Sandilands was speaking again in his low voice which still retained a slight Scottish huskiness. Another of the man’s attractions apparently. But, on this occasion, he was intrigued to hear an unaccustomed note of hesitation.
‘Quite agree, sir, and I only wish it were so easy but the scenario is quite a different one. You see, the female in question is a child. My niece. At least, my honorary niece. Little Dorcas Joliffe, the daughter of Orlando, the painter whose sister –’
‘The Wren at the Ritz! That Joliffe? Beatrice Joliffe? Done to death three months ago . . . Yes, of course I know about that disgraceful affair. Good Lord! Are you saying you’re still in contact with that rackety family? Believe me, Sandilands, you owe them no consideration. Your professional attentions ought properly to have ceased at the closing of the case. Surely Nevil . . .?’
‘Orlando is an entertaining and talented fellow and, yes, I’m proud to count him my friend. His children, who, as you know, are motherless and live like gypsies, have been taken under the wing of my sister Lydia who lives quite near to them in Surrey. The oldest girl, the impediment referred to earlier, this Dorcas, is, oh . . . fourteen? (Not sure she knows herself.) She’s become particularly attached to my sister’s family and seems to be living with them in the capacity of third daughter. Waifs and strays have always gravitated towards my sister and she’s made something of a project of young Dorcas. Clever little thing. Most unusual. It was her observation and insight that led to the uncovering of her aunt’s murderer.’
‘What extraordinary company you keep, man!’ said Redmayne. ‘And what’s all this nonsense about “waifs and strays”? Hardly a description of the Joliffe children, I’d have thought? Pots of family money in the background. Good home in leafy Surrey. Yes? Death and treachery swirling all around, as all admit, but a respectable grandmother to keep the lid on. I understand she has wisely done her best to minimize the impact of her daughter’s scandalous behaviour and sudden death. And it suits us to support her in this. Beatrice Joliffe died in the course of a robbery . . . we must all hang on to that. The old lady, at least, seems to have got the picture. Should be enough to protect those children from the public opprobrium which might otherwise have come their way.’
‘Deprivation can take many forms, sir, and these children have been rejected by their grandmother – on whom they are materially dependent – on account of their illegitimacy. Rejected with inexcusable and unnecessary cruelty, some might say. Their father, fond though I have become of him, is feckless – not uncaring but inadequate . . . say rather, perpetually distracted. When his model and current mistress, herself heavily pregnant, set fire to his caravan (and Orlando inside it at the time, under the influence of something or other) the eldest child, Dorcas, suffered burns whilst helping to rescue her father. Sister Lydia leapt in, scooped up the whole brood and took them home with her to introduce them to the civilized life.’
‘Don’t recall hearing any of this penny-dreadful, Perils-of-Pauline stuff from Nevil?’
‘No, sir. These skirmishings post-dated the premature closing of the case.’ Joe did not attempt to hide his disapproval.
Redmayne chose not to pick up the implied criticism of the military pressure which he was quite aware had been applied. ‘And the child is now loosely under the protection of your sister? A public-spirited gesture. Admirable woman! But I can’t see why her self-sacrifice should extend to and involve you, Sandilands.’
‘Oh, people do occasionally talk me into undertaking unwelcome projects,’ Joe said genially. ‘Orlando gathered his remaining four children together with his current mistress, put them aboard a train and went off to the south of France as he does every year. He carouses all summer at a sort of awful artists’ jamboree – returning in the autumn. He hobnobs with the likes of Georges Braque, Matisse, Picasso . . . Augustus John, I shouldn’t wonder . . . All egging each other on. At this time of year, my sister travels in the opposite direction, going north home to Scotland, and Dorcas, discovering this, kicked up a fuss. She thinks of herself as a Child of the South, which, indeed, she very much appears . . . girls with her dark looks are thick on the ground in Arles . . . and I was cajoled into escorting her down through France to whichever villa they’ve all descended on and there I hope she will rejoin her father.’
‘A sorry tale. I fear you allow yourself to be used too readily, Sandilands. Disappointing that you have let yourself become so embroiled in that family’s affairs. They must all, inevitably, be tainted in some minds . . .’ Redmayne swept a warning glance up to the ceiling. This was his way of referring to the shadier elements of the government departments concerned with aspects of national security who were rumoured to have offices complete with the latest in listening technology situated in remote parts of the building. ‘. . .tainted with the scurrilous behaviour and treachery of that woman,’ he finished with tight-lipped distaste.
Joe had noticed that the few people who needed to refer to Dame Beatrice did so in a hushed voice and called her ‘that woman’. The words ‘espionage’, ‘blackmail’ and ‘traitor’ were always in mind but never spoken.
‘Hum . . . Look, take the girl with you.’
This was an order not a suggestion. ‘Might work in our favour. Give an impression of a cosy family visit, policeman on holiday with his niece, relaxed, convivial. You could well learn a lot more – and faster – that way. And let’s not forget Houdart Fils! He’s, as you calculated, sixteen.’ Redmayne smiled with satisfaction. ‘Does this Joliffe child speak any French?’
Joe recalled with dismay the fast and colloquial street French Dorcas had picked up trailing about after her father in the loucher parts of the Riviera. ‘Fluently,’ he said diplomatically.
‘She does? Good. Yes, this might all work out to our advantage. Look here, don’t hesitate to telephone us if there’s anything we can supply. Full back-up guaranteed. Shan’t be at my desk myself unfortunately. Like your sensible sister, I’m going north for a week or two.’ He glanced at the dramatic Victorian paintings of stags at bay and frothing Scottish salmon streams hanging on his panelled walls and sighed with satisfaction. ‘But there’ll be someone here keeping communications open.’
‘Telephone?’ said Joe morosely. ‘Do they have the telephone down there?’
‘They certainly do. Halfway between Paris and Reims, you’d expect it. Things have changed, Sandilands, since you were dodging German shells over there eight years ago. No one like the French when it comes to reconstruction. Still, when you come to think of it – they’ve had a lot of practice, poor souls. Look at it this way – sorting out Charles-Auguste’s little problem is the teeniest bit of last-minute reconstruction. Least we can do, wouldn’t you say?’
At this point Joe, mystified and discouraged, sighed and surrendered the pass.
‘Now. To business!’ At last the file was opened and Redmayne pretended to riffle through it. He had clearly made himself familiar with the contents and barely needed to refer to it during his briefing.
‘Know anything about shell-shock? Or the condition we must now call “neurasthenia” or “war psychosis”?’
‘I’ve encountered cases, sir. I can’t say I’ve made a study of it.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to. We have, naturally. In fact I’ve managed to put together a few papers here outlining the very latest thinking on the condition. Make yourself familiar with them. It may help you in your enquiry.’
‘My enquiry? And does it have a subject, my enquiry?’
‘Of course. But not what I gather to be your usual kind of subject. No rotting corpse on offer, no member of the aristocracy done to death in mysterious circumstances. No, the reverse, in fact. You’ll be helping to solve the mystery of someone who’s decidedly (and rather inconveniently) alive.’
He produced from the file a cutting from a French newspaper. The article occupied the whole of the front page and carried a large portrait photograph. Joe took it and translated the headline. ‘Do you know this man?
’ He studied the photograph for a few moments and looked up. ‘Of course I know him. Doesn’t everybody?’
‘What! Are you serious?’
‘But his face is everywhere in London at the moment. On billboards ten feet high. It’s Ronald Colman.’
Pleased to have puzzled his boss he added kindly, ‘The film actor, sir, but a Ronald Colman after a heavy night out on the tiles, you’d say. Looks rather beaten up. You haven’t seen him in Her Night Of Romance? . . . Lady Windermere’s Fan? And most recently Beau Geste? Oh, an excellent film! I do recommend it. I’m sure Lady Redmayne could tell you all about him. The gentleman is English by birth, wounded in the war and now making a name for himself on the silver screen in America.’
‘Do be serious, Commander.’
Joe smiled. ‘The resemblance is, actually, quite striking.’ He looked again at the finely drawn, handsome face with its neat moustache.
‘Interesting. Ramble on, will you. First impressions are usually worth hearing. When they’re not flippantly delivered.’
‘No, I agree, sir, this could not possibly be a screen actor. This man is unaware of or indifferent to the camera. He’s not seeing the photographer, you’d say. He’s not looking in that slightly embarrassed way we have to the side or past the lens or narcissistically into it. His expression is impossible to read. A mask. There are signs of a wound along his jaw and I’d say he was about two stones underweight.’ He began to read out snatches from the accompanying text. ‘The man of mystery was found wandering around a railway station . . . It’s thought one of a batch of late-release prisoners from a German prisoner-of-war camp for the mentally ill . . . Poor chap. That would account for his vacant expression. The man cannot speak, has lost his memory and has been passed along from one asylum to another, fetching up at Reims where he is thought to have originated. The director of the asylum . . . um . . . from a swift perusal of this report I’d say he would seem to be a splendid fellow . . . has interested himself in the stranger’s case and taken this unusual step to try to establish his identity and locate his family.’
Joe looked up more cheerfully. ‘Well, I can’t see a problem there. A man with such striking looks must have been instantly identified, wouldn’t you think?’
Redmayne sighed. ‘And there’s our problem, Sandilands. Would you believe – over a thousand families from all over France have claimed him! They’ve mobbed the asylum demanding to take him home with them. And, as you might guess, most of the claimants are female! Mothers, wives and sisters by the dozen. All desperate to get their man – or perhaps any man – back from the front after all these years. Poor devils.’
‘Easy enough to rule out most of the candidates, I’d have thought. Just a matter of process. Now I’d have –’
‘Yes, yes. Whatever you can think of, the French authorities have already done. Height five foot eleven, fair hair, blue eyes. Well, in a country of largely dark-haired, dark-eyed inhabitants, those facts ruled out ninety per cent of the bidders for a start. He didn’t feature in their Bertillon files so – no criminal record. Unless he went uncaught during his career of course. There’s always that. The French police only record the sportsmen they’ve actually apprehended and put behind bars.’
‘Fingerprints, sir? Have they explored the possibilities? I know the system hasn’t captured the French imagination – so much invested in the Bertillon recording method – but surely a comparison would be possible and most revealing? I understand their police laboratory in Lyon to be in advance of anything we can supply ourselves here in London.’
Joe heard the touch of eagerness in his own voice and sighed.
Redmayne hurried on, playing his fish with confidence. ‘Other physical details like limbs broken before the war . . . presence or absence of . . . eliminated a few more candidates and the upshot is – the authorities were left with a solid core of four claimants who will not be discouraged. They are all perfectly certain that the man belongs to them. Here’s a list.’
Joe took the sheet of paper and read out one by one the names and addresses of the claimants. ‘Number one: Madame Guy Langlois. A grocer’s wife – or widow, do you suppose? From a village near Reims. Claims to be his mother. Her son, Albert, disappeared during the first battle of the Marne.’
‘“Missing in action. Presumed to be dead,”’ supplied Redmayne. ‘But no body was ever found and no identification medallion handed in.’
‘Number two: a Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges of Reims, claiming a “certain relationship” with the mystery man from before the war, vows she can identify him to everyone’s satisfaction by particular physical characteristics not yet revealed to the public. “A certain relationship”? Rather coy phrasing from our confrères?’
‘Yes. Family newspaper. Probably means he was her what d’ye call it? . . . her pimp? And the “satisfaction” she promises would undoubtedly be her own. Chap probably made off with her money in the way of those gentlemen and the lady wants to retrieve some of it.’
‘Number three: a whole family, evidently. The Tellancourts. Small farmers from the Reims area. Brother and sister adamant that this is their older brother Thomas.’
‘Some urgency to their claim. Sad case. Lost almost everything in the war. Father and mother are still alive and equally certain of their identification. They present a strong claim. Whole village has come out in support. Papa Tellancourt is very ill and not expected to last much longer. They are vociferous in their cries for an early decision. They were actually caught in the act of smuggling the chap out of the institution,’ he smiled, ‘in their eagerness to acquire him.’
‘Number four. Ah . . . Now I see why I’m here and about to ruin my first holiday in three years!’ Joe cocked an amused eyebrow at the Brigadier. ‘Madame Clovis Houdart. Of the champagne house near Epernay The invalid could be her husband, Clovis, posted missing in 1917. Do you wish, at this point, to declare an interest, Sir Douglas?’
‘Well, of course!’ He rapped sharply on the desk. ‘But an interest in finding out the truth! You must hear, Sandilands, the facts of the matter . . . be aware of the pressures and expectations then you won’t fall foul of them. I was approached by my friend, Charles-Auguste, when he heard of the involvement of the British authorities. He appeals to me to do what I can to ensure that the widow’s claim is rejected. Proved false. He is quite certain that the man in question is not his cousin. And he is deeply suspicious of the widow’s motivation in all this. Aline. Her name’s Aline. It’s no secret that the two in-laws do not get on well but more than that I can’t tell you. They’re perfectly polite to each other in their French way but you never can tell what’s bubbling under the surface, can you? Awkward, what!’
‘Sir, it occurs to me that we have the same theme running through each of these claims. And I don’t refer to the affection they may or may not have for a dear and supposed departed one.’
‘Go on.’
‘A very prosaic and unromantic but deeply compelling motive. And particularly so in these hard times in France. Money, sir. I fear each of these claims could be based on financial gain.’
‘What an unworthy thought! Had the same one myself. Mm . . . yes . . . been researching this. Save you some time. If he is ever identified to the authorities’ satisfaction, the man will, of course, even though he’s out of his head and unaware of anything, be qualified to receive a very generous allowance from the state. A sort of war pension, calculated from the time of his vanishing to the present day and beyond. Froggies are quite a bit more open-handed than we are when it comes to paying for damages. His family, whoever they are proved to be, can count on receiving – shall we say – eight years’ back pay. A fortune to some of the names on that list.’
‘Park the poor fellow in a rocking chair in the corner and they can go on drawing his pension as long as they can keep him alive,’ said Joe. ‘I would expect he qualifies for a disability allowance? But your friend Houdart? Some other financial advantage there, surely, I would guess? If t
he widow’s claim were to be upheld, “Clovis” would be restored to the family estates and Charles-Auguste’s presence would be in question, probably redundant. “Thank you so much, dear cousin, but you may leave now. I will do all that is necessary from now on.” Not confident I could navigate the intricacies of the Gallic laws of inheritance but obviously spanners would be thrown into works with a resounding clang.’
‘In a nutshell. Yes. It may come down to inheritance.’
‘But you mentioned something, sir . . . just now . . . which intrigued me. You say your friend contacted you with his plea for assistance after the police and the British authorities were made aware? We may assume his approach to be subsequent to – and perhaps dependent on – the official representation? I’m wondering why they should be bothering you with this affair at all.’
Redmayne was happy with Joe’s perception and his increasingly obvious involvement with the puzzle. ‘Rem acu tetigisti, Commander. Spot on the problem!’ He leaned back, confident that his investigation was launched. ‘This director of the asylum, you had correctly identified as a good egg. Scientist by training, medical man, student of Charcot and Freud, I understand, not a civilian placeholder. You’re to liaise with him. He’s the target of much sniping from various French government departments for reasons you can probably guess but he has an interesting tale to tell. He got his voice heard largely because the new information he had to offer rather suited them, I’m thinking. But then, I have a very suspicious mind.’
Tug of War Page 3
