Tug of War (28 page)

‘We are speaking of a man who did not die in battle, madame. He was murdered.’

‘A soldier’s body pierced by sabre cuts? In the middle of the corpse-strewn Marne? Who will care? My dear Commander, if you pursue this, you will be a laughing stock.’

She had drawn up the battle lines. Over-confident.

Joe strolled to the table to put down his whisky glass and turned, replying with chill formality: ‘
I
will care, Madame Houdart. And, for me, the derision of a deskbound official or
two in London or Paris is as nothing compared with the silent cry for justice of a fellow soldier.’

He took his cap badge from his pocket and studied it. ‘Edward of the Fir Tree: I feel I know him. He was a soldier just like me. A Fusilier, miles from home, trying to cling to some
semblance of civilization and tradition . . . snatching at love and warmth where he could find them. I’m a pretty traditional sort of man myself, madame, and in an old-fashioned way I’m
going to give you my pledge that I will bring this matter to a conclusion that would have satisfied
him
. And here’s my gage on that!’

With a scornful gesture he tossed the badge across the room to land at her feet.

She stood up, glowing with fury, indicating that the interview had ended. As he bowed and made to leave her she called after him: ‘I had a black hound once . . . an English breed . . . a
nonpareil when it came to following the quarry. But he was too keen, Commander. Sadly one day, in his eagerness, he outstripped the rest of the dogs and fell into a boar-trap. Broke his back. A
terrible thing but someone had to give the command to administer the
coup de grâce
. I gave it.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Joe closed the door quietly and stood outside, grinning and shaking his head to dispel his disgust at the melodramatic performance. ‘Pompous English idiot!’ was his
judgement. ‘Against lying French schemer! Wonder who’ll prevail?’

He was disturbed enough by his conversation to wish to share his concerns with Charles-Auguste, recognizing now the man’s prescience in calling in a little help from a discreet quarter,
and set off back towards the cellars. Charles was at the door, leaving directions with one of the men. Dusty and tired, he made his way over to Joe.

‘Kitchen, I think. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.’

Settled around the table and by themselves, they set about producing a second breakfast.

‘Here, have some bread,’ offered Charles. ‘It’ll soak up the whisky. You smell like a distillery, man! Trying to keep pace with her, were you?’

‘What? You’re not saying that . . .?’

‘Oh, no! Aline’s by no means dependent on the stuff. She’s a winemaker, after all. Knows exactly where to stop. Usually doesn’t start but when she does . . .! She was
probably trying to drink you under the table. Seen her do it with buyers. But she should have known better than to try that on with a Scotsman, I’d guess?’

‘The capacity comes in useful sometimes. Even so, I’m ashamed to say I’d reached the loosening of inhibitions stage and made a gesture or two I regret. But, Charles, I want you
to listen to Aline’s account and tell me what you’re thinking. I hardly know the woman. You do. I don’t want to come to a wrong conclusion about her and base my further actions on
something false.’

Charles listened and asked an occasional question as the conversation and Joe’s interpretation of it were laid out for him. He grimaced and drew in a whistling breath as Joe recounted her
Parthian shot. ‘No, actually she wasn’t making up that story about the dog . . . I remember the brute. Black as night, keen as mustard and he died as described. Ouch! You’re for
it, old man! But tell me – what are you going to do now?’

‘Head straight for the boar-trap, I’m afraid. Nowhere else to go. I won’t stand by and see Edward Thorndon shovelled into the earth as a nameless deserter, in a pine box in a
French graveyard, with no one to mourn him but the woman who indirectly brought about his death. He has loving parents in England. They continue their search for information. They will want their
son’s remains returned and, believe me, Charles, this is one missing soldier who’s going home if I have to carry him on my back!’

He paused to fill his coffee cup.

‘And that’s the easy bit,’ said Charles. He gave Joe a level look. ‘We’re both skirting round mentioning the obvious, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. And it goes right back to the beginning of all this. It was
you
who raised the matter with Sir Douglas, Charles. It’s
your
concerns I’m here to investigate.
And I can tell you I
have
been picking up the hints. Now stop me if you think I’ve got this quite wrong but – it all hinges on a single, simple question: Why in hell does Aline
want her husband back again?’

‘There we have it,’ said Charles with relief. ‘I’ve always suspected she hated my cousin – though I had no idea what good grounds she had for that hatred! And now,
we’re looking at a woman who’s prepared to move heaven and earth to have this husk of a man brought back here into her life so that she may care for him. She knows how difficult that
will be for her and for Georges. It would have been easy to have ignored the appeal in the paper – “Great heavens! What a surprise – doesn’t this man look incredibly like
poor dear Clovis who was killed up near Craonne in ’17? I do hope they manage to locate his family I can imagine how they suffer.” And that, if any comment were called for – which
it wasn’t – would have sufficed. But she went straight after him – like that bloody old Diabolo she told you about – hounding the doctor, spending time and money on research
and bribery I shouldn’t wonder, determined to get hold of him.’

‘I’m bound to say there is a perfectly reasonable motive. She must know (as you say, she’s done some research on this) that the condition of shell-shock,
Kriegsneurose
or
la confusion mentale de la guerre
, whatever you want to call it, is not invariably irreversible. She must have considered the possibility of his recovering his memory with a click and a
bang one of these days. There are many well-documented incidences. And what happens then? Clovis comes racing, hands down, back to his home to confront his faithless wife and reclaim his long-lost
son? She’d lose everything. Would Aline be prepared to take even the slightest risk of this happening?’

‘Certainly not. She would not want that. She would prefer to have him under her control. Here. Not in Reims or anywhere else speaking his mind – should it ever come back to him. But
– and I think you’ve seen it, Joe – there’s something else. Something darker.’

‘Yes. I think I have. The patient in Reims is not just a pathetic leftover from the war, he’s Clovis Houdart, the man she hated, the man who would have taken her son from her, the
man who stabbed her lover to the heart and killed off her hopes. I’d guess that she’s pinned the blame for all that has gone wrong in her life, the disasters and the sorrow, on him. Oh,
yes, she wants him back all right. But not to care for him. No. Not that.’ Joe shivered and rolled to a halt.

‘To torture and torment him,’ Charles finished for him. ‘She’s a vindictive woman who’s not happy unless she has someone in her power and if she can’t charm
them into submission, she’ll resort to other means. I really believe – and, Joe, I would be only too relieved to hear that you think my suspicions absurd – that she means to have
her revenge in her own twisted way. If she were to acquire him, be granted custody, I think I would be sent away back to Provence in short order and, after an almighty row, Georges would flee. With
me? Perhaps. Into the army? More likely. He’s still maintaining, by the way, that Thibaud is not his father. And she would be left head to head with that poor, dribbling wreck. I can’t
think any further.’ He stumbled to a halt, shaken by his own dark thoughts. ‘You’ll think the worse of me for even entertaining such dreadful suspicions.’

‘No, Charles. My mind has plumbed much the same depths. Look here – you have said to me, lightly and on one or two occasions, that you thought Aline might be “a bit
mad”,’ said Joe tentatively.

‘Just a manner of speaking,’ mumbled Charles. ‘And if you’re talking medically, I’m no authority. Indeed, I have no personal experience of the condition and my
views are not worth an airing. But – oh, why be so mealy-mouthed! – her behaviour is occasionally worrying. Her reactions, excessive. I’ve always put it down to her sufferings in
the war – they were enough to have brought down a strong man, you know – and with this further evidence of mental torment uncovered, well, one understands and sympathizes.’

‘I think your fears may not be unfounded,’ said Joe. ‘I agree we could risk terrible consequences if the man – Thibaud – were to be turned over to her.’

‘But, I’d guess the ultimate decision rests with the French authorities, am I right? And they will act without the benefit of witnessing the little scene down in the cellar just now.
You begin to see why I would so have liked you to arrive and declare him English! Our problem would have been carted off over the Channel to live out his days in some comfortable south coast clinic
for officers instead of festering in a lunatic asylum or cooped up here being -’

‘Cooped up?’ Joe’s memory was stirred. ‘“Sometimes the female has to fetch him back . . . and sometimes he’s ripped to shreds by his mate . . .’”
he muttered, remembering with horror. With all the assurance of Athena she had told him the truth and had never attempted to conceal her intentions. She had no fear of interference by a foreign
policeman, however deep he dug. His enquiries could only lead to the inevitable truth: the patient was her husband, her claim indisputable and she would have him returned to her.

‘Charles! I must return to Reims! At once.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘No, it’s not a rout! Let’s think of it as a strategic withdrawal, shall we? Like the retreat from Mons. We’re going to regroup with Varimont and
Bonnefoye, turn again and start on the march to the sea.’

‘If you say so. It feels like a defeat to me. And let’s hope the hotel can offer us a billet when we turn up a day earlier than expected. What are we waiting for?’

They were sitting, luggage stowed away, engine running and bonnet towards the open gate.

‘We’re waiting for Charles-Auguste. He’s bringing me something from the house. And here he comes.’

Charles hurried over and placed a large brown envelope on the back seat. ‘No problems. She’s brooding upstairs in her room. Tell Bonnefoye to return it to me here when he’s
done with it, will you? And it’s farewell, Miss Dorcas – for the time being. I’ll just say I’ve been delighted –
we’ve
been delighted that you were here.
And I know we’ll see you again. And Joe? What can I say? You know you have my thanks and my apologies and look here – it’s not over by a long chalk yet . . . don’t leave me
worrying and wondering, will you? I’m always about early in the morning.’

He turned away and slapped the car on its rump as Joe put it in gear and started off down the drive.

‘Not saying goodbye to Georges then?’ Joe asked.

‘We said our goodbyes in private,’ Dorcas said. ‘I hate all that fussing about round car doors.’

‘How is he bearing up?’

‘Not well. But what would you expect? His main concern is for his mother. She’s suffered a shattering blow today.’

‘I’m not sure I’d waste my sympathy on Aline Houdart,’ Joe commented.

‘What? She comes across the murdered corpse of a man who is either her husband or her lover being uncovered by a foreign policeman who proceeds to hypnotize her into a confession of
goodness knows what – of course she deserves sympathy. You’re jolly lucky it was Georges who threw a torch at you – I’d have aimed a little higher.’

‘Dorcas, if you’ll just stop fizzing with indignation for a moment, I’ll explain about Aline Houdart. I’ll tell you everything I know.’

It took longer than he had expected and three villages had rolled past the windows before he’d finished but at least she didn’t interrupt his account.

‘But she’s so charming and pretty and brave,’ she said finally. ‘And Georges thinks the world of her. The sort of woman anyone would want for their mother. Hard to
believe. Have you thought you might have misinterpreted something she said in the dovecote, Joe? Head to head in that charged atmosphere . . . you know how easily you get carried away.’

He refused to rise to this bait and let her mull it over in silence. At last she said: ‘And I wonder if it’s occurred to you that the two women whose claims are still being
considered have something in common? They both claimed to have fallen in love at first sight. Oh, dear! I’ve got a useful piece of advice for anyone who declares they’ve fallen in love
at first sight: take a second look. I said that to Elsie when she decided to go off with the knife-grinder. She didn’t listen. Disaster! People use it, you know, to excuse any amount of bad
behaviour. “Can’t help losing my virginity . . . betraying my wife . . . bashing my old man on the head . . . we just fell in love, you see, at first sight.” Huh!’

‘Heavens, girl! You’d give Romeo and Juliet a wigging then?’

‘Certainly would! I’ve no time for romantics like them. Think of the mayhem they caused.’

Joe interpreted this nonsense as a warning not to enquire into her friendship with Georges and heeded it.

‘Aren’t you bursting with curiosity to see what’s in Charles’s envelope?’ he said. ‘Take a look, if you like.’

Dorcas scrambled over the seat to retrieve it. ‘Addressed to Bonnefoye. Photographs,’ she said. ‘Three. Of Clovis. Surely he must have seen these already?’

‘Yes. But we’ve had further information. Don’t forget the ears. A magnifying glass on these should come up with evidence one way or another.’

‘And Thibaud will be handed over to Aline? Is that what you want, Joe?’

‘I’m here to find out the truth, Dorcas, and see that justice prevails. I’m not a fairy godmother, granting wishes to my favourites.’

She looked sadly at the photograph of the small Georges on his father’s knee. ‘You know that Georges is adamant that he should not return?’