Tug of War (9 page)

‘Monsieur makes himself at home?’

He hadn’t heard her enter and turned to see a handsome woman of middle age watching him. There was calculation in her eyes though the tone of her question had been light, almost
teasing.

‘I’ve never felt at home in a
kala jugga
, madame,’ he said, waving an explanatory hand at the greenery.

‘Ah? Monsieur has lived in India?’

‘For a short time.’

‘You are English?’

‘Say rather – Scottish.’

She appeared to be encouraged by this confidence and moved forward to take the chair opposite him. Lydia would have approved of the single row of good pearls and the dark linen pleated day dress
which could have come from the hands of Mademoiselle Chanel. The head-hugging haircut with its emphatic fringe framed a face which needed no additional emphasis. The strong, over-large nose and
black eyebrows would have been overpowering without the sweetly curving red cupid’s bow of a mouth. She crossed her legs neatly at the ankles and leaned towards him. ‘Always delighted
to welcome a Scottish gentleman,’ she murmured. A flash of interest in her expression made him think that perhaps her sentiment owed more to experience than flattery. She looked at him with
increasing warmth.

A not unusual reaction. He’d learned to use this French affection for all things Scottish to his advantage. For them, the English would always, though fighting and falling shoulder to
shoulder with them, represent
le perfide Albion
but the Scots were a different matter. He’d first become aware of this perception of his fellow countrymen at a very low moment. Shot
though the shoulder fighting a rearguard action at Mariette Bridge near Mons, he’d insisted on getting back into the thick of things as soon as he could struggle out of the hospital cart and,
separated from his unit, had been sent along with the front ranks of the fast-retreating British Expeditionary Force south to . . . who knew where? He’d been instructed to act in the capacity
of Staff Officer with knowledge of the language – never enough of these to be found – in order to facilitate the liaison of the French and British commanders – when they could be
herded together. As these gentlemen appeared only too happy to avoid each other, Joe felt he’d been handed an uncomfortable duty. On the one occasion he’d met the Anglophobic General
Lanrezac he’d been bursting to give the supercilious commander in whose unreliable hands lay the fate of an exhausted British Expeditionary Force a piece of his mind. His fingers had itched
to turn the map upside down and tell him to get on with it. Lanrezac could, with his eternal back-pedalling, have given Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator a lesson in time-wasting. But Joe’s
duty was to stand unremarked in the background, listening and quietly seething as he murmured into the ear of his own commanding officer translations of Lanrezac’s dismissive remarks and
disconnected policy.

For the rest of the time in those desperate days when the British had force marched their way, fighting every inch down the undulating white road towards the Marne, he’d made himself
useful in the confusion, organizing supply dumps at crossroads, clearing the roadways, directing lost soldiers to their companies. He’d even caught a runaway horse and joined a cavalry patrol
riding out to ambush and exterminate a German cavalry force threatening their right flank.

After eleven days with little sleep and food the men had slogged their way all night through the deep Forest of Crécy. They had emerged into the centre of a fairy-tale village with its
small château, all untouched by the war and, in this idyllic place, someone had finally called a halt. The men had collapsed where they stood. Some who’d fallen on the road were dragged
out of the path of wheels and hooves by their mates. They made it in their hundreds into the shelter of the apple and pear trees of an orchard and lay down more dead than alive.

This was it. This far and no farther. Here they would regroup, turn their faces to the north again and fight their way back. The retreat from Mons was over.

Joe had been in the village square conferring with the local mayor, supervising the available food supplies and sleeping arrangements, when his attention was demanded by a Valkyrie voice. A
female voice. The mayor, at the sound, stopped speaking in mid-sentence, muttered his apologies and took flight. An elderly Frenchwoman, of some standing apparently, had arrived on a bicycle with
her old groom in attendance, similarly mounted.

‘You there!’

Joe automatically saluted the imposing figure clad, improbably, in riding coat and brimmed veiled hat.

‘I wish to see your billeting officer.’

He had accompanied her to the schoolroom being used as billeting HQ. The officer in charge Joe remembered with affection. His name was Bates. A man with an amazing memory for names and a
facility for making possible the seemingly impossible. Bates had leapt to his feet and saluted, as had Joe. The lady announced herself to be the owner of the nearby château and she suspected
(correctly) that her property was on their billeting list.

‘You will send me Scotsmen,’ she announced. ‘I will accept nothing but Scotsmen. I’m quite certain you have some.’

Sensing their surprise, she thought to add an explanation: ‘My family, including six small grandchildren, have fled their home in the Ardennes and taken refuge with me. I am told that the
Scottish soldiers are excellent child-minders and may be trusted not to break one’s possessions.’

Waiting until she had left and avoiding Joe’s eye, Bates thumbed though his list, licked his pencil and made a few adjustments. ‘If that’s how her ladyship wants it, we can
oblige. What about that mob of hairy kilted blokes who staggered in last night? A dozen assorted Highlanders! I’ll wake ’em up and send ’em along to the château. Right
now!’

‘Those kilted blokes are the handful of Gordons who managed to get away after le Cateau. The rest of their unit was shot to bits holding up von Bülow’s lot for a day. We
wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t watched our backs,’ said Joe quietly. ‘Let them sleep. But, yes, send them along to Madame la Baronne when they wake up,’ he added.
‘Why not? They’ve earned a bit of luxury.’

The past, deliberately repressed for years, was floating in bubbles to the surface of his mind again, released by familiar sights and now, apparently, by no more than a sound – the simple
sound of a Frenchwoman’s voice pronouncing the word
'Écossais’.

‘Monsieur is from Edinburgh?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he agreed easily, ‘from Edinburgh.’

‘At all events – this is your first visit to the Rêve. You are on your way to the south?’

‘Indeed.’ Joe nodded. I hope I do not arrive at an inconvenient hour?’

‘For us, monsieur, no hour is inconvenient. We have our late-night owls but we have our early-morning cockerels too.’

Joe was almost disappointed that the description was undeserved. The image pleased him.

‘And you will be unaware of the particularities of the house? Let me show you . . .’

She rose to her feet and took a folder from a gilded table. Returning to her seat she selected what seemed to be a brochure from the folder and handed it to him. In some surprise he leafed
through it.

‘Ah – the Turkish Harem. Yes, there it is, illustrated. Carpets, divans and the rest of it . . . The Japanese Room . . . looks the teeniest bit uncomfortable . . . but perhaps
that’s the point? The Rajah’s Palace complete with tiger skins. The Sheik’s Tent. Lacking only the smouldering presence of Rudolph Valentino . . . The Queen of Sheba’s
Bathroom . . . Good Lord! Can that possibly be authentic?’

Increasingly uneasy with his tone, she reached out and snatched the book from him.

‘You are to be complimented on your ingenuity, madame. Unfortunately, I am here not to inspect or sample what you have to offer but to beg your assistance.’

‘My assistance?’ The lady was puzzled and becoming more wary by the second.

Joe produced the letter of authority from Inspector Bonnefoye. To his surprise she laughed as she handed it back to him.

‘Ah. My first thought was that perhaps you were a policeman.’

‘The feet?’ he asked in some amusement. ‘Do the feet give me away?’

‘Not at all. It is the arrogance. Not even the Senator would have the bad manners to rearrange my furniture and dismiss my presentation as a . . . a . . . menu! But – very well. If
Jean-Philippe vouches for you, then you have my attention, Commandant. Tell me how I may help you.’

‘I want you to tell me whatever you can concerning the background of one of your employees. The Inspector tells me she works for you and has worked for you since before the war. A
Mademoiselle Desforges. Mireille Desforges.’

Her puzzled frown was sincere and he questioned further. ‘She
is
employed by you, I take it? I have not been misinformed?’

‘Mireille does indeed do work for me and if it’s her taxation standing you are interested in, I can assure you that all our paperwork is in good order. Though the records preceding
1918 are unavailable. We did not entirely escape the damage, you understand. You are welcome to inspect what we have, though how it could possibly be the concern of a Scottish policeman I cannot
conceive.’

‘No. No. I wish only to hear what you have to tell me of the war years. Indeed, my enquiries may bring only good news and perhaps even a healthy financial prospect for the lady.’

‘Of course. You are examining her claim on the missing soldier.’ Relieved to have worked out the motive for his visit she relaxed and tapped his arm. ‘Believe her. That’s
my advice. Mireille is as honest as the day is long. Hardworking and virtuous. Yes,’ she repeated, sensing his surprise, ‘yes, virtuous. She may have had an affair with a cavalry
officer and he a married man but she has remained faithful to him and his memory through all these long years. And now, of course, it’s far too late for her to take up with any other man
– even if there were supplies available. She must be in her early thirties, poor dear, and no longer a marriage prospect.’

Joe was beginning to think he had lost any grip on this interview. He cleared his throat. ‘Before we go any further, madame, would you mind telling me, in your own words, in precisely what
capacity Mademoiselle Desforges is employed by you?’

The sharp dark eyes narrowed and then flared in comprehension. He did not like to hear the shout of mocking laughter that followed. He listened in embarrassed silence as she jumped up and rang
for the maid.

‘Louise, I want you to fetch Mademoiselle Lakshmi. And Mademoiselle Benzai. They are both dressed and ready, I take it? Good. Tell them I wish them to parade for a Scottish
gentleman.’

Chapter Eight

Joe’s protests were waved away and the girls were swiftly in attendance. Looking completely at ease in their setting, they swayed into the room, arms gracefully about
each other’s waist, and Joe rose to his feet to greet them. Under their exotic disguises both girls were French, he thought, but it was easy enough to tell one from the other.

‘Mademoiselle Lakshmi.’ He gave a slight bow to the slender dark girl wearing a startling confection of purple and shocking pink. The Indian sari was as perfect a sample as he had
seen in a maharaja’s palace. Convincing also was the gauzy veil she held flirtatiously over her lower face and the ruby forehead jewel gleaming on her smooth skin. ‘And Mademoiselle
Benzai.’ He acknowledged the stiff white silk draperies of the high-waisted dress which could have graced a performance of
The Mikado
at the Savoy.

‘I must ask you to keep your excitement in check, ladies,’ said his hostess drily. ‘The gentleman is window-shopping only this morning. I think he has seen enough to satisfy
his curiosity. You may leave us now.’

Joe was piqued to be so flippantly set aside and he found he was stung by the looks of smiling complicity exchanged by the women. As the girls turned to withdraw, he moved swiftly to open the
door for them and caught their attention: ‘Mesdemoiselles! I am utterly charmed.’ He smiled merrily at the two girls. This was one of those occasions when he regretted he had no
luxuriant moustache to twirl in a suggestive way. ‘Goddesses of Love, indeed! And may I say how I look forward to the moment when Time favours me and once again the Thistle of Scotland may
flourish among the Roses of France?’ he finished gallantly.

She turned an amused face to him. ‘Well, there you are. You may judge for yourself the artistry of Mademoiselle Desforges. A more enterprising girl could have obtained a position with the
Ballets Russes. She has the flair of a Bakst combined with the practical skills of a Jeanne Lanvin. All our costumes come from her sketch pad and her needle. All our rooms, the design, the
draperies, are of her creation. My dress -’ she stood and twirled in front of him with the aplomb of a mannequin – ‘would have cost a hundred times more in Paris.’

Enjoying his stricken silence she pressed on, helpful, informative. ‘She took over her father’s tailoring business in the rue Baudricourt when he became ill just before the war. The
war disrupted everything of course and she fled to Paris for a year or two but, on her return, she took up the business again and transformed it into the enterprise you may see if you pay her a
visit. There are those who say her talents are quite wasted here in the provinces. But I am pleased to know her and glad that I have been able to encourage her. Women are learning to help each
other out, Commandant, to snatch at the jobs men have jealously guarded for themselves. Perhaps the only good thing that will have resulted from those frightful years. But tell me, are you going to
uphold Mireille’s identification of her lover? She is not a woman to make a mistake. She lived with the man off and on for the four years of the war. She would know him whatever has happened
to him in the meantime. And why is your friend and colleague,’ she smiled slyly, ‘Bonnefoye – so aptly named, wouldn’t you say? – not capable of sorting out this
dispute himself? He is a most able young man. Why does he have to apply to Scotland Yard for help?’