‘Who’s looking at it from the point of view of Morocco?’
Macfarlane was silent. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Musa,’ he said. ‘These things go ahead.’
‘The French, I suppose,’ said Musa, answering his own question. ‘The French!’
He saw Seymour and nodded to him. Then he turned back to Macfarlane.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think the French will do a deal with Moulay. I think they’ll bring him back and make him Sultan in place of that other. Well, that might be no bad thing. The other has been useless. He has already given Morocco away. Moulay could hardly do worse. But you see what that would do? It would cement French control. And then there would be no more Morocco!’
He shook his head.
‘And no one is doing anything about it!’ he said.
He gave Macfarlane a quick embrace and stalked out.
As he went, he nearly collided with Seymour.
‘Ah, the Bossu man!’ he said. ‘Bossu! At least that was a step in the right direction!’
‘Grand old boy!’ said Macfarlane, looking after him. ‘The trouble is, he can’t accept that Morocco is changing.’
‘He seems to me to have a pretty shrewd idea of what’s going on.’
‘Oh, he has that. But he can’t accept — well, he can’t accept that now it’s inevitable. The French have taken over.’
‘And there won’t be a place for the likes of Sheikh Musa?’
‘There would be a place for him. Lambert would be only too willing. But Musa’s heart is with the older order, with the Parasol, you might say. And that has gone for good.’
He led Seymour into his office. There were the usual small teacups on the low table and a beautiful old teapot. Macfarlane lifted the lid and peered inside.
‘Still some,’ he said. ‘Like some?’
The sharp smell of mint drifted into the room.
He poured some out for Seymour and filled his own cup.
‘Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?’
‘Three men,’ said Seymour. ‘Digoin, Leblanc and Ricard.’
‘I know them, certainly,’ said Macfarlane. ‘But…’
He look puzzled.
‘I’d like to talk to them.’
‘Well, that can be arranged. But — laddie, are you sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Because I know all three of them and the idea that they could have had anything to do with — which is, I take it, what you want to see them for… Look, Digoin is a danger on a horse, that is true. Especially with a lance in his hand. But that is because he is so short-sighted. He might stick anybody. Or anything. The idea that he might-’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘And Leblanc is — well, he’s one of the sweetest blokes around. He’s a chemist, an apothecary, as they say here. Lovely chap. But wouldn’t hurt a soul. Finds it hard to hurt even a pig. In fact, never hurts a pig. Never hurts anyone. Just rides along for the fun of it. And usually behind everyone so that there’s no chance of being anywhere near at a kill.’
‘That’s just why I want to see him.’
‘Well, you know what you want, I suppose, but-’
‘And Ricard?’
‘Well, Ricard is one of the old settlers. And when I say old, I mean old. He must be in his eighties. He’s still riding but even he recognizes he’s got to watch it. Meunier’s warned him. He’s always warning him. “One fall, Ricard, and it will be the end of you!” But he loves it and won’t give it up. He just rides along steadily behind the others. He’s got a safe old nag, which is nearly as old as he is, and the two of them just keep going. He makes no attempt to keep up with the action these days-’
‘Fine! That’s just what I want.’
‘Really?’ said Macfarlane doubtfully.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Well, I’ll take you over. It’s not far. I’ll take you over now if you like.’
Monsieur Ricard lived with his daughter in one of the villas just outside Tangier which Seymour had passed on his way to the pig-sticking. Her husband was in Customs and worked in the port of Tangier. Monsieur Ricard no longer worked and spent most of his days sitting on the verandah looking out over the bay. From time to time, however, he would rise from his seat and walk out into the garden, where he would find something to do or something to tell the gardener to do.
‘Old habits died hard,’ said his daughter, ‘and he is still a farmer at heart. And he can’t get used to not doing anything physical.’
‘He still rides, though?’
His daughter pulled a face.
‘Despite everything we can do.’
‘What’s that?’ said Monsieur Ricard, whose hearing was not so much hard of as differentiaclass="underline" some things he heard, some things he didn’t. ‘What’s that about riding? The hunt’s not been cancelled, has it?’
‘No, Father,’ said his daughter patiently. ‘It’s just that we are talking about it.’
‘We? Who’s we? You’re not talking to that fool, Renaud, again, are you?’
‘No, Father. It is Monsieur Macfarlane. And a friend. They want to talk about the hunt.’
‘Well, bring them here, then. What are you waiting for? Hanging about, talking! Bonjour, Monsieur Macfarlane. Suzanne, bring in some coffee. You’ll get some decent coffee here, Monsieur Macfarlane, that’s one thing I will say for her.’
‘Ricard, allow me to present a friend, Monsieur Seymour. From England.’
‘What?’
‘From England,’ said Seymour, and then, shifting rapidly to ground where he thought Monsieur Ricard’s hearing might be better: ‘Allow me to say, Monsieur, that the view from your garden is remarkable!’
‘Not bad, is it?’
‘And the gardens! One could almost,’ he said mischievously, ‘be in England.’
‘You’d do better here!’
Seymour laughed.
‘I compliment you on your skill, Monsieur.’
‘Well, well,’ said Ricard, mollified. ‘I don’t do so badly, it is true. Do I, Macfarlane?’
‘Not badly at all,’ agreed Macfarlane.
‘And you come to talk about the hunt?’ Ricard said to Seymour.
‘About a particular hunt,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Monsieur Seymour is a policeman and he is here to find out what happened to Bossu.’
‘Bossu! Well, there’s a fine fellow!’
‘Monsieur Macfarlane suggested I talk to you, not only as someone who was there, but as someone familiar with the ways of the hunt.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ said Ricard. ‘I am. And that’s more than could be said for Bossu. You know,’ he said, turning to Macfarlane, ‘I shall never understand how a man can ride week after week, year after year, and never learn a thing about hunting!’
‘He wasn’t interested,’ said Macfarlane.
‘No,’ said Ricard, ‘all he was interested in was showing off to Mademoiselle Monique.’
He chuckled maliciously.
‘Not to Juliette, although she was there too. He didn’t care a toss for Juliette, not once he’d married her.’
‘Oh, I don’t know-’ said Macfarlane.
‘It’s true!’ the old man insisted. ‘Not a toss. It was just a marriage of convenience. And they both got what they wanted. She wanted money, a house, and position. Her parents wanted money. And Bossu? Well, he got what he wanted, too: entry. Entry into the world of the Tangier social elite. For him, it wasn’t the money, it was the social contacts. For them, it wasn’t the contacts, it was the money. So they were all satisfied. Mind you, it nearly didn’t happen. Did you know that?’ he said to Macfarlane.
‘No,’ said Macfarlane, ‘I didn’t.’
‘At the last moment they found out there was someone else. Or had been someone else. Well, Juliette didn’t mind that. It was all over now, and anyway the other woman had turned him down. But there was something else. The other woman was — well, quite unsuitable. So unsuitable as to reflect badly on Bossu. And, of course that meant on Juliette, and on her family, too. As I say, it was all in the past, but even so! Could the family condone this disgraceful, disgusting thing? It turned out, of course, in the end, that they could: for some more money.’
The old man cackled with glee.