‘So, if we were making a book on the runners and riders in the Somerton slaying, we’d be giving short odds on the new baronet?’
‘I’d certainly leave him on the list until we have more information. And his mother. At slightly longer odds, of course. Any more suspicions?’
‘Vague ones. Tell me, Pollock – there’s been a suggestion that the whole thing was staged deliberately to be witnessed by Sir George . . . or for the delectation of someone else in the audience. What’s your opinion on that?’
Pollock frowned. ‘A bit far-fetched but not out of the question, I suppose,’ he replied cagily.
‘I wonder if it had occurred to you that there might be a similarity with another crime scene you were dragged into some four years ago? I only mention this because the officiating pathologist at both crimes turns out to be one and the same – efficient fellow called Moulin.’
Pollock’s face livened at the name. ‘I remember. Yes, indeed. Good man! Effective and businesslike. And the scene was in the Louvre of all places! Good God, is it really four years? To me it’s as clear as if it happened yesterday. Did he fill you in . . .?’
‘Yes, he gave me the details of the discovery of the body, the means of killing, the identity of the corpse and so on. But the most interesting thing he had to say was that, in common with that of Somerton, the murder was undertaken as a form of display to an invited audience of Egyptologists and academics, who all had reason to hate the man. Did you have the same feeling, I wonder?’
‘Certainly did! The whole event was – well, just that! – an event. Apart from the representatives of law and order, there were three of us non-combatants, so to speak, caught up in the sorry scene. A very nice couple of Americans who raised the alarm when they caught sight of the blood pool under the coffin box – and me.’
‘What on earth were you doing in the Louvre? Did anyone orchestrate your movements on that day?’
‘Do you know – that thought never occurred to me! No . . . I’d say it was impossible. I was newly at the Embassy. Relatively low-ranking, of no significance in this context. Has George told you how I spent the war years? No? Well, knowing something of Egypt, and speaking a few languages, I was posted into Intelligence there. I picked up first-hand experience of the tricky political situation in the country. Powder keg! Wanting its independence from Britain, France, Italy, Turkey and every other piratical nation that thought it had a claim on its archaeological resources, to say nothing of its strategic and geographical advantages. After demob which came at very long last – always one more dispute to preside over – it was thought I could use the skills I’d acquired on the ground, here in Paris.
‘I owe my present position to George – were you aware of this? When I got here I found that the war was still being fought out amongst the archaeological cliques! And that’s what I was doing at the museum that day. On neutral territory, away from embassies, we were having a meeting, trying to reach an agreement between four nations growling like dogs over a bone. Well, several thousand bones, as it happened. A whole newly discovered burial chamber. And the digging rights were in dispute. Not as straightforward as you might expect – many borders were still being negotiated in those days after the war.
‘We’d come to something approaching a position all could accept and were gratefully on our way home when we were accosted by a frightfully concerned American who thought he’d discovered someone bleeding to death in a coffin case. Well, I assume the doctor who arrived shortly after that has filled you in?’
He paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Moulin did not mislead you. I agree with him. There was something very strange going on. I was so occupied with keeping the peace I was perhaps a bit slow to catch on. It wasn’t until later at police headquarters . . . The Americans – the Whites – fled. The wife was feeling ill. Got clean away. But their consciences overcame them afterwards and they duly reported to the police, who set up the interview and took their statement. Mr White asked particularly if I could be present to help with the language. A sensible arrangement and a task I was pleased to carry out. Very nice people, as I said. He was an army sergeant who’d been decorated for bravery on the Marne, I believe. I’ve never understood why they call those Yanks “doughboys”, have you? Most unfortunate. Conjures up images of puffy-faced, spotty youths, soft to the touch. This man was as hard as a well-seasoned oak beam. And smart. We talked later, off the record, so to speak, and he put his ideas to me. I had to agree with him. He’d seen more than I had and made better sense of it. And his wife’s insights were even more acute!