‘Can I be assured of it?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
No doubt he was. But Max was aware that their definitions of family loyalty did not necessarily coincide. In the end, Max would abide faithfully by his definition, not Ashley’s. He understood himself well enough to know that it could be no other way.
POLICE HEADQUARTERS ON the Île de la Cité was a massive old mansarded building facing Notre-Dame. It was so noisy and crowded that it was hard to tell who among the gabbling, form-flapping throng might be police officers, complainants or suspected criminals. Max for one was glad of a guide through the maze of narrow corridors and echoing stairways. It was clearly not Appleby’s first visit to the premises. The several greetings he exchanged along the way suggested he was a regular caller.
This was confirmed when they reached the relative haven of Commissioner Zamaron’s office. He was a small, wiry, moustachioed man, with a mop of suspiciously dark hair and a policemanly combination of affability and perceptiveness. Disarmingly, he and Appleby were on first-name terms – ‘
Bonjour, Horace
,’ and ‘Good morning, Léon,’ no less.
Appleby had alerted them to Zamaron’s supposed connoisseurship and it was immediately apparent. Paintings covered the walls – landscapes, still lifes and portraits in contrasting styles. Were they payments in kind for favours done? Max wondered. He could not resist whispering to Ashley, ‘I expect he keeps the nudes at home.’ Ashley pretended not to hear him.
There had been a telephone call for Fradgley from the Embassy, Zamaron reported in his very passable English. Fradgley took himself off to return the call.
That left Zamaron to offer Max and Ashley coffee, condolences and his personal assurances of discretion and dutifulness. ‘Horace has told you what I believe occurred,
messieurs
?
Très bien
. We donot need to speak more of it. A tragic accident is a tragic accident. Everything is arranged. The, er …
travail administratif
… has been dealt with.’
‘He means the paperwork’s in place, gentlemen,’ said Appleby. ‘When will they be able to take Sir Henry’s body back to England, Léon?’
‘Whenever you wish. Tomorrow?’
‘That would suit us very well,’ said Ashley. ‘We’re very grateful for your … expeditiousness.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘The paperwork,’ Ashley pressed, ‘will include a death certificate, I take it?’
‘But of course. One has already been sent from the Mairie to the Embassy. No doubt Monsieur Fradgley is being told of this by his office.’
‘And what does it state as the cause of death?’
‘The cause of death?’
‘French death certificates don’t necessarily specify one, Sir Ashley,’ said Appleby with a smile.
‘Really?’ Max put in.
Appleby’s smile broadened. ‘Really.’
‘Sir Henry’s possessions – those found on him – I have here.’ Zamaron opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bulging manilla envelope. ‘You will want to have them.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ashley gravely.
‘I regret I must ask you to sign a receipt.’
Zamaron’s doleful expression implied his regret was genuine. Max could not but admire the man’s delicacy. It was only marginally sullied by the impression that he was enjoying himself rather a lot.
Zamaron handed the receipt to Ashley, who held it out for Max to see. It was printed in French, naturally. Their father’s possessions had been listed in abominable handwriting, also in French.
Un portefeuille. Une montre. Un mouchoir. Une paire de boutons de manchette. Une épingle à cravate. Un peigne. Une chevalière. 41fr
.
‘You should check it’s all there,
messieurs
,’ said Zamaron, when neither showed any inclination to do so.
Max sat forward and slid the contents of the envelope out on to the desk. There they were, each item instantly familiar: the leather wallet, the silver pocket-watch, the monogrammed
‘Of course you can.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
No doubt he was. But Max was aware that their definitions of family loyalty did not necessarily coincide. In the end, Max would abide faithfully by his definition, not Ashley’s. He understood himself well enough to know that it could be no other way.
POLICE HEADQUARTERS ON the Île de la Cité was a massive old mansarded building facing Notre-Dame. It was so noisy and crowded that it was hard to tell who among the gabbling, form-flapping throng might be police officers, complainants or suspected criminals. Max for one was glad of a guide through the maze of narrow corridors and echoing stairways. It was clearly not Appleby’s first visit to the premises. The several greetings he exchanged along the way suggested he was a regular caller.
This was confirmed when they reached the relative haven of Commissioner Zamaron’s office. He was a small, wiry, moustachioed man, with a mop of suspiciously dark hair and a policemanly combination of affability and perceptiveness. Disarmingly, he and Appleby were on first-name terms – ‘
Bonjour, Horace
,’ and ‘Good morning, Léon,’ no less.
Appleby had alerted them to Zamaron’s supposed connoisseurship and it was immediately apparent. Paintings covered the walls – landscapes, still lifes and portraits in contrasting styles. Were they payments in kind for favours done? Max wondered. He could not resist whispering to Ashley, ‘I expect he keeps the nudes at home.’ Ashley pretended not to hear him.
There had been a telephone call for Fradgley from the Embassy, Zamaron reported in his very passable English. Fradgley took himself off to return the call.
That left Zamaron to offer Max and Ashley coffee, condolences and his personal assurances of discretion and dutifulness. ‘Horace has told you what I believe occurred,
messieurs
?
Très bien
. We donot need to speak more of it. A tragic accident is a tragic accident. Everything is arranged. The, er …
travail administratif
… has been dealt with.’
‘He means the paperwork’s in place, gentlemen,’ said Appleby. ‘When will they be able to take Sir Henry’s body back to England, Léon?’
‘Whenever you wish. Tomorrow?’
‘That would suit us very well,’ said Ashley. ‘We’re very grateful for your … expeditiousness.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘The paperwork,’ Ashley pressed, ‘will include a death certificate, I take it?’
‘But of course. One has already been sent from the Mairie to the Embassy. No doubt Monsieur Fradgley is being told of this by his office.’
‘And what does it state as the cause of death?’
‘The cause of death?’
‘French death certificates don’t necessarily specify one, Sir Ashley,’ said Appleby with a smile.
‘Really?’ Max put in.
Appleby’s smile broadened. ‘Really.’
‘Sir Henry’s possessions – those found on him – I have here.’ Zamaron opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bulging manilla envelope. ‘You will want to have them.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ashley gravely.
‘I regret I must ask you to sign a receipt.’
Zamaron’s doleful expression implied his regret was genuine. Max could not but admire the man’s delicacy. It was only marginally sullied by the impression that he was enjoying himself rather a lot.
Zamaron handed the receipt to Ashley, who held it out for Max to see. It was printed in French, naturally. Their father’s possessions had been listed in abominable handwriting, also in French.
Un portefeuille. Une montre. Un mouchoir. Une paire de boutons de manchette. Une épingle à cravate. Un peigne. Une chevalière. 41fr
.
‘You should check it’s all there,
messieurs
,’ said Zamaron, when neither showed any inclination to do so.
Max sat forward and slid the contents of the envelope out on to the desk. There they were, each item instantly familiar: the leather wallet, the silver pocket-watch, the monogrammed
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