Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘So, my reason for bringing the man back here to his home is a simple one. Elemental. It springs from love.’

‘I understand all that you have to say, madame,’ said Joe. ‘And am well able to feel for you in your sorrow. I must ask though, if I’m to do my job adequately, whether there are any indications of a practical rather than emotional identification of the patient. Look, I wonder if you were aware that the doctor in Reims, who, I do believe, has grown fond of our man, calls him Thibaud. Would it offend you to use that name for the time being?’

‘Not at all. Thibaud. A good name. I approve of that. And yes, there are aspects of Clovis’s body that are distinctive and could well prove that he and Thibaud are one and the same. We could hardly look for mental similarities though I do wonder whether all possibilities have been explored. I have thought, Joe, that we might be able to have him, Thibaud, taken to Austria to a clinic. Or even to London. You must advise me. I understand that wonderful results in cases like his have been achieved through hypnotism. The process is not much practised here in France but I would like to try it and will pay all expenses incurred.’

‘It is an avenue which, I think, should be explored,’ said Joe.

‘But in the meantime all we have to go on is physical clues. I have provided the obvious information like size and colouring, supported by photographs of course. That ought, along with my word, to have been sufficient but I understand that there are now three other claimants vying for him. I shall have to play cards I was holding in reserve.’

For a second Joe had a sickening feeling that he’d heard this before and was struck by the similarity, if not in circumstances, then in determination between Aline Houdart and Mireille Desforges. Each, he did believe, motivated by undying affection.

‘Clovis has marks on his lower abdomen. His was a difficult birth, a breech birth, and force was used. He has the marks of those . . . pincers . . . on either side of his hip. His right hip. But there is more. Come back to the salon with me, will you? I wish to show you further evidence.’

Stopping to order coffee to be brought to them in the petit salon, she made her way back to the room where they had taken tea the previous day. Judging by the piles of novels and magazines and the cashmere throw draped over a chaise longue, this seemed to be where she spent her leisure time. Joe sat down in an armchair while she went to hunt about in the drawers of an escritoire. She brought over to him three photographs.

In the first, a man very like Thibaud stood looking aloof and aristocratic, slightly embarrassed perhaps to be modelling his cuirassier’s uniform for the camera, his presence in the studio insisted upon no doubt by a doting family. He wore a flamboyant helmet which covered most of his head and it was impossible to tell the colour of his hair.

The second, larger, photograph showed a group of young men in evening dress posing informally at the end of a party. A dozen of them were seated around a table strewn with the debris of an elaborate meal. They had reached the brandy stage and all looked very drunk.

‘Clovis is the second on the left,’ said Aline, pointing. ‘Taken in Paris – a passing out celebration with his contemporaries at the academy of St Cyr. In those days you couldn’t go to a dinner party without it being recorded by a photographer. A hard-riding lot! So much hope, such talent, such dash! I danced with all of them in my time. It breaks my heart to look at them and realize that, of this dozen, only two have survived. Clovis and the man on his left, both held prisoner until the war ended or they would have been killed too, no doubt.’

She was trembling with emotion at the sight of the twelve bold, laughing young men, her voice husky, and snatched it away to replace it with the third photograph.

This was more natural. Clovis was sitting in everyday clothes, relaxed and smiling and holding on his knee the young Georges clutching a toy train. His hair was fair, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and love and, yes, the man was the spitting image of Thibaud.

He said as much to Aline.

‘You haven’t noticed it, have you?’ She moved behind him and pointed. ‘It would take an expert in the Bertillon system of identification to spot it and if it becomes necessary, believe me, Commander, I will certainly employ one. Concealed under the straps of a helmet of course but here where he’s bare-headed you can see it clearly. Look at the ears!’

Joe looked and saw.

‘The lobes. They are joined to the side of the face not free like these.’ She tugged at her own dainty ears. ‘Now, I know – because I’ve been doing my own research on this – that a small percentage only of the population has this characteristic. One person in four, I understand. That, taken in conjunction with the other signs I have given you, ought to be more than enough proof.’

‘I hadn’t remarked Thibaud’s . . .’

‘Attached lobes,’ she said. ‘He has them! For the good reason that Thibaud is Clovis and these are his ears!’

Chapter Twenty

Halfway – and, Joe suspected, a calculated halfway – through coffee, they were joined by Charles-Auguste. Aline withdrew, content to leave the two men to talk to each other, perfectly confident and assured.

Left alone, Joe said as much. ‘Aline would seem to have a watertight case to make for the man in the Reims sanatorium being her husband?’

Charles-Auguste nodded. ‘I know! Believe me, Sandilands, I’ve heard it. Over and over. And it grows in strength. I can’t imagine why I bother to demur and throw an occasional, feeble “Ah, but . . .” into the mixture.’ He paused and, invited by Joe’s sympathetic silence, went on, pulling a rueful face: ‘But I do! Who am I to say this isn’t my cousin, you may well ask, when his wife of eighteen years, mother of his son, says otherwise? And we were never particularly close. All I can say is that every instinct I have is telling me that there is something very wrong . . . very disturbing . . . about this identification. And it stems, not so much from the mental patient himself as from Aline.’ His voice had lowered and he cast a quick glance at the door. ‘It’s her sanity I fear for. She’s unnaturally obsessive about this whole business!’

‘A bit harsh?’ said Joe. ‘The desire to have one’s husband restored can hardly be regarded as abnormal? I have spoken to Aline. She held . . . and still holds . . . Clovis in the deepest affection.’

Charles took a fortifying sip of coffee and levelled a sharp glance at Joe over his cup. His eyes were shining with cynical amusement. ‘I see she’s got you where she wants you, old man! Oh, don’t be concerned – she captures everyone.’ He stirred uncomfortably. ‘But, look here, the thing is . . . and you won’t believe me . . . I say this unwillingly anyway but . . . quite the reverse. Um. I’d say they positively disliked each other.

‘Once he’d got over the initial starry-eyed enchantment, Clovis became over the years, first cool, then irritated and then uncaring. He adored his son, of course. But even so, as soon as war became a possibility he rejoined his regiment. He was a second son. He trained as a soldier at St Cyr. You knew that? And you’re aware, I take it, of the French rules of inheritance? Our crazy Napoleonic law! Everything to be divided equally between the male heirs whether there’s two or twenty. Ridiculous! It’s ruined many a grand – and lowly – estate. And you’d be surprised how many families cease to expand after the birth of the first son. Though, if he dies, a second seems, miraculously, to appear in short order. Clovis’s older brother died and he inherited everything – threw himself into viticulture and was very effective. Then came the war. Brave man, intensely patriotic. I do think his country meant more to him than anything. In short he was gallant, to use an old-fashioned word. He would always put himself in the thick of things. Surprising that he lasted as long as he did.

‘But, as I say, I think he was not unhappy to leave his wife behind. From what I gathered from her complaints he rarely, suspiciously rarely, I’d say, came home on leave. Avoiding her. But he needed to see his son so the man must have been torn in two. He wasn’t a cold man, Sandilands, don’t think it. Reserved perhaps but . . .’ He reached forward and picked up the photograph of Clovis holding his son on his knee. ‘That was Clovis. Loving. That’s the man I remember and it’s the man Georges remembers.’

‘Well, he seems to have inspired deep emotion. Aline tells me she is motivated by love to pursue her claim on this man,’ said Joe. ‘But if you’re saying – not love on her part or his – then what? She is preparing to go to some lengths, involving experts in the fields of criminology and psychiatry, to make her case.’

‘And there’s where my concern lies. I was delighted when we were told they suspected he was English. A jolly good solution all round, I thought. Best possible outcome. And that’s when I contacted Douglas and stirred up the French police. At that stage the forces of law and order were not involved and the whole cat’s cradle was being handled by a sanatorium and the Ministry of Pensions. Hardly adequate, I thought, considering the increasing complexity. I knew I could depend on Douglas to send someone to shine a light on all this. And, Sandilands, I’m very glad you’re here. We need to know the truth – we can all work with that.’

‘You don’t think Aline would try to circumvent the truth?’

‘She wouldn’t see it like that. She thinks she’s above it. What Aline decides becomes the truth – if you see what I mean. It’s her unwavering sense of purpose that troubles me. She’s up to something we have no idea of. And if she succeeds in her schemes it will bring her into head-on collision with her son. Georges is as convinced as anyone can be that this man is not his father. And I’m not prepared to stand by and see his home and his future put at risk by one of Aline’s delusions.

‘I’ve worked – yes, worked – alongside Georges for some years now, taught him all I know that’s worth knowing. I’m proud to say in many ways I’ve stood in for his father. It can never be the same, of course, but, well, I’m not a married man, Sandilands, no children of my own so you can imagine how I feel.’ He gave Joe a manly smile. ‘Don’t go in for self-delusion myself. No time for it. I’ve examined my own motives in denying this man and I have to say that’s all I can come up with. The chance that I’d lose my paternal role in regard to Georges. Sounds feeble perhaps but it’s something I’ve required myself to face. I would be distressed to give all this up . . .’ He glanced around and then looked back directly at Joe. ‘But not so upset it would occur to me to give false statements, to try to effect a wrong outcome. Never!’

‘Tell me, Houdart – Georges has seen the patient, hasn’t he? I say, can we call the patient by his hospital name of Thibaud? Good Lord, I never thought to ask him. I just assumed that . . .’

‘He has seen him. Yes. Once. I took him in one day with his mother.’

‘I’d be interested to hear your view of the meeting.’

‘Awkward, Embarrassing even. Aline talked to the man . . . Thibaud, you say? . . .as though he were fully compos mentis. “Do you remember, darling, the day when you . . . And I simply can’t leave without telling you that . . . When you come home, of course . . .” There was a lot of that! Thibaud just stared through her. Then they brought a very unwilling Georges into the room. The lad was taken aback. I was sure at first he knew him. He knelt at the man’s feet and took hold of his hands, staring into his face.’

‘Did Thibaud respond?’

‘Not really. He put out a hand and stroked Georges’s arm once or twice. The doctor got quite excited but it wasn’t much to an onlooker.’

‘And Georges’s impression?’

‘He was very shaken but when he could get his thoughts together afterwards, he said: “It’s very like him but it’s not my father.” And he repeated it. “It’s not my father.”’

Chapter Twenty-One

Joe took off his shoes and jacket, loosened his collar and lounged on his bed, eyes closed. A moment later with a sigh of irritation he gave up his attempt at siesta and went to sit at the bureau to make notes on the morning’s events. After lunch Aline had announced that the family generally retired for an hour’s rest in the hottest part of the day in the southern tradition and Joe and Dorcas were invited to do the same.

A tap on the door had him padding across the room to answer it. ‘Dorcas! Something wrong?’

She ducked under his arm and slipped into the room. ‘Look! I’ve got Georges’s notebook!’ she said, holding up a school exercise book. ‘You’re not to let anyone know this exists. Not even his mother knows he’s still got it. He thinks she’d have got rid of it long ago.’ She put it down on the desk and pulled up a second chair for herself. ‘Good. I see you’re working. Tell me – how did the lovebirds get on in the dovecote?’ she asked innocently. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again when you disappeared in there with Queen Guinevere. Don’t you think she looks like the grieving Queen in that picture by William Morris?’

‘If you’re going to be silly, this conversation ends here,’ he said sternly.

‘Sorry, Joe. Let me try again. Did she manage to convince you that Thibaud is her husband?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes, she did present what I would regard as convincing evidence. It is indisputable and therefore I think we have to conclude that Georges is deluded. The victim of a nightmare of some sort? He seems to have led a pretty nightmarish existence in his childhood. It’s possible!’

He outlined the evidence Aline Houdart had presented, missing out the allegory of the doves so carefully constructed. He didn’t want to see Dorcas’s lip curl.

‘Well, I’d call that a bit rum!’ said Dorcas. ‘Wouldn’t you? You realize we’ve got three women who all claim an intimate acquaintance with Thibaud’s bum?’

‘Dorcas! You’d do well to leave such language to the Eton boys!’

‘Derrière then. Mireille was the first one to report a birthmark on her Dominique. “Conclusive”, you said. Then Madame Tellancourt described in accurate detail her son Thomas’s birthmarks fore and aft. “Decisive”, I remember you saying. And now here’s Madame Houdart making exactly the same claim. “Incontrovertible”, apparently. It must be straining all your powers of detection, Joe, to work out there’s something fishy going on! Now, Thibaud has got those marks just as described and it’s certain that only the one genuine claimant would have been aware of them so the other two are lying. But where do they get their information? They’re rivals. They’re hardly likely to pass it on.’

‘Keep going, Dorcas,’ said Joe. ‘You’re getting there!’

‘It was Mireille who brought it up. She gave the information before you asked the doctor to have him checked. Which makes me think . . . Who else knows about the birthmarks? Dr Varimont . . . The two orderlies. They know! And perhaps somehow the information got out of the hospital? Perhaps they sold it? They know how the competition is hotting up. The knowledge had a value.’

‘I think the information got out of the hospital down a telephone wire,’ said Joe. ‘Telephone! We need one.’

‘Georges showed me the office. They have one in there. There’s no one about. Madame Houdart is swooning away in her room and Georges and his uncle have gone to organize the gypsy grape-pickers. They turned up just before lunch about a month before they were expected. Come on!’

Joe slipped the notebook between the leaves of a Michelin atlas. ‘Good staff work, Joliffe,’ he grinned. ‘Right! To the communications dug-out! Lead on.’

To his relief, the telephone system worked efficiently and he was soon put through to Varimont in Reims. Amused, Joe heard the doctor reacting in just the same way as Dorcas: ‘Three word-perfect identifications? This is ridiculous! This is not to be believed! They’re making monkeys of us, Commander! Two, at least, possibly all three, are lying. But the question is – where do they come by this information? Ah. Ah,’ he said as he silently answered his own question. ‘An internal malfunction, obviously. Leave this to me, Sandilands. I’ll have your answer in ten minutes. What was that? Ear lobes? Good Lord, never noticed. I’ll check that myself. Ring me back in, say, half an hour and I should have something for you. Wonderful instrument, the telephone.’ And the communication was cut.

‘Gosh!’ said Dorcas who’d been listening, ear clamped to the other side of the receiver. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes! He’ll have them on a charge.’ She turned Joe’s wrist and looked at his watch. ‘Well, while we’re waiting . . .’

Joe took out the notebook and laid it on the desk. It was a school exercise book, the pages secured with a stout paperclip. A quick check of the dates showed that it had been kept sporadically between the summer of 1914 when Georges was five years old and barely able to write and Christmas 1918. His mother had clearly helped with the earlier entries but her contributions ceased when the writing became confident, the comments individual.

Pasted inside the front cover was a copy of the photograph of Georges sitting on Clovis’s knee. The entries were for the most part cursory, of the went away on the train to Granny’s kind. The weather was a preoccupation evidently: Late frost . . . heavy snowfall . . . high wind . . . another hot day . . . as were the comings and goings of various elements of the allied armies billeted on the family.

The situation of the château, in a sheltered position a few miles south of the front, made it a perfect place to station officers recuperating from battle or reservists preparing to go up to the front line. There seemed to have been a constant procession of these from the late summer of 1914 until the Armistice. Their comings and goings had punctuated the boy’s life. Georges had noted their nationality (French and English, usually separately, occasionally messing together) and identified their units. If they were infantry their brigade was noted; if cavalry, their squadron; artillery, their groupe. The excited seven-year-old had given half a page to the arrival of a twenty-strong detachment of chasseurs à pied, mounted on bicycles.

Some officers were mentioned by name:

Yves and I caught three rabbits!

Ten centimetres of snow. Very cold. This was December 1916. Joe shivered at the memory of that winter – the hardest in living memory in Champagne – and read on: Edward brought in a fir tree from the wood and we made decorations. We painted fir cones with white paint and stuck them on. I made an angel for the top. Maman let us use her old necklaces as trimmings and she let us light candles for half an hour. We sang an English song. Edward shot a partridge and we roasted it with some chestnuts over the vine trimmings. Carefully printed out on the page opposite the entry, in an adult hand, were the words to ‘Away in a manger’. The first carol every English child learns to sing.

‘Well, good for you, Edward, whoever you are,’ murmured Joe. ‘Never let a little thing like a world war interfere with Christmas.’

Clovis’s appearances were easily identified. The writing took on a weight and a flourish and the entries were marked in the margin with a star. Just as Georges had told them, they were sparse and short; the last recorded arrival was on 20th July 1917. It was followed on 22nd July by a short entry: Papa gone.

There was no more until 11th November 1918. It’s finished. I will remember, were Georges’s last words.

But there were other reminders of the war collected together in a large envelope tucked into the back. Joe tipped them out on to the desk. A boy’s magpie collection of precious mementoes spilled out. Cap badges from English regiments clattered on to the wood and Joe turned them over with keen interest. Dorcas counted out twelve. ‘These are pretty. What’s the galloping white horse?’

‘The West Yorkshire Regiment. It’s the White Horse of Hanover.’

‘And this creature? A dragon, I think?’

‘Ah, yes. That’s the emblem of the Buffs – the East Kent Regiment. And this silver bugle? It’s the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.’

‘Is there a Royal Fusiliers badge among them? Edward’s listed as a Royal Fusilier.’

‘Yes. It’s this one.’

Dorcas looked puzzled. ‘What on earth is it? It looks like a chrysanthemum.’

‘It’s meant to be a grenade. An exploding grenade. It’s a design common to all Fusilier regiments. The round bit at the bottom is the body of the grenade itself and carries the device that distinguishes it from the rest. This one has a tiny white rose in the centre, do you see? And the rose is set within the Garter and ensigned with a crown. The excrescence spouting out at the top, which you took to be petals, represents the flames issuing from the explosion. This is made of bronze so it must have belonged to an officer.’

Dorcas continued to play with them, turning them this way and that and finally counting them carefully back into their envelope. ‘I can see why he’d want to collect them. They’re very attractive.’

‘And have you seen these drawings?’ Joe put them in front of her. One was an accomplished sketch of a trench system with arrows marking out assault and defence manoeuvres, another an affectionate cartoon of Marshal Joffre, easily recognizable by his luxuriant white moustache and his corpulence. And there were cards: birthday cards and Christmas cards from England, some of recent date. There were letters. Some in English, some French, all from officers writing with good humour and happy memories to a child they had grown fond of.

Reading them, Dorcas looked up to comment on this. ‘They admired him, Joe. You’re right – he was the son they all missed or hoped one day to have.’

‘He must have been a great comfort in those terrible times,’ said Joe. ‘And, yes, hope, you say. It was hard enough to think of the world as we’d known it ever continuing. Men got very sentimental – I’ve seen exhausted, hopeless soldiers fall on their knees in the Flanders mud, crying their eyes out at the sight of a clump of snowdrops. The presence of that little boy, clever, hardworking, determined to survive, must have inspired them. He must have represented for them all that they were fighting for.’

‘Oh, look, Joe! I think this says it all.’ She passed him a pencil sketch skilfully done, a portrait of Aline sitting holding Georges in her arms, heads together, smiling.

‘A modern Madonna and child?’ Joe remarked. ‘It only lacks the haloes.’

‘Well, of course they’re idealized. Anyone can see that. This artist is drawing a mother and child he is fighting for. They aren’t his wife and child. Look – there’s a signature and it doesn’t say Clovis Houdart. But at the moment he drew it they were his. You can see that. If he and his comrades were to give way, this little family would be overwhelmed, annihilated, and this oasis poisoned. You’d jolly well go out and fight for them, wouldn’t you, Joe?’

In her emotion she’d forgotten for a moment that he had.

‘I know you’re right, Dorcas. It’s a very primitive response. Like the Athenians when they squared up to the Persians on the sea at Salamis. They’d evacuated Athens hours ahead of the Persian advance, fled to the coast and put their wives and children crowded together on a tiny island in the bay of Salamis and there, with their families at their backs and the huge Persian navy blocking the channel, the men of Athens turned and fought. It was death or slavery for those women and children if they failed. And more than that – it was the obliteration of their civilization. No men, I believe, have ever had a heavier load resting on their shoulders. Fathers, sons and brothers hauled on the oars of their galleys, rammed, destroyed, shot and slashed their way to an incredible victory.

‘It’s the most powerful motivation of all,’ he finished thoughtfully. ‘Defending your own flesh and blood.’

He fell into an awkward silence, remembering too late that Dorcas’s father had abandoned her and her brother to the doubtful care of their grandmother when he went off to spend the war years in Switzerland. Should he say anything?

She patted his hand. ‘It’s all right, Joe. I’d have been there, standing on the shore with the rest of the women and children, and I’d have whacked on the head any Persian who tried to swim on to the island.’

‘Ah! You know the story?’

She nodded. ‘I’d fight like anything if someone provoked me. Perhaps I get that from my mother. But now, Joe, speaking as my father’s daughter, I’ll tell you – I’m very impressed by this sketch. Orlando’s smart friends would sneer and call it sentimental, representational and outdated but I like it.’

‘Ah, yes. The artist. We have a signature, you say?’ Joe fought down an impulse to snatch the drawing from her fingers.

Dorcas peered at the signature in the corner. ‘Edward Thorndon. July 1917. I wonder if that’s the Edward of the Christmas tree?’

‘Time to ring Varimont,’ said Joe, beginning to pack up the sheets in their remembered order. ‘Are you ready for this?’

Dorcas settled down, ear to the telephone again as Varimont’s voice boomed out.

‘Got them! Well, one of them,’ he announced. ‘One of the orderlies, a Frédéric Lenoir by name, is actually married to a woman who was a Miss Tellancourt. There you have it! A phone call was made, he admits, to the mayor’s secretary in St Céré from where the message went out and, overnight, the family made their plans. Thomas’s mother rehearsed her lines and, word perfect, impressed you with her piety. I’ve crossed the Tellancourts off my list. And dealt with Lenoir.’

‘And the Houdart family? Any connection with them? Any possibility that Madame Houdart showed gratitude for information rendered?’

‘Gracious! You don’t let anything by, do you?’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. I honestly don’t think so. The man was a family member simply marking the card of the Tellancourts. He says he didn’t (and I believe him) tell anyone else. But at least that reduces the claimants to a manageable two. Mademoiselle Desforges and Madame Houdart. Oh, and yes, Sandilands, you were quite right. Thibaud has neat ears but they are attached to his face at the side. Look, do you want me to convey all this to Bonnefoye?’

‘I’d be most grateful. I’m planning to call on him again when I can extricate myself from this scene and perhaps we can even come to a satisfactory conclusion. Thank you for all this, Varimont.’

‘Not at all, my man! Not at all. Give my best wishes to Mademoiselle Dorcas.’

‘I will, indeed. She’s right here.’

He put down the telephone with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Well, that’s it, Dorcas. The ears have it! Did you catch that? Thibaud’s are attached just as Aline said and the photographs show. Now – the question is: why didn’t Mireille think of mentioning that if her bloke were indeed Thibaud? She could talk about the chevrons on his sleeves till the cows come home – and you’d expect a seamstress to know all that – but she didn’t mention the oddity of the ears.’

‘Well, you don’t notice much!’ said Dorcas with deep scorn.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It didn’t occur to Mireille to declare it as an oddity for the good reason that for her it is not. Didn’t you see? Her own ears are attached! She’s one of the one in four people who have them, apparently. She was wearing the most lovely pair of silver earrings but I don’t suppose you noticed them either?’

Joe continued collecting together the contents of the notebook, unhappy with the ruminative silence that ground on.

‘Tell you what, Dorcas,’ he said cheerily to show he bore no grudge. ‘This lad, this Georges, is a very good sort. Don’t you think? If ever you decided the time was right to whisper in his ear, I’d give you my blessing.’

He was pleased with his comment. Unstuffy Marcus would have approved.

‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Joe,’ she said, stuffily.

On the point of clipping the notebook together he was struck by a thought. ‘Hang on a minute . . . there is something more we can do before we give this back. Sit down again, Dorcas. I’m going to read out names, pack drills and dates. Write them down, will you? Here’s a notebook.’ He produced a Scotland Yard issue pad and a pencil. ‘I’m going to work backwards from July ’17. Right? We’ll start with Edward the Partridge Slayer . . . surname Thorndon . . . and he’s listed here with a Captain John. They seem to occur as a pair,’ he said, looking back. ‘Same regiment – 10th battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. London men, most probably . . . This John is still alive since I see we have a birthday card sent for Georges’s sixteenth birthday and it was posted in India of all places.’

‘Is that John as a surname or John as a Christian name?’

‘Could be either. Just write it down. Then there’s a Raoul and an Yves and a Jean-Pierre, no surname given, 1 Corps of the Fifth Army – Lanrezac’s outfit. May 1917 . . . In April ’17 le Colonel Pontarlier and a contingent of cyclist infantry . . . Oh, I say! In February 1917 we’ve got a rather splendid English General! Staying at the same time as a rather splendid French General.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet it took all of Aline’s grace and charm to get those two to be polite to each other. And I wouldn’t have cared to arrange the seating at the dinner table. Now we’re back in 1916 . . . November, and here’s a contingent of recuperating wounded. Aftermath of the Somme, I expect. Not letting them get too far away from the amphitheatre – a quick recovery and back in the arena, I shouldn’t wonder. And we have Edward bobbing up again. Must have been a casualty . . . He stays for quite a time. Longer than a regular leave at any rate.’

A feverish quarter of an hour later and the list was drawn up. Dorcas presented it.

‘We’ve forgotten something,’ said Joe. ‘The most important incidence. Let’s just add to the list Clovis’s appearances, shall we? Mark them with a C alongside in the margin. That’ll do.’