Tug of War (25 page)

‘Captain!’

Bates’s well-remembered voice rang out. He persisted in calling Joe by the rank he held when they’d first met on the Marne, disregarding his fast promotion. Joe accepted it as a mark
of affection and a reminder of those desperate days when they’d struggled together, the only two men on their feet at times, to turn around an exhausted army. Water, food and a decent billet
had been their priorities. Joe’s knowledge of the language with Bates’s phenomenal memory and organizing skills had been an effective combination. They had met several times over the
years of peace in a professional capacity and Joe could picture the balding head and the sharp eyes as he appreciated the cynical cockney voice.

Each man was aware of a necessity to keep the pleasantries to a minimum.

‘Scotland Yard, ’ere!’ began Bates. ‘Shoot!’

‘Tracking two British servicemen. Any details welcome. Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier. Marne region 1915–17. Billeted here at . . .’ Joe gave the location of the
château. ‘And a fellow officer known to be a captain in the same regiment, name of John. Surname? Christian name? I don’t know. Be grateful for anything you have.’

‘Easy-peasy Ten . . . twenty minutes to be on the safe side. Ring me back on this number, Captain.’

Joe wrote it down.

He was joined a few minutes into his vigil at the telephone by Dorcas, who waited with impatience for Joe to pick up the receiver.

Bates answered at once when he got through. ‘Got ’em, sir. Both of ’em. Thorndon, Edward Alexander. 1st City of London Regiment. Royal Fusiliers, as you say. Educ. Harrow and
Cambridge. Entered the war early, rose to Major by 1917. I have a list of wounds and decorations but that’ll keep, I expect? Send a copy to your office, shall I? Right-oh. Disappeared at the
time you mention, end July ’17. Posted “missing in action, presumed dead” on his way up to rejoin his regiment at Ypres. They were bivouacked in Vélu Wood if my memory
serves me right. Overcrowded.’ Joe could imagine Bates’s mouth curling with disapproval. ‘Weather wet and cold for August. Not much comfort after his château
accommodation!

‘I have a letter here – well, copy of – condolences to Thorndon’s parents (can let you have their details if you want them) written by his fellow officer, John. Then
Major John, DSO. That’s Sebastian John. Now serving in India. Lieutenant Colonel John is up in Peshawar. Anyway – at the time, he was already stationed two miles north-northeast of
Bapaume at Frémicourt. His pal never turned up for the party. With German Uhlans known to be patrolling the environs, he guessed he’d been shot, shelled or taken prisoner. All too
likely. Several of our patrols went missing on the roads up there.’

‘Mists of war, Bates. Mists of war. Hang on a tick, would you?’

Dorcas was mouthing something at him. Catching it, he nodded and added, ‘You don’t happen to have a service identification photograph of Thorndon, do you?’

‘Hang on, there’s something in the correspondence. Stack of letters here from the parents. Enquiry after enquiry. Went to the very top. Looks like they refused to accept his death.
The usual heartbreak. Yes, thought I’d spotted one. Here’s a photo. Not a military one. Civilian. Taken
before
the war I’d say. He looks young . . . middle twenties
tops.’

‘Describe him, will you?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Very English-looking. Hair: light. Rather more than his fair share. I expect his mum took him to the barber’s before he marched off. Eyes: pale . . .
grey? Blue? Moustache: neatly trimmed.’

‘Sort of man ladies might find attractive?’ Joe persisted. ‘Ronald Colman type perhaps?’

Bates gave this suggestion his serious consideration. ‘More in the way of Douglas Fairbanks, I’d have said. Cheeky expression. He’s grinning like he’s just cracked a
joke. Smartened up and in uniform, he’d have been a sharp lad. “Follow me, chaps!” Up the rigging or over the top – they’d have followed him all right.’

‘One last thing, Bates. Look at his ears. Tell me about them.’

‘Eh? One on each side of his head. Usual thing.’

‘Look closely and see if the lobes are attached to the sides of his face.’

There was a clunking of the receiver and a rustling as Bates tweaked experimentally at his own lobes. ‘Not easy to say from this print. Reconnaissance rendered difficult, Captain, by
presence in target area of thick ground cover. He’s got dundrearies.’

‘What was that, Bates?’

‘Sideburns. Down to an inch below the ears.’

‘Bates, thank you for this. A bit of a mixed bag there. But I’d say you’ve managed to shine a light on a murky little area down here. Sent up a Very light, you might say! We
might not like what we see but at least we’ve got a look at it.’

They signed off with mutual expressions of regard and Joe filled in the details for Dorcas.

‘There’s only one thing we can do, Joe, isn’t there?’ said Dorcas. ‘You can’t go to Bonnefoye with this and you can’t tell Uncle Charles either. You
said you wouldn’t. We’ve got to tell Georges. He ought to know about the scene the doctor witnessed at the hospital when Thibaud spoke in English and mimed killing someone. He ought to
know about the identifying marks on his father. Someone ought to suggest to him that there is a possibility that the body – if there is a body – in the cellars may not be his father and
his mother may not be a murderer. Nothing will ever be known for certain as long as the truth stays walled up. You’ve got to speak to him, Joe.’

‘Correction –
we
’ve got to speak to him.’

‘He said he’d be in the stables,’ she said, a little too readily perhaps.

They made their way unobserved over to the stables and slipped inside. Georges was busy polishing up an already gleaming black stallion and Joe wondered if the boy’s hands were ever still.
Seeing them, Georges closed the stall and dismissed the groom he was talking to. They approached, remaining a respectful distance from the large black, Joe noting its wicked eye and waltzing
hooves.

‘Ah! This’ll be the God of Thunder?’ he said admiringly. ‘Knew a fellow just like him in the war. Early days. Name of Gatecrasher, for obvious reasons. Crasher for short.
Hell on the hunting field but he knew what to do, faced with a contingent of German cavalry.’

Georges smiled, stowed his brushes and beckoned them over to a pile of hay bales in the corner farthest from the doors. A bucket by the side of the bales contained a scattering of cigarette ends
and, seeing Joe’s eyes on this, Georges remarked with an easy grin: ‘Dangerous habit, I know. But smoking, swearing and whistling are three vices you can only indulge in in front of the
horses. Banned from the house.’

And, as they settled down one on either side of him, ‘You have news for me?’

‘We have, my friend, and it’s a bit mixed. Not quite sure what you’ll make of this,’ Joe began ponderously.

‘It concerns Edward,’ Dorcas said impatiently. ‘Edward Thorndon, the English officer who was billeted on you.’ She produced the notebook open at the page showing the
frequency of his visits and the two heads bent over it. In a few short sentences Dorcas set out the extent of their discoveries and outlined their suspicions and speculations. ‘Do you see,
Georges – they were never here at the same time. Not until that July in 1917 when they clashed. The day they both disappeared. Neither was seen again.’

Georges listened without interrupting, finally sighing. ‘I loved Edward,’ he said simply. ‘You’re right – he did come . . . not often . . . leave was scarce in the
British Army as well, and whenever his company took leave they went to Paris, of course, but he always came here, sometimes with his friend Captain John. I think it must have reminded him of his
home because he fitted in at once. He never asked what jobs needed to be done, he rolled up his sleeves and just got on with it. I followed him about everywhere, copying what he did, correcting his
French. It was good to have a young and vigorous man about the place. Even when he was wounded and couldn’t do much he still . . . would
radiated
confidence be too strong an
expression?

‘The first time I met him . . . I was just returning from the fields . . . he was out in the yard. A squad of six or so had arrived an hour earlier. He was splitting logs for firewood. He
looked up and said, “You must be Georges. Here, Georges, have an axe and let’s get this pile stacked before the stable bell rings five, shall we?” I’d never been allowed to
use an axe before.’

‘Did you do it?’ Dorcas asked. Irrelevantly, Joe thought.

‘I’ll never forget putting the last log on the pile as the first note rang out,’ said Georges with quiet pride. ‘I think, looking back, it was a stage-managed moment
but,’ he shrugged, ‘it was one of many lessons I learned from Edward.’

‘Did you ever think he might be . . . regard him as . . . your father?’ Dorcas asked bluntly.

‘No. I never confused them. And he never tried to be a father to me. More like an older brother. My mother liked him too. She was always cheerful when he was in the house. I remember she
was delighted when he came to us wounded with permission to recuperate. She was a nurse, you know, and she gave him the very best attention.’

He went silent and stared at his boots for a very long time. Then he looked up at them angrily under his brows. He swallowed and said stiffly, ‘Well, you must think me the most awful fool
– not realizing what was going on all those years until two foreigners arrive and spell it out for me. I am supposing – nine years too late – that
something
was going on.
You must think me incredibly naïf!’

‘No, we don’t!’ said Dorcas. ‘Young, trusting and betrayed by the adults around him.’

‘Papa, Edward and Maman,’ he said. ‘If something frightful happened that night in 1917, how could I ever assign blame? I loved them all.’

‘Georges, we don’t at present know what, if any, blame there is to be assigned,’ said Joe. ‘The answers are blocked up in the cellars under the auspices of St Martin. I
think you know what we have to do. A little
dégorgement
has to take place, wouldn’t you say, so that whatever poison is gathering behind there is released, identified and dealt
with. The pressure’s building, the bottle’s at the right angle . . . and the thumb on the cork is yours, old son.’

Georges’s head went up. He attempted a smile and even acknowledged Joe’s extravagant metaphor. ‘Nine years in the bottle – that’s too long. And I’m sure
you’re thinking I have my own internal dead yeast to get rid of?’

‘You said it yourself, don’t forget,’ said Joe softly, ‘– it’s nasty stuff but it plays a necessary part in producing the final aroma and flavour. Release it
and the ’26 vintage could well turn out to be the best Houdart for decades.’

Georges had come to a decision. It was a difficult one to deliver but he had no hesitation and, Joe knew, would never go back on it.

‘Two things,’ he said. ‘First: my uncle Charles must be made aware of all this. I rather trust you can find the words to tell him, sir? May we leave that to you? Second: we
cannot do this in the presence of my mother. That I cannot allow. Tomorrow is Sunday and she goes to morning mass in the village. She will be gone for about two hours. Time enough, I think, for us
to perform our investigations. So – will you parade at eight hundred hours? At the
rond point
St Martin? Dorcas, you may be excused . . . No, I thought as much.’

‘And if we find nothing, she’ll never be aware of the suspicions raised by two interfering English,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly.’

The understanding between these two was instant, Joe recognized, with a twinge of concern. It had taken only one day for them to be confident of reading each other’s thoughts.

‘The difficulty will be in acting as normally as possible for the rest of the day.’ Joe thought he ought to raise this problem.

‘I find if you want to deceive, the best way to go about it is to have lots to prattle on about,’ said Dorcas in a practical way. ‘If you’re boring someone they’re
not paying much attention to what you’re saying. Have you ever ridden bareback, Georges? Then we’ll start now. I’ll show you how. We’ll take two of the more docile horses
and make for that wood beyond the vineyard. And we’ll have thrills and spills enough, I dare say, to chatter about over dinner. If there’s time we could ride over and talk to the
gypsies. I know a few words of Romany . . . We could return bubbling with stories. I say – do you mind, Joe, if we just disappear?’

Joe was irritated enough to say, ‘Not at all! Run along and play!’

Joe set out his story succinctly and without emotion, managing, he thought, to get his facts in the right order from the scene of nightmare witnessed by Dr Varimont in Reims to Georges’s
account of his own nightmare in the cellars, on the evening his father disappeared. He mentioned the presence in the château of the billeted Englishmen and talked of Edward Thorndon who
vanished from Georges’s life and from the records of the British Army at the same time. He spoke of Georges’s undisclosed horror at the sight of his mother with the body, the
bloodstains on the child’s shirt and the covering over of a burial place.

All of Charles-Auguste’s concerns were for his nephew. ‘How can any child have hugged this appalling vision to himself all these years? My poor Georges! Why did he never confide . .
.? Well, of course, I can imagine why he did not . . . It’s a child’s device – pretend something’s not really there and it will disappear. But this never did. I wondered,
not very energetically, you see, about the flowers and St Martin. So many shrines down there, I just took it for one of a series, one personal to Georges. But I can’t believe Aline would be
mixed up in anything of a homicidal nature. She’s a bit mad – I’ve said so – and rather wish I’d kept my mouth shut now! But she’s not violent. Oh, no! Nurse,
you know, and a damn good one by all accounts. In the business of preserving life not taking it. None of this makes sense, Sandilands.’