apt if unfortunate image. Now stop this!’

  ‘She hinted at it, you know . . . said she might herself be discovered with her mouth sewn up with – I think she said scarlet – thread. And scissors in her heart. She was using the facts of the death you’d just dropped into her lap to illustrate something – something she was frightened to disclose but . . .’

  ‘I think her grief pushed her to tell you too much. She didn’t tell me, she was still stunned. Gave me nothing. I’ve seen this before. Shock makes them clam up. Then the anger begins to build up. By the time you got to her and flashed your understanding eyes at her, the desire for revenge had taken over and she was ready to pop. You were treated to her explosion and didn’t have the facts to help you to make sense of it. But her insinuations – that there’s a clandestine assassination agency with a flair for the dramatic out and about and doing business in Paris – what do we make of that? Ludicrous, surely? And it has no name. What in hell would you call it?’ He grinned. ‘Shakespeare & Co.? No, that’s been used. Bookshop, I think. How about Death by Design?’

  ‘Bonnefoye, there are two corpses laid out side by side in the Institut Médico-Légal. Alfred Raissac and Sir Stanley Somerton, unlikely morgue-mates. Knifed to death, the pair of them, and they’re not laughing with us.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s the only way through the nastiness. But it’s not like you to be such an old misery guts? La belle Francine seems to have had quite an effect on you. Always a danger with these girls.’

  ‘No, Jean-Philippe! That’s the problem. She isn’t just one of “these girls”. I thought she was a very fine young woman. And I’m deeply sorry that I must have – albeit unconsciously – offended and upset her at a distressing moment in her life.’

  ‘Hard to avoid that in this job,’ commented Bonnefoye. ‘Always offending someone. But – look – put her out of your mind and concentrate on the most important character in all this. We’ve hardly given him a thought since it started.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Somerton. The victim. The moment George wakes up I’m going to want to know exactly how the two are connected. There’s something he’s not told us. George is an accomplished liar. It’s not like him to do it badly. That’s what concerns me. But, if he hasn’t told us, can you blame him? – we haven’t got around to asking him yet. Though I’m sure old Fourier must have made the attempt.’

  They both turned to the bed where, from his pillows, George gave a fluttering and extended snore. They waited for him to turn and settle again before they continued their hushed conversation.

  ‘While you’re filling in background on Somerton, I’ll go off and take a look at this address in Montparnasse,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘The one Francine confided. I’m getting to know that area quite well. I’ll be able to make more sense of it than you would, I imagine. Oh – and don’t forget you’re due to escort the Lady Somerton to the morgue.’

  He took out a notebook and checked a page. ‘A message came to headquarters. I ring in every hour and there’s usually something for me. Six o’clock at the British Embassy. Can you pick the lady up there? The Embassy’s just down the road from here. Very convenient. Oh, they stipulated number 39, rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. That’s the residence of the Ambassador – not the offices next door. That gives you forty minutes to smarten yourself up. No time to go back to your hotel . . . Why not borrow one of Sir George’s shirts? You’re about the same size. He’s got a drawer full of them over there. And a hat? Never did get your louche fedora back but you’ll find something suitable if you look in the wardrobe.

  ‘And look, Joe . . .’ Bonnefoye weighed his next announcement, suddenly unsure of himself. ‘You’ll probably think I’m overreacting to circumstances . . . put it down to Gallic hysteria if you like . . . but I think we should move Sir George out of here. To a safer place.’

  ‘I agree. Sensible proposal,’ said Joe. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘The rue Mouffetard,’ he said. ‘My mother’s apartment. She’s used to soldiers. My father and uncles were in the army. She’ll take good care of him. I’ll take him out the back way through the kitchens. When you’ve fin
ished at the morgue why don’t you come along and check his accommodation? He’s technically in your custody, after all! It’s above the baker’s shop halfway down. Got a map? Here let me show you . . .’

  ‘Before you start dressing to impress the widow, Joe, why don’t you get acquainted with my razor?’ George’s jovial voice was brisk. Not in the least sleepy. ‘No newfangled patent safety razor on offer, I’m afraid. I always use an old-fashioned cut-throat. You must pardon the expression in the circumstances.’

  Bonnefoye shrugged and grinned and went with the smooth efficiency of a valet to select a shirt.

  ‘Let me mark your card, Joe.’ This was the old Sir George, good-humouredly in charge, presiding. ‘Now, the present Ambassador is the Marquess of Crewe. Can’t help you there. Never met the chap. Though I was well acquainted with his predecessor. Hardinge. Viceroy of India for many years. And a good one. Anyway, play it by ear and if it seems appropriate to do so, convey my respects and good wishes to whoever seems to be expecting them . . . you know the routine, Joe.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the top brass will be parading for a mere Scotland Yard detective and a widow on a lugubrious mission, sir.’

  George pursed his lips for a moment, assessing the social niceties of the situation. ‘You’re probably right, my boy. Six o’clock. Dashed inconvenient time for them to be landed with handing a distraught old lady over to the bluebottles. They’ll be preparing to welcome guests for whatever shindig they’ve got planned for tonight. Sociable lot at the Embassy! Always some sort of soirée on. You’ll probably find they’ve tethered the old girl to a gatepost outside, awaiting collection.

  ‘No, Bonnefoye! Not that one! Wherever did you get your training? He’s not bound for the golf course! Find a boiled shirt, my dear chap! Yes, that’ll do. Collars top left. Grey felt hat in the cupboard. Nothing grander. Don’t want to look as though you’ve turned up for the canapés.’

  At five minutes to six Joe stood, getting his breath back, in front of the Embassy, transfixed by the perfection of the Louis XV façade. Balanced and harmonious and, in this most grandiose quarter of Paris, managing to avoid pomposity, it smiled a welcome. He almost looked for George’s gatepost but of course there was none. An elegant pillared portico announced the entrance; doors wide open gave glimpses of figures dimly perceived and moving swiftly about in the interior. As he watched, electric lights flicked on in all the windows of the first two floors. The reception rooms. Obviously a soirée about to take place.

  He collected his thoughts and strode to the door.

  The liveried doorman barely glanced at the card in his extended hand. ‘You are expected, Commander. Will you follow me?’

  He passed Joe on, into the care of an aide in evening dress who came hurrying into the vestibule to shake his hand. ‘Sandilands? How do you do? So glad you could come. Harry Quantock. Deputy assistant to the Ambassador. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid, sir. His Excellency sends his greetings – he’s at the moment rather tied up with the string band.’ At the upwards flick of an elegant hand, Joe caught the sounds of a small orchestra essaying a piece of Elgar somewhere above their heads. The deputy assistant grimaced. ‘French band, English tunes . . . not a good mix. I sometimes think they do it on purpose.’

  ‘Still seeking revenge for Waterloo?’ suggested Joe. ‘Ouch! I’d surrender at once.’

  ‘We won’t hear them in the red salon, come with me.’ Quantock led him across the impressive space in front of them. Airy, well proportioned and sparely decorated. ‘Le hall d’entrée,’ announced his guide with a perfect accent.

  Joe had an impression of cool grey and white marble tiles leading the eye to the graceful curve of a great staircase. The delicate wrought-iron handrail outlining it sparkled with gold and bronze, promising further wonders as it wound upwards.

  Quantock leaned to him and confided: ‘Most of the refurbishment was done with impeccable taste by Napoleon’s favourite sister. And there she is – Pauline Borghese.’

  Joe nodded in acknowledgement as they passed her portrait. The young princess, slim and lovely in her high-bosomed gown, was as handsome as her house.

  ‘Pity about the curtains, don’t you think? Red velvet!’ Quantock was shuddering. ‘Too Edwardian for words! And the theme continues through here in le salon rouge.’ He paused by a closed door. ‘Your charge, Lady Somerton, is in here, taking sherry and flirting with the Duke of Wellington. They will do it! His Grace still exerts a certain power over the ladies.’

  Joe entered a room richly decorated, in contrast with the restrained hall. In the centre, a gleaming round mahogany table stood precisely in the rosette of a deep red turkey carpet and was overhung by a stunning chandelier. Gilded mirrors applied to each of the red walls reflected the flickering lights of candles in sconces, and in the middle of all this magnificence Joe had to hunt for the figure of Lady Somerton. She was standing at the end of the room, empty sherry glass in hand, still, black-clad, almost a shadow. She was looking up at a portrait. Transfixed, she did not hear them enter.

  As they drew near she began to speak: ‘Arthur Wellesley. The Iron Duke. Now there was a man one can admire! So handsome! So competent! I’m just surprised, after what he did to the French, that they allow us to display him, Mr Quantock.’

  ‘His Grace was himself Ambassador for a year here in 1814, immediately before his victory at Waterloo, your ladyship,’ Quantock reminded her. ‘And therefore takes his rightful place on these walls.’ He performed the introductions. ‘May I refill your glass? And how about you, sir? Would you like some sherry?’ He went to pour the drinks himself from a sideboard, tactfully leaving Joe to continue the conversation.

  ‘His quality leaps from the canvas, don’t you agree?’ she continued, determined apparently to hear his views.

  ‘It’s all in the nose, I believe,’ said Joe, annoyed that the widow appeared far more interested in Wellington than in himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon? The nose, did you say?’

  ‘Yes. Look at it. An ice-breaker! Apromontory! Your hero could have fought a duel with Cyrano and they would have needed no other weapons.’

  At last she smiled. ‘Noses. In the Bois. At dawn. I’d have put my money on the Duke.’

  Her attention caught, Joe moved easily into the routine of expressing sorrow for the death of the lady’s husband. His smooth sentiments were graciously received, helped along with sighs and sips of sherry. Quantock politely sought the most recent information on the tragedy and Joe gave him an acceptable and highly edited account. The task before him was to point this uncertain dark horse at a rather taxing fence and he wanted to avoid scaring her off. Without appearing to do so, he studied the widow, assessing her strengths and qualities. Exactly what he was expecting. Apart from her age. She was middle-aged, possibly as much as forty, but at any rate, more than a decade younger than her late husband. Quite a normal age gap in military families. He could imagine that, with promotion in mind – possibly Colonel the next step – Somerton had been taken on one side by a superior officer and advised to marry. And, one summer, on home leave, he’d met and courted this woman. What had she said her name was? She’d rather particularly during the introductions corrected young Quantock. ‘Lady Somerton no longer,’ she’d informed them. ‘With Sir Stanley dead and the title gone to his son, my daughter-in-law is the present Lady Somerton. I am now to be addressed as Catherine, Lady Somerton.’ The voice was educated, Home Counties.

  Her face was pale, enlivened by a gallant touch of rouge along the cheekbones. Quenched but pretty. Her hair was light brown, not greying yet, her eyes hazel. She’d chosen her dress well. Black, of course, but silk and well cut. The drama was relieved by a double strand of pearls around her throat and matching pearl earrings that peeped out just below her bobbed hair.

  Joe enquired amiably and sympathetically about her flight over the Channel. She declared she’d enjoyed it but he set her brave comment against the betraying rise and fall of her pearls as s
he failed to restrain a gulp. The conversation, which was never going to be an easy one, felt as discordant as the strains of the Gallic version of ‘Nimrod’ filtering along the corridor and all three were relieved to draw it to a close.

  Harry Quantock escorted his guests back to the front door where, to Joe’s surprise, an Embassy car was waiting for them. A manservant hurried forward with madame’s cape and monsieur’s hat. After routine farewells, Quantock handed Catherine Somerton into the back seat, closed the door and turned to speak softly to Joe: ‘His Excellency will be keen to hear the outcome of this business, you understand, Sandilands?’ A light smile softened the command. ‘As will Jack Pollock. Sir George’s cousin. He sends his respects and good wishes. He’ll be in touch.’

  The morgue, illuminated as it now was by electric bulbs, was all the more sinister. The light had the effect of deepening the many dark corners, emphasizing the roughness of the walls and highlighting things better left in the shadows. Like shining a torch in the face of an old whore, Joe thought. Disturbing and unkind. But at least they were not faced, on entry, with a line-up of freshly delivered corpses to pass in review as had been the custom from the Middle Ages to the recent past. All the bodies apart from one had been filed away in the sliding steel cases along the back wall, Joe was relieved to see.

  Dr Moulin was still at his post and waiting for them. He greeted Joe warmly and the two men went into their routine. Dignified and considerate, he checked that the lady was prepared for the sight of her husband’s corpse. Catherine Somerton hugged her cape about her, clutched her pearls, shivered and nodded.

  ‘Do you think we might take a look at Exhibit A before we begin?’ Joe asked and Moulin nodded his agreement. The dagger was produced for her inspection.