Tug of War (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Bare, white-painted walls, a metal-framed bed with a thin mattress and one chair, it was more stark than the hospital room in Reims. Heavy bars fitted across the one small
window.

She began to speak hurriedly. A rehearsed speech. Not a word was wasted. ‘That man’s not Thomas! They’re claiming him for the money – heaven knows they need it! The state
would pay it to me, I think, but . . . well, you’ve seen them! They’d take it all in payment for my board and lodging over the years. But look at this!’ She waved a hand around
the room and her pretty face melted for a moment into pity. ‘They’ll keep him prisoner here.’ The expression changed to one of petulance as she rushed on: ‘And guess
who’ll be expected to care for him? Me! I’ll be running up and down those stairs with slop bowls until one of us drops dead. I’ll be just as much a prisoner as he is. I’m no
nurse, monsieur, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cleaning up after some lunatic who’s not even my husband.’ She seized Joe’s hands, needing to make a physical
link with him before she confided her next secret. The torrent continued: ‘I’m a widow. I have official confirmation. I can show you my papers. A widow. I may marry again.’

‘You have someone in mind?’ he asked with equal brevity.

‘There’s a man in the village. Not a Tellancourt!’ She almost smiled. ‘He’s elderly but kind. He owns the pharmacy. We could make each other happy. You must
understand that this man in Reims is not my husband!’

‘You must try to give proof of that assertion, madame. It isn’t enough merely to express an opinion and keep repeating it. Listen! Tell me – you were married for how long
before he disappeared?’

‘Three years.’

‘Did you have any children?’

‘One.’

‘A girl or a boy?’

‘A boy.’

‘How old?’

‘He died before he was six months old.’

The simple questions provoked swift answers and were followed seamlessly by Joe’s next: ‘What distinguishing marks did your husband have on his body?’

She faltered. ‘What do you mean? That bayonet cut on his arm? Thomas never had a wound like that as far as I know.’

Voices were heard shouting down below and somewhere distantly a motor cycle revved up. Joe eased his straining collar and took another lungful of warm air.

‘Did he or didn’t he have any special marks in, let’s say, an intimate area? In a place where only a wife would be aware, perhaps? If you could furnish details of . . . a wart
. . . a mark on the skin that Thomas had in a particular spot and the patient in Reims does not have such a mark then your case is made.’

In the dusty dimness of the room he noticed she was blushing. She looked away in embarrassment and withdrew her hands.

‘Inspector! My husband Thomas and I were modest people.’

Joe pondered this for a moment and could think of no response. The shouting below increased. The dog joined in. Joe followed her back downstairs.

Encountering a dangerously angry Victor by the front door, Joe faced him with the lazy confidence and clipped tones of a commanding officer. ‘Well, Tellancourt, that just about wraps it
up. Madame was kind enough to indulge my whim to check the accommodation. The accomodation,’ he repeated meaningfully, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Sensible precautions taken, I see.
And there’s my transport in the lane . . . Goodbye then, and I’ll see you are the first to hear the outcome of this business.’

He strode across the farm courtyard and the door banged shut behind him. As he passed under the dovecote he became aware on the far side of a dark figure seated on a bench. The old lady was
staring down the lane, waiting and watching for her son to return, he remembered. He looked with curiosity at the black-clad widow sunk into her sorrow. Very likely ga-ga, he decided and prepared
to pass by, quietly raising his cap. But as he approached she caught his attention. He wondered whether perhaps she had been expecting to see him. She glanced up at him, blue eyes unfaded,
intelligent, even amused. A wisp of grey hair which might once have been blonde escaped from her bonnet. She had a book open in her lap and a bundle of knitting. So this was Armande, the stranger,
the smart lady’s maid from Normandy. He stood to greet her and introduce himself.

After his introductory comments had established that she knew exactly who he was and what he was doing there, he made a polite compliment to the mother whose devotion would keep her watching for
her missing son. Her eyes twinkled. ‘It’s not such a penance, you know, Commander. It’s a madhouse in there! You’ve seen them! And the children were shut away for the
duration of your visit . . . If I couldn’t look forward to my hour a day out here by myself in peace and quiet, I’d be as mad as they are. Now, what can I tell you about my
son?’

Dr Varimont’s words came back to him – ‘A mother would remember’ – and he decided to venture once more to pose his sensitive question.

She listened to his convoluted phrasing with patience and replied at once. ‘Well, it’s about time someone asked a sensible question. Of course! Do you know, I’d nearly
forgotten! Perhaps I’m not such a saintly mother after all. Yes, my Thomas did have marks . . . birthmarks . . . no, I don’t mean that exactly. Not the strawberry mark so many babies
have . . . no. It was a difficult birth, Commander. My first child. The midwife knew her trade though and managed to save him – and me. But she had to use those – what do you call them?
– forceps, that’s it.’ She put out her hand in a pincer shape. ‘Like this. It left one mark on his front and one mark on his bottom. Purplish they were. Round and smaller
than a cherry. On the left-hand side. As you look at him, I mean, so that would be his right.’ The hand demonstrated again. ‘Is this of any help?’

Joe took a long while over his turn, listened to the disappearing rumble of the motor bike and changed his mind. He parked again, facing outwards this time in case he needed to make a swift
exit, and sat thinking. The boy’s behaviour had been odd. Eager to be off and yet, he would have sworn, under orders to make certain the policeman had left. Joe glanced around the peaceful
scene. What, hereabouts, or whom, did they want him not to see?

The central square with its plane trees, skittle alley, duck pond, town hall and inn could have served as the illustration to any school textbook encouraging pupils to learn the French language.
Combien de canards y a-t-il? Qui entre dans l’élpicerie? Quelle heure est-il à l’horloge de l’église? Où se trouve le monument aux morts?
The stock phrases rushed to mind, delivered in the sharp tones of his dominie as he surveyed the peaceful scene.

The war memorial!

His glance flashed back to the effigy carved in granite, a bluish stone almost, in this bright sunlight, the shade of
bleu d’horizon
of the living soldier’s uniform. A
poilu
, helmeted head bent, greatcoat pinned back, the bayonet of his rifle garlanded with wild flowers, he stood sorrowing for his fallen comrades. It was striking. Another memorial to add
to Joe’s list.

He turned off his engine and walked across to pay his respects. He took off his hat and bowed his head, always playing to the invisible crowd he assumed to be witnessing his actions. Under
lowered lids he ran an eye down the list of the fallen. And there he was – the twentieth name down. Thomas Tellancourt. Put up very soon after the armistice, Joe guessed, so the family must
at that time have accepted the death of their son readily enough to have agreed to his name featuring on the local memorial at any rate. Perhaps there was another long shot he could play?

Glad that he’d established an interest in the architecture of the church on arrival at the café, he looked ostentatiously at his watch, took an indecisive step forward, stopped and
then went on towards the porch. He spent a few minutes admiring the carvings, stepping back the better to get them in focus and then walking on around the exterior. He wandered into the surrounding
graveyard to scan the roof line and shielded his eyes against the noonday sun to view the tower. None of the gravestones on the north and east sides of the church bore the name of the family
Tellancourt but when he got to the south side they started to appear. Many of them. They marched shoulder to shoulder in rows, dark granite decorated with ornate carvings and mementoes. Some had
several occupants. Hardly possible to examine each one. He reckoned he’d get about as far as the third before someone took a bead on him from the café. Rifles had been hanging on the
walls, he remembered, and perhaps they were more than harmless mementoes. Hunting accidents all too common in the French countryside, he understood. Many scores settled by that means. The agonized
fear of snipers’ bullets returned to strike him where he stood. His head went down, his spine bristled with a sudden chill and he had to clench his hands and breathe deeply to resist a
forward plunge into the shelter of a gravestone. But here he was in full view of the village and, indeed, right by the town hall, that symbol of an ordered and lawful society. And then he
remembered that
la mairie
was a forward listening post of the Clan Tellancourt, according to the doctor.

He was being ridiculous! Scotland Yard’s ace man-hunter creeping about a French cemetery in fear of the mayor’s secretary’s umbrella poking him in the ribs? And then he saw
what his instinct had surely been telling him was there. At one of the graves close by, work seemed to be in progress. A canvas sheet of the kind that gravediggers use was stretched over the plot
and another was hanging casually over the granite stone. A wheelbarrow was propped against it to keep it in place. But there were no spades, not a crumb of displaced earth. Joe strolled over, eased
back the wheelbarrow and tweaked aside the covering.

He read on the stone words he was clearly not intended to read. ‘Idiots!’ he thought. ‘Should have left well alone!’ By this ill-conceived attempt at a literal cover-up
his attention had been drawn straight to the gilt letters:
Thomas Tellancourt soldat de la grande guerre. 1890–1916. Mort pour la Patrie.

For one moment Joe wished that he had Dorcas by his side to enjoy the revelation.

‘Well, well,’ he muttered, replacing the cover. ‘I wonder who exactly we have down there? How interesting it would be to find out.’

Shaking his head, he hurried back to his car and moved off as smoothly as he could.

Chapter Fifteen

Didier politely held the door of the lift to allow two people from his floor to dash in. An Englishman and a young girl. The usual strained attempts at conversation between
strangers in the confined space of a lift ensued: ‘Ground floor all right for you? . . . Thank you, yes, we’re bound for the dining room . . . Your first night here? . . . You’ll
enjoy the food . . . Ah, here we are.’

Seated by himself at a table in the corner, Didier gave his full attention to the menu and then settled to look covertly at the other guests. Inquisitive by nature, he always enjoyed a little
mischievous speculation about his fellow men. No surprises here: mostly men on business associated no doubt with the champagne trade and mostly, like him, solitary. There were one or two couples,
the silent ones he presumed to be married to each other, the animated ones almost certainly to someone else. These were far more interesting. But his eye was continually taken by the Englishman and
his companion. And here was a puzzle. The man was obviously too young to be her father and treated her with none of the paternal froideur you might expect of an Anglo-Saxon parent. Brother and
sister? Hardly. The age gap was too great. And yet, superficially there was a family resemblance. They had dark hair and complexions though on second glance the man had the misty grey eyes of a
northern land while the girl had the unmistakable warm brown
marron
of the Mediterranean.

Didier recognized a fellow soldier. The Englishman, even without the give-away wound to the forehead, was easily identified as such by his confident stride and watchful eyes. He seemed, as far
as Didier could gather from a distance of three tables, to be recounting his day. A day full of incident, judging by the reactions of his audience. The girl was fascinated, responding one moment
with horror, the next with laughter. With not too distant memories of his own daughter and her friends at the same age as this girl Didier realized that what was missing was the element of
adolescent playing to an audience, of flirtation. His Paulette would have been excitedly eyeing the waiters and the more youthful of the other diners and passing salty comments. This girl was
completely absorbed by the conversation. At ease with her companion, she leaned over and brushed a crumb from his sleeve and refilled his water glass without a pause in her sentence. And Didier
smiled. He had it. These two were partners. In what, he had no idea, but whatever their business, and it was clear to him that they had a business, they were conducting it on equal terms.

The Englishman had it right: the food was indeed very good. His doctor’s advice set aside for the duration of his stay, Didier decided to treat himself to the rich northern dishes he
really enjoyed and had for so many months forgone and he selected a bottle of Chablis and a bottle of burgundy to accompany them. So near the end of his road now, why not? Towards the end of the
meal, familiar twinges made him begin to regret his indulgence. The trouble was he had regularly in the last year or so passed off what Christophe told him was angina as indigestion. And now
– could he any longer tell the difference? Was one a trigger for the other? He wished he had listened more carefully to his doctor’s explanations. He gripped the edge of the table as
the crisis seized him, gasping for breath and trying to hold firm, battling with the band of steel which tightened across his chest. He must not black out here in public among strangers. He must
not collapse so near to his goal.