Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘It’s a cap badge,’ he announced, showing it to the company. ‘The flare at the top identifies it, do you see? It’s an exploding grenade. The cap badge of the Royal Fusiliers, I believe. London regiment. Damn good soldiers. Could fire fifteen rounds a minute! Poor bloke. But now at least we can identify him. Shouldn’t be too difficult to come by the names of any Fusiliers who went missing on the Marne in – when did you say this alcove was blocked up? In 1917? Summer? I’ll get on to it.’

With a scream of fury mixed with despair, Aline turned and fled away down the gallery.

Georges turned on Joe. ‘Did you have to be such a swine?’ he shouted. He hurled his torch down at Joe’s feet and ran after his mother.

‘Oh my God!’ said Charles. ‘What a mess! What the hell was she doing here? How did she know? Look, don’t be upset, Sandilands. The boy was bound to react like that – I’d think the less of him if he didn’t. You did what you had to do. We did what we had to do.’ He patted Joe on the shoulder and his back stiffened in resolve. ‘And we haven’t finished by a long chalk. Leave Aline for later. She’s not going to run away. We’re going to have to clear this lot up. I suppose there’s a good deal here,’ he indicated the body, ‘a policeman will need to check over. Stroke of luck him dying clasping his cap badge though, wasn’t it? Could save us hours of research, I’m thinking.’

Was there a slight question in his voice?

There was more than a question in Dorcas’s voice when she spoke. It was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Joe doesn’t trust to luck just happening like that. Sometimes he engineers it. Like that little scene of discovery just now. I bet if I were to count out Georges’s collection of badges there’d be one missing and it would be an exploding grenade!’

‘Dorcas! How can you be such a cynic? Georges’s collection is complete. I didn’t make off with one.’

‘But then . . . what . . .?’

He held up the badge again. ‘Sleight of hand, misdirection . . . Aline knows who this man is and she saw what she expected to see: a Royal Fusilier’s badge. But it isn’t! This one belongs to me – it’s the emblem of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. Very similar, to a civilian’s eyes. A grenade going off with flames curling out of the top – but mine has the lion and the unicorn on the base not the white rose, you see. And mine is gilt not bronze.’

Dorcas peered at the badge and nodded. ‘Do you always walk about with your old cap badge in your pocket?’ she asked, her voice slow with suspicion.

‘In my pocket? Well, of course not! You were so interested in Georges’s collection, I dug mine out of my kit and brought it down to give to you. I thought you might like to start your own collection – have it made into a sweetheart pin if you like – many girls do! I’ve given away dozens of these in my time. You find them all over London. But give it to Georges if you don’t want it. And if you’re going to be so sniffy. . . .’

‘Children! Children!’ said Charles with weary good humour. ‘Pressure’s mounting, I know, but do you think we could get on with the job in hand?’

Contrite, Joe was instantly on his knees, going carefully and impressively through his post-mortem routine. With no possibility of taking notes on the spot, no photographer or fingerprinting facility available to him, let alone the supportive presence of a Scotland Yard-appointed pathologist, he did what he could.

He gave a running commentary on his findings for his own benefit as well as to allay the curiosity of Charles and Dorcas: ‘I am assuming from an inferred identification on the part of a witness that this is the body of Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier, record of disappearance available from the War Office in London. Physical details of corpse concur with known characteristics of said Thorndon. Dental records, if such exist, and fingerprints ditto will doubtless give further information, probably confirmation. In the absence of any medical assistance I will carry out a preliminary and non-invasive examination of the fatal wound on the spot.’

‘I say, should we look the other way?’ said Charles, moving to shield Dorcas from the sight.

‘I’m not digging very deep,’ said Joe. ‘Haven’t got the equipment. And you’re a valued witness.’

He took a penknife from his pocket and carefully cut a cross in the fabric over the centre of the bloodstain. With delicate movements of the blade, he peeled back the four corners from the wound. Murmuring, he lengthened his cuts and revealed a larger extent of the chest. ‘Wounds!’ he said. ‘Plural. There’s enough of the skin and flesh preserved to allow me to make out five at least. They appear to be one and a half inches in width, consistent with a cut from a sabre blade. Not a slash – a plunging cut. A great deal of blood was spilled and . . .’ Joe shuffled on his knees all around the corpse, observing closely, ‘and, oddly, the victim would appear – from the path of the blood flow – to have been recumbent at the time the blows were delivered. Do you see? If I’d stuck a blade in you, standing face to face . . .’ He got to his feet and offered up his penknife blade to Charles’s chest. ‘The initial outflow of blood would cascade down your front, staining your breeches and your feet. Here we’ve got a ponding of blood around the wound and a general overflow around what I think must have been a supine form. No stains, you see, on his lower limbs. But why would a chap be lying on his back in a cellar waiting for someone to come along and stab him? He clearly didn’t wander in here to die after a wounding that occurred somewhere else. You wouldn’t survive an attack like this for longer than a few seconds. Death must have been just about instantaneous.’

He bent to examine the right arm, again cutting away remaining shreds of fabric. ‘No sign of an old wound to the upper arm visible.’

Puzzled, he looked at the man’s face. ‘Either of you got a working torch? Thank you, Charles. Shine it closely on the face, would you, there on your right, his left. There! Are there signs of a blow to the head? Too faint to make out. The features are decayed, extremities show depredations by rodents. Broken cheekbone, though, I think. Premortem? Someone kicked him unconscious and, as he lay there, stabbed him to death?’

He looked at Dorcas, the doctor’s appalling mime of Thibaud’s nightmare performance vivid in their minds.

‘Check, Joe, can you see if his hands were tied? He wouldn’t have just knelt down to wait for the blow, would he?’

Joe lifted each hand in turn. ‘Hard to tell, honestly, without a microscope but there’s something there. On both wrists. A slight mark. A ligature he struggled against? It’s possible. And, significantly – it’s been removed. The man has been overpowered, we must assume, here on this spot, kicked unconscious and repeatedly stabbed.’

‘But who on earth could perform such a despicable act?’ said Charles. ‘Hard to believe that anyone we know and who – we must presume – was acquainted with his victim, could kill in this cruel and brutal way.’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ said Joe bitterly. ‘I’ve known much worse meted out by men who hadn’t even been introduced to their victim.’

He got to his feet, clicked shut his knife and dusted off his knees. ‘That’s all for the moment. I think – and it doesn’t please me to say this – that we now find ourselves in a position where we have little choice but to go along with some of Aline’s suggestions. Or were they orders? We must turn this sad relic over to the men to have it conveyed upstairs. And – opening a bottle? I could do with a whisky if I may make a suggestion of my own.’

‘Right. Right,’ said Charles, shuffling his feet in the dust. ‘Look, Sandilands, why don’t you go on ahead? Speak to Aline? She’ll be expecting it. She’ll be in the salon. Planning her next move and rehearsing her lines, shouldn’t wonder. You’ve been warned! Leave me to make all the necessary arrangements for our friend here. I’ll have the local undertaker sent for.’

Joe smiled and mimed stiffening his shoulders to take a command.

‘Bon courage, mon ami!’ said Charles as Joe stalked away down the corridor.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Joe went first to the stables, aware that he was dragging his feet, reluctant to encounter Aline once again. He took off his jacket, and stripped off his shirt, and began to wash his hands and arms and face thoroughly, making use of the cake of carbolic soap available in the grooms’ earthenware sink. He dried off on a towel hanging on a hook and finally, feeling clean but smelling disgusting, he put on his things again. He straightened his tie, squinting into a cracked looking-glass and grimacing at his strained face. ‘Can’t put it off any longer, Sandilands,’ he confided to his image. ‘Shift yer arse!’

Crossing the courtyard he encountered a stern-faced Georges. ‘My mother’s in the salon,’ he said curtly. ‘She’s not obliged to – don’t think it – but she’d like to have a few words.’ And, challenging and suspicious: ‘What have you done with Dorcas?’

Joe was suddenly angry. ‘What the hell do you suppose I’ve done with her? Knocked her on the head and sealed her up in an alcove? Not the kind of behaviour we go in for in my family! She’s with your uncle, desperately trying to clear up your family’s mess!’

Georges’s head went back as though he’d been slapped and to Joe’s dismay tears began to trickle. He sniffled noisily and put a large hand in embarrassment across his face.

Instantly, Joe threw out both arms and seized the boy in a tight hug. ‘Forgive me, Georges, old man. Awful thing to say! Insensitive! Unforgivable! Be kind and put it down to strain – the strain of having to go in there and speak to your mother – will you?’

Georges nodded his understanding.

‘And, I say – before you rush off to find Dorcas – any chance you could rustle up a drink?’

Georges gulped, raised a dim smile and found his voice. ‘A twenty-year-old Glenfiddich?’ he offered. ‘Would that fit the bill?’

Joe tapped on the salon door and entered on hearing the quiet instruction to come in. He was carrying a tray loaded with whisky bottle, glasses and a jug of iced water.

‘Well, I wasn’t quite sure what would appear round the door,’ she said. ‘The local gendarmerie flourishing handcuffs perhaps? I didn’t hope for a Scotland Yard commander bearing a tray of refreshments. I’ll have a large one, please. Neat, no ice.’

He poured out her drink, taking the same measure for himself, and they sat and sipped the whisky silently.

Her hat and hymn book had been abandoned on the floor at her feet and she was sitting perched anxiously on the end of her chaise longue, puffing rather inexpertly on a small cigar. Her tawny hair was dishevelled, her face tear-stained. She looked small and frightened and Joe could no longer imagine what about her had so disconcerted him in the cellars. But, whatever that quality, it was not so much to be feared as this new show of vulnerability, he decided, taking out a little insurance.

A few more sips and puffs and she had recovered sufficiently to look up and sketch a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you all,’ she said. ‘Making an appearance like that and spoiling your moment. I didn’t go to church. Guilty conscience, I suppose, made me fear to leave what you’d probably describe as “the crime scene” for too long. Not with a sharp and determined bloodhound like you within a few yards of a concealed body.’

He was relieved to hear her light tone.

‘So you know about Edward?’ she said.

‘I couldn’t say that with any confidence,’ he replied. ‘I know that the body we have just found is that of Edward Thorndon and that he died here while sheltering under your roof in late July 1917. I know that your husband Clovis disappeared at the same time. I know that you, Aline, were observed dragging the body into its hiding place and giving instructions for it to be immured.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she cut him short. ‘Georges has just told me what he saw. My poor boy! All those years . . . out of loyalty . . . I had no idea . . . I am much to blame for never realizing.’

Her head went up and she held out her glass for more whisky. Joe was glad to oblige and poured a second generous measure. He had never suspected that this might be the way to melt Aline’s ice crust. She delicately invited him with a gesture to refill his own glass.

‘But I did it for him, you know. For Georges. I couldn’t bear to lose him.’

‘I think you’re going to have to explain that,’ he said.

‘But first – I want you to tell me what you have deduced from that terrible scene down there. No!’ she added, seeing his cynical surprise. ‘No! I did not see the murder, I certainly did not play a part in it. I came across the body of Edward. There was no one about. Clovis had been stamping and raging all day and I feared his temper might lead to some sort of scene . . . but I never expected this madness. A servant told me they’d gone down to the cellars. Together. And they were both in uniform. Both about to go back to the front. You can imagine what I thought – some sort of awful duel! Clovis was capable of anything. Do you think they fought a duel, Commander?’

Joe outlined as simply as he could the evidence he had drawn from the murder scene and linked it with the doctor’s report. ‘. . . so, I’m assuming Clovis, having lured Edward down there – issuing a challenge or an invitation of some sort, “Sabres at seven,” “Why don’t we find a quiet place to discuss this?” – ambushed him, overpowered him and tied his hands. Perhaps some exchange of views took place and as a result of what was said, Clovis kicked him in the head as he knelt begging for his life.’

Joe hesitated, wondering how much of his knowledge he should share with her. ‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘like a terrifying echo from the past . . . a recorded scream you might say if you were being fanciful, we know exactly what was said by the victim with his last breath. His words scored themselves on to the mind of his killer to be replayed like a phonograph recording years later in the course of a nightmare. Dr Varimont observed and noted. And that last desperate plea being wrung from him in his native language – in English – was the reason for my involvement. For good or ill.’

He repeated Edward’s dying words and her head drooped, heavy with grief.

‘Having stabbed him to death, I’m supposing Clovis himself cut the ties from Edward’s hands, though I can’t imagine why . . .’

‘A cavalryman like Clovis would never want to be accused of killing a restrained man, Commander. It’s a matter of honour. Like shooting a sitting duck. He would want it to be thought – if discovered – that he had killed a worthy opponent in fair combat. But this is worse, much worse, than I had ever envisaged. My poor Edward . . .’

She dragged herself free from the cold grasp of her imaginings, steadied her voice and started on the explanation Joe was waiting for. ‘It was a difficult visit. I had quarrelled with Clovis. He made it clear that he had no regard for me – suggested I return to my parents in Paris when the war ended. He was sure that it would be over by the end of the year. And he proposed to go on living here with Georges.

‘If he survived! But I think he wasn’t seriously expecting to survive the next battle. He was clearing up things here. He knew I loved Edward. It must have been obvious even to him. And I cannot be certain that Edward did not tell him. He was a very uncomplicated character. Open and good-hearted. He was not, by nature, an intriguer and what was going on here was, on one level, a torment to him, I knew that. I warned him to be discreet but, knowing him, he would have seized an opportunity of telling Clovis all.’

‘Do you mind telling me exactly what was going on, madame?’

‘Well, a love affair,’ she smiled. ‘You remember the doves? I was speaking of Edward, of course. We had met in 1915. In September. I’d cycled back from my shift at the hospital in the village to find the house full of troops. I assumed they were our troops – that Clovis had come back on leave – and I hurried off to the stables where they told me he’d gone. Clovis would never waste a minute waiting about. It was dark in the corridor but there he was coming in through the back door. He was wearing Clovis’s old clothes – his own uniform was in the tub. His fair hair was gleaming in the sunshine, he was being trailed by Georges and the dog. I was sure it was Clovis and I ran to him and threw my arms around him. Silly thing to do – he was carrying two bottles of champagne in from the cellar. The last thing he could have expected was a bloodstained nurse hurling herself at him and kissing him! He picked me up and swung me away from the broken glass and I realized.’

Her cigar had long gone out though she still clutched it, and Joe gently took it from her and put it in an ashtray.

She breathed unsteadily and her eyes filled with tears. Hardly able to speak she battled on, accepting that nothing she could say would convey the depth of her feeling but impelled to try. ‘Two seconds! I told you! Nothing we could do about it! Nothing! To say we fell in love is a bit weak – we recognized each other. We belonged to each other from that moment.’

Joe was becoming uncomfortable with the high swell of her emotional revelations. ‘And Clovis ran into a confession from Edward, you think?’

‘More than a confession. He was determined to tell him that, if he survived the war, he would come back for me and we’d make a life together in England with Georges. He refused to leave Georges behind.’

And Joe understood. ‘A dynastically minded man like Clovis with his honour challenged would never accept that. And he loved his son. He thought he was not likely to return from his next encounter . . . where did you say he was bound? The Chemin des Dames? Ah, yes. He would have known his chances of surviving that were low. He would not want to ride off leaving behind his wife and his son to be acquired by a despised Englishman who’d usurped his position, stolen his life. Aline, this was always going to end disastrously! It was madness to think otherwise.’

‘Madness? What are you talking about? We were surrounded by madness! We lived in a daily hell of madness. Every day could have been our last. Our love was an escape from that – it was the only sane thing in our world.’

‘Not quite the only thing that meant a good deal to you, I think,’ said Joe. ‘This conversation started with Georges . . .’

‘I couldn’t let it ever be discovered that my son’s father was a murderer. He was a clever boy, Commander. I was certain he would work it out. I had to hide the body. It was for his sake I hid it. Concealing it in the cellar was the easy part! I had to get rid of their horses in the night so it would appear they’d gone off to rejoin their troops. I rode one and led the other. I let them loose within a whinny of a French army camp where I was sure they’d be welcomed with open arms. They were good horses, it broke my heart to let them go. And I walked back through the lanes and helped Felix finish the wall.’

Joe was smitten by the reserves of strength, emotional as well as purely physical, that unforgettable night must have called for from this woman.

And he still had not guessed at the extent of her resilience. She gave him a calculating look. ‘There’s not a great deal you can do about this, I think, Commander? You have a corpse to which it will be difficult to assign an identity – I was not deceived for long by your confidence and your sleight of hand. And what authority is going to be interested enough or have sufficient time on their hands to get to the bottom of it? There are thousands of bodies coming back to the surface every year. The land itself disgorges them: French, German, British, Belgian, men from the colonies, they still appear. And you know as well as I do – better perhaps – how the authorities work. The French will hand the file over to the British who will hand it back again with a few superior and dismissive phrases. And it will spend more months . . . years . . . gathering dust on a shelf somewhere. Eventually all those who might have an interest or a memory will be gone themselves.’

‘We are speaking of a man who did not die in battle, madame. He was murdered.’

‘A soldier’s body pierced by sabre cuts? In the middle of the corpse-strewn Marne? Who will care? My dear Commander, if you pursue this, you will be a laughing stock.’

She had drawn up the battle lines. Over-confident.

Joe strolled to the table to put down his whisky glass and turned, replying with chill formality: ‘I will care, Madame Houdart. And, for me, the derision of a deskbound official or two in London or Paris is as nothing compared with the silent cry for justice of a fellow soldier.’

He took his cap badge from his pocket and studied it. ‘Edward of the Fir Tree: I feel I know him. He was a soldier just like me. A Fusilier, miles from home, trying to cling to some semblance of civilization and tradition . . . snatching at love and warmth where he could find them. I’m a pretty traditional sort of man myself, madame, and in an old-fashioned way I’m going to give you my pledge that I will bring this matter to a conclusion that would have satisfied him. And here’s my gage on that!’

With a scornful gesture he tossed the badge across the room to land at her feet.

She stood up, glowing with fury, indicating that the interview had ended. As he bowed and made to leave her she called after him: ‘I had a black hound once . . . an English breed . . . a nonpareil when it came to following the quarry. But he was too keen, Commander. Sadly one day, in his eagerness, he outstripped the rest of the dogs and fell into a boar-trap. Broke his back. A terrible thing but someone had to give the command to administer the coup de grâce. I gave it.’