Tug of War (14 page)

‘A sad story. And not uncommon,’ said Joe quietly.

‘It got sadder. When the baby was born they kept trying to persuade her to feed it. She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even look at it. It kept howling with hunger and then it suddenly
went quiet. When her mother ran upstairs to see if all was well, Cora was lying in bed just staring and the baby was by her side. Not breathing. It was dead. She tried to explain to the doctor who
came that she hated the baby and couldn’t bear to touch it.’

‘Terrible tale. Were there repercussions for poor Cora? I’m afraid she could have been facing a murder charge.’

‘There would have been but it was all hushed up. So hushed that nobody speaks of it outside the village.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘But the doctor is very highly respected. You
often hear them say, “I’d give my right arm for that man! He’s a champion feller.” But the point is, Joe, if Albert’s mother treated him as she did, don’t you
think there may have been a sinister reason for this? Vulnerable young girl attacked by stranger passing through? She might well, like Cora, have secretly hated the child. But that’s not
something a woman could ever confess to. She disguised the nastiness for our benefit.’

‘She was spinning us a tale, you think?’

‘Yes. She gave us a much more romantic and acceptable version. Well, it certainly captured
your
sympathy, didn’t it? Can’t say you weren’t warned! Old Langlois
told you – “Don’t fall for her nonsense.” A woman in her situation must get used to lying convincingly. A way of life, I’d have thought. But I’ll tell you what,
Joe . . . however dispassionate you might think yourself, you can’t let Thibaud be handed over to her. Can you? He’d be at her mercy! Think of the awful life he would lead.’

Joe spoke sharply in a sudden rush of anger. ‘I’m a foreign policeman passing through. I have no authority, no magic wand. If the French can prove to their satisfaction that this
woman is the patient’s mother, that’s it. Nothing I can do. Now, I’m grateful for your insights, Dorcas, never think otherwise, but if you’re going to get so involved with
these claimants I think you’d be better kept at a distance. I’ll go by myself to see the Tellancourt family tomorrow morning and leave you behind.’ He glanced at his wrist-watch.
‘Half past one. I think I could probably make that phone call to the doctor now. He should have something for us. But first we’ll go and have a well-earned lunch, shall we? We’re
a bit late but I expect they’ll be able to put something together.’

Chapter Twelve

‘Didier, my old friend, what more can I say? I
beg
you . . . No! For God’s sake, what am I saying? I’m your doctor! I
order
you to stay on the
train for another hour. An hour, that’s all – it can’t take longer than that – and go straight through to Paris. Why Reims? The best heart specialists are to be found in
Paris and I’m giving you an introduction to the
very
best. I say again – why Reims?’

‘Calm down, Christophe! You risk an apoplexy and there isn’t another doctor for miles,’ said Didier, comfortably. ‘I’ve heard your advice and I’m truly
grateful for it. And I’m glad you’ve called round. I was just going to make myself a mushroom omelette . . . I picked some of those little chanterelles in the forest this morning. And
Dorine’s given me a pot of her wild boar pâté . . . it’s about the place somewhere . . . Would you like to join me? Good. In that case, I’ll open a bottle of
Hermitage and we’ll have a farewell feast, the two of us.’

‘Didier, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Thank you. You assume – rightly – that I can be distracted by the promise of one of your omelettes, but not to the
point of forgetting my question! You have not answered my question.’

‘Reims has a reputation for excellence in medicine. I’m sure I shall find someone who can give satisfaction. You know I hate the capital. Four eggs or three?’ He rattled the
stove and turned his attention to the frying pan to hide his expression. He did not lie convincingly and Christophe was not easily deceived.

‘Absolute rubbish! No one hates Paris even if he’s on his deathbed. Which you aren’t by a long chalk!’ the doctor added hastily. ‘You’re up to something. Are
you going to tell me about it? Look, if you’re doing a fugue – organizing a flight from your daughter and her barn-storming husband – just say so. I can help you. I can put on a
grave face, wring my hands and tell them that in no circumstances could I possibly, as your physician, allow you to contemplate a trip across the Atlantic.’

‘I can’t deceive you, Christophe.’ Didier smiled. ‘And I don’t want what could be your last memory of me to be that of a cussed old idiot who didn’t listen to
good advice when it was given with care and concern. I have other things to do in Reims.’ He was aware that friendship demanded a less dismissive explanation and added awkwardly:
‘Unexpected. It’s all most unexpected. After all these years of hoping . . . I may find a cardiologist though that is not the main object of my journey – I was just putting up
covering fire to distract Paulette. Well, yes, and you! There’s someone I have to look up. An old army chum. I’ve tried for years to trace him but with no success. I’d given up
all expectation of seeing him again – had to admit he very probably hadn’t survived that bloody awful business up on the Chemin des Dames in ’17. But I was wrong. I have reason to
believe he’s alive and living in Reims.’

The doctor relaxed. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say so? That could all work out very well. You can see your friend – now don’t go and get roaring drunk . . . I absolutely
forbid it. One celebratory glass of champagne perhaps? – and then go straight on to Paris. Here, I’ll put this envelope on the mantelpiece. I’m giving you an address and an
introduction to an excellent chap.’

‘If God spares me and I have no success in Reims, I’ll go straight there, I promise.’

‘Good. Good. Now tell me where you’ll be staying in Reims.’

‘At the Continental. I thought I’d treat myself to a bit of comfort. I’ve got a
tarte tatin
to follow if you’re interested. Not for me, of course – but
I’ll gladly watch you eat it. A glass of mirabelle with it?’

Good Lord! Equipment! He was getting forgetful. Time to get this over while he still had his wits. Didier went to his bedroom and pulled a chair over to the wardrobe. He climbed up and felt
about under a selection of hats on the top shelf until he found it.

The six shot Lebel army revolver sat easily in his grasp. He’d handled and cleaned it regularly since the end of the war. He wrapped it in a silk scarf and pushed it into the centre of his
suitcase, standing ready packed on the chest at the bottom of his bed. He added a box of bullets and closed it with a snap. He was ready. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the dressing-table
mirror and drew in his breath, startled by what he saw.

He’d seen the same expression countless times on faces of comrades, an unforgettable blend of terror and resignation.

He was about to go over the top.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Birthmark? Yes, it could be. Or a mark acquired at birth? Not the same thing. Signs of a forceps delivery perhaps? Yes, again, it could be. I’m no expert in this
field, you understand. Marks of this sort in the majority of cases fade away with time but they are not unknown in adults, I understand.’

Dr Varimont handed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Anyway, you shall judge for yourself. I just give evidence. Look, I’ve plotted the position and measurements on this plan of the body The
frontal mark is dark purple, the size of a centime piece, no more, and just where you said it might be, to the left of centre. That’s the left as you look at him. It wasn’t easy.
Thibaud doesn’t much like being handled – squirms and wriggles like a two-year-old – even though he is familiar with the orderlies who carried out the inspection. I chose the two
who’ve had closest contact with him and briefed them to get out their combs and bottles of Sanitol and pretend to be carrying out the usual procedures. Routine calms him.’

‘Exactly as Mademoiselle Desforges described it, this mark,’ said Joe. ‘That would seem to be conclusive, then.’ He struggled to suppress a smile of satisfaction.
‘I’ll convey this to Inspector Bonnefoye as tactfully as I can. Don’t want to tread on toes, I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Of course. We ought all of us to have come across this sooner. I can send him a sketch if you like and tell him it’s come up as a matter of routine inspection . . . true
enough.’

‘Thank you, Varimont. I would like that. But – am I missing something? Tell me, did you say
frontal
mark just now? Was that to imply that there is something else?’ asked
Joe.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact there was.’ The doctor handed over a second sheet. ‘Difficult to see even if you’re looking for it. A corresponding
rear
mark. Which is
what makes me think it may have been caused by forceps used at birth. It’s faint but it’s there all right. A mother would remember.’

‘But you found no sign of ancient scarring – no signs of physical abuse?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘It’s no baby’s bottom down there but I think you could say – nothing dramatic. Wear and tear consistent with years in the saddle, I’d say. Or
years in the trenches – everything from flea bites to shrapnel. He’s as knocked about as any soldier of any of the armies.’

‘Thank you very much, doctor.’ Joe held up the sheets. ‘This could well be a clincher. I say, may I . . .’

‘By all means have them. I’ve had copies made. I’ll send some with a covering note by messenger to Bonnefoye straight away. And good luck with the rest of your enquiries. Do I
take it that the field is still open?’

‘Wide open, I’d say. I’m off to see the Tellancourt family tomorrow morning.’

The doctor raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. ‘Family? More like a tribe – a clan,’ he commented. ‘One for all and all for one. Have a care, Sandilands. Tell Bonnefoye
you’re going. If you’re not back by midnight he can send out a posse. Not thinking of taking the little girl along, I hope?’

‘No. She’s happy to stay behind at the hotel and catch up with her diary entries, she tells me,’ Joe said. The word ‘happy’ was a polite exaggeration.

‘Take my advice, Sandilands,’ said the doctor, riffling through his file, ‘and make a telephone call to let them know you’re coming. Give ’em a chance to chain up
the dog. Farming family . . . busy time of year . . . there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to parade for you without due notice and you don’t want to have to go hunting about
in the fields.’

He scribbled figures on a pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to Joe.

‘They have a telephone?’

‘Not at the farm, no. The first of those numbers will connect you with the town hall. The mayor’s secretary is a Mademoiselle Tellancourt, the cousin of the missing soldier, and the
second number is that of the village café. The owner – yes, you’ve guessed! – is also a Tellancourt. The soldier’s uncle. They are all utterly convinced that our
Thibaud is their Thomas. And so eager are they to return him to his home before his awful old father expires, they arrived here at the hospital en masse one Sunday when I was off duty and they had
our man halfway out through the gate with his head in a bag before someone stepped in – bravely! – to stop them. Good luck. Let me know how you get on.’

The church clock of St Céré-sur-Marne was sounding ten as he drove into the village square and Joe made at once for the café. It was a hot day, he had half an hour to spare
and a sudden craving for a glass of Alsace beer.

In the dim interior two old men at a table were playing dominoes. They stopped their game to stare at him, hostile and mistrustful. A group of young men, the owners, he presumed of the motor
bikes parked proudly outside, were sitting in front of tankards of
bière blonde
. No point in trying to make a discreet entrance, Joe thought. He marched in with his officer’s
swagger, took off his cap and stood surveying the interior with polite greetings all round before deciding to approach the bar. He placed one elbow firmly on the zinc counter and with a crisp,
‘Monsieur!’ caught the barkeeper’s unwilling attention. The man who served him was silent and unfriendly. When he had enjoyed his first two swallows of Fischer, Joe determined to
break through his reticence. ‘That was welcome! Fine church you have,’ he said cheerfully, in a voice that included the rest of the clientèle. ‘I must take a closer look at
it. The village was lucky to have escaped much of the unpleasantness, I take it?’