Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Joe closed the door quietly and stood outside, grinning and shaking his head to dispel his disgust at the melodramatic performance. ‘Pompous English idiot!’ was his judgement. ‘Against lying French schemer! Wonder who’ll prevail?’

He was disturbed enough by his conversation to wish to share his concerns with Charles-Auguste, recognizing now the man’s prescience in calling in a little help from a discreet quarter, and set off back towards the cellars. Charles was at the door, leaving directions with one of the men. Dusty and tired, he made his way over to Joe.

‘Kitchen, I think. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.’

Settled around the table and by themselves, they set about producing a second breakfast.

‘Here, have some bread,’ offered Charles. ‘It’ll soak up the whisky. You smell like a distillery, man! Trying to keep pace with her, were you?’

‘What? You’re not saying that . . .?’

‘Oh, no! Aline’s by no means dependent on the stuff. She’s a winemaker, after all. Knows exactly where to stop. Usually doesn’t start but when she does . . .! She was probably trying to drink you under the table. Seen her do it with buyers. But she should have known better than to try that on with a Scotsman, I’d guess?’

‘The capacity comes in useful sometimes. Even so, I’m ashamed to say I’d reached the loosening of inhibitions stage and made a gesture or two I regret. But, Charles, I want you to listen to Aline’s account and tell me what you’re thinking. I hardly know the woman. You do. I don’t want to come to a wrong conclusion about her and base my further actions on something false.’

Charles listened and asked an occasional question as the conversation and Joe’s interpretation of it were laid out for him. He grimaced and drew in a whistling breath as Joe recounted her Parthian shot. ‘No, actually she wasn’t making up that story about the dog . . . I remember the brute. Black as night, keen as mustard and he died as described. Ouch! You’re for it, old man! But tell me – what are you going to do now?’

‘Head straight for the boar-trap, I’m afraid. Nowhere else to go. I won’t stand by and see Edward Thorndon shovelled into the earth as a nameless deserter, in a pine box in a French graveyard, with no one to mourn him but the woman who indirectly brought about his death. He has loving parents in England. They continue their search for information. They will want their son’s remains returned and, believe me, Charles, this is one missing soldier who’s going home if I have to carry him on my back!’

He paused to fill his coffee cup.

‘And that’s the easy bit,’ said Charles. He gave Joe a level look. ‘We’re both skirting round mentioning the obvious, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. And it goes right back to the beginning of all this. It was you who raised the matter with Sir Douglas, Charles. It’s your concerns I’m here to investigate. And I can tell you I have been picking up the hints. Now stop me if you think I’ve got this quite wrong but – it all hinges on a single, simple question: Why in hell does Aline want her husband back again?’

‘There we have it,’ said Charles with relief. ‘I’ve always suspected she hated my cousin – though I had no idea what good grounds she had for that hatred! And now, we’re looking at a woman who’s prepared to move heaven and earth to have this husk of a man brought back here into her life so that she may care for him. She knows how difficult that will be for her and for Georges. It would have been easy to have ignored the appeal in the paper – “Great heavens! What a surprise – doesn’t this man look incredibly like poor dear Clovis who was killed up near Craonne in ’17? I do hope they manage to locate his family I can imagine how they suffer.” And that, if any comment were called for – which it wasn’t – would have sufficed. But she went straight after him – like that bloody old Diabolo she told you about – hounding the doctor, spending time and money on research and bribery I shouldn’t wonder, determined to get hold of him.’

‘I’m bound to say there is a perfectly reasonable motive. She must know (as you say, she’s done some research on this) that the condition of shell-shock, Kriegsneurose or la confusion mentale de la guerre, whatever you want to call it, is not invariably irreversible. She must have considered the possibility of his recovering his memory with a click and a bang one of these days. There are many well-documented incidences. And what happens then? Clovis comes racing, hands down, back to his home to confront his faithless wife and reclaim his long-lost son? She’d lose everything. Would Aline be prepared to take even the slightest risk of this happening?’

‘Certainly not. She would not want that. She would prefer to have him under her control. Here. Not in Reims or anywhere else speaking his mind – should it ever come back to him. But – and I think you’ve seen it, Joe – there’s something else. Something darker.’

‘Yes. I think I have. The patient in Reims is not just a pathetic leftover from the war, he’s Clovis Houdart, the man she hated, the man who would have taken her son from her, the man who stabbed her lover to the heart and killed off her hopes. I’d guess that she’s pinned the blame for all that has gone wrong in her life, the disasters and the sorrow, on him. Oh, yes, she wants him back all right. But not to care for him. No. Not that.’ Joe shivered and rolled to a halt.

‘To torture and torment him,’ Charles finished for him. ‘She’s a vindictive woman who’s not happy unless she has someone in her power and if she can’t charm them into submission, she’ll resort to other means. I really believe – and, Joe, I would be only too relieved to hear that you think my suspicions absurd – that she means to have her revenge in her own twisted way. If she were to acquire him, be granted custody, I think I would be sent away back to Provence in short order and, after an almighty row, Georges would flee. With me? Perhaps. Into the army? More likely. He’s still maintaining, by the way, that Thibaud is not his father. And she would be left head to head with that poor, dribbling wreck. I can’t think any further.’ He stumbled to a halt, shaken by his own dark thoughts. ‘You’ll think the worse of me for even entertaining such dreadful suspicions.’

‘No, Charles. My mind has plumbed much the same depths. Look here – you have said to me, lightly and on one or two occasions, that you thought Aline might be “a bit mad”,’ said Joe tentatively.

‘Just a manner of speaking,’ mumbled Charles. ‘And if you’re talking medically, I’m no authority. Indeed, I have no personal experience of the condition and my views are not worth an airing. But – oh, why be so mealy-mouthed! – her behaviour is occasionally worrying. Her reactions, excessive. I’ve always put it down to her sufferings in the war – they were enough to have brought down a strong man, you know – and with this further evidence of mental torment uncovered, well, one understands and sympathizes.’

‘I think your fears may not be unfounded,’ said Joe. ‘I agree we could risk terrible consequences if the man – Thibaud – were to be turned over to her.’

‘But, I’d guess the ultimate decision rests with the French authorities, am I right? And they will act without the benefit of witnessing the little scene down in the cellar just now. You begin to see why I would so have liked you to arrive and declare him English! Our problem would have been carted off over the Channel to live out his days in some comfortable south coast clinic for officers instead of festering in a lunatic asylum or cooped up here being -’

‘Cooped up?’ Joe’s memory was stirred. ‘“Sometimes the female has to fetch him back . . . and sometimes he’s ripped to shreds by his mate . . .’” he muttered, remembering with horror. With all the assurance of Athena she had told him the truth and had never attempted to conceal her intentions. She had no fear of interference by a foreign policeman, however deep he dug. His enquiries could only lead to the inevitable truth: the patient was her husband, her claim indisputable and she would have him returned to her.

‘Charles! I must return to Reims! At once.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘No, it’s not a rout! Let’s think of it as a strategic withdrawal, shall we? Like the retreat from Mons. We’re going to regroup with Varimont and Bonnefoye, turn again and start on the march to the sea.’

‘If you say so. It feels like a defeat to me. And let’s hope the hotel can offer us a billet when we turn up a day earlier than expected. What are we waiting for?’

They were sitting, luggage stowed away, engine running and bonnet towards the open gate.

‘We’re waiting for Charles-Auguste. He’s bringing me something from the house. And here he comes.’

Charles hurried over and placed a large brown envelope on the back seat. ‘No problems. She’s brooding upstairs in her room. Tell Bonnefoye to return it to me here when he’s done with it, will you? And it’s farewell, Miss Dorcas – for the time being. I’ll just say I’ve been delighted – we’ve been delighted that you were here. And I know we’ll see you again. And Joe? What can I say? You know you have my thanks and my apologies and look here – it’s not over by a long chalk yet . . . don’t leave me worrying and wondering, will you? I’m always about early in the morning.’

He turned away and slapped the car on its rump as Joe put it in gear and started off down the drive.

‘Not saying goodbye to Georges then?’ Joe asked.

‘We said our goodbyes in private,’ Dorcas said. ‘I hate all that fussing about round car doors.’

‘How is he bearing up?’

‘Not well. But what would you expect? His main concern is for his mother. She’s suffered a shattering blow today.’

‘I’m not sure I’d waste my sympathy on Aline Houdart,’ Joe commented.

‘What? She comes across the murdered corpse of a man who is either her husband or her lover being uncovered by a foreign policeman who proceeds to hypnotize her into a confession of goodness knows what – of course she deserves sympathy. You’re jolly lucky it was Georges who threw a torch at you – I’d have aimed a little higher.’

‘Dorcas, if you’ll just stop fizzing with indignation for a moment, I’ll explain about Aline Houdart. I’ll tell you everything I know.’

It took longer than he had expected and three villages had rolled past the windows before he’d finished but at least she didn’t interrupt his account.

‘But she’s so charming and pretty and brave,’ she said finally. ‘And Georges thinks the world of her. The sort of woman anyone would want for their mother. Hard to believe. Have you thought you might have misinterpreted something she said in the dovecote, Joe? Head to head in that charged atmosphere . . . you know how easily you get carried away.’

He refused to rise to this bait and let her mull it over in silence. At last she said: ‘And I wonder if it’s occurred to you that the two women whose claims are still being considered have something in common? They both claimed to have fallen in love at first sight. Oh, dear! I’ve got a useful piece of advice for anyone who declares they’ve fallen in love at first sight: take a second look. I said that to Elsie when she decided to go off with the knife-grinder. She didn’t listen. Disaster! People use it, you know, to excuse any amount of bad behaviour. “Can’t help losing my virginity . . . betraying my wife . . . bashing my old man on the head . . . we just fell in love, you see, at first sight.” Huh!’

‘Heavens, girl! You’d give Romeo and Juliet a wigging then?’

‘Certainly would! I’ve no time for romantics like them. Think of the mayhem they caused.’

Joe interpreted this nonsense as a warning not to enquire into her friendship with Georges and heeded it.

‘Aren’t you bursting with curiosity to see what’s in Charles’s envelope?’ he said. ‘Take a look, if you like.’

Dorcas scrambled over the seat to retrieve it. ‘Addressed to Bonnefoye. Photographs,’ she said. ‘Three. Of Clovis. Surely he must have seen these already?’

‘Yes. But we’ve had further information. Don’t forget the ears. A magnifying glass on these should come up with evidence one way or another.’

‘And Thibaud will be handed over to Aline? Is that what you want, Joe?’

‘I’m here to find out the truth, Dorcas, and see that justice prevails. I’m not a fairy godmother, granting wishes to my favourites.’

She looked sadly at the photograph of the small Georges on his father’s knee. ‘You know that Georges is adamant that he should not return?’

‘Yes. Charles said as much. And there are doubtless complicated reasons for that. But I’m no psychiatrist, Dorcas. Nor are you. Leave it alone.’

‘And this framed one is a party of some sort?’ she said, trying to make sense of the third photograph.

‘Passing out of his year at St Cyr, according to Aline.’

‘Ah, yes. I can spot Clovis. He’s here on the left, with his arms around two of his friends. It’s funny, Joe, we’ve always seen him as a total solitary . . . no one to talk to even if he could talk. But here he’s . . . well, a bit drunk, obviously . . . but matey, popular, supported. What wonderful young men! And now I suppose . . .’

‘I’m afraid so. French cavalrymen didn’t hang back,’ said Joe. ‘One only survived of that merry band, Aline says. Apart from Clovis, of course. And for the same sinister reason – held prisoner in some German hell-hole.’

‘Well, perhaps there’s another contact there? Ah, yes. Of course. Now Bonnefoye can set to work to find him.’

After a moment’s thought she spoke again, tentatively. ‘Joe, you know what people do with these photographic records? So that they won’t ever forget old so-and-so when they’ve grown decrepit and ga-ga? I’ve got a souvenir photo of my last class at the village school and I did it. They write the names on the back. Shall I have a look? It’s only a cardboard frame stuck down at the edges.’

She was already sliding a thumbnail along the join and Joe pulled into the side of the road, intrigued by the operation. Neatly she withdrew the original photograph and scanned the back.

‘Yes! There’s a name in pencil over the head of every one of these men! Now Clovis is on the bottom left . . .’ She turned it over again and got her bearings. ‘So this would be him, the centre of the entwined group of three. The Musketeers! And look, Joe, it says “Self”. Well, that’s it! Your final proof, I’d have thought. No need to go hunting after the missing survivor.’

Joe took the photograph from her and studied it. His hand began to shake.

‘No. You’re quite right, Dorcas. But there’s one man on here we must chase after, to the grave if necessary. What the hell! Sorry. But this is really rather unsettling. You see the man on the extreme left – that’s on Clovis’s right? Musketeer number one? Dark-haired, dishevelled and devilish handsome? Now turn over and look at his name!’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bonnefoye was looking mischievous, Joe noticed with apprehension when he entered his office early on Monday morning.

‘Sandilands! My poor fellow – what an unpleasant weekend you must have had! Unearthing bodies much better left lying, I hear. How tiring! Sit down, sit down! Alone today?’ He enquired with warmth after Dorcas. ‘I won’t send for coffee . . . Tell you what – I haven’t had breakfast yet so why don’t we go out into the square and have a café complet when we’re done here? That suit you?’

‘It certainly would,’ said Joe. ‘I dashed out breakfast-less too.’ Then, picking up on the word that had disturbed him in the Inspector’s bland and friendly speech: ‘You hear, you say? From whom do you hear?’

‘Madame Houdart herself telephoned to fill in the details about half an hour ago. She had some pretty disparaging things to say about the methods employed by the arm of the British Law. Bounder? Perfidious Anglo-Saxon? Tool of the Interpol Inquisition? Recognize yourself? She was calling for your head on a plate, I’m afraid, but don’t worry! I squashed her complaints with ringing references to the Minister of the Interior, the Foreign Office . . . everything that occurred to me. I think I quietened her.’

‘She jolly well ought to keep quiet! Concealing a murder is, I presume, something of a crime here in France?’

‘A murder? Would you say so? I understand the body to be that of a runaway, a wounded escaper from the battlefield. Dead of sabre wounds, I’m told.’

‘That’s her story. Now listen to mine. And prepare yourself for some surprises.’

Bonnefoye sighed and paid attention.

‘I understand. And I accept your account of events, Sandilands,’ he said simply when Joe had finished. ‘But you know as well as I that there is no action I can reasonably take. Even if we allow that a murder was committed – and by Clovis Houdart – we’d have insurmountable difficulty in putting a case. We’d be laughed out of court – would that be the phrase?’

‘I think Madame Houdart would approve it. You might even have heard her use something very similar,’ said Joe bitterly.

‘We wouldn’t actually get this as far as court. And the alleged murderer who committed this crime passionnel – which may even have been a case of self-defence – has officially been dead these nine years. If he is still alive, he’s insane. And we aren’t in the business of sending to the guillotine men of unproven identity who are not in possession of their senses. Forget it, Sandilands! Antibes calls.’

‘I agree. I’m not trying to persuade you to follow up this crime, Bonnefoye. I’m asking you to do whatever you can to prevent a further one.’

He laid out his fears for Thibaud should he end up in the dubious care of Aline Houdart. ‘Though how we would ever account to anyone for assigning the patient elsewhere – or nowhere at all, which I suppose is always an option – I have no idea. Since he is her husband, we’d have our work cut out,’ said Joe.

‘Ah,’ said Bonnefoye, his initial spark of mischief rekindled, ‘this is the moment for a revelation of my own. I acted on the suggestion you left with me before you set off into the country. The fingerprinting? I had it done and the results sent off to our laboratory in Lyon by police messenger. They came back last night.’

He pulled a file across his desk. ‘You may take this away and study it. You will be impressed,’ he promised. ‘You will admire the technical skills and the speed. You will tell of it in Scotland Yard when you return.’

‘Come on, man!’ Joe smiled. ‘Put me out of my misery. The last page? What does it say?’

‘Thibaud’s fingerprints we already had on record. When a comparison was made it was discovered that there were thirteen distinct points of agreement . . . ample to declare an absolute identification. Page 16. Got it? And what all those bifurcations, arches, whorls and loops are spelling out is this: our Thibaud and Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges’s soldier-lover are one and the same! The man who’d reached Chapter 52 of War and Peace, who sat drinking her brandy, who put his feet up at her hearth and stoked her fire is the patient in Dr Varimont’s care.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Joe faintly. ‘It was an outside chance, Bonnefoye. I wasn’t certain that after all these years the prints would still be usable.’

‘We took the pipe and the book you mentioned but it was the dirty brandy glass that gave the best evidence. Sentimentally, she’d left them untouched just as she told you she had and on a surface like that a print is virtually permanent. So, if you think I’m treating your run-in with la Houdart a little lightly – well, you see, I can afford to. Her claim has suddenly begun to look very shaky. We’re now down to one tick – Desforges – one question mark – Houdart – and two crosses.’

He was pleased to see Joe’s raised eyebrows. ‘We’ve been busy, Sandilands, while you’ve been off sampling la vie de château. I despatched two sergeants in opposite directions to the country. Smart lads! One extracted a confession from the Tellancourts and they have grudgingly retracted their claim. Though the old girl stuck to her story throughout. With those ingenuous saucer-like blue eyes of hers and her mourning clothes and lace-edged hankies, she very nearly put one over on my chap. She only caved in when he called her bluff and threatened to take a second look at the evidence buried in the churchyard. My other bloke, following instructions, grilled the grocer’s wife, Langlois, closely followed by the local schoolmaster, Barbier. My instincts proved sound,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘Blackmail?’

‘Some naughtiness of that kind. Coercion perhaps? Madame Langlois has the goods – would you say? – on the schoolmaster. A nasty snakes’ nest of low-level corruption came hissing into the daylight. And yes, I will be following it up. The man Barbier has been betraying his pedagogical trust for years. His time is up. And, Madame Langlois decided that her time had come to put certain information that she had to use: “Support me in my claim or I’ll tell the school authorities the stories the children have been circulating for decades.”’

Could it be so simple, in the end, Joe wondered? Did Thibaud’s pipe and slippers beckon? Dorcas, at least, would be pleased. To say nothing of Mireille, so longing for her Dominique to come home from his last campaign. No, of course it could not be so simple. Joe cleared his throat.

‘Sorry, Bonnefoye, but we’re not quite done yet. I’m about to throw another spanner into the works. I want you to take a look at these photographs we brought away from Septfontaines. In particular, I want you to study the man who’s sitting on Clovis’s right.’

He waited while Bonnefoye turned the photograph this way and that, around and about, hissing with disbelief. ‘This is crazy!’ he said eventually. ‘But – “Self” it says here on the back. This is surely Clovis Houdart? Attached ears and all. And he’s the man Dr Varimont is holding at the sanatorium. Are we agreed on this much? Yes? But the man Mireille Desforges has identified as her lover, one Dominique de Villancourt, is actually sitting here in the photograph, next to Clovis – entwined with Clovis you might say – and, Sandilands, he’s dark-haired and at this moment, very dead. Quite clearly he is not our mental patient.’

‘Yes. There are three of them, you see, three friends. The closest of friends. My niece jokingly called them the Musketeers.’

‘I see where you’re going, Sandilands. “One for all and all for one”, are you thinking? I am.’ He pursed his lips and looked tenderly at the photograph. ‘Didn’t we all read Dumas at an impressionable age? So young! So gallant! Tell me, Sandilands, you were a soldier and must have been young once – would you have allowed your closest friend to make use of your identity to conceal his own in an affair of the heart? An affair played out rather too close to home for comfort?’

Joe smiled. ‘Oh, certainly. The least one could do for a friend. These men would have cheerfully given their lives for each other. Some probably did, I’d guess. What’s the loan of a name in comparison?’

‘And may I remind you of the motto of the cavalry – was it the dragoons or the cuirassiers? Je secours mes chefs et mes frères d’armes.’

‘I come to the aid of my commanders and my brothers-in-arms. Hmm . . .’

‘You remember I told you of an officer who survived a German cavalry ambush and spent the rest of the war in prison? The one who reported the dying actions of Dominique de Villancourt?’ He tapped at a face on the photograph. ‘Here he is. This chap here. I remember his name. We have his address. I can contact him and ask for information on his other friend Clovis.’

Joe sighed wearily. ‘Well, yes, you could. But it might be more informative if you were to contact someone quite else. I don’t know about you, Bonnefoye, but I can tell you – I’m getting a bit fed up stirring around in all this sticky speculation, personal opinion, bad memory, good memory, downright lies. It’s like snatching at moonbeams. You think you’ve got it and then the light shifts and your hand’s empty. Let’s get some verifiable, recorded-in-black-and-white, factual information, shall we? The fingerprints were a start. Now I think I see how to conclude this.’

‘Who’ve you got in mind?’

‘Someone rather prosaic – Houdart’s bank manager. In Paris. Any favours you can call in to wring a little information out of him?’

After a sweaty half-hour on the telephone, threading his way through departments, alternately charming and threatening, Bonnefoye finally hung up the receiver with a smile of mild triumph. ‘He’s agreed to give us what we want! He’ll ring back in an hour. Sending someone up to the attic probably to dust off a file. At least he still does have the file. Had Houdart banked in Reims, it would have been destroyed. Now, we can’t sit here waiting – let’s nip out and have that well-earned breakfast, shall we?’

They got to their feet, grinned at each other and both began to speak at the same time: ‘Bonnefoye, had you thought . . .’

‘Sandilands, shall I say it, or will you?’

‘I have an old aunt who has a very annoying saying: “There’s an elephant in this room, is there not?” We’re skirting around, pretending to ignore the huge truth that’s staring us in the face.’

Bonnefoye took his kepi from a stand, put it on and adjusted it to his favoured rakish angle. ‘I think I saw the elephant first,’ he said confidently. ‘But have you realized how very much worse this makes everything? What we’ve got on our hands is a genuine tug of war, a life-or-death tug of war. And we have to decide which end of the rope we are heaving on, Sandilands.’