‘Like – “Remember me to your brother and tell him to count on my help. The Revolution’s next Tuesday, is it? I’ll be there!”’

Bonnefoye grinned. ‘In fact, my man said, “Remember me to your wife. Her soirée’s next Saturday, isn’t it? I’ll be there!” It was the bit he added that was worth hearing. At least I think it was worth hearing. You must be the judge. He leaned over and in a hearty, all-chaps-together voice said: “I’m just off to the land of wonders . . . interested? No?” And he walked out through the back door.’

‘Say it again – that last bit,’ said Joe uneasily. ‘The bit about wonders. Where did he say he was going?’

Bonnefoye repeated his words in French: ‘. . . au pays des merveilles . . .’

‘Au pays des merveilles,’ murmured Joe. He was remembering a book he’d bought for Dorcas the previous summer to help her with her French reading. It hadn’t been well received. ‘Gracious, Joe! This is for infants or for grown-ups who haven’t managed to. It’s sillier than Peter Pan. I can’t be doing with it!’ His mind was racing down a trail. He was seeing, illuminated by a beam of hot Indian sunshine, a book, fallen over sideways on a shelf in an office in Simla, the cover beginning to curl, a peacock’s feather marking the place. The same edition. Alice au pays des merveilles. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Alice.

Surely not. He knew what Dorcas’s judgement would have been if he’d confided his mad notion: ‘Sandilands in Fairyland.’

The idea would not go away. Alice Conyers, fleeing India, Gladstone bag stuffed with ill-gotten gains of one sort or another, stopping over in Paris – might she have used her formidable resources to set herself up in a business of which she had first-hand knowledge? She might well. Bonnefoye waited in silence, sensing that Joe was struggling to rein in and order his thoughts.

‘Tell you a story, Bonnefoye! At least Part One of a story. I think you may be about to make a bumbling entrance with me into Part Two. As the Knave of Hearts and the Executioner, perhaps?’

Bonnefoye was intrigued but scornful. ‘That’s all very fascinating but it’s as substantial as a spider’s web, Joe!’

‘But we’ll only find out the strength by putting some weight on it, I suppose. Your face is known there now. My turn to shoot down the rabbit hole. It’s my ugly mug that they’ll see leering in their mirrors next time! And, if madame’s there, I think I know just the formula to persuade her to let me in. There’s something I shall need . . . Two items. Didn’t I see a ladies’ hat shop down there in the Mouffe? Two doors north of the boulangerie? Good. What time do they open, do you suppose?’

Chapter Sixteen

Harry Quantock was again performing front-of-house duties at the Embassy. He recognized Joe at once and greeted him breezily.

‘Good morning, Commander! Good morning! We got your message and it’s all laid on. Come along to the back quarters, will you? You don’t merit a salon rouge reception today,’ he teased. ‘Much more workaday surroundings, I’m afraid. Jack Pollock’s expecting you in his office. Being on the Ambassador’s staff, an attaché, if you like, at least he’s housed in relative comfort.’

Joe was shown into a ground-floor office at the rear of the building, looking out on to a courtyard garden. It was high-ceilinged, wood-panelled and stately. The walls were studded at intervals with sepia photographs of pre-war cricket teams. Joe noted the progression from public schoolboys to the undergraduates of an Oxford college whose first eleven was outstanding for its striped blazers, striped caps and ugly expressions. These were followed in the line-up by examples of the University side. The only touch of modernity was a black and gold telephone sitting on a mahogany desk next to a silver vase of spring flowers. A tall window was open, letting in the scent of lilac blossom and the sound of traffic rumbling along the Champs-Élysées.

The attaché was seated behind his desk thumbing through a file, one eye on the door.

Joe was prepared for a family resemblance but, even so, he was taken aback by the young version of Sir George who leapt from his seat and bounded across the room to greet him with a cheerful bellow. Pollock’s handshake was dry and vigorous, his welcome the equal of – and reminiscent of – that of any large yellow dog that Joe had ever met.

‘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?’