‘Dorcas has already seen them, Maman,’ said Georges, recovering. ‘We went out this morning. Early. I thought I’d take her to look at the vineyards next.’
‘Then we shall have the horses to ourselves, Joe,’ said Aline, slipping her arm through his. ‘But first I have a rather charming little ceremony to perform. And you can help me.’
The two young people had gone ahead and were out of sight by the time Joe emerged with relief into the fresh air and sunshine of the courtyard. He had been trying to reconcile the maenad image of destructive madness Georges had conjured from the haunted depths of the chalk galleries with the cheerful presence and inconsequential chatter of the woman leaning so lightly on his arm, and he could not. What had that looming vision – black, chalk-white and blood-red – to do with this bird-like creature, all chestnut and gold, at his side? With many questions still to put to Georges, he was resentful that Aline was setting the pace and organizing his morning, a feeling he instantly dismissed as churlish. He had made this journey specifically to talk to her and help resolve her problem, hadn’t he? – and here she was, gracefully making his task easier.
She paused by the door and pointed to a lidded wicker-work basket on the ground outside. ‘Would you mind, Joe? We ’re going to take that to the dovecote. Today you will be witnessing the founding of a new dynasty!’ she announced playfully. ‘A dynasty of doves.’
He picked up the heavy basket, catching flashes of white through the holes. ‘What have we got here?’
‘It’s a pair of doves a kind neighbour has sent me. Ours died out soon after the war and it’s high time we restocked. We have a perfect home for them over there, you see.’
She pointed to the round, stunted tower with its grey-tiled pepper-pot roof and started towards it. ‘A house looks so pretty with doves perched on its roof, don’t you think?’ She pushed open the door of the pigeonnier and Joe stepped inside, an earthy-scented darkness closing in around him, muffling his senses. Aline swung the door shut and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he found he was just able to see by the soft light filtering in from under the tiles.
‘Before we release them we’ll close their escape hole at the top of the roof. Look, we use this rope to open and close the louvres. Now, what you have to understand about doves is that you’ve got to keep them shut up together for at least two weeks, feeding them well, of course, before you can let them out into the open air. They have to be kept together in their place so that they learn it is their home to which they must always return and then they will mate. They are very faithful birds, you know, and mate for life so it’s important to get the pairing right. See how pretty these are!’ she said, taking one gently in her hands and spreading its wing. ‘This one is the female – a pure white. Here, hold her for a moment, Joe.’
Joe carefully took hold of the soft round shape which nestled perfectly happily into his cupped hands and began to smooth the silky down with his fingers.
‘Men have kept doves for at least seven thousand years, you know,’ she went on, seeing his interest wakening. ‘The ancient Egyptians used them as messengers. The Romans probably first brought them to France. And in Persia they were the sacred birds of Astarte, the Goddess of Love.’
Her close presence in the gloom, her murmuring voice and the gentle rustle of straw under his feet were disturbing. He was conscious of the smooth hands that closed over his to take back the dove; he was surprised by a warm waft of her perfume – an innocent country scent he thought he recognized. It was a moment before it came to him: that unique natural blend of flowers and spice was honeysuckle.
‘It’s very generous accommodation,’ he said awkwardly, looking around at the large number of nesting holes provided and rather regretting the slight tone of billeting officer he heard. ‘There must be room for hundreds of birds.’
He sensed she was smiling at him. ‘In earlier centuries, in winter when all the stock had been killed and eaten, doves often provided the only source of fresh meat. I suppose you would judge that a frightful gastronomic solecism? How typical of the French!’
‘Not at all,’ he said easily. ‘Cushat pie is not unknown in my country.’
‘We had a hard time towards the end of the war,’ she said. ‘There were many people to feed. Our stock was exhausted. The ones we didn’t eat we attempted to use as messengers. The English took away the last of our flock, intending to release them with goodness only knows what significant information taped to their feet, but none ever returned.’
‘I expect those also ended up in a stew,’ said Joe. ‘Cooked up in a dixie over a British camp-fire. So you’re intending to keep these two unfortunates prisoner in here until they agree to get on with each other?’ he added briskly. ‘I think I ought to be arresting you for something but I can’t imagine what the charge would be.’ He couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was attempting to manipulate him in some way and yet her voice was cool, her attention entirely on the doves. ‘And how certain can you be that this pair will get on with each other? Who has had the selecting of them? Are they mates?’
‘I don’t think so. Not yet. These are young birds and I don’t think they have chosen a mate yet. They may get on well from the start but sometimes they do not and will peck each other quite savagely. But if you can keep them locked in together for two weeks it will do the trick. They will be lifelong lovers and they will become attached to their new home.’
‘Does that always happen?’
‘Just occasionally it doesn’t work and then the male – it is always the male – flies away when you release them. Sometimes the poor female has to fly in pursuit and herd him back.’
He was aware that she was smiling. ‘Sometimes it happens that the female – and it’s usually the female – will tear her unwilling partner to shreds. But don’t worry – I don’t think you will witness any bloodshed today. What bird would be insensitive enough to reject such a good home? Such a beautiful mate?’
She took the dove from his hands, spoke softly to her and released her. Taking the second dove from the basket she held him up to show the bronze markings on his feathers. ‘This breed is very rare. Very handsome. They were brought back from eastern lands by Crusaders who went off with Good King Louis – or so I’m told. Off you go and join your mate!’
The dove fluttered upwards, bronze streaks glinting in a shaft of sunlight which bisected the tower far above their heads.
‘’I shall always think of them as Joe’s doves. Why don’t you give them a name, Joe?’ she invited.
‘Well, if it’s a pair of timeless lovers we’re contemplating – what about Abélard and Héloïse?’ he suggested.
As he spoke the two birds began instantly to dispute possession of the same nesting hole with loud squawks and much flapping and pushing.
‘Or should that be Punch and Judy?’
‘Oh, dear!’ He heard her gentle laughter. ‘Not a good start! Well, let’s hope for the best. They have two weeks in which to settle their differences. And when we’ve got a whole flock of them going we’ll collect up the droppings – wonderful manure for the flower beds.’
He was happy to hear her common-sense tone and dropped his guard, to be taken unawares by her next question.
‘You know I lured you in here so that we could be alone and not overheard by anyone? Impossible in the house to snatch a moment’s intimacy! Come and sit with me over here.’
She went to settle on the bottom tread of the circular wooden ladder that revolved around the building providing access to the nesting holes, and Joe seated himself tentatively in the straw at her feet.
‘There are two things you must understand about this sorry business, Joe. Firstly, my son declares that the patient is not his father. I think quite honestly that the boy has a damned cheek! And if I didn’t love my son so much I’d box his ears. How dare he! He saw his father so few times and with the eyes of a child all those years ago . . . how can he possibly say that he can identify him more accurately than
I? It’s my theory that he expects Clovis to be unchanged from the glamorous and heroic figure swishing about in black-plumed helmet that he remembers. He cannot adjust to the idea that his father is now a wreck of a man and will, most probably, remain so for ever.
‘Secondly, my cousin by marriage, Charles-Auguste, is a dear man. We quarrel, we sometimes disagree about the running of the business but much more often we agree. He’s an inspired wine-maker. I couldn’t have made the firm so profitable without his assistance. He’s also a clever businessman and this is still a world where the word “man” is important. He feels, I know, that his position here would be threatened were Clovis to be brought back. Nonsense, of course. I have tried to reassure him but I don’t think I have succeeded. And once again I must think – how dare he! He was never particularly intimate with his cousin before his disappearance and to deny him so firmly now speaks of priorities other than discovering the truth. Well, there you are. They will each confide in you, no doubt, and you will draw your own conclusions.’
‘Tell me why you want him back, Aline.’
She leaned forward in astonishment at the question, trying to catch his expression. ‘I love him. He’s my husband. Whatever state he’s in, he’s mine and always will be.’ She looked at him with curiosity. ‘Are you married?’
Joe shook his head, dismissing the irrelevant and intrusive enquiry.
‘Are you in love?’ she persisted. ‘Have you been in love?’ She turned to him, grey eyes black and huge in the gloom, and scanned his face. ‘Ah! I thought not. It’s no good shaking your head and squirming with embarrassment and preparing to tell me this is not police business! As long as you are a policeman and your word on the matter is heard by the authorities it is police business and it is mine to make certain that you understand. Hop up here and sit next to me, I can’t speak to you when you’re wriggling about in front of me like a five-year-old.’
Resentfully, Joe toyed with the notion of disobedience. In that moment she was for him nanny, mother, mistress, sister. A beam of sunlight knifing through the slats made a golden helmet of her Titian hair and he added to his list of tormentors – goddess. He sighed and obeyed.
Joe perched uneasily shoulder to shoulder with Aline on one half of the tread. He glanced up at the doves over their heads, still, with a hundred holes to choose from, disputing possession of the same hole. Blood and feathers would soon begin to fly . ‘Know how you feel, old mate!’ he thought grimly, identifying with the male bird. But his unkind thoughts vanished in a moment when abruptly Aline began to weep. ‘I had thought that showing you the doves would explain more clearly than words what I feel,’ she whispered. ‘As with them, it was for life. I fell in love . . . and it didn’t take two weeks to know it. Two seconds. It was enough.’
So completely had her voice changed he felt he could be listening to a different woman. The self-confidence, the mocking insouciance had gone and he was hearing the hesitations of a girl racked with emotion, a girl struggling and failing to find words that could bear the weight of the intensity of her feelings.
‘It’s painful, shattering, inconvenient even, but if you have never had the experience of falling completely in love, I pray that you will. Now – is that a prayer or a curse, I wonder? But don’t think ill of me for it – I do believe any life is a half-life until you have. A man’s eyes on yours, his arms around you and your souls spiralling away into the ether together . . .’
The words were fanciful, ingenuous even, but the emotion behind them was true and deep. He knew he was hearing a woman talking of a love so overwhelming that she had remained through the years possessed by it. He knew instinctively that for Aline nothing else – home, family, the war – nothing ever was able to – or would – rival it in power.
‘So, my reason for bringing the man back here to his home is a simple one. Elemental. It springs from love.’
‘I understand all that you have to say, madame,’ said Joe. ‘And am well able to feel for you in your sorrow. I must ask though, if I’m to do my job adequately, whether there are any indications of a practical rather than emotional identification of the patient. Look, I wonder if you were aware that the doctor in Reims, who, I do believe, has grown fond of our man, calls him Thibaud. Would it offend you to use that name for the time being?’
‘Not at all. Thibaud. A good name. I approve of that. And yes, there are aspects of Clovis’s body that are distinctive and could well prove that he and Thibaud are one and the same. We could hardly look for mental similarities though I do wonder whether all possibilities have been explored. I have thought, Joe, that we might be able to have him, Thibaud, taken to Austria to a clinic. Or even to London. You must advise me. I understand that wonderful results in cases like his have been achieved through hypnotism. The process is not much practised here in France but I would like to try it and will pay all expenses incurred.’
‘It is an avenue which, I think, should be explored,’ said Joe.
‘But in the meantime all we have to go on is physical clues. I have provided the obvious information like size and colouring, supported by photographs of course. That ought, along with my word, to have been sufficient but I understand that there are now three other claimants vying for him. I shall have to play cards I was holding in reserve.’
For a second Joe had a sickening feeling that he’d heard this before and was struck by the similarity, if not in circumstances, then in determination between Aline Houdart and Mireille Desforges. Each, he did believe, motivated by undying affection.
‘Clovis has marks on his lower abdomen. His was a difficult birth, a breech birth, and force was used. He has the marks of those . . . pincers . . . on either side of his hip. His right hip. But there is more. Come back to the salon with me, will you? I wish to show you further evidence.’
Stopping to order coffee to be brought to them in the petit salon, she made her way back to the room where they had taken tea the previous day. Judging by the piles of novels and magazines and the cashmere throw draped over a chaise longue, this seemed to be where she spent her leisure time. Joe sat down in an armchair while she went to hunt about in the drawers of an escritoire. She brought over to him three photographs.
In the first, a man very like Thibaud stood looking aloof and aristocratic, slightly embarrassed perhaps to be modelling his cuirassier’s uniform for the camera, his presence in the studio insisted upon no doubt by a doting family. He wore a flamboyant helmet which covered most of his head and it was impossible to tell the colour of his hair.
The second, larger, photograph showed a group of young men in evening dress posing informally at the end of a party. A dozen of them were seated around a table strewn with the debris of an elaborate meal. They had reached the brandy stage and all looked very drunk.
‘Clovis is the second on the left,’ said Aline, pointing. ‘Taken in Paris – a passing out celebration with his contemporaries at the academy of St Cyr. In those days you couldn’t go to a dinner party without it being recorded by a photographer. A hard-riding lot! So much hope, such talent, such dash! I danced with all of them in my time. It breaks my heart to look at them and realize that, of this dozen, only two have survived. Clovis and the man on his left, both held prisoner until the war ended or they would have been killed too, no doubt.’
She was trembling with emotion at the sight of the twelve bold, laughing young men, her voice husky, and snatched it away to replace it with the third photograph.
This was more natural. Clovis was sitting in everyday clothes, relaxed and smiling and holding on his knee the young Georges clutching a toy train. His hair was fair, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and love and, yes, the man was the spitting image of Thibaud.
He said as much to Aline.
‘You haven’t noticed it, have you?’ She moved behind him and pointed. ‘It would take an expert in the Bertillon system of identification to spot it and if it becomes necessary, believe me, Commander, I will certainly employ one. Concealed under the str
aps of a helmet of course but here where he’s bare-headed you can see it clearly. Look at the ears!’
Joe looked and saw.
‘The lobes. They are joined to the side of the face not free like these.’ She tugged at her own dainty ears. ‘Now, I know – because I’ve been doing my own research on this – that a small percentage only of the population has this characteristic. One person in four, I understand. That, taken in conjunction with the other signs I have given you, ought to be more than enough proof.’
‘I hadn’t remarked Thibaud’s . . .’
‘Attached lobes,’ she said. ‘He has them! For the good reason that Thibaud is Clovis and these are his ears!’
Chapter Twenty
Halfway – and, Joe suspected, a calculated halfway – through coffee, they were joined by Charles-Auguste. Aline withdrew, content to leave the two men to talk to each other, perfectly confident and assured.
Left alone, Joe said as much. ‘Aline would seem to have a watertight case to make for the man in the Reims sanatorium being her husband?’
Charles-Auguste nodded. ‘I know! Believe me, Sandilands, I’ve heard it. Over and over. And it grows in strength. I can’t imagine why I bother to demur and throw an occasional, feeble “Ah, but . . .” into the mixture.’ He paused and, invited by Joe’s sympathetic silence, went on, pulling a rueful face: ‘But I do! Who am I to say this isn’t my cousin, you may well ask, when his wife of eighteen years, mother of his son, says otherwise? And we were never particularly close. All I can say is that every instinct I have is telling me that there is something very wrong . . . very disturbing . . . about this identification. And it stems, not so much from the mental patient himself as from Aline.’ His voice had lowered and he cast a quick glance at the door. ‘It’s her sanity I fear for. She’s unnaturally obsessive about this whole business!’
Tug of War Page 17
