Tug of War (18 page)

‘Terrible story. And you think our Mademoiselle Desforges is utterly confused? Her man whom she identifies convincingly and without prompting by his birthmarks was, according to her,
present at the Chemin des Dames but I could have sworn she meant the second battle of that name in 1917. But, Bonnefoye, she even told me how many service stripes he would have had on his sleeve.
Claims – and convincingly, I have to say – that she sewed his second wound stripe on his sleeve. The wound to the jaw. Result of a blow from a rifle butt, he claimed. It’s all in
the notes. She was firmly convinced she had continued to meet her Dominique until his disappearance in 1917.’

‘I’m afraid the evidence rules her out. A body – complete with identification, I have to say – was returned to the parents, was buried with no query raised in the family
vault in Paris. In October 1914.’

Joe was aware of Dorcas’s disappointment.

‘Can we be absolutely certain that it is his body?’ Joe ventured to ask on her behalf. ‘In the chaos of war strange things happened . . .’

‘We’ll have to take it as established, I’m afraid. There is no way in the world we’ll get permission to disinter a war hero. Posthumous Croix de Guerre and all that. The
parents categorically refuse permission. And, the facts being what they are, I can’t say I blame them. We’d be flying in the face of common sense and the evidence if we pursued
this.’

‘Don’t cross Mireille off your list yet!’ said Dorcas. ‘Oh, sorry, Uncle Joe.’

‘I understand your sentiments, mademoiselle, and sympathize,’ smiled Bonnefoye.

‘Talking of burials,’ said Joe. ‘If you look at my notes on the third lot, the Tellancourts, you’ll see I discovered – you might have warned me! – that their
Thomas is comfortably buried where every French soldier wants to be buried, in the shadow of his own village church steeple. Amongst a whole tribe of Tellancourts. So what is all this nonsense
about their claim?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Bonnefoye had the grace to look shifty. ‘Wondered if you’d trip across that. Are you aware, I wonder, of a rather disgusting type of business which has sprung
up in these post-war entrepreneurial times? A business which is hard to suppress since there is such a continuing demand for it. There are companies which – you will find this hard to believe
– have set themselves up as retrievers of corpses from the battlefields. It goes on. It still goes on. They dig about in mass graves occasionally finding bodies which still have the name tag
of the soldier around his neck or wrist and they track him down and approach his relatives. Sometimes the families of the missing themselves, having exhausted all other channels – the Red
Cross and so on – advertise for information in the newspapers, so desperate are they to bring their sons and fathers home to the village.

‘It was in response to such a plea posted by the mother that one of these firms contacted her. They had found the boy, they declared, and had his tag to prove it. They could box up the
remains in a coffin and return it to St Cérésur-Marne. For a fee, of course. They charge a franc per kilometre, I understand. So, for a small fortune, a body was returned and buried
in the family plot. And until that wretched photograph of Thibaud was printed, they were at peace, content to take their flowers along to his grave every Sunday. But now? Well, how certain can we
be that the body in the grave is the Tellancourt boy? You tell me!’

‘Not at all,’ said Joe quietly. ‘And I have to tell you, Bonnefoye, that the wife I was to discover he had when I arrived at the farm roundly declares that Thibaud is not
Thomas. She didn’t tell you that? No? Probably keeping quiet under duress from the rest of the family. I managed to get her by herself and found she was eager to communicate this.’

‘Silly woman! But that was well done, Sandilands. A denial by the wife! I’ll fetch her in and take her statement. That’ll amply satisfy the powers that be. Good, that’s
one more off our list,’ Bonnefoye said cheerfully.

‘Wait! Not so simple, I’m afraid. I was to discover that the lady values her widow’s status and means to remarry. The thought of remaining chained to a mental patient for the
rest of her life doesn’t appeal. And gives her a jolly strong motive for denying him.’

Bonnefoye opened his mouth to exclaim, caught sight of Dorcas and limited himself to ‘Dear, dear! What a nuisance.’

‘But wait! You’ll see I had a roller-coaster of a day – I also managed a private interview with the mother, though I can’t be certain that she didn’t do the
managing . . . Anyway – when asked, she offered conclusive evidence as to the birthmarks. It’s all in the notes. She was even able to describe the one on the rear which apparently
escaped the attention of his
soi-disant
lover, Mireille Desforges.’

‘So, we rule out Desforges, leave in the Tellancourts and, tell me, what are your thoughts on the Langlois claim?’

‘As with the Tellancourts, I suspect that the imperative here is a financial one. Dorcas has done some sound detective work of her own and discovers that Mother Langlois, having apparently
mistreated her son through his young life, now wants him back in his damaged state to facilitate her flight from the family hearth. I can’t blame her for formulating such a plan but I have to
say it casts doubt on the foundation of her claim. Much, I’d say, rests on the statement of this schoolmaster who seems to be so sure of his ground and fighting her corner. Anything
known?’

Bonnefoye nodded wisely. ‘You’re nearly there, Sandilands. About as far forward as we are. But there are methods I can employ,’ he said mysteriously, ‘to get at the truth
which are not available to a visiting English policeman. Leave it to me. I assure you I will tell you what we know as soon as we know it. I will just say that for the moment we must mark the
Langlois claim with a question mark. That’s one cross, one tick and one question mark.’

He grunted with satisfaction. ‘Well, it begins to look very much as though the business is wrapped up,’ he said. ‘Unless you can unearth, I’m sorry, discover, something
more sensational
chez les Houdart
this weekend. It
is
this weekend you’re spending with them? Good. Well, let me know how you get on, won’t you?’ He gave a sudden
and boyish grin. ‘You know how I shall spend the rest of my morning, curse you, Sandilands? Looking through your notes and ferreting about in this case. Waste of my time, I know it! My
business is solving the problems of the freshly murdered (three corpses on my books at the moment. Three! Any chance . . .? No . . .?) not working out who the
living
may be! You have my
number? Ring me at once if there’s anything I can do or say, won’t you? I want this solved and you out of my hair by next Wednesday. Clear?’

‘Clear, old man,’ said Joe and, to Dorcas’s barely concealed disgust, they shook hands in a matey way.

‘Oh, one last thing,’ said Joe, hand on the doorknob. He pointed to his notes. ‘Last page and rather urgent. It’s an outside chance but you never know. Just a suggestion.
But I think you’d agree we should explore all avenues. And I’m sure the French technical services are up to it.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He’ll do – for a police inspector. He’ll do very well.’

‘And what was all that stuff about studying . . . psychology, was it?
Are
you intending to do such a thing? Because if so, we must take steps to get you educated first.’

‘Of course I’m intending no such thing! Live in London for three years? Urgh! But I had to say
something
!’

‘Another naughty lie?’

‘A distortion of the truth for politeness’ sake.’

‘Ah. But I suppose I should be relieved that politeness is in the forefront of your mind with the weekend I see stretching in front of us. Lunch first to fortify ourselves and then
we’ll get started. I’m not sure what our reception will consist of, Dorcas. Be prepared for anything, will you? We could find ourselves entertained as honoured guests or we could be
shown round to the tradesmen’s entrance and fed on scraps in the back kitchen. I’ve encountered both extremes in my time.’

‘I’ve lived at both extremes in my time,’ said Dorcas seriously. ‘Don’t worry, Joe. I’m a chameleon, you know.’

Chapter Sixteen

‘Crikey! Were you expecting this?’ Dorcas asked as they passed down an avenue of beech trees and drew up in front of the gates to the château.

‘No. And what’s more, I’m not even certain we’ve got the right place,’ said Joe, doubtfully. ‘Though we followed the direction from the village carefully
enough. Don’t forget I’ve only seen an artist’s impression on a champagne bottle. And if this
is
the right place our artist has taken quite a bit of licence. The name for a
start! I thought, in my simple unquestioning way, it was most probably named as on the bottle, the Château Houdart, but if you look at the old sign outside – a bit battered perhaps and
those holes are bullet holes, I do believe – you’ll see it’s the Château de Septfontaines. Seven Fountains? I wonder if they’re still to be found?’

He gazed from the stone arcade with its central arch guarding the forecourt of the château to the procession of tall chimney stacks in the distance.

‘House rebuilt by Mansart in 1685, I understand,’ he said. ‘Yes – it begins to emerge. I know what the artist has done – he’s pared it down to its essentials,
missed out all the interesting details and moved a vineyard several hundred yards to the north.’

‘Those creatures up there on the piers. What are they?’

‘Gryphons? Would you say gryphons? Something couchant, gardant anyway. Might even be lions. Shall we take a chance?’

‘Yes, let’s go in. They can only set the dogs on us!’

Joe slipped the car into gear and they stole forward through the open wrought-iron gates, taking in the symmetrical wings decorated with classical urns and, in the centre, the main body of the
house, its parapet carrying a cargo of gesticulating statuary They crunched their way over the immaculately swept gravel and encircled a stone basin in which a stone Triton with a far from
reluctant stone maiden in his arms tirelessly poured a jet of water from a stone shell.

‘Do you think we could have one of those at home, Joe?’ Dorcas whispered. ‘Lydia would love it.’

Joe parked the car neatly in the shade and they set out to climb the shallow run of steps up to the wide front door. No knocker, no bell, but the door opened as they approached it. A manservant
smiled a welcome and reached for the car keys Joe still held in his hand. ‘Good afternoon, Commander. Miss. If you’ll permit, I’ll have your things taken up to your rooms. Come
this way. Madame Houdart is in the
petit salon
where she will be taking tea.’

‘Tea? In the
petit salon?
’ Dorcas muttered. ‘Oh, I say! Awfully glad I put on my silk stockings!’

As they walked behind their guide they caught intriguing glimpses through open doors of a series of stately rooms. In one which appeared by its great size to be the main reception room, a mighty
chandelier winked in the afternoon sun and the light was reflected from mirrors and gilded candle sconces along the walls. They ran the gauntlet of the cold marble gaze of a row of classical busts,
one perched over each doorway and attending them in their progress along the corridor until they arrived at an image of Athena. At this door the manservant paused. He went inside and announced
them. Dorcas scuttled back with a sudden show of nerves to stand behind Joe.

‘Come in, come in! I’m delighted that you could come. Fabrice, we’ll have tea straight away. Will you drink tea, Commander? I can offer you lemonade if you prefer? You must
have had a hot journey. Yes, Fabrice, bring a jug of Pauline’s lemonade and have them put lots of ice in it. Oh, and summon Monsieur Houdart and my son in – shall we say – ten
minutes’ time?’

Aline Houdart fluttered towards them, a slight and attractive figure, hands outstretched in welcome. She was wearing a pale green silk tea gown and a simple silver necklace and looked cool and
at ease, a decorative element of this white and gold, high-ceilinged room. Large grey eyes, a porcelain skin and a cloud of short chestnut hair were Joe’s first impressions. Fanciful visions
of Botticelli maidens sprang to mind and he realized he had fallen uncharacteristically silent. And he was staring and gulping like an adolescent youth. Redmayne’s warning had not gone far
enough, he thought. He ought to be bearing in mind that this woman who seemed to have all the unconscious allure of an exotic moth had worked to survive horrors that would have taxed the reserves
of any man he knew.

Dorcas poked him in the back.

‘Ah. May I present my niece, madame?’ he said, clicking back on to the social track. ‘Miss Jagow-Joliffe. Dorcas.’

Dorcas stepped forward, receiving a perfumed kiss on each cheek and a waterfall of welcoming words. Dorcas was the first to swim clear of the polite effusions swirling all around. ‘I
wonder, madame, if you are going to introduce us to the stately gentleman reclining by the fire?’ she said with a grin. ‘A boar hound, isn’t he? Very handsome! I’ve never
met one socially before.’

‘You are quite right – he is a boar hound. Do you like dogs, Mademoiselle Dorcas?’ said Aline Houdart. ‘I can ask him to leave . . . Naughty Bruno! Bad boy! He knows he
ought not to be here. I eject him ten times a day and he somehow manages to creep back. He is a trained guard dog and not very friendly with strangers but he will not attack you if you ignore him.
Oh, do take care! Mademoiselle!’

Dorcas had advanced smoothly on the huge brindled dog stretched the full length of the hearth. She knelt, a small and vulnerable figure, at his side and spoke a few words into his ear. His heavy
head went up in surprise but he made no objection when she proceeded to scratch him under the chin, murmuring the while. His tail thumped and he gave a strangled whimper of ecstasy. An embarrassing
scene, Joe thought, and cleared his throat in warning but Aline appeared enchanted. When Dorcas went to sit on a sofa the dog heaved himself up and, with what Joe could have sworn was an apologetic
glance all round, followed her, settling down uncomfortably on her feet.