Tug of War (19 page)

‘It’s a talent she has,’ murmured Joe, recovering himself. ‘Runs in the family.’ He didn’t want Dorcas to launch into one of her stories about the esoteric
lore she had acquired from her father’s gypsy friends where he was fairly sure the party trick had come from.

At any rate the ice was broken. And perhaps that was one of the dog’s functions he thought, cynically. The tea arrived and Dorcas, extricating herself, slipped easily into her role of
stand-in hostess, dispensing it with quiet skill, leaving Aline Houdart and Joe the opportunity of starting their conversation. Aline did not beat about the bush. In less than the ten minutes
before the men arrived she had outlined and delicately put a question mark by the friendly relationship between her brother-in-law Charles-Auguste and Sir Douglas and she had prepared Joe for the
discord between the close members of the family, defining their allegiances and ambitions.

‘So, you will find, Commander – I say, shall I call you Joe? I feel a ridiculous compulsion to salute when I use your rank! – you will find that I am alone in my claim that
this man is my husband. Both Charles and my son Georges maintain that he is not. There is little enough peace in this household at the best of times and I would say that this is decidedly one of
the worst.’ Her smile and her good humour suggested otherwise.

‘May I just ask, madame, before it becomes inconvenient, what exactly is the position in law of the inheritance, should this gentleman prove to be Clovis, your husband?’

‘Oh, very little change,’ she shrugged. ‘My son inherits the estate in its entirety whatever happens. Very soon if Clovis is indeed dead. Rather later if his father returns,
since he will have to await his death. But at all events he will inherit. Charles-Auguste is my son’s guardian, no more than that. He has his own estate in the south but is kind enough to
spend time with us helping to run the champagne business which is, you must understand, far more profitable than an estate producing a very ordinary
vin de pays.
In medieval times,
Charles-Auguste would have been known as the
équyer
or
maître d’hôtel.
An honoured position in a noble household. Ah, here they come!’

She heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor seconds before Joe’s keen ears picked them up. Her eyes flashed a warning, a finger hovered playfully over her lips for a moment involving
them in her game.

It was deftly done. In minutes she had recruited them to her team. He’d known generals who would have benefited from this skill. And two who had it.

More introductions were made, kept efficiently to the minimum by Houdart. He looked about him, preparing to present the young people. Georges advanced and shook Joe’s hand. A firm grip, an
inquisitive eye. A shy smile.

‘And you must meet the Commander’s niece, Dorcas,’ said Aline. ‘A young lady as clever, I suspect, as she is pretty – which is to say, very!’

Georges followed her waving hand to the sofa where Dorcas was once again sitting in uncomfortable proximity to the hound Bruno. He stared and took in the scene at once. ‘No! Don’t
get up, mademoiselle!’ he said and went over to shake her hand. ‘We know better than to disturb old Bruno when he’s settled.’ He sat down by her side with no further
ceremony and began to talk. The boy smiled a lot, Joe thought, for a sixteen-year-old. He had thick chestnut hair like his mother but there the similarity ran out; his nose and chin might,
flatteringly, have been called decisive. Not love’s young dream, Joe was relieved to note, but better than that – his face was full of the promise of character. And a good character at
that.

Dorcas smiled back and replied. The boy laughed and whispered something. Dorcas laughed. They both patted the dog. So far so good, then. Joe felt free to turn his attention back to Houdart and
answered his keen enquiries about Sir Douglas and London which he appeared to know well.

Conversation flowed and Joe was surprised to hear, distantly, a clock sounding five, the signal for the party to break up evidently. Aline rang for the footman to have them shown to their rooms
adding: ‘We will be dining at seven. Earlier than you are accustomed to perhaps? But this is the country not Paris or London and we have our country ways. Our country cooks too! I hope you
like simple hearty food?
Foie gras
? Smoked haunch of wild boar?
Poulet au champagne
? Do join us for drinks in the salon when you come down.’

As they climbed the stairs a step or two behind the footman, Joe leaned towards Dorcas and hissed at her: ‘That trick of whispering magic into dogs’ ears, miss – does it work
on boys?’

She gave him a knowing look. ‘Oh, yes, it does. Trouble is – you can only use it once on a human. I’m saving it up.’

Joe woke to the insistent serenade of a song thrush perched on the parapet in front of his window and groped for his wristwatch. Seven. Eight o’clock breakfast had been declared so he had
plenty of time for a shower. He scrambled out of bed and slumped on to the stool in front of the dressing table to check that he’d survived the night. Incredibly, he had no headache, not a
sign of the hangover he had expected. And yet he’d drunk a large quantity of excellent champagne, he remembered. Jokingly, the family had chosen a different champagne from the estate to
accompany each of the courses, promising the more usual parade of Pouilly and Clos Vougeot the next day.

He frowned at his dark unshaven features incongruously framed by the ornate gilded mirror and decided that the blue and white draperies of
toile de Jouy
did him no favours. He blinked and
yawned and wandered off into the adjoining bathroom to start his day.

At ten to eight he tapped on Dorcas’s door and tapped again, disconcerted to hear no reply. Odd. She didn’t have many virtues but punctuality was one of them. She never kept him
waiting. Had she overslept, worn out by the strain of appearing at a dinner party? They had sat down eight to dinner, the numbers swollen by neighbours chosen, Joe guessed, for their youth and
animation. Dorcas, discreetly dressed in blue silk and Lydia’s best pearls, had looked very pretty and she’d behaved, he remembered, impeccably, seated between Georges and
Charles-Auguste; every time he’d glanced in her direction she had been listening or talking with enthusiasm, even laughing. A strain on a girl, anyway, and he wouldn’t blame her if she
was intending to have a lie-in.

The manservant of the previous evening hurried down the corridor. ‘Mademoiselle is not in her room, monsieur. She went out riding at six this morning with Monsieur Georges.’

‘She did what? Riding? Good Lord! But what on earth would she have been wearing?’ was Joe’s disconnected thought.

With no sign that he found the question strange, the man replied: ‘Jodhpurs, sir, a shirt and a pair of riding boots which the young lady had in her luggage. She lacked only a hat but we
were able to supply this item from stock.’ And, responding to Joe’s discomfiture: ‘They expressed their intention of returning in good time for breakfast. At all events, sir,
breakfast is a meal young Master Georges would always be prompt to attend. And it is a very informal occasion you will find. They suggest you join them. If you will come with me?’

The two young cavaliers were already settled at the long table in a beamed breakfast room towards the back of the house and halfway through their meal when Joe arrived. They were still wearing
their riding gear and their only concession to civility was to have removed their boots and lined them up by the door. Georges rose politely to his feet and greeted him, stepping over in his socks
to the buffet to bring him coffee in a large silver pot.

‘We’ve got the place to ourselves,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Maman never comes down for breakfast – she has it in her room and appears at about ten. She’s
expecting to see you then, by the way, to show you the estate and tell you her side of the story. If she hasn’t already.’

‘And your uncle Charles?’

‘He’s left to go and finish some work in the
vignoble.
It’s coming up to the time of the
vendange
and the next few days are crucial. Conferences every morning
with every hoary old expert in the vicinity! Milk with that? There’s croissants if you’d like them? Boiled eggs? Ham? Baguettes? Butter from the farm? Cook’s strawberry
jam?’

‘All of that in any order,’ said Joe and, sniffing and looking around, ‘What’s that disgusting smell? Smells like wet . . . oh, hello, Bruno, old man! I say, is he
allowed under the table in his present state?’

‘Don’t try to move him! He got a bit wet rolling about in one of the seven springs. Joe, you must go and look at the stables,’ Dorcas said and, turning to Georges,
‘Joe’s a top-hole rider! Why don’t you offer him a ride on Taranis?’ she suggested slyly.

‘I think I’d need to know what his name meant first,’ said Joe warily.

‘Gaulish God of Thunder, sir,’ said Georges. ‘And your reservations are well founded. We never offer him to guests,’ he added reprovingly with a forgiving grin for
Dorcas. ‘But I would like to snatch a few words with you myself, if you wouldn’t mind . . . Dorcas thinks I should speak to you, sir. I mean, don’t let me put you off your
breakfast or anything and I haven’t much to say, I suppose . . .’ He began to run out of steam and shuffled his large feet in embarrassment.

‘Rubbish!’ said Dorcas. ‘You’ve got important things to say and Joe’s a good listener. That’s what he’s come all this way for – to listen. Go on,
you’re to tell him, Georges!’

Georges was pleased to be so encouraged but something was still holding him back.

‘Not the easiest thing in the world – taking up a stance opposite to that of your mother,’ said Joe. His slight smile and sudden inward focus suggested a personal understanding
of Georges’s dilemma. ‘But let me tell you I don’t find it at all unusual or shocking or even disloyal. I’ve met three families in the course of this case and none of them
have been in agreement over the identity of the patient in Reims. Everyone involved has his or her own genuinely held opinion or evidence to put forward and I’m working with the French police
to collect and evaluate it. It’s important that I hear your views. You are, after all, likely to be significantly affected by the outcome, aren’t you? Pivotal, I’d say.’

The boy nodded miserably. His good humour had faded and his young face, suddenly serious and drawn, gave a foretaste of the handsome man he would become. Still he debated with himself, unable to
speak.

‘Look, I’ll come clean,’ said Joe encouraging. ‘I have no authority in France. I’m just here to find out whether the gentleman in question may be English and to
help Inspector Bonnefoye where I can in an advisory capacity. Sir Douglas . . .’ The boy brightened and nodded at the mention of his name. The Brigadier was obviously a welcome and respected
guest. ‘Sir Douglas sent me to offer a hand. We just want to arrive at the truth. If you disagree with your mother’s interpretation of the situation you’re quite entitled to your
view. Believe me – I’ve heard many discordant views so far.’

He spoke at last, slowly. ‘The word “discordant” is hardly up to the job . . . say rather, disloyal . . . destructive.’ He looked at Joe steadily over the table.
‘What I have to say will destroy for ever my relationship with my mother – whom I love very much – and more than that, it could destroy
her.
Ruin her life. And what is the
evidence of a boy who was seven years old at the time worth? I’ve gone over and over what I saw. Every day I have lived with it. I can’t any longer believe in what I know. In the
evidence of my own senses.’

Joe was becoming alarmed by the boy’s tension, his staring eyes, his hands, clenched and tugging at the tablecloth, and wished he could undo what he’d started. The dog, disturbed,
gave a warning growl to the room at large, not quite knowing at whom to direct his unease. But Georges was pressing on, unstoppable now.

‘It’s been growing in me like a canker all these years. I don’t think I can pretend any longer that I don’t know. I’ll crack up if I don’t tell someone and
yet I know I risk infecting everyone around me with the filth that will burst out . . . Sir, will you help me? Will you listen and promise to take no action against anyone I may involve? I could
have got this terribly wrong, you see . . .’

Joe opened his mouth to deliver a formal and clear police warning. ‘Anything you say, young man, will be taken down . . .’

But he caught Dorcas’s pleading expression and, bewitched – he could only later excuse himself on grounds of bewitchment – heard himself instead giving the asked-for,
impossible and thoroughly unprofessional assurances.

‘I know that man they’re keeping in Reims is not my father,’ whispered Georges. ‘He can’t be my father because . . . my father, Clovis Houdart, is dead. But he
wasn’t killed in battle, sir. I was there when he was murdered. Nearly ten years ago.’

Chapter Seventeen

Joe wondered if, over the hundreds of miles of land and sea that separated them, Brigadier Redmayne on his Scottish grouse moor was troubled by the curse he sent winging his
way. That mosquito now settling on his left cheek – would Sir Douglas ever attribute the sharp sting to Joe’s summoning up of a stab of silent invective?

Dorcas was speechless. Joe guessed that the intimacy of the young pair had not progressed as far as this startling admission and could feel that she too was taken aback.