Tug of War (15 page)

No attempt was made to respond to his overture. The barman leaned over the counter and shouted over Joe’s shoulder: ‘Jules! He’s here. Get on over to the farm and tell your pa
that the English
flic
is on his way.’

One of the youths drained his glass and hurried out.

Joe found himself the object of a knowing, mutinous glower. ‘War’s over, mister. Long ago. You’re not wanted around here. You’re not needed. Bugger off home!’

Joe put his beer down carefully and placed a coin beside it. His voice was polite, even pleasant: ‘Only too delighted to bugger off home, my dear chap. Sadly not possible until the English
have pulled a few more French chestnuts out of the fire. Once again, it seems you need our help.’ His tone became more confidential: ‘Passed a cemetery on the way here. Chanzy. You know
it? Four hundred and six soldiers of my old regiment are buried there. I paused to say a prayer or two. The memorial was interesting. Put up by the French and it says: “In remembrance of the
soldiers of the British Army who gave their lives for our freedom.” A very proper sentiment, in the circumstances, don’t you think? I have always been impressed by French good
manners.’

The young men stared truculently into their beer but the old domino players began to cackle. One raised his glass of marc and in a defiant voice said, ‘
Vivent les Anglais!
Arrogant
sods but they knew how to fire a rifle!’

The other one raised his glass and added, ‘To the
rosbifs!
It’s true, Stéphane – you wouldn’t be here pulling pints if they hadn’t stood firm up there
near Reims. Pay no heed to him, monsieur, he’s suffered more than most. Can leave you a bit curdled, experiences like he’s had.’

Joe, disarmed by the bluff attempt at good humour, smiled and nodded. Swiftly judging the mood of the company, the barman poured and handed out glasses of marc for everyone and, taking one
himself, threw a challenging glance at the visitor. Joe realized he was expected to say something. He raised his glass. ‘To a final end to this bloody war. May we forgive and forget and may
the last soldier return safely to his true home.’

‘To a safe return,’ agreed the old men.

‘He’s ours, you know,’ said the barman. ‘My brother’s lad. And we want him back before my brother snuffs it. He’s not in good health. Doctor thinks he
won’t last another winter. Lungs. Poison gas did it. He should never have been up there fighting . . . over age . . . but he would go. Didn’t last long. And it’s cutting him up
knowing that his son is stuck in a loony bin when he could be back here with his family. We can look after him.’

‘And he has a mother, your nephew?’ Joe asked.

‘My sister-in-law. Yes. Armande. She’s not from these parts. She’s from up north. Normandy. Came to work as lady’s maid up at the château . . . oh, it must have
been in 1888 or thereabouts. A right fancy piece! My brother fell for her airs and graces and her blonde hair. She wasn’t the best choice for him but he was always in a rush and no one could
tell him anything.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s done well enough.’

‘Grudging sod!’ commented one of the old men. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Armande – she’s faithful. She’s grieved for that boy from the day he . . . went
missing . . . And since she’s heard he’s alive and likely to come home again she sits herself by the gate waiting and watching. Says she’s always known her Thomas would come
walking home down the lane one day.’

‘And both parents have identified the patient in Reims as their son Thomas?’

‘Of course. We’ve all identified him. Signed statements. Hired a charabanc and we all went up, every last relation, and we all said the same thing: “That’s him.
That’s Thomas.”’

‘He was always easy to pick out,’ chimed in the old man. ‘Go on, Andre, tell him!’ And without allowing the more slow-speaking Andre to get a word in, continued:
‘Fair hair. He had this fair hair. And the blue eyes, just like his ma. The other children were more like their father, dark and not so tall. Of course Thomas stood out in the playground and
life wasn’t all that easy for him, he looked such a foreigner, but he was always a good-humoured lad – could make anyone laugh – and had a lively punch which was more of a help.
We were all fond of the lad . . . the whole village . . . and we want him back where he belongs. It stands out a mile that this chap in Reims is Thomas. Changed of course, been through the mill,
jaw bust, anyone can see that, but the main things like his height and his colouring, well, you can’t argue. And,’ he added meaningfully, ‘a mother knows. A mother always
knows.’

Relieved and charmed. Some way distant from an already remote village in this chalky landscape, the farm buildings were grouped, he guessed, around a spring or water source of some description.
It was at first glance impressive and extensive. They entered, throttling back, through a wide porte-cochère surmounted by a low-built wooden storey running the length of the transom, a
useful construction which acted as a
pigeonnier
judging by the flocks of white doves perching there. The interior
basse-cour
was rectangular and spacious and lined on two sides by a
barn and a stable block. Their arrival sent a guard dog into fits of rage and hens dashed to throw themselves under their wheels. Opposite stood the farmhouse, half timbered with walls of local
limestone and dressed stone surrounds to the doors and windows. The roof was pitched at a low angle under a strong frame to bear the weight of heavy clay tiles. It was not lovely but it reflected
the colours and fabric of the earth from which it sprang and it pleased Joe.

The motor cycle puttered to a brief halt at the door to allow him time to dismount. He did this with as much dignity as he could muster, aware of scrutiny from all sides and very much wondering
how securely the still-raging dog was confined. He waved goodbye to his chauffeur and, approaching the door, made use of the heavy knocker. While he waited, he stepped back a pace to take a glance
at his surroundings. The second look was less reassuring. Tiles had slipped and fallen from the barns and not been replaced. One or two doors and windows were broken, cracked or missing altogether.
No paintwork had been renovated for years. In an establishment which boasted so many vigorous young men, he found this hard to account for.

The door creaked slowly open and he turned to smile a greeting but saw no one.

‘Are you the policeman?’

The voice had come from low down and he watched in amusement as the child warily stuck a head around the door and surveyed him. He must have looked unthreatening as the boy came forward and
opened the door wide. He was about six years old, Joe estimated, and was dressed neatly in baggy shirt with a white collar, knickerbockers and buckled shoes. Turned out to welcome and disarm the
visiting policeman? Joe thought so.

‘Oh, hello, young man. Yes, I am the policeman. I’ve come to see Monsieur and Madame Tellancourt. Here’s my card.’

He took the card and pretended to examine it. ‘Grandpa’s expecting you. He said to take you through to the back parlour. Uncle Victor and Aunt Isabelle are there as well. Come this
way.’

He hurried off down the tiled corridor and Joe followed until he reached a door at the end and pushed it open. ‘In there,’ said his guide and abandoned him.

As the others, a man and two women, showed no immediate signs of panic, Joe calmed himself and addressed the old man. ‘Sir. Commander Sandilands of the London police and also with
Interpol. How do you do?’

The younger man answered and took the card from Joe’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m Victor, Monsieur Tellancourt’s son. This is my sister Isabelle and this is Clothilde, the
wife of my older brother Thomas whom I understand you have seen in Reims. We’d be obliged if you could direct your questions through me. As you see, my father is in poor health and not able
to sustain a conversation. Though he will understand all that you have to say, I’m sure.’ The tone was perfectly polite though there was no warmth.

Joe wondered if he’d heard correctly. A wife? Clothilde? This was the first mention of a wife, surely? He remembered that the official claimants of the unknown soldier were named as Victor
and Isabelle Tellancourt. Recognizably brother and sister and both in their mid-thirties they stood together, dark of hair and complexion like their father. The wife of Thomas – or Thibaud
– was a brown-haired woman dressed in widow’s black, small and quenched. She did not attempt to return Joe’s greeting.

For form’s sake, Joe went through his rehearsed questions receiving exactly the answers he anticipated from Victor with occasional interjections from Isabelle. They knew their
father’s answers by heart but he confirmed each statement with a nod and followed the conversation with alert eyes. Their certainty that the patient was their brother was unshakable, their
eagerness for a quick solution in their favour compelling. With slightly excessive nostalgia, they recounted stories of Thomas’s young days, they produced letters he had written from the
front and the inevitable portrait photograph. Joe took the much-handled sepia study and said into the expectant silence: ‘Ah yes. A
fantassin –
would that be the word?’ Joe
could conjure up the colourful figure from his memory. The handsome young man was wearing the high-collared tunic of an infantryman under the blue greatcoat, the
capote
with its two front
hems buttoned back like a butterfly’s wings showing puttees and shining laced shoes. He was wearing the soldier’s round blue helmet, an unflattering piece of headgear which hid his
hair, and the lower half of his face was almost swamped by a flamboyant moustache. A
poilu
. Impossible on this evidence, Joe thought, to rule the man in or out in the struggle for
Thibaud.

‘An infantryman? Your son fought his war on foot, then, not on horseback?’

His comment was received by puzzlement all round and the reply came from Victor: ‘Of course he did. The cavalry? Thomas? He was a farm boy like the rest of us. A peasant! From St
Céré not St Cyr!’ Victor laughed at his joke. ‘Couldn’t stand horses. Had too much to do with them on the farm. He could handle them all right – rode like a
Cossack but always said they were the stupidest animals ever invented. No, he was nothing special. A trench rat. Swept up for cannon fodder like the rest of us. Declared missing, presumed dead, at
Verdun. They never sent us his name tag. But it seems they presumed wrong, doesn’t it? Taken prisoner and now returned to his home town.’

Joe turned to the silent wife, standing apart from the rest and looking through the window. ‘An emotional moment for you, madame. To envisage the possibility of one’s husband being
restored after so long and in such a battered condition . . .’ he murmured.

‘Well, of course it’s emotional,’ snapped Victor. ‘But she’ll cope. She was always a good wife to Thomas. Devoted. She’ll go on caring for him. What’s
more natural?’

It was becoming clear to Joe that the tension he felt in the room had its source in the woman whose voice he had not yet heard and he sensed a mystery. He nodded his agreement and turned his
attention from the widow, taking the brother and sister down paths they were more keen to follow and noting down officiously points which they deemed important. Finally he snapped shut his notebook
with a satisfied smile and began to thank the old man and his son and daughter warmly for their help and clarification.

Relief swept through the room. Victor hurried to the door, finding the small boy playing skittles in the corridor, and sent him to whistle up the Commander’s transport back into the
village.

‘One last thing,’ said Joe without emphasis, ‘and perhaps Madame could enlighten me . . .’ He bowed to the widow. ‘If you wouldn’t mind strolling back to the
gate with me there’s a couple of questions better directed at a wife . . . I’m sure you understand, old chap,’ he finished with a conspiratorial glance at Victor who gaped and
looked from one to the other with suspicion. Unexpectedly, the widow came at once to his aid, nodding and slipping out of the room ahead of him.

He followed her swift steps down the corridor away from the front door and in some surprise turned at her beckoning finger and climbed a set of back stairs. Two flights of increasingly narrow
treads and threadbare carpet took them to the attic floor of the house. The sun streamed through a side window glinting off dust motes and, distantly, a dove cooed and was answered. It was
uncomfortably hot up here under the eaves and Joe was feeling more uneasy by the minute. She stopped in front of a door: a door of solid oak and, unusually for this neglected house, freshly
installed. There was a bolt on the outside. The widow wrapped a fold of her skirt over it to muffle the sound and pulled it back. With a gesture she invited him to step inside, listening intently
the while. For noises of pursuit, perhaps? Her nervousness was catching.

His instinct for self-preservation made him insist that she enter the room first. He had no intention of being discovered, a mummified corpse locked in a French attic a hundred years from now.
Standing in the open doorway, one hand on the latch, Joe looked inside and he understood.