Tug of War (30 page)

‘All’s well. I know the gentleman. Nice chap. He’s staying at our hotel. He’s a mayor from a small town in the Ardennes, I think he said. Poor fellow – I’d
say he’s on his last legs. He had a heart attack or something very like it just after dinner the other day. I suspect there’s not much one can do for him. Don’t worry, he’s
quite safe with Dorcas. The child has had a rather sparse and unsatisfactory family for the early years of her life and it’s my theory that she goes about collecting relations. She picked up
an older brother in Georges Houdart and now she’s acquiring a grandfather figure, I’d say. They were both alone in the hotel – much better to have someone congenial to chat to
over the
café au lait
in the sunshine. All the same, I don’t think we’ll ask them to join us.’

‘A mayor? What did you say his name was?’ said Bonnefoye.

‘I didn’t. But he’s called Didier Marmont and he’s an old soldier.’

‘There we have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘A large amount of money was withdrawn from the account of Clovis Houdart in late August 1914. It was in the form of a cheque made out to one
Dominique de Villancourt. Now we can’t get at
his
banking details but what’s the betting that this same sum of money made its way through agents and lawyers carrying the
signature of de Villancourt and ended up paying for the purchase of a flat overlooking the Bois de Boulogne – it’s about the right price for such a property in 1914. The legal papers
which, er -’ Bonnefoye flashed a disarming smile – ‘you may possibly not be aware that I had seen . . .’

‘Mademoiselle Desforges, at least, would appear to be the epitome of honesty and forthrightness,’ said Joe. ‘She told me you had them.’

‘Indeed. These papers, as she avowed, bear his signature and this I have been able to authenticate. The same signature also appears on the subsequent transfer of the deeds to the grateful
lady. A good friend! A man happy to lend his name to a bosom pal anxious to hide his amatory activities from family and acquaintances – activities carried on within a few miles of the home he
was determined to protect? Time to say hello to your elephant?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Joe. ‘Our Thibaud was a busy boy. Leading a life of danger on the battlefield and off it . . . But I’m thinking, Bonnefoye, that from what
I’ve perceived of the French way of going on over the years – and I know you’ll shoot me down if I’m wrong – keeping a mistress, in whatever state of luxury, is not
held to be a cardinal sin or even anything out of the ordinary Not a reason for all these expensive manoeuvrings, surely? And he had, from the start of the affair, told Mireille that he was a
married man.’

Bonnefoye nodded his agreement and waited to hear more.

‘So why the rather desperate attempts at concealment? I think we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. I don’t think Clovis was hiding his wife from his mistress. I
think it was the other way around. Don’t you think that perhaps Clovis was all too aware of the strength of his wife’s emotional surges – her unpredictability? And was at pains to
shield his lover from her,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Having seen the lady at close quarters, I must say, I’d rather face a charge of Uhlans than an Aline Houdart who’d just
discovered that her husband was madly in love with another woman, intending to leave her for a nobody – a little seamstress from Reims. Or even worse – intending to send her back to her
parents in Paris and retain his son and his life at Septfontaines. I’m just surprised that he managed to get away with his throat uncut. On that occasion.’

‘But you tell me that Aline was herself conducting an affair . . .’

‘The fact that she was betraying
him
would not weigh heavily with Aline. Charles-Auguste said it – “What Aline believes to be the truth becomes the truth.” He
thinks his cousin may be a little . . . there may be a slight cerebral . . . not sure what the correct medical term would be . . .’ Joe finished delicately.

‘Crazy?’ said Bonnefoye. ‘I had wondered! And if you were married to her wouldn’t you want a Mireille in your life? I’ve got to know Mademoiselle Desforges slightly
in the course of this case and I have to say, Sandilands, that were she not so earthy, so worldly, so full of life and mischief we’d have to say she was an angel.’

He sighed a very Gallic sigh.

‘But she’s about to be a disappointed angel, I’m afraid,’ said Joe. ‘Clovis and Dominique are one and the same and there’s no separating them. I suppose we
could take a leaf out of King Solomon’s book in the matter of assigning possession but I’ve always thought that a very chancy procedure. In law the man must be returned to his rightful
home and the bosom of his family. You’re going to have to make the decision, Bonnefoye. Sign the forms. Yours is the finger on the pen.’

‘Correction,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘
We’ll
have to make the decision. I’m not bearing the weight of this alone. We will summon the good doctor to a conference and
he as the medical authority in the case, you representing Interpol and I as the case officer, will come to a unanimous decision. This afternoon. This has gone on for quite long enough. We’ll
do this at the hospital. Can you attend, let’s say after lunch at two o’clock?’

‘I’ll do that,’ Joe nodded. ‘So – we have an identity. The unknown soldier is unknown no longer. I wonder if the general public will remain enthralled by the
story?’

‘Perhaps – if we were to tell them the whole tale. But I shall give out a severely edited version. I don’t know about you, Sandilands, but I got quite fond of the old bugger
– Clovis, I suppose we should get used to saying. I’d like the rest of his semi-life to be as uncomplicated as possible. And I’ll deliver a strongly worded warning about
patient-care to la Houdart before she takes delivery, don’t worry!’

‘Poor old Thibaud,’ said Joe sadly. ‘I shall always think of him as Thibaud, I’m afraid.’

Chapter Thirty

‘I have the strongest misgivings about this. You may only come if you swear to stay in the background and not protest about the decisions taken. You know what
you’re like. This is official business. A man’s life and future are at stake, to say nothing of three men’s reputations – I won’t have you sticking your oar in.’
He flicked open his napkin in a decisive manner.

‘Very well, Joe. Of course, Joe. If you’re going to be such a fusspot, I’d really rather not go at all. I’ll stay behind and do a little souvenir shopping. And your
appointment’s for two o’clock?’ Dorcas looked at her watch and frowned. ‘If we have a quick lunch we’ll have time to pack up the car and get straight off afterwards
and then we could be in Lyon by this evening.’

He was pleased to be distracted by a practical arrangement.

‘Never sure you’re to be trusted. Going off on your own like that this morning! Marcus warned me to treat you like Carver Doone . . .’

‘Who?’

‘His pet ferret. Rabbiter. Half trained he was. Never lived to
be fully
trained. Nine times out of ten he’d do what was expected of him but on the tenth, he’d run away
and go wherever the fancy took him. Gone for hours. One day, poor old Marcus was discovered shouting vainly down various rabbit holes one after another, ordering the villain to come out at once or
else. Suddenly, there was the most awful scream and Marcus raised his head from the hole with Carver Doone attached by his fearsome little teeth to his nose. It led to a painful separation. Now,
something light, I think you suggested . . . And while we’re choosing, why don’t you tell me what you were talking about so earnestly with old Didier?’

‘He’s a wonderful man. A soldier. Something of a Bolshevik, I’d have guessed. He was telling me about his daughter Paulette and her American husband. He’s devoted to his
family. He’s got a baby grandson called John. Only six months old. He knows he’s dying, Joe, and can talk about it as though he’s just going on holiday. So matter of fact. I
expect it was the truly awful time he had fighting on the Chemin des Dames that ruined his health.’ She thought for a moment and then went on: ‘Have you noticed, Joe, that throughout
this case that name has kept coming up like a chorus in a song? Everywhere we turn it seems someone’s whispering about . . . what would you say in English? The Road? Path? Of the Ladies?
Which ladies? And which road?’

‘The Ladies’ Way, ’ said Joe. ‘A pretty name for a blood-soaked piece of country. North-west of Reims. The ladies were the two aunts of Louis XVI – the one who was
guillotined after the Revolution – and the way was their favourite coach-ride along a high bluff overlooking low-lying plains to north and south. A fearsome strategical position since the
Stone Age. Any army wanting to defend Paris has to hold that height.

‘And – chorus, you say!’ Joe shivered. ‘Have you ever heard it, Dorcas, the song that came out of that battle? The song of Craonne? The song of the mutineers? It has the
most haunting of choruses.’

‘I don’t know it.’ She looked around her. ‘We’re out of earshot and we’re English eccentrics anyway – why don’t you sing it? You can always stop
if the waiter comes.’

‘I warn you – I rarely manage to get to the end of it, it’s so sad,’ he said and, self-consciously, but confident of his baritone voice, Joe leaned over the table and
began to sing.

Unusually, Joe managed to get through the lilting song dry-eyed but hurriedly passed his handkerchief to Dorcas.

‘Sing it again slowly and I’ll translate as you go, if I can keep up.

‘“Goodbye to life, goodbye to love and goodbye to all women . . . It’s all over – for ever, this terrible war . . . It’s up there in Craonne, on the plateau, where
we must all leave our skins? . . . Die, does it mean? . . . For we are all condemned. We’re all to be sacrificed.” They don’t sound like – what did you say? –
mutineers, Joe. They’re saying goodbye, they know they’re going to lose their lives. It’s far too sad, too hopeless to be a song of revolt.’

‘It was a very strange revolt. And yet the army authorities were so afraid of the power of the song to move a whole army, a whole people perhaps, that they banned it and offered a huge
reward to whichever soldier would turn in the man responsible for writing it. And, do you know, Dorcas, the money went unclaimed. No one betrayed the song-writer. And they all went on singing
it.’

‘I’ve never heard of this. But then I don’t know much about the war.’

‘No one knows very much about this part of it. Even the English army fighting on the flank were not aware that the French had downed tools and declared they’d soldier no more. And
yet that’s not exactly right – they never surrendered. They were not traitors. They held the line but declared that they would not advance another inch until peace had been declared.
They were holding out for a settlement.’

‘You say the English didn’t know about it? Did the Germans find out?’

‘Those of us in British Intelligence who knew conspired with the French to keep the lid firmly on. And – goodness knows how – it worked. The German trenches were only a few
yards away from the French front line in places and no rumour reached them.’ He shuddered. ‘One man caught in no man’s land and made to talk, one man deciding to go over to the
enemy, and it would have all been over for us. They would have called up forces from the east and poured everything they had on to the weakened French lines and broken through.’

‘Poor Didier. And poor Clovis. He was up there too, wasn’t he?’

‘I believe he was. He killed Edward and then rode off into the night and back into battle as far as we know, expecting to leave his hide up there on the plateau with all the other
sacrificial victims.’

‘I wonder what happened to the rebels? Do you know, Joe?’

‘I know. It’s very unpleasant and I’d really rather not talk about it, Dorcas. Not for your sake – for mine. Now – omelette do you? Or would you prefer
steak-frites?’

Joe intervened at this point to voice his concerns about the welfare of the patient if such action were followed, and this was seriously considered by Varimont who questioned and evaluated his
information. ‘This is indeed a cause for concern as Sandilands says, Bonnefoye,’ said the doctor. ‘Look here – there is a third way of doing this which perhaps in the light
of Sandilands’ insights we ought to consider. Don’t assign him to anyone. I’m perfectly willing to hang on to him here if, truly, no better situation is available to him but
– well, you’ve seen it. It’s not ideal. I am however very interested in Thibaud and his condition – and neurasthenia of war as it affects other unfortunates – and
I’m making something of a study of these cases. It would be interesting to see how he reacts if transplanted into neutral surroundings.

‘Look – I would be quite prepared to tell the press and anyone else who’s interested that his identity remains unproven and he is being lodged with a third party, nominally
under the control of the hospital, so that our experiments may continue and observations be made. Should this type of care prove successful the government will be only too pleased. Too many such
cases clogging up the public health system.’

‘It’s a thought,’ said Joe. ‘Find and register a caring townsperson willing to liaise with the hospital.’