Joe remained silent waiting for the final twist and jerk that would land him firmly in Redmayne’s net.
‘This medic has lavished care and attention on our mystery man, whose case seems to have caught his imagination. He has made copious notes on his condition and tried, by experiment, not electrical shocks – the doc is a humane man, it would seem – to find out the nature and cause of his illness. One night, a week or so ago, he was called by a nurse to the man’s room. The patient was reported to be having a particularly alarming nightmare and crying out in his sleep. Fascinating, of course. Normally completely dumb, perhaps, under the influence of the nightmare, he might well reveal some information? A useful name or two . . . “Odile, mon amour, tu me manques! Maman, ton fils, Robert, te cherche!” Something of that nature.’
‘Yes? And did he make out any words?’
‘He did. Most surprising. And how lucky for us that this director is an educated man. He recognized the language at once. The patient was screaming out a stream of words.
And this is where we find ourselves involved, Sandilands. The words he was screaming were English.’
As Joe paused in the doorway to readjust the bulky file under his arm, Redmayne called out: ‘By the way, Joe . . . a last word of advice. The name “Houdart” . . . know what it means?’
‘No idea, sir. I’ve never heard it before.’
‘No. Most unusual. Charles tells me it’s a very ancient one from two Germanic roots.’ He frowned in an effort to remember. ‘Hild, meaning combat and hard meaning . . . well . . . hard. Hard in combat. Tough fighter. And although Aline wasn’t herself born with that surname – I believe she started out as a de Sailly – she’s certainly grown into it. Oh, and Aline Houdart, you’ll find, is a damned attractive woman.’
The glance he directed at Joe was avuncular, amused. ‘Have a care, my boy!’
Chapter Four
As Joe ran downstairs towards the open door of the breakfast room he glanced at his luggage, set in the hall the evening before ready for an early start. His two suitcases had been joined by one Gladstone bag and a pile of books done up with string.
Cheerful voices and a clatter of dishes warned him that breakfast was well under way and he checked his watch, annoyed to note he had overslept by half an hour. He paused by the door to collect himself and prepare for the good-natured teasing that would greet his late appearance. As he listened he took a furtive step back, startled by what he was hearing.
‘Well, my money’s on this Houdart woman,’ Lydia was saying firmly. ‘Sounds to me like someone who knows what she wants and gets it. She’ll do a deal with the authorities, pull strings . . . pull Joe’s strings too, I shouldn’t wonder! And she’ll have this poor man for her nefarious purposes.’
‘Can’t say I’d mind being had for nefarious purposes by a glamorous champagne widow,’ said Joe’s brother-in-law. ‘She can have her wicked way with me any day. Oh, I don’t know. Let’s add a sporting dash of excitement! Why not? I’ll go for the dark horse . . . Mademoiselle from Armentières . . . what was her name? Pass me that sheet, Dorcas.’ There was a rustle of paper. ‘Mireille, that’s it. Yes, if you’re making a book put a tenner for me on the Tart from Reims.’
‘Marcus!’ Lydia protested automatically. ‘Language! Ladies present!’
‘You’re both wrong,’ said Dorcas. ‘Aunt Lydia – do I still get my weekly pocket money while I’m in France? Good! Then, will you put a shilling for me on the Tellancourt family?’ Raising her voice, she said casually, ‘I’ll pour some coffee for Joe and ring for more. I’m sure I heard him come downstairs just now.’
Joe snapped the catch of one of his cases noisily then entered looking distracted. ‘My file? I say, has anyone seen . . .? Could have sworn I’d left my file with the luggage last night . . . Oh, I see I did . . . There it is between the Cooper’s Oxford and the Patum Peperium . . . Good morning, everyone! Anything interesting in the papers this morning?’
Marcus and Lydia looked at each other and smiled guiltily.
‘Not really,’ said Dorcas. ‘We had to read your rubbish for entertainment. I can see why you didn’t bother to hide it. Hardly confidential. Not a single body on any page. I wonder when you were intending to tell me of the change in our itinerary, Joe? Sounds exciting – though I’m not sure I’m prepared for a weekend living la vie de château. What do you think, Aunt Lydia?’
‘Oh, goodness! Of course! We must pack your best dress – the blue one you said was too fussy . . . so glad we bought it! And you may borrow my pearls . . . Stockings! You’ll need silk stockings. Gloves! We didn’t think of gloves!’
Joe groaned and took the coffee Dorcas was handing him. Fortified, he reached out and gathered in the scattered pages of his file, reprovingly scraped a blob of marmalade from the top sheet and replaced them between the covers.
In frantic but silent communication, Lydia and Dorcas rose to their feet, hastily putting down their napkins. ‘Porridge in the pot, Joe . . . eggs, bacon . . . the usual,’ muttered Lydia. ‘How long have we got?’
‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘Wheels turning by nine?’
‘Dorcas, scoot along, will you, and find your dress and anything else that comes to mind in view of the change in plans? You’ll need another suitcase – ask Sally to fetch down one of mine. I’ll look out some suitable jewellery and other folderols.’
When Dorcas had charged out of the room Lydia turned to Joe wearing her big-sister’s expression. ‘A word, if you please, Joe.’
He looked at her warily.
‘You may be a senior police officer and a pillar of society, as all would agree, and never think that I’m ungrateful for your offer to escort the child down to the Riviera but -’
‘My offer! Come on, Lydia! I listen for your next pronouncement in the hope of hearing the words “sorry”, “twisting” and “arm” in that order. “Coercion” would be acceptable.’
‘Don’t be pompous! You ought to guess from my circumlocutions that, just for once, I am actually trying hard to choose my words so as not to give offence.’
He looked at his watch, hiding a smile. ‘Twenty-five minutes.’
‘Very well then.’ She hesitated and went on firmly: ‘In England no one will look with anything less than indulgence at an uncle chaperoning his niece down to her father. And that’s all very well. But I’m not so sure of customs and manners in France.’
‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it? To be having such qualms? Pity it didn’t occur to you when I was trying to wriggle out . . . But let me put your mind at rest, Lyd. There’ll be no problems of a social nature. So long as the child remembers to wear her gloves and speak when she’s spoken to, say “yes, uncle” and “no, uncle” at every verse end, I see no problem. People will approve. I’ll be held up as an example from Calais to Cannes of self-sacrificing uncle-hood.’
‘All the same, I do feel myself responsible.’
Joe grinned. ‘You always did, Lydia. It can be infuriating. Look, love, stop fretting. Dorcas always comes out well, you’ve discovered that. She’ll be just fine.’
‘Of course she will! It’s not Dorcas I’m fretting about, you chump! Oh, Marcus! You’ll have to speak to him!’
Left alone, the two men rolled their eyes in affectionate complicity and sank thankfully into a companionable silence, giving their full attention to plates of kidneys and bacon with copies of The Times and the Daily Herald on the side.
‘Stockings?’ Joe looked up, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Hasn’t the child got supplies of socks?’
Marcus seemed to be having difficulty with a piece of toast and coughed behind his napkin. ‘You haven’t noticed, have you, old boy? She’s growing up fast.’
‘Well, of course I’d noticed! She’s put on about two inches in every direction since you had the keeping of her. Good food, regularly offered. Makes a difference.’
‘Exactly A difference. Glad you’re aware. Lydia couldn’t be quite certain that you were. Well, there yo
u are then. I’ll tell her. “Joe’s aware,” I shall say!’
Joe pondered on this for a moment. ‘I say, do I consider myself spoken to?’
‘Can’t imagine you’d want me to elaborate. I will venture to add a word of advice of my own though . . . a thought or two from a man of the world, family man, father of girls and all that: if our perusal of the file is correct, I assume you’ll be taking young Dorcas with you to stay with this family? Yes? Well, you could hardly park her in some hotel in war-torn Reims while you go off by yourself. There’ll be a warm reception and – Lydia noticed – the company of the young son of the house. Dorcas will want to make a good impression. Wouldn’t expect her to come down to dinner in the shorts and sandals she’d packed for the south of France, would you? The whole thing may be a bore and a distraction for you, Joe, but I can tell you, for the girls it’s a romantic interlude. Let them enjoy it and don’t be so stuffy!’
‘And that’s your advice? You hand me the fruits of your years of fathering and it amounts to – “Don’t be stuffy”? Wouldn’t fill a book, would it?’
Marcus gave Joe a long look over the table and spoke in a voice of rough affection. ‘It’s a long way down to Antibes. It will seem twice as long if you antagonize Dorcas.’ And, seeing Joe was about to explode with indignation, ‘Take it easy, old chap. You’re wound up tight as a spring. Can’t help noticing. I’m saying she’s rather like a partly trained little wild creature – think of a ferret . . . Remember Carver Doone?’ he added lugubriously. ‘Lyd’s done her best – so have I – but there’s some way to go yet before we can present her at Court. Or for tea in a Joe Lyons Corner House, come to that.
‘Well, that’s it. I’ve said my piece.’ Marcus sat back, relieved to hear no riposte from Joe. ‘Listen, old man – those buggers at the Yard work you too hard. Lydia and I are always concerned for you, considering the life you lead . . . always mixed up in murder and mayhem of one sort or another. It will be a relief to us to know that for the next three weeks at least you’re not dicing with death.’
Chapter Five
‘Did you lay this on specially, Joe?’
Dorcas, sitting in the passenger seat of the Morris Oxford cabriolet, looked up from her guidebook and stared with disbelief at the scene in the street before them.
‘Certainly didn’t,’ said Joe impatiently. ‘The street’ll be blocked for hours!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll be late. You’d have thought my opposite number . . . what’s his name? Inspector Bonnefoye, that’s it . . . would have warned me this was happening. He must have known.’
‘I expect he did know,’ said Dorcas easily. ‘You’ll find it’s a dastardly Gallic wheeze to put you in your place and, for the French, your place would always be one step behind and on the wrong foot. It’s manipulation . . . Joe, what are those beasts we’re looking at? What are they doing in the middle of the city and how fast do they go?’
‘Rather splendid, aren’t they? Oxen. White oxen. Eight of them pulling each dray at about a hundred yards per hour and there would appear to be drays as far as I can see until they disappear round the corner of the Avenue. Look, this one’s dedicated to the wool trade and the next is the biscuit-makers’ float. Champagne houses after that . . .’
‘There’s a banner! Reims Magniflque, that’s what we’re seeing.’ She squinted into the distance and read: ‘It’s la grande cavalcade and it’s celebrating the resurgence of the city after the exigencies of the Great War. Well, it’s quite a nuisance but you have to say – well done them!’ She looked around her at the cheering crowds, the marching band, the buildings under reconstruction or already rebuilt and still shining clean. ‘Eight years, Joe, that’s all the time they’ve had to build the city up again from the rubble the German army reduced it to. Look, there’s a picture in my book of the cathedral in flames. September 1914. The Germans were over there,’ she waved an arm vaguely to the north, ‘and they just took pot shots at it with fire bombs. Some scaffolding around the north tower caught alight and the whole building went up in smoke. Many of their own German wounded who’d been sheltering in the nave were burned to death along with the nuns who were nursing them.’
She looked up from her book, face puckering with distress. ‘They’d been here in the city only days before. They’d seen the beauty of the cathedral right there in front of them. How could they retire a few miles off and deliberately destroy it? I can’t understand.’
Joe had no answer. He’d felt her increasing sadness as they’d driven south through remembered battlefields and, in the end, had set aside most of the places he’d intended to see as unsuitable for a sensitive young person. He had not anticipated the force of her reaction to the memorials and had watched, disturbed, as the child had stood in floods of tears in front of the very first one they had visited, patiently going through all the names, insisting on pronouncing each one in her own private ritual, unable to move on until each man had been faithfully acknowledged.
‘Have you never been this way before, Dorcas?’ he’d asked. She reminded him that her father was a pacifist and a conscientious objector who’d spent the war years in Switzerland. They had always travelled through Dieppe and Paris and the war was never referred to. Orlando saw no reason to remind his children of this sorry episode.
In the end Joe had reduced their visits to two places of remembrance. Mons where it had all started and Buzancy, not very distant, where for him it had all finished in that bloody July four months before the end. He’d chosen Buzancy because it represented the combination, at times uneasy, of the allied forces. French, British and American had all fought here. But, above all, he’d chosen it because the small stone monument, a cairn in his eyes, had been hastily built up from material to hand after the battle; it was simple and affecting and bore no heartbreaking lists of the dead. Erected by the 17th French Division in honour of the 15th Scottish, it marked the place on the highest point of the plateau where had fallen the Scottish soldier who had advanced the farthest. A simple two-line inscription said it all, Joe thought:
Here the glorious Thistle of Scotland will flourish forever amid the Roses of France.
Now they’d arrived in Reims, he was determined to put nostalgic thoughts aside. Put out though he was by the hold-up, he was cheered by the sight of so much determined gaiety around them echoing his mood.
‘But look at the town now, Dorcas! It’s almost back together again. A triumph of civilization over barbarism you might say. That’s worth celebrating. Sit back and enjoy the show! And tomorrow I’ll take you to see something really special. Something symbolizing for me and for many others, I know, the spirit of this part of France.’
They paused to clap and cheer as another cart creaked past, overflowing with flowers, fruit and vegetables, the produce of the market gardeners of Cormontreuil.
‘I’ll show you an angel. Not just any old angel. You know . . . holy-looking . . . eyes raised piously to heaven . . . suffering a frightful stomach-ache. This one is smiling. You’ll find him by the great door to the cathedral. He’s smiling at someone at his elbow, caught, you’d say, in the middle of a conversation, or even telling a joke. And I always look for the glass of champagne in his hand. No – it isn’t there, but you can imagine.
‘And the Germans didn’t have it all their own way! In their hurried retreat from the town – they’d been here for four days – some of the troops got left behind. They were carousing and failed to hear the bugle sound. Sixty of them were taken prisoner single-handedly by the innkeeper. There are tales of French derring-do on every street.’
‘How about a spot of English dash on this street?’ Dorcas suggested. ‘Look – there’s a gap between the floats – they’re having problems with that tractor and the policeman who stopped us seems to be rather distracted by the lightly clad young ladies from the Printemps display. Why don’t you . . .?’
Joe had already put his foot down and was surging forward through the gap.
‘Left here and second rig
ht,’ shouted Dorcas and, for a moment, Joe was almost glad she was aboard.
Satisfyingly, they arrived at the Inspector’s office a neat five minutes before they were expected and Dorcas had sufficient time to run a comb through her tangled black hair and fasten it back with a red hair ribbon. In short white socks and a red candy-striped dress tied up at the back, English guidebook in hand, she was perfectly acceptable, Joe thought. He introduced her as his niece on her way south to join her father and the young Inspector gave her no more than one brief look, offered her a chair in a corner of his office and politely asked if the young lady spoke French. On impulse, Joe said, ‘Unfortunately not.’ The Inspector was clearly not surprised to hear this admission and remarked with only the slightest touch of condescension how unusual it was to hear French spoken so well by an Anglo-Saxon. Where had the Commander learned his French?
He appeared intrigued to hear of Joe’s involvement in the later stages of the war with Military Intelligence and his months of working as liaison officer with some distinguished French generals. His eye was drawn for a moment to the discreet ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur which Joe had fixed to his jacket as they mounted the stairs. Joe thought Bonnefoye looked too young to have participated in the war but, from his bearing, he judged he might have at some stage undertaken a military formation. He decided to treat him with the clear-cut good manners of a fellow soldier.
They were politely offered refreshment. Tea? Coffee? Joe deferred to Dorcas who, to his annoyance, went through a pantomime of wide-eyed ‘What was that, Uncle Joe?’ and then produced a triumphant: ‘Café. I’d like café, please.’
Tug of War Page 4
