Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

‘Oh, Joe! Do you see what I see?’ she asked.

‘Certainly do! Stands out a mile! And perhaps we weren’t the first ones to see it? Look, Dorcas, I think I must make one more call.’

He asked the operator to connect him with a London number. Whitehall 1212. From there he was put through to Ralph Cottingham’s office. He had expected a duty sergeant to answer but was delighted to hear Inspector Cottingham himself.

‘Sandilands! Sir! How good to hear you! How are things in Champagne?’

‘Fizzing along nicely, thank you, Ralph,’ Joe gave the expected answer. ‘But listen – two things. I’ll make this quick. First: when you’ve performed in accordance with number two below, you are to go home. That’s not a suggestion – it’s an order. It’s Saturday here in France and I expect it’s much the same in London. Number two: I want you to call the War Office. I need urgently to contact a chap in their ex-servicemen’s records department. Quicker if you do this from your end. Bates is the name. Ask him to ring me on this number from his office – that’s important, I want him with his records to hand – as soon as he can.’ Joe read out the house telephone number. ‘Tell Bates he is to announce himself as “Scotland Yard” not the War Office, would you, and hold until I answer.’

‘Got that, sir. Will do. Right now.’

‘I can see where you’re going with this, I think,’ said Dorcas. ‘Raking up a witness to a murder? But Joe, before you go asking about, don’t you think you ought to know for certain whether there ever was a murder? It seems to me there’s a quick way to find out. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Can’t you just knock the wall down using all the clout of Interpol?’

‘I’d rather use all the clout of one of those trolleys they keep down there,’ said Joe. ‘Did you notice? Very substantial. Made of oak with iron-bound corners. Perfect for the job. Perhaps with a pickaxe in reserve? But I think I’ll wait until I’ve heard from Bates.’

‘Who on earth is Bates? It’s the weekend – you said it yourself, Joe. And it’s August. There’ll be nobody in the War Office. They’ll all be licking ice-cream cornets in Brighton or killing things on Exmoor.’

‘Ah! You don’t know Bates! Bachelor. Fanatic. He lives under his desk. But – fingers crossed! Ralph Cottingham will roust out someone who can help us. He’s well connected in the military world. And he’ll start at the top. Probably find we’re answering the telephone to a Field Marshal before the day’s out. Anyway, I think we should go back to being good guests now – as far as we can. Keep our heads down. Go to your room, finish your siesta and be discovered awaking refreshed in . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘In ten minutes. I’ll do the same. Off you go! And, Dorcas – thank you for your help. It’s as good as having Ralph by my side.’

Joe did not need to feign sleep half an hour later when Georges banged on his door and put his head round.

‘Awfully sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a call for you downstairs in the study. He was most insistent. I’m afraid it’s Scotland Yard.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Captain!’

Bates’s well-remembered voice rang out. He persisted in calling Joe by the rank he held when they’d first met on the Marne, disregarding his fast promotion. Joe accepted it as a mark of affection and a reminder of those desperate days when they’d struggled together, the only two men on their feet at times, to turn around an exhausted army. Water, food and a decent billet had been their priorities. Joe’s knowledge of the language with Bates’s phenomenal memory and organizing skills had been an effective combination. They had met several times over the years of peace in a professional capacity and Joe could picture the balding head and the sharp eyes as he appreciated the cynical cockney voice.

Each man was aware of a necessity to keep the pleasantries to a minimum.

‘Scotland Yard, ’ere!’ began Bates. ‘Shoot!’

‘Tracking two British servicemen. Any details welcome. Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier. Marne region 1915–17. Billeted here at . . .’ Joe gave the location of the château. ‘And a fellow officer known to be a captain in the same regiment, name of John. Surname? Christian name? I don’t know. Be grateful for anything you have.’

‘Easy-peasy Ten . . . twenty minutes to be on the safe side. Ring me back on this number, Captain.’

Joe wrote it down.

He was joined a few minutes into his vigil at the telephone by Dorcas, who waited with impatience for Joe to pick up the receiver.

Bates answered at once when he got through. ‘Got ’em, sir. Both of ’em. Thorndon, Edward Alexander. 1st City of London Regiment. Royal Fusiliers, as you say. Educ. Harrow and Cambridge. Entered the war early, rose to Major by 1917. I have a list of wounds and decorations but that’ll keep, I expect? Send a copy to your office, shall I? Right-oh. Disappeared at the time you mention, end July ’17. Posted “missing in action, presumed dead” on his way up to rejoin his regiment at Ypres. They were bivouacked in Vélu Wood if my memory serves me right. Overcrowded.’ Joe could imagine Bates’s mouth curling with disapproval. ‘Weather wet and cold for August. Not much comfort after his château accommodation!

‘I have a letter here – well, copy of – condolences to Thorndon’s parents (can let you have their details if you want them) written by his fellow officer, John. Then Major John, DSO. That’s Sebastian John. Now serving in India. Lieutenant Colonel John is up in Peshawar. Anyway – at the time, he was already stationed two miles north-northeast of Bapaume at Frémicourt. His pal never turned up for the party. With German Uhlans known to be patrolling the environs, he guessed he’d been shot, shelled or taken prisoner. All too likely. Several of our patrols went missing on the roads up there.’

‘Mists of war, Bates. Mists of war. Hang on a tick, would you?’

Dorcas was mouthing something at him. Catching it, he nodded and added, ‘You don’t happen to have a service identification photograph of Thorndon, do you?’

‘Hang on, there’s something in the correspondence. Stack of letters here from the parents. Enquiry after enquiry. Went to the very top. Looks like they refused to accept his death. The usual heartbreak. Yes, thought I’d spotted one. Here’s a photo. Not a military one. Civilian. Taken before the war I’d say. He looks young . . . middle twenties tops.’

‘Describe him, will you?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Very English-looking. Hair: light. Rather more than his fair share. I expect his mum took him to the barber’s before he marched off. Eyes: pale . . . grey? Blue? Moustache: neatly trimmed.’

‘Sort of man ladies might find attractive?’ Joe persisted. ‘Ronald Colman type perhaps?’

Bates gave this suggestion his serious consideration. ‘More in the way of Douglas Fairbanks, I’d have said. Cheeky expression. He’s grinning like he’s just cracked a joke. Smartened up and in uniform, he’d have been a sharp lad. “Follow me, chaps!” Up the rigging or over the top – they’d have followed him all right.’

‘One last thing, Bates. Look at his ears. Tell me about them.’

‘Eh? One on each side of his head. Usual thing.’

‘Look closely and see if the lobes are attached to the sides of his face.’

There was a clunking of the receiver and a rustling as Bates tweaked experimentally at his own lobes. ‘Not easy to say from this print. Reconnaissance rendered difficult, Captain, by presence in target area of thick ground cover. He’s got dundrearies.’

‘What was that, Bates?’

‘Sideburns. Down to an inch below the ears.’

‘Bates, thank you for this. A bit of a mixed bag there. But I’d say you’ve managed to shine a light on a murky little area down here. Sent up a Very light, you might say! We might not like what we see but at least we’ve got a look at it.’

They signed off with mutual expressions of regard and Joe filled in the details for Dorcas.

‘There’s only one thing we can do, Joe, isn’t there?’ said Dorcas. ‘You can’t go to Bonnefoye with this and you can’t tell Uncle Charles either. You said you wouldn’t. We’ve got to tell Georges. He ought to know about the scene the doctor witnessed at the hospital when Thibaud spoke in English and mimed killing someone. He ought to know about the identifying marks on his father. Someone ought to suggest to him that there is a possibility that the body – if there is a body – in the cellars may not be his father and his mother may not be a murderer. Nothing will ever be known for certain as long as the truth stays walled up. You’ve got to speak to him, Joe.’

‘Correction – we’ve got to speak to him.’

‘He said he’d be in the stables,’ she said, a little too readily perhaps.

They made their way unobserved over to the stables and slipped inside. Georges was busy polishing up an already gleaming black stallion and Joe wondered if the boy’s hands were ever still. Seeing them, Georges closed the stall and dismissed the groom he was talking to. They approached, remaining a respectful distance from the large black, Joe noting its wicked eye and waltzing hooves.

‘Ah! This’ll be the God of Thunder?’ he said admiringly. ‘Knew a fellow just like him in the war. Early days. Name of Gatecrasher, for obvious reasons. Crasher for short. Hell on the hunting field but he knew what to do, faced with a contingent of German cavalry.’

Georges smiled, stowed his brushes and beckoned them over to a pile of hay bales in the corner farthest from the doors. A bucket by the side of the bales contained a scattering of cigarette ends and, seeing Joe’s eyes on this, Georges remarked with an easy grin: ‘Dangerous habit, I know. But smoking, swearing and whistling are three vices you can only indulge in in front of the horses. Banned from the house.’

And, as they settled down one on either side of him, ‘You have news for me?’

‘We have, my friend, and it’s a bit mixed. Not quite sure what you’ll make of this,’ Joe began ponderously.

‘It concerns Edward,’ Dorcas said impatiently. ‘Edward Thorndon, the English officer who was billeted on you.’ She produced the notebook open at the page showing the frequency of his visits and the two heads bent over it. In a few short sentences Dorcas set out the extent of their discoveries and outlined their suspicions and speculations. ‘Do you see, Georges – they were never here at the same time. Not until that July in 1917 when they clashed. The day they both disappeared. Neither was seen again.’

Georges listened without interrupting, finally sighing. ‘I loved Edward,’ he said simply. ‘You’re right – he did come . . . not often . . . leave was scarce in the British Army as well, and whenever his company took leave they went to Paris, of course, but he always came here, sometimes with his friend Captain John. I think it must have reminded him of his home because he fitted in at once. He never asked what jobs needed to be done, he rolled up his sleeves and just got on with it. I followed him about everywhere, copying what he did, correcting his French. It was good to have a young and vigorous man about the place. Even when he was wounded and couldn’t do much he still . . . would radiated confidence be too strong an expression?

‘The first time I met him . . . I was just returning from the fields . . . he was out in the yard. A squad of six or so had arrived an hour earlier. He was splitting logs for firewood. He looked up and said, “You must be Georges. Here, Georges, have an axe and let’s get this pile stacked before the stable bell rings five, shall we?” I’d never been allowed to use an axe before.’

‘Did you do it?’ Dorcas asked. Irrelevantly, Joe thought.

‘I’ll never forget putting the last log on the pile as the first note rang out,’ said Georges with quiet pride. ‘I think, looking back, it was a stage-managed moment but,’ he shrugged, ‘it was one of many lessons I learned from Edward.’

‘Did you ever think he might be . . . regard him as . . . your father?’ Dorcas asked bluntly.

‘No. I never confused them. And he never tried to be a father to me. More like an older brother. My mother liked him too. She was always cheerful when he was in the house. I remember she was delighted when he came to us wounded with permission to recuperate. She was a nurse, you know, and she gave him the very best attention.’

He went silent and stared at his boots for a very long time. Then he looked up at them angrily under his brows. He swallowed and said stiffly, ‘Well, you must think me the most awful fool – not realizing what was going on all those years until two foreigners arrive and spell it out for me. I am supposing – nine years too late – that something was going on. You must think me incredibly naïf!’

‘No, we don’t!’ said Dorcas. ‘Young, trusting and betrayed by the adults around him.’

‘Papa, Edward and Maman,’ he said. ‘If something frightful happened that night in 1917, how could I ever assign blame? I loved them all.’

‘Georges, we don’t at present know what, if any, blame there is to be assigned,’ said Joe. ‘The answers are blocked up in the cellars under the auspices of St Martin. I think you know what we have to do. A little dégorgement has to take place, wouldn’t you say, so that whatever poison is gathering behind there is released, identified and dealt with. The pressure’s building, the bottle’s at the right angle . . . and the thumb on the cork is yours, old son.’

Georges’s head went up. He attempted a smile and even acknowledged Joe’s extravagant metaphor. ‘Nine years in the bottle – that’s too long. And I’m sure you’re thinking I have my own internal dead yeast to get rid of?’

‘You said it yourself, don’t forget,’ said Joe softly, ‘– it’s nasty stuff but it plays a necessary part in producing the final aroma and flavour. Release it and the ’26 vintage could well turn out to be the best Houdart for decades.’

Georges had come to a decision. It was a difficult one to deliver but he had no hesitation and, Joe knew, would never go back on it.

‘Two things,’ he said. ‘First: my uncle Charles must be made aware of all this. I rather trust you can find the words to tell him, sir? May we leave that to you? Second: we cannot do this in the presence of my mother. That I cannot allow. Tomorrow is Sunday and she goes to morning mass in the village. She will be gone for about two hours. Time enough, I think, for us to perform our investigations. So – will you parade at eight hundred hours? At the rond point St Martin? Dorcas, you may be excused . . . No, I thought as much.’

‘And if we find nothing, she’ll never be aware of the suspicions raised by two interfering English,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly.’

The understanding between these two was instant, Joe recognized, with a twinge of concern. It had taken only one day for them to be confident of reading each other’s thoughts.

‘The difficulty will be in acting as normally as possible for the rest of the day.’ Joe thought he ought to raise this problem.

‘I find if you want to deceive, the best way to go about it is to have lots to prattle on about,’ said Dorcas in a practical way. ‘If you’re boring someone they’re not paying much attention to what you’re saying. Have you ever ridden bareback, Georges? Then we’ll start now. I’ll show you how. We’ll take two of the more docile horses and make for that wood beyond the vineyard. And we’ll have thrills and spills enough, I dare say, to chatter about over dinner. If there’s time we could ride over and talk to the gypsies. I know a few words of Romany . . . We could return bubbling with stories. I say – do you mind, Joe, if we just disappear?’

Joe was irritated enough to say, ‘Not at all! Run along and play!’

Joe found Charles-Auguste, although it could well have been the Frenchman who did the finding, on his way back to the main house. On hearing the seriousness of Joe’s tone when he asked for an interview, he steered him along to the study, leaving instructions with the footman that they were not to be disturbed.

Joe set out his story succinctly and without emotion, managing, he thought, to get his facts in the right order from the scene of nightmare witnessed by Dr Varimont in Reims to Georges’s account of his own nightmare in the cellars, on the evening his father disappeared. He mentioned the presence in the château of the billeted Englishmen and talked of Edward Thorndon who vanished from Georges’s life and from the records of the British Army at the same time. He spoke of Georges’s undisclosed horror at the sight of his mother with the body, the bloodstains on the child’s shirt and the covering over of a burial place.

All of Charles-Auguste’s concerns were for his nephew. ‘How can any child have hugged this appalling vision to himself all these years? My poor Georges! Why did he never confide . . .? Well, of course, I can imagine why he did not . . . It’s a child’s device – pretend something’s not really there and it will disappear. But this never did. I wondered, not very energetically, you see, about the flowers and St Martin. So many shrines down there, I just took it for one of a series, one personal to Georges. But I can’t believe Aline would be mixed up in anything of a homicidal nature. She’s a bit mad – I’ve said so – and rather wish I’d kept my mouth shut now! But she’s not violent. Oh, no! Nurse, you know, and a damn good one by all accounts. In the business of preserving life not taking it. None of this makes sense, Sandilands.’

‘And won’t begin to until we’ve taken a look at whatever rests behind that partition,’ said Joe.

He outlined Georges’s suggestion for an inspection on Sunday morning.

‘I have to say that’s a sensible idea, if very distasteful,’ said Charles. ‘And it does amount to out and out deceit of Aline.’ He shuddered. ‘If she were ever to find out . . . Still, I agree – if we make the most colossal fools of ourselves, we can just put the cover back over things with little harm done. And the cellar men will have a laugh at least . . . “You got it wrong, Monsieur Charles!” they can turn on me and say. “Whatever made you think there were vintage bottles hidden away behind that wall?” Very well. Eight o’clock? I’ll be there.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

Four silent figures gathered in front of the icon of St Martin, looking shifty rather than respectful, Joe thought.

‘Eight o’clock,’ said Charles-Auguste. ‘I think we can count on two hours, judging by previous form, what do you say, Georges?’

Georges nodded miserably.

‘I didn’t ask any of the men to attend these proceedings,’ said Charles. ‘Thought we could probably manage the work by ourselves. Three strapping fellows. Ought to be enough. But I say, Sandilands, er – Miss Dorcas? Not perhaps a suitable thing for her to witness?’

‘You can try sending her away if you’re feeling reckless,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve tried. On her own head be it.’

‘Very well, then. Let’s have at it. Picks, Georges? Two. Shovel? Bring that trolley over, will you? That will smash down the partition once we’ve made a hole in it. What do you say it’s made of . . .? One thickness of brick? And a skimming of plaster over. Shouldn’t take long then. Well, stand back there, I’ll take the first swing.’

He made the sign of the cross, signalled to Georges to remove the picture of the saint, raised one of the pickaxes and attacked the wall. Joe took the other pick and, working together, they had soon opened up a gaping hole. No waft of fetid air emerged, as Joe was half expecting, no cold draught, and he remembered that Georges had said this was no more than an alcove behind the partition and not a further corridor hacked out of the chalk.

Georges held up a torch as the hole enlarged. They could dimly see behind the wall wooden racks, leather straps, a row of jugs still graded by size standing on a shelf. All the paraphernalia of a wine cellar. As the lower bricks crashed to the ground around their feet, a table became visible. Ladles were lined up on it, undisturbed, ready for use.

Joe looked at Charles-Auguste and the same thought flashed between them: ‘This is all a nonsense. When we’ve finished here, we’ll sheepishly go back up to reality again and crack open a bottle of the best to celebrate having got this spectacularly wrong.’

Joe took the next swing, a mighty clout that signalled his impatience to get it over and done with. He held up a hand to Charles-Auguste and peered into the hole. ‘Dorcas,’ he said in a voice suddenly tense, ‘if you’ve changed your mind, this would be a good moment to leave us.’

She shook her head and, clutching Georges’s hand, came nearer.

Silently Charles grabbed the shovel and cleared piles of bricks and plaster dust into one of the trolleys. Joe chipped away at the bottom row and Charles cleared some more. They pressed round staring, trying to make sense of what they were seeing, and then Charles-Auguste made the sign of the cross again. Automatically, Joe made the same gesture.

A huddled shape lay underneath the table, wrapped in the remains of a carpet or rug.

‘That rug – it’s the one Felix used to stand on when he was working the bottling machine,’ said Georges. ‘He suffered from rheumatism. Maman had it brought down from the house for him to stand on, to insulate his feet from the cold ground.’

Joe took one end of the bundle and Charles the other and together they slid it out from under the table and into the light.

Reverently, Joe pulled back the end of the rug where he judged the head to lie. He went on tugging, and revealed, inch by inch, to a subdued moan from Dorcas, a pitiful, shrunken corpse. Almost mummified, by some trick of the ambient conditions in the dry, cold cellar, it lay, stiff and brown as any ancient Egyptian taken from the sands after thousands of years. But this body was not bound in linen wrappings: the rags clinging to the emaciated shape were rags which had once been army-issue white cotton underwear. Spreading outwards over the vest with its centre at the heart, a brown stain of blood, much blood, trailed down towards the ground and lost itself in the swirling pattern of the Indian rug. His feet were bare. His head, which Joe could scarcely bring himself to look at, bared improbably white teeth at them from shrunken brown lips. It was crowned by a shock of still bright fair hair.

‘Sir,’ whispered Georges. ‘Tell us! Who do you think this is?’

‘Well, it’s perfectly obvious who this is! Silly boy!’

Aline’s voice rang out, shocking in its sharpness and lack of emotion. They whirled around to see her, standing watching them from the corner, silhouetted in black dress and black veiled hat against the chalk walls. She still clutched her service book in black-gloved hands. Joe could not begin to guess how long she had been standing there observing them, a silent, malignant presence.

She came on, moving slowly towards them, with never a glance at the body.

‘A deserter, of course. Probably French or German – they usually were. The English made for the coast, I think. How clever of you to find him! Poor Georges discovered a couple in . . . 1918, was it, Georges?’ Her voice was controlled. An interested adult was joining a group of children up to something slightly reprehensible. ‘And now another one. Felix must have failed to notice him huddled up in the alcove. The lighting was particularly erratic in those years and Felix didn’t have the keenest sight by then. Poor chap! I expect the curé will give permission to have him interred in the local cemetery. He’s very accommodating about these things. Better have him checked for identification, of course. Charles, arrange for the men to take over, will you? I really don’t think this is a proper use of your time on a Sunday morning. And what on earth you think you’re doing letting little Dorcas witness such a scene, Commander, I have no idea. Shame on you!

‘Now,’ she finished, ticking-off over apparently, ‘why don’t we all withdraw to the house and open a bottle of the . . . ’13 vintage, Charles? And drink a farewell toast to an unknown warrior?’

In a few short sentences, Aline had offered a solution to the case, rapped a few knuckles and shown them the acceptable way out. Georges and Charles were looking shocked and sheepish, Dorcas had unconsciously crept over to stand behind Joe.

Recovering from the shock of finding her amongst them, Joe rallied. She had gone too far in questioning his judgement. Spurred by a jab of icy anger, he decided to break through her thin crust of pretence. He had noticed that she still had cast not one curious glance at the corpse. Well, he would make her confront the victim.

‘Identification,’ he repeated, nodding acknowledgement of her suggestion. ‘Yes, it all comes down to that, doesn’t it? I wonder if this poor fellow has a name tag around his neck?’ He bent over the corpse, careful to avoid contact with any part of it. ‘Ah, sadly – no. But then, some soldiers, particularly the French, were known to carry theirs wrapped around their wrists. No again, I’m afraid.’ He straightened and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Here was a gentleman who did not wish to be known to posterity, apparently. Oh . . . hang on a tick . . . what’s that?’ He leaned closer, every inch of him on the alert. ‘Ah! Do you see that, Charles? Over the other side . . . There, gleaming in his left hand . . . there’s something, I’d swear!’

All eyes were drawn to him, even Aline’s, wide and staring under her veil.

‘Do you want to do the honours, Charles? No? Very well, I’ll retrieve it. Your light over here, please, Georges!’

With some distaste, he bent across the corpse and detached something small which glowed golden in the wavering torchlight.

Joe gave a low whistle of astonishment. ‘Well, well! The very last thing I’d have expected to find clutched in the hand of a dead man in a champagne cellar!’ he said. ‘Just look at this! I think this speaks volumes, don’t you, Aline? You may even wish to remove your veil to take a close look at it?’

He held up in front of her face between finger and thumb a small gilt object, no more than two inches high. Tormentingly, he moved it from side to side with the air of a satisfied conjuror.

Ashen-faced, Aline stared, her head moving as though hypnotized by the object in Joe’s hand. Too shocked to respond, she opened her lips but made no sound. And still she would not crack. Joe decided to play his last card.