Tug of War (24 page)

‘Well, good for you, Edward, whoever you are,’ murmured Joe. ‘Never let a little thing like a world war interfere with Christmas.’

Clovis’s appearances were easily identified. The writing took on a weight and a flourish and the entries were marked in the margin with a star. Just as Georges had told them, they were
sparse and short; the last recorded arrival was on 20th July 1917. It was followed on 22nd July by a short entry:
Papa gone.

There was no more until 11th November 1918.
It’s finished. I will remember
, were Georges’s last words.

But there were other reminders of the war collected together in a large envelope tucked into the back. Joe tipped them out on to the desk. A boy’s magpie collection of precious mementoes
spilled out. Cap badges from English regiments clattered on to the wood and Joe turned them over with keen interest. Dorcas counted out twelve. ‘These are pretty. What’s the galloping
white horse?’

‘The West Yorkshire Regiment. It’s the White Horse of Hanover.’

‘And this creature? A dragon, I think?’

‘Ah, yes. That’s the emblem of the Buffs – the East Kent Regiment. And this silver bugle? It’s the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.’

‘Is there a Royal Fusiliers badge among them? Edward’s listed as a Royal Fusilier.’

‘Yes. It’s this one.’

Dorcas looked puzzled. ‘What on earth is it? It looks like a chrysanthemum.’

‘It’s meant to be a grenade. An exploding grenade. It’s a design common to all Fusilier regiments. The round bit at the bottom is the body of the grenade itself and carries the
device that distinguishes it from the rest. This one has a tiny white rose in the centre, do you see? And the rose is set within the Garter and ensigned with a crown. The excrescence spouting out
at the top, which you took to be petals, represents the flames issuing from the explosion. This is made of bronze so it must have belonged to an officer.’

Dorcas continued to play with them, turning them this way and that and finally counting them carefully back into their envelope. ‘I can see why he’d want to collect them.
They’re very attractive.’

‘And have you seen these drawings?’ Joe put them in front of her. One was an accomplished sketch of a trench system with arrows marking out assault and defence manoeuvres, another an
affectionate cartoon of Marshal Joffre, easily recognizable by his luxuriant white moustache and his corpulence. And there were cards: birthday cards and Christmas cards from England, some of
recent date. There were letters. Some in English, some French, all from officers writing with good humour and happy memories to a child they had grown fond of.

Reading them, Dorcas looked up to comment on this. ‘They admired him, Joe. You’re right – he was the son they all missed or hoped one day to have.’

‘He must have been a great comfort in those terrible times,’ said Joe. ‘And, yes,
hope
, you say. It was hard enough to think of the world as we’d known it ever
continuing. Men got very sentimental – I’ve seen exhausted, hopeless soldiers fall on their knees in the Flanders mud, crying their eyes out at the sight of a clump of snowdrops. The
presence of that little boy, clever, hardworking, determined to survive, must have inspired them. He must have represented for them all that they were fighting for.’

‘Oh, look, Joe! I think this says it all.’ She passed him a pencil sketch skilfully done, a portrait of Aline sitting holding Georges in her arms, heads together, smiling.

‘A modern Madonna and child?’ Joe remarked. ‘It only lacks the haloes.’

‘Well, of course they’re idealized. Anyone can see that. This artist is drawing a mother and child he is fighting for. They aren’t
his
wife and child. Look –
there’s a signature and it doesn’t say Clovis Houdart. But at the moment he drew it they were his. You can see that. If he and his comrades were to give way, this little family would be
overwhelmed, annihilated, and this oasis poisoned. You’d jolly well go out and fight for them, wouldn’t you, Joe?’

In her emotion she’d forgotten for a moment that he had.

‘I know you’re right, Dorcas. It’s a very primitive response. Like the Athenians when they squared up to the Persians on the sea at Salamis. They’d evacuated Athens hours
ahead of the Persian advance, fled to the coast and put their wives and children crowded together on a tiny island in the bay of Salamis and there, with their families at their backs and the huge
Persian navy blocking the channel, the men of Athens turned and fought. It was death or slavery for those women and children if they failed. And more than that – it was the obliteration of
their civilization. No men, I believe, have ever had a heavier load resting on their shoulders. Fathers, sons and brothers hauled on the oars of their galleys, rammed, destroyed, shot and slashed
their way to an incredible victory.

‘It’s the most powerful motivation of all,’ he finished thoughtfully. ‘Defending your own flesh and blood.’

He fell into an awkward silence, remembering too late that Dorcas’s father had abandoned her and her brother to the doubtful care of their grandmother when he went off to spend the war
years in Switzerland. Should he say anything?

She patted his hand. ‘It’s all right, Joe. I’d have been there, standing on the shore with the rest of the women and children, and I’d have whacked on the head any
Persian who tried to swim on to the island.’

‘Ah! You know the story?’

She nodded. ‘I’d fight like anything if someone provoked me. Perhaps I get that from my mother. But now, Joe, speaking as my
father’s
daughter, I’ll tell you
– I’m very impressed by this sketch. Orlando’s smart friends would sneer and call it sentimental, representational and outdated but I like it.’

‘Ah, yes. The artist. We have a signature, you say?’ Joe fought down an impulse to snatch the drawing from her fingers.

Dorcas peered at the signature in the corner. ‘Edward Thorndon. July 1917. I wonder if that’s the Edward of the Christmas tree?’

Dorcas settled down, ear to the telephone again as Varimont’s voice boomed out.

‘Got them! Well, one of them,’ he announced. ‘One of the orderlies, a Frédéric Lenoir by name, is actually married to a woman who was a Miss Tellancourt. There
you have it! A phone call was made, he admits, to the mayor’s secretary in St Céré from where the message went out and, overnight, the family made their plans. Thomas’s
mother rehearsed her lines and, word perfect, impressed you with her piety. I’ve crossed the Tellancourts off my list. And dealt with Lenoir.’

‘And the Houdart family? Any connection with them? Any possibility that Madame Houdart showed gratitude for information rendered?’

‘Gracious! You don’t let anything by, do you?’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. I honestly don’t think so. The man was a family member simply marking the card of the
Tellancourts. He says he didn’t (and I believe him) tell anyone else. But at least that reduces the claimants to a manageable two. Mademoiselle Desforges and Madame Houdart. Oh, and yes,
Sandilands, you were quite right. Thibaud has neat ears but they
are
attached to his face at the side. Look, do you want me to convey all this to Bonnefoye?’

‘I’d be most grateful. I’m planning to call on him again when I can extricate myself from this scene and perhaps we can even come to a satisfactory conclusion. Thank you for
all this, Varimont.’

‘Not at all, my man! Not at all. Give my best wishes to Mademoiselle Dorcas.’

‘I will, indeed. She’s right here.’

He put down the telephone with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Well, that’s it, Dorcas. The ears have it! Did you catch that? Thibaud’s are attached just as Aline said and the
photographs show. Now – the question is: why didn’t Mireille think of mentioning that if her bloke were indeed Thibaud? She could talk about the chevrons on his sleeves till the cows
come home – and you’d expect a seamstress to know all that – but she didn’t mention the oddity of the ears.’

‘Well, you don’t notice much!’ said Dorcas with deep scorn.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It didn’t occur to Mireille to declare it as an oddity for the good reason that for
her
it is not. Didn’t you see? Her
own
ears are attached! She’s one of
the one in four people who have them, apparently. She was wearing the most lovely pair of silver earrings but I don’t suppose you noticed them either?’

‘Tell you what, Dorcas,’ he said cheerily to show he bore no grudge. ‘This lad, this Georges, is a very good sort. Don’t you think? If ever you decided the time was right
to whisper in his ear, I’d give you my blessing.’

He was pleased with his comment. Unstuffy Marcus would have approved.

‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Joe,’ she said, stuffily.

On the point of clipping the notebook together he was struck by a thought. ‘Hang on a minute . . . there
is
something more we can do before we give this back. Sit down again,
Dorcas. I’m going to read out names, pack drills and dates. Write them down, will you? Here’s a notebook.’ He produced a Scotland Yard issue pad and a pencil. ‘I’m
going to work backwards from July ’17. Right? We’ll start with Edward the Partridge Slayer . . . surname Thorndon . . . and he’s listed here with a Captain John. They seem to
occur as a pair,’ he said, looking back. ‘Same regiment – 10th battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. London men, most probably . . . This John is still alive since I see we have a
birthday card sent for Georges’s sixteenth birthday and it was posted in India of all places.’

‘Is that John as a surname or John as a Christian name?’

‘Could be either. Just write it down. Then there’s a Raoul and an Yves and a Jean-Pierre, no surname given, 1 Corps of the Fifth Army – Lanrezac’s outfit. May 1917 . . .
In April ’17 le Colonel Pontarlier and a contingent of cyclist infantry . . . Oh, I say! In February 1917 we’ve got a rather splendid English General! Staying at the same time as a
rather splendid French General.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet it took all of Aline’s grace and charm to get those two to be polite to each other. And I wouldn’t have cared to arrange
the seating at the dinner table. Now we’re back in 1916 . . . November, and here’s a contingent of recuperating wounded. Aftermath of the Somme, I expect. Not letting them get too far
away from the amphitheatre – a quick recovery and back in the arena, I shouldn’t wonder. And we have Edward bobbing up again. Must have been a casualty . . . He stays for quite a time.
Longer than a regular leave at any rate.’

A feverish quarter of an hour later and the list was drawn up. Dorcas presented it.

‘We’ve forgotten something,’ said Joe. ‘The most important incidence. Let’s just add to the list Clovis’s appearances, shall we? Mark them with a C alongside
in the margin. That’ll do.’

‘Oh, Joe! Do you see what I see?’ she asked.

‘Certainly do! Stands out a mile! And perhaps we weren’t the first ones to see it? Look, Dorcas, I think I must make one more call.’

He asked the operator to connect him with a London number. Whitehall 1212. From there he was put through to Ralph Cottingham’s office. He had expected a duty sergeant to answer but was
delighted to hear Inspector Cottingham himself.

‘Sandilands! Sir! How good to hear you! How are things in Champagne?’

‘Fizzing along nicely, thank you, Ralph,’ Joe gave the expected answer. ‘But listen – two things. I’ll make this quick. First: when you’ve performed in
accordance with number two below, you are to go home. That’s not a suggestion – it’s an order. It’s Saturday here in France and I expect it’s much the same in London.
Number two: I want you to call the War Office. I need urgently to contact a chap in their ex-servicemen’s records department. Quicker if you do this from your end. Bates is the name. Ask him
to ring me on this number from his office – that’s important, I want him with his records to hand – as soon as he can.’ Joe read out the house telephone number. ‘Tell
Bates he is to announce himself as “Scotland Yard” not the War Office, would you, and hold until I answer.’

‘Got that, sir. Will do. Right now.’

‘I can see where you’re going with this, I think,’ said Dorcas. ‘Raking up a witness to a murder? But Joe, before you go asking about, don’t you think you ought to
know for certain whether there ever was a murder? It seems to me there’s a quick way to find out. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Can’t you just knock the wall down using
all the clout of Interpol?’

‘I’d rather use all the clout of one of those trolleys they keep down there,’ said Joe. ‘Did you notice? Very substantial. Made of oak with iron-bound corners. Perfect
for the job. Perhaps with a pickaxe in reserve? But I think I’ll wait until I’ve heard from Bates.’

‘Who on earth is Bates? It’s the weekend – you said it yourself, Joe. And it’s August. There’ll be nobody in the War Office. They’ll all be licking ice-cream
cornets in Brighton or killing things on Exmoor.’

‘Ah! You don’t know Bates! Bachelor. Fanatic. He lives under his desk. But – fingers crossed! Ralph Cottingham will roust out someone who can help us. He’s well connected
in the military world. And he’ll start at the top. Probably find we’re answering the telephone to a Field Marshal before the day’s out. Anyway, I think we should go back to being
good guests now – as far as we can. Keep our heads down. Go to your room, finish your siesta and be discovered awaking refreshed in . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘In ten minutes.
I’ll do the same. Off you go! And, Dorcas – thank you for your help. It’s as good as having Ralph by my side.’

‘Awfully sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a call for you downstairs in the study. He was most insistent. I’m afraid it’s Scotland Yard.’

Chapter Twenty-Two