Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Joe looked down the short list. At 1 p.m. table number ten had been booked for Mademoiselle Pitiot and guest. ‘This guest of Mademoiselle Pitiot – a gentleman?’

The maître d’hôtel did not welcome questions. ‘A gentleman, yes. A Frenchman, Monsieur Carneau. He is a regular guest of the hotel. Mademoiselle Pitiot always entertains her business associates here.’

‘You know her well, Mademoiselle Pitiot?’

‘She also is a regular guest of the hotel, sir. I should say she lunches here two or three times a month.’

‘And what time did they leave?’

‘Somewhere between half-past two and three o’clock, sir.’ And, coldly, ‘Do you require to hear the menu they chose? I could have the waiter sent for…’

Joe left with expressions of gratitude and made for the police station to check developments with Charlie Carter. As he strolled along looking with fascination at the shop windows he came to an abrupt halt before the display in a jeweller’s shop.

It was the rope of pearls that caught his eye. Amongst the riot of glittering pieces, emerald rings, sapphire necklaces, diamond clips, the rope stood out for its simplicity. It was draped around the swanlike neck of a black velvet mannequin and gleamed with the discreet allure of finely matched, high quality pearls. It was an exact likeness of the one he had seen around the neck of Madame Flora.

On impulse he went into the shop. He was relieved to see that he was the only client. A musty smell – of incense? – came faintly to his nose and when his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom he discovered that he was in a shop very unlike the ones he was used to in the Burlington Arcade. Joe had an impression of a fabulous collection of glittering gems but also of antiquities on display. Were they for sale or were they merely for decoration, the Tibetan ghost masks, the Kashmiri embroideries hanging on the walls, the piles of sumptuous rugs, the racks of silver daggers?

As he gazed, enchanted, an assistant who had been dusting shelves in the gloomy depths of the shop came forward. A handsome young hill boy with turquoise eyes to rival the gems, he addressed Joe politely in English, enquiring what service he might offer the gentleman. Joe asked if he could speak with the proprietor. Since he came forward at once from a back room, Joe assumed that the proprietor had seen him enter.

A middle-aged man with an aquiline nose, sharp eyes and a greying beard, the owner could have been eastern European or even Turkish, Joe guessed. He nodded to Joe and said in an accented English, ‘Robertson, Cecil Robertson. Tell me how I may help you, Commander Sandilands.’

Joe looked at him, startled for a moment. Robertson smiled deprecatingly. ‘As far as I know, and my knowledge stretches far, Commander, there is only one Scotland Yard policeman at large in Simla at the moment. I assume you are he.’

Joe handed him his card. ‘Not on official duty, you understand, Robertson. Purely personal and unprofessional.’ He leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘Couldn’t help noticing as I passed your window that wonderful string of pearls. Just what my, er…’ He managed a slight stammer and felt that the gloom did not do justice to his blush. ‘Well, anyway, it’s a lovely piece and might just do the trick, if you follow me… eh?’

Robertson smiled and listened.

‘Well, to be blunt, how much are you valuing it at?’

‘That rope would be worth a thousand rupees, Commander. It is, as you have obviously noticed, very fine. The pearls are exceptional – large and unflawed – and they are well matched. Would you like to handle it?’ He smiled. ‘I warn you that once you have it in your hands and feel the silkiness and weight of the pearls you will be unwilling to let it go.’

Joe shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but a thousand rupees, that’s too steep for a London policeman like me! Ah, well,’ he sighed, ‘it will have to be chocolates again or perhaps a bouquet of Madame Flora’s best.’

He looked closely at the man’s face, watching for any change of expression when he heard the name of a client whose neck was adorned by the twin of this necklace. But he was disappointed. The man remained unflinchingly bland and polite.

Joe said goodbye, adding his regrets, and the boy assistant showed him to the door. For a moment Joe stood on the pavement looking again at the necklace. He was remembering not only the pearls around Flora’s neck but also the matching pearl and diamond ear-rings.

At that moment he would have given much to turn out Madame Flora’s jewel box.

He counted to ten and then swept back into the shop.

Robertson was still behind the counter giving instructions to the boy. He looked up in surprise at Joe’s abrupt reappearance and obvious change in demeanour.

‘One question,’ said Joe. ‘This is police business and I require an instant and truthful reply. Who, in Simla, is your best customer? And by that I mean the one who spends the largest sums of money with you – who would that be?’

‘Mrs Sharpe,’ he said without taking time to reflect. ‘Alice Conyers-Sharpe. ’

Chapter Thirteen

« ^ »

Eager to tell Carter about his foray into the world of fashion and his incursion into the jeweller’s shop, Joe hurried along to the police station where he was greeted by smart salutes and wide smiles. A brisk order was called out for tea to be brought and he was shown into Carter’s office.

‘Ah, Joe! Glad you’ve surfaced at last! Had word from Simpson. He’s on the early train and will be with us about midday. I can see you’ve been up to something. Your trouble is that, for an experienced bobby, you are sadly impressionable! Can it be Marie-Jeanne Pitiot who’s stirred you to such a pitch of excitement?’

Joe went carefully through his interview with Mademoiselle Pitiot, saying at last, ‘So it looks as though we’ve got yet another obliging, communicative, “do let me know if there’s anything further I can do to help” woman with a solid alibi on the scene. I begin to get a bit suspicious when all the suspects are falling over themselves to be helpful. Tell you what though, Charlie, I have met someone who made my nose twitch! Anything known – and by that I mean to his discredit, of course – about a Cecil Robertson, jeweller of this town? Cecil Robertson! Such a likely name!’

‘Well, for a start, that actually is his name! Scottish father, Persian mother. Not a bad pedigree if you think about it for someone who makes a lot of money out of trading in gems. I keep an eye on him. All that valuable property in small parcels, cash washing about the place, opportunities unrivalled for smuggling and goodness knows what else. As far as I can see there’s never been a whiff of suspicion that his business is not entirely above board. His clients include the highest in the land. And, if you’ve seen his shop, you’ll understand why! It’s not Cartier’s, it’s not Asprey’s – it’s more Aladdin’s Cave and every bit as irresistible! Not only for buying but for selling – or even pawning as well. Expensive place, Simla. Temporary financial embarrassment not unknown and Cecil Robertson’s your man!’

‘And do you know who is his best customer? I asked him and, without any hesitation, he said – Alice Sharpe. Does that surprise you?’

Carter was silent for a moment, nonplussed. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said finally. ‘I suppose in a way it ought not to because she is, after all, extremely rich but she is not at all showy. She always wears simple frocks and if I were trying to think of a particularly fine piece of jewellery that I’ve seen her wearing, do you know – I don’t think I could mention one! I suppose she does wear the stuff – viceregal balls and that sort of thing – but you’ll have to ask Meg for details. It’s certainly escaped my attention.’

‘Whereas Madame Flora flaunts her ill-gotten gains for all to see.’

‘Not all. Only clients remember. Seems a bit unfair to waste all that beauty on the lower degrees and the dissolute of the town,’ Carter sighed.

A police havildar slipped into the room and gestured towards the window.

‘Ah, that’ll be him! Our man Simpson!’ said Carter, jumping up and going to look out. Joe joined him and they watched as a tonga drew up and a tall man, slim and with a scholarly stoop, got uncertainly out. He was wearing a well-cut brown linen suit, white shirt with a regimental tie and a panama hat. He leaned heavily on a stick and his eyes were concealed behind dark glasses. A waiting policeman greeted him and ushered him swiftly into the station.

Carter went to the door and flung it open. ‘Simpson? Captain Colin Simpson?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Come in, sir. Come in. We’re delighted to see you. So very good of you to come! This is Commander Joe Sandilands of Scotland Yard who’s on secondment in India at the moment. I mentioned him when we spoke on the telephone. Char! Jildi!’

Carter drew forward a chair and Simpson limped his way to it and settled down. ‘It’s all right, Captain, I’m not blind,’ he said in a firm, cheerful voice. ‘But I think you’ll understand why I wear these when I take them off.’

He took his dark glasses off for a moment and then replaced them at once. Joe and Carter just had time to register a right eye, brown and alert but surrounded by thick scar tissue, and a shockingly empty left eye socket. ‘Apt to frighten the horses to say nothing of the memsahibs, so I keep them covered up. Souvenir of Ypres. The limp’s one hundred per cent genuine.’

‘Ah, yes, well, thank you for explaining that, Simpson,’ said Carter. ‘And we’re very grateful you could get up here to speak to us with such speed. We don’t have much to spare but you must let us pay your expenses – indeed, I insist.’

‘Thank you but I was very anxious to come. I dropped quite a few things I ought not to have dropped and there’ll be hell to pay when I get back but what you had to say rang a bell with me. Something I’ve been bottling up for years, you know, always intending to make a clean breast of it, and then realizing that nobody is in the least bit interested in what I have to say – can you imagine?’

‘The Beaune railway disaster?’ said Joe. ‘It’s somewhat peripheral to our enquiries, I’m afraid, so I hope you won’t think you’ve wasted your time coming all this way to talk to a couple of strangers about something that might, in the end, have no relevance to our case.’

‘Look here,’ said Simpson earnestly, ‘I’ve waited three years to talk to someone about the crash. It almost doesn’t matter what you decide is the relevance of what I have to say… I just need to say it… get it out in the open… and that’s what I’ve come for.’

Carter sat back in his chair, leaving Joe to continue the conversation. ‘Very well, and that’s good to hear. Let me start by outlining our area of interest and then perhaps you could just fill in with information as you feel able to do so? This isn’t an official interrogation or anything like that – just look on it as three chaps who are trying to tug on loose ends of a puzzle until one end pulls free.

‘You were travelling first class when the accident happened, I understand? We are interested in another first class passenger – an English girl called Alice Conyers – and we wondered whether you had any contact with her during the journey?’

‘Certainly,’ said Simpson. ‘I travelled in the same compartment as Alice and at the moment of the accident we were dining together in the dining car.’

Joe and Carter looked at each other, trying to play down their relief and excitement at this.

‘Can you tell us about the journey from the start?’

‘Paris. Gare de Lyon. A steward found my place and showed me to my carriage. I was wearing dark glasses and walking with a stick and rather enjoying the fact that people were falling over themselves to be of assistance to me. Everyone assumed I was completely blind, of course, with the stick as well. Not proud of it but it did give me a sort of awful advantage over people. They thought I couldn’t see but I actually could, and quite well. Not quite as good as being an invisible man but almost. Another advantage was that I could stare at pretty girls if I wanted to for as long as I liked and no one would think I was being rude. And in my compartment there were two girls worth staring at!’

‘Two?’

‘Yes. In some ways similar, in most very different. Not often you’re closeted for several hours with two such good-looking young things! You’d need to have been in hospital – as I was – for two years to imagine how much I appreciated it! There was Alice Conyers, English, on her way to India. I remember she was dowdily dressed even for an English girl and then later I understood she was in mourning for her parents who were not long dead of the flu. Quite a chatterbox but a real charmer, Alice, and obviously driving her companion, a Miss Benson, mad! Now she was counting the miles!’ Simpson shook his head sadly. ‘And she wasn’t to know it but there weren’t all that many left for her. She died in the crash.’

‘And the second young woman?’

‘Completely different in style! Older, though not by much I’ve since thought, French, expensively dressed – Worth or Chanel or somebody of that quality – woman of the world, you’d say. She spoke good English with a very attractive French accent – when Alice let her get a word in edgeways. She was on her way to stay with friends in Nice for the season. Isabelle de Neuville – that was her name.’

‘And you found yourselves lunching together?’

‘Yes, though the Benson female returned to her compartment. We were having a jolly, good lunch at the same table. It worked very well, surprisingly enough for three strangers. Alice was so alive, so full of excitement at the life she was going to lead no one could resist her. Madame de Neuville was treating her like a rather spoiled little sister – she was very kind and good-humoured, I remember. She herself seemed a little sad – wistful perhaps – and I think she was enjoying Alice’s artless prattle, her freshness, her optimism. Me, I was enjoying watching the pair of them!

‘And then the world came apart at the seams… Alice was still at the table and I had gone to smoke a cigar in the corridor. Madame de Neuville had just gone off to the ladies’ room when it happened. I assume you know the details?’

Joe and Carter nodded solemnly.

‘We’ve both read the accounts of the crash,’ said Joe. ‘But tell us what you remember of it.’

‘Yes, well, this is where I get confused,’ said Simpson. ‘A devastating bang – I mean truly deafening – like the end of the world! I guess that was the engine hitting the parapet. This was followed by a no less deafening series of crashes as the coaches were dragged off the viaduct and into the ravine below. There was a ruinous and continuous roar of noise. Broken glass flying. Everything turned upside down. Little Alice was screaming (and others were screaming).The dining car was split in two as it rolled down the rocky scree and most of the passengers spilled out into the ravine. My head was split open on a rock. I was unconscious and so badly injured I was taken for dead. They actually carted me off to the morgue! I’d been lying there at the scene for God knows how long when I came to. I tried to move my head and couldn’t. I thought I was paralysed. I learned after that my head had bled and the clotting blood had stuck it to the rock. They had to cut me free with a knife before they could get me on a stretcher. Anyway, I came to, couldn’t move, and started to call for help. There was no noise. No one crying or calling apart from me. Everything was silent except for the occasional creak of metal as another part of the wreck settled. There was a stench of burning all around me.

‘I called out again. Gave out a groan more like. And that was when I heard it.’ He leaned forward and paused to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. Carter and Joe remained silent, looking at him with attentive encouragement.

‘Someone was walking about. Walking quietly – I thought at the time stealthily – stopping at each of the bodies and then moving on. I thought rescuers must have arrived and tried to shout again to let them know I was alive. But whoever it was stopped dead. I shouted again and the steps came on towards me, nearer and nearer but not hurrying. Not hurrying to help. Ridiculous, but I began to be afraid. Tales of battlefields – looters, mad old women who cut the throats of survivors and rob them – came to me and I didn’t shout again.

‘I just had to wait helpless, paralysed, while the steps got closer. And then someone came just into my field of vision.’

Simpson paused for a moment and touched his missing left eye. ‘This side was on top. I was lying on my right side. My spectacles were broken, lost, and all anyone looking down on me would have seen was this blind side. But I had a narrow arc of vision up to about three feet above the ground. Someone was standing beside me, looking at me but not approaching further. Standing back, you know. Not wanting to get involved, you’d say.’ Simpson fell silent and looked from one to the other defiantly. ‘It was the buttoned boots I saw first and the silk stockings and the dark red skirt with black fur bandings…’

Carter glanced at Joe in embarrassment. Simpson picked up the glance.

‘I warned you not to believe a word I said,’ he reminded them.

‘According to reports of the accident only three people survived – yourself, a baby and Alice Conyers who is alive and well and in Simla at this moment,’ said Carter.

‘I know. I know. And that’s obviously what you must believe.’ Simpson looked embarrassed but determined and he pressed on. ‘But at that time I was convinced that it was Isabelle de Neuville standing by my side. When I realized it was she and not some looter I actually called out to her for help.’

‘By name? Did you say her name?’

‘No, I think I just called out “Help!” Twice. And she just walked away. Just walked away without saying a word!’

‘Unusual behaviour!’

‘I was devastated. And later, I was so sure I’d seen Isabelle de Neuville walking about that I enquired after her. They had no clear idea of who was who for a long time of course and by then I’d been carted off to Lyons but when I described a first class passenger and what she was wearing they wrote it down and checked on it. They found her body in the morgue in Beaune. She’d died instantaneously of a broken back and head injuries. There was no way in the world Madame de Neuville could have been walking about that scene of disaster! I am left with two alternatives. I was either seeing her ghost or my mind was disturbed.’

Neither man hastened to deny this. ‘It could be either,’ said Carter pacifically.

‘I was pretty badly beaten up in the war,’ Simpson said almost apologetically. ‘In fact for some months after, I was, I have to say, out of it. Out of my mind. Neurasthenia’s the fancy label they put on it so, you see, you don’t need to place any weight on my testimony.’ His voice was self-deprecating. ‘No one else would dream of doing so. In fact, you’re the first people I’ve mentioned it to. I’m sorry. Just look on it as the ramblings of a man who’s had a double dose of cranial punishment.’

‘I’ve known men with neurasthenia,’ said Joe carefully, ‘and mostly, they’ve known the difference between that state and normality. I’m guessing you do too.? He gave Simpson a level gaze. ‘I’m guessing that you’re telling us what were your actual impressions as you lay injured.’

Simpson nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure in my own mind of what I saw but is my own mind a reliable place from which to be viewing the world?’

‘Let’s assume for the moment that it is,’ said Joe. ‘And let’s further assume that you were not visited by an apparition. We’re left with the fact that you were approached by a woman wearing Madame de Neuville’s shoes, stockings and skirt and, therefore, reasonably, as you saw no further, we must assume that you did indeed see Isabelle de Neuville and that she survived the crash.’

‘But only one woman survived and that was Alice Conyers,’ objected Carter.

A terrible theory was beginning to form in Joe’s mind. Something Marie-Jeanne Pitiot had innocently said reinforced his theory but it was so fantastical and outrageous he tried to push it away. It came back with greater force. Reluctantly he spoke again.

‘There is a way to explain all this,’ he said. ‘But only one way. And, though I think it’s ludicrous, I’ll outline my idea anyway. Now – one woman only survived the crash. This is a fact. But which woman? If Simpson can believe the evidence of his one eye, it was the Frenchwoman. Imagine the scene. Miles from anywhere, no hope of rescue for hours. All dead but Simpson who, to all appearances, was dead or as good as. Just Isabelle de Neuville alive.’

Joe took a deep breath and plunged on. ‘Suppose she found the body of Alice Conyers, broken-backed, dead. Alice with her hopes of a new life in a new continent, a huge fortune, a marriage ahead of her. Suppose Isabelle is dissatisfied with her own life – this is conjecture now – suppose she is fleeing Paris, running away from an irate or boring husband, from debts, from loneliness – might she not be tempted to change places with Alice? There were no witnesses. She crept around – stealthily was your word for it, Simpson – checking that the other passengers were dead. If she realized Simpson was alive she thought he was blind anyway so that was no obstacle. She takes Alice’s clothes off her body, the top layer only, and she substitutes her own. If they didn’t fit very well – no problem – they would be so torn and bloodstained no one would notice.’

Simpson nodded silently and Carter made no comment so Joe went on. ‘But someone did notice something slightly off key about the clothes! Marie-Jeanne Pitiot was made Alice’s personal nurse and she it was who had the task of stripping the damaged garments off her. She remembers being surprised to discover that under the grey serge were underpinnings of emerald green silk, if I remember it correctly. It’s her theory that Alice had bought these frivolities in Paris and was wearing them as a hidden sign of revolt against her austere upbringing and I find this totally credible but, on the other hand, there is a more sinister and equally convincing reason. It would have been almost impossible for a woman injured as Isabelle undoubtedly was herself in the accident to wrestle the undergarments from a lifeless corpse and put them on herself and repeat the procedure with her own clothes. Not a task for the faint-hearted nor one for someone suffering from shock, cracked ribs and a facial wound.’

‘Just about possible for her to exchange the outer garments, I would have thought,’ said Carter, ‘and that would have taken incredible determination.’

‘Not so sure,’ said Simpson. And, turning to Joe, ‘I think you must have been in the war. A survivor. You know what battlefields are like. This was very like a battlefield…’

‘And people find surprising strengths despite their injuries. If their resolve is strong they can move mountains,’ said Joe. ‘Yes, I’ve witnessed that many times.’

‘So,’ said Simpson, taking up the theory, ‘having taken her clothes and her bag – ’

‘Her bag?’ said Carter and Joe together.

‘Oh, yes, that would have been a vital part of her scheme! Alice was carrying a bag with her personal documents in it. And more than just her passport and tickets and so on – it contained her diary. She showed us all. It was one of those leather jobs with a lock and key that are so popular with girls. A five-year diary. She’d kept it up to date, she said, until she got to Paris and then life became so exciting she didn’t have the time to fill it in. Well, that would have given Isabelle de Neuville plenty of background to base her character on, wouldn’t it? And then there was the leather folder!’ he added, memory returning with a rush. ‘It contained all the information she needed to prepare herself for taking over the family business when she got to Bombay. She took us on a quick canter through that too! A day’s work learning up the facts in it and anyone could make a reasonable showing as the heir apparent to the family fortune! So, what have we got? She’s stolen the other girl’s clothes, her documents and her identity!’

‘Oh, come on, now! People would be able to see it wasn’t Alice!’ objected Carter. ‘They’d take one look and know it was someone else, wouldn’t they, Simpson? You said they were a bit alike but it was the differences you stressed.’

‘That’s true. Because it was the differences that were so immediately striking. You know – the one so sophisticated, the other so naive. But underneath the outer layers, well yes, there were similarities. Hair colour – light brown. Eyes – blue. With a change of clothes Isabelle could have been Alice’s older sister. There could have been only a year or two’s difference in age. Alice was very childlike for her age. She was twenty-one but you’d have guessed sixteen.’

‘With a change of clothes could Isabelle have become Alice? That’s the question we have to explore.’

Simpson weighed his impressions with care, finally concluding, ‘Yes, I think she could – given a certain acting ability – she could have got away with it. I’ll tell you why… I told you Alice chattered on and on. We knew all there was to know about Miss Conyers by the end of lunch! She had no close relations left alive and the people she was to meet in Bombay, she had never met before. Good God!’ he exclaimed, warming to the idea. ‘Yes, she could have pulled it off!’

‘A terrible risk to take,’ said Carter. ‘Think about it!’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Joe. ‘She was plunging into a completely new life where no one knew her. If there were any lapses of memory or bits of strange behaviour she could blame it on the rail crash injury. She’d need a lot of confidence, of course.’

‘Oh, she had that all right!’ said Simpson. ‘I’d say she had a very cool head. Highly intelligent woman, was my judgement of her. But to steal someone’s life and fortune like that! I can’t really believe it! I liked her! I can’t think she would have done such a thing.’

‘Before you both get carried away,’ said Carter, ‘there’s an obstacle you simply can’t get around! Isabelle de Neuville couldn’t possibly play the part of Alice Conyers because she was French, wasn’t she? Pretty damn obvious! Can’t think why you haven’t raised it!’

Joe looked a question at Simpson.

‘Her English was faultless,’ he said. ‘Only a slight accent. A bit too pure, if you know what I mean. You know how foreigners seem to speak better English than we do because they don’t salt their speech with the latest slang as a native speaker does?’

‘Can you be sure that she was French?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Simpson smiling. ‘I heard her screaming at her maid before the train started. You’d have to be French to have a vocabulary like that! Her clothes, her luggage, her mannerisms – all French.’

‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Joe. ‘That explodes our theory!’

‘Your theory, old man!’ said Carter. ‘Still, very inventive! I enjoyed our little excursion into the realms of fantasy!’

‘Why do you say with such certainty that the theory falls apart, Sandilands?’ asked Simpson.

‘Because the Alice Conyers I’ve met here in Simla couldn’t possibly be French. That girl is as English as a Sally Lunn, as… as… Cheddar cheese, as the Houses of Parliament! She’s English to the bone!’

‘A good actress could give that impression.’

Joe shook his head. ‘I agree but the best actress in the world wouldn’t have the knowledge of English life that this Alice Conyers has. When I interviewed her the other day I made by chance a glancing reference to The Wind in the Willows. I quoted a single line – we were talking about homesickness – and she picked it up at once and put it in context.’

‘When Mole went home!’ said Carter and Simpson in chorus.

‘There you are! You know that. And Alice Conyers knows that but no French girl would know about Rat and Mole and Toad and the gang. Wouldn’t want to!’ he added as an afterthought. ‘It’s a small thing but it’s something you can’t fake or prepare for. Her reaction was completely spontaneous. The girl I spoke to was English and brought up in England. I’d put my last shilling on it!’

‘So Alice is Alice,’ said Carter. ‘Pity in a way – it would have given us a jolly good motive for the first shooting. If she were someone masquerading as Alice and she heard that Alice’s brother was on his way to pay her a visit – that’s the end of everything. And he would have to be removed before he arrived in Simla and set eyes on her.’

‘And the second murder – Korsovsky,’ said Joe, ‘couldn’t that have occurred for the same reason? That he would have known that Alice was not Alice? It’s my opinion that he never met Alice Conyers – the real one – let’s say, for the sake of argument, but he might well have known the woman pretending to be her! He could have exposed her. So he too had to be eliminated before he set eyes on her. It all fits except for the fact that the Alice we know is English.’

They fell silent again, all three thinking and speculating furiously.

‘Hang on a minute! Call ourselves detectives!’ said Carter. ‘The newspaper report! Have you still got it, Joe? Good. I wonder if we’ve got our money’s worth out of that? Get it out and we’ll have another look at that list of casualties. Now just suppose that G.M.’s note of condolence – “so sorry etc.” – didn’t refer to Alice who was still alive and whom he had in any case never met but referred to the reported death of some other girl who was listed as a casualty. Some girl he’d had a swing round with in the south of France perhaps? Let’s have a look through the list of French casualties.’

Joe spread the paper on the table and they all looked at it. Charlie ran his finger down the list of first class passengers, French column. There were four men each with his wife and two other ladies: a Madame Céline Darbois and her daughter Mademoiselle Arlette Darbois aged fourteen. There was no Isabelle de Neuville listed.

‘This is ridiculous!’ said Simpson. ‘Can their record keeping have been so poor?’