‘Ah, yes. The artist. We have a signature, you say?’ Joe fought down an impulse to snatch the drawing from her fingers.
Dorcas peered at the signature in the corner. ‘Edward Thorndon. July 1917. I wonder if that’s the Edward of the Christmas tree?’
‘Time to ring Varimont,’ said Joe, beginning to pack up the sheets in their remembered order. ‘Are you ready for this?’
Dorcas settled down, ear to the telephone again as Varimont’s voice boomed out.
‘Got them! Well, one of them,’ he announced. ‘One of the orderlies, a Frédéric Lenoir by name, is actually married to a woman who was a Miss Tellancourt. There you have it! A phone call was made, he admits, to the mayor’s secretary in St Céré from where the message went out and, overnight, the family made their plans. Thomas’s mother rehearsed her lines and, word perfect, impressed you with her piety. I’ve crossed the Tellancourts off my list. And dealt with Lenoir.’
‘And the Houdart family? Any connection with them? Any possibility that Madame Houdart showed gratitude for information rendered?’
‘Gracious! You don’t let anything by, do you?’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. I honestly don’t think so. The man was a family member simply marking the card of the Tellancourts. He says he didn’t (and I believe him) tell anyone else. But at least that reduces the claimants to a manageable two. Mademoiselle Desforges and Madame Houdart. Oh, and yes, Sandilands, you were quite right. Thibaud has neat ears but they are attached to his face at the side. Look, do you want me to convey all this to Bonnefoye?’
‘I’d be most grateful. I’m planning to call on him again when I can extricate myself from this scene and perhaps we can even come to a satisfactory conclusion. Thank you for all this, Varimont.’
‘Not at all, my man! Not at all. Give my best wishes to Mademoiselle Dorcas.’
‘I will, indeed. She’s right here.’
He put down the telephone with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Well, that’s it, Dorcas. The ears have it! Did you catch that? Thibaud’s are attached just as Aline said and the photographs show. Now – the question is: why didn’t Mireille think of mentioning that if her bloke were indeed Thibaud? She could talk about the chevrons on his sleeves till the cows come home – and you’d expect a seamstress to know all that – but she didn’t mention the oddity of the ears.’
‘Well, you don’t notice much!’ said Dorcas with deep scorn.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It didn’t occur to Mireille to declare it as an oddity for the good reason that for her it is not. Didn’t you see? Her own ears are attached! She’s one of the one in four people who have them, apparently. She was wearing the most lovely pair of silver earrings but I don’t suppose you noticed them either?’
Joe continued collecting together the contents of the notebook, unhappy with the ruminative silence that ground on.
‘Tell you what, Dorcas,’ he said cheerily to show he bore no grudge. ‘This lad, this Georges, is a very good sort. Don’t you think? If ever you decided the time was right to whisper in his ear, I’d give you my blessing.’
He was pleased with his comment. Unstuffy Marcus would have approved.
‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Joe,’ she said, stuffily.
On the point of clipping the notebook together he was struck by a thought. ‘Hang on a minute . . . there is something more we can do before we give this back. Sit down again, Dorcas. I’m going to read out names, pack drills and dates. Write them down, will you? Here’s a notebook.’ He produced a Scotland Yard issue pad and a pencil. ‘I’m going to work backwards from July ’17. Right? We’ll start with Edward the Partridge Slayer . . . surname Thorndon . . . and he’s listed here with a Captain John. They seem to occur as a pair,’ he said, looking back. ‘Same regiment – 10th battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. London men, most probably . . . This John is still alive since I see we have a birthday card sent for Georges’s sixteenth birthday and it was posted in India of all places.’
‘Is that John as a surname or John as a Christian name?’
‘Could be either. Just write it down. Then there’s a Raoul and an Yves and a Jean-Pierre, no surname given, 1 Corps of the Fifth Army – Lanrezac’s outfit. May 1917 . . . In April ’17 le Colonel Pontarlier and a contingent of cyclist infantry . . . Oh, I say! In February 1917 we’ve got a rather splendid English General! Staying at the same time as a rather splendid French General.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet it took all of Aline’s grace and charm to get those two to be polite to each other. And I wouldn’t have cared to arrange the seating at the dinner table. Now we’re back in 1916 . . . November, and here’s a contingent of recuperating wounded. Aftermath of the Somme, I expect. Not letting them get too far away from the amphitheatre – a quick recovery and back in the arena, I shouldn’t wonder. And we have Edward bobbing up again. Must have been a casualty . . . He stays for quite a time. Longer than a regular leave at any rate.’
A feverish quarter of an hour later and the list was drawn up. Dorcas presented it.
‘We’ve forgotten something,’ said Joe. ‘The most important incidence. Let’s just add to the list Clovis’s appearances, shall we? Mark them with a C alongside in the margin. That’ll do.’
‘Oh, Joe! Do you see what I see?’ she asked.
‘Certainly do! Stands out a mile! And perhaps we weren’t the first ones to see it? Look, Dorcas, I think I must make one more call.’
He asked the operator to connect him with a London number. Whitehall 1212. From there he was put through to Ralph Cottingham’s office. He had expected a duty sergeant to answer but was delighted to hear Inspector Cottingham himself.
‘Sandilands! Sir! How good to hear you! How are things in Champagne?’
‘Fizzing along nicely, thank you, Ralph,’ Joe gave the expected answer. ‘But listen – two things. I’ll make this quick. First: when you’ve performed in accordance with number two below, you are to go home. That’s not a suggestion – it’s an order. It’s Saturday here in France and I expect it’s much the same in London. Number two: I want you to call the War Office. I need urgently to contact a chap in their ex-servicemen’s records department. Quicker if you do this from your end. Bates is the name. Ask him to ring me on this number from his office – that’s important, I want him with his records to hand – as soon as he can.’ Joe read out the house telephone number. ‘Tell Bates he is to announce himself as “Scotland Yard” not the War Office, would you, and hold until I answer.’
‘Got that, sir. Will do. Right now.’
‘I can see where you’re going with this, I think,’ said Dorcas. ‘Raking up a witness to a murder? But Joe, before you go asking about, don’t you think you ought to know for certain whether there ever was a murder? It seems to me there’s a quick way to find out. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Can’t you just knock the wall down using all the clout of Interpol?’
‘I’d rather use all the clout of one of those trolleys they keep down there,’ said Joe. ‘Did you notice? Very substantial. Made of oak with iron-bound corners. Perfect for the job. Perhaps with a pickaxe in reserve? But I think I’ll wait until I’ve heard from Bates.’
‘Who on earth is Bates? It’s the weekend – you said it yourself, Joe. And it’s August. There’ll be nobody in the War Office. They’ll all be licking ice-cream cornets in Brighton or killing things on Exmoor.’
‘Ah! You don’t know Bates! Bachelor. Fanatic. He lives under his desk. But – fingers crossed! Ralph Cottingham will roust out someone who can help us. He’s well connected in the military world. And he’ll start at the top. Probably find we’re answering the telephone to a Field Marshal before the day’s out. Anyway, I think we should go back to being good guests now – as far as we can. Keep our heads down. Go to your room, finish your siesta and be discovered awaking refreshed in . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘In ten minutes. I’ll do the same. Off you go! And, Dorcas – thank you for your help. It’s as good as having Ralph by my side.’
Joe did not need to feign sleep half an hour later when Georges banged on his door and put his head round.
‘Awfully sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a call for you downstairs in the study. He was most insistent. I’m afraid it’s Scotland Yard.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Captain!’
Bates’s well-remembered voice rang out. He persisted in calling Joe by the rank he held when they’d first met on the Marne, disregarding his fast promotion. Joe accepted it as a mark of affection and a reminder of those desperate days when they’d struggled together, the only two men on their feet at times, to turn around an exhausted army. Water, food and a decent billet had been their priorities. Joe’s knowledge of the language with Bates’s phenomenal memory and organizing skills had been an effective combination. They had met several times over the years of peace in a professional capacity and Joe could picture the balding head and the sharp eyes as he appreciated the cynical cockney voice.
Each man was aware of a necessity to keep the pleasantries to a minimum.
‘Scotland Yard, ’ere!’ began Bates. ‘Shoot!’
‘Tracking two British servicemen. Any details welcome. Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier. Marne region 1915–17. Billeted here at . . .’ Joe gave the location of the château. ‘And a fellow officer known to be a captain in the same regiment, name of John. Surname? Christian name? I don’t know. Be grateful for anything you have.’
‘Easy-peasy Ten . . . twenty minutes to be on the safe side. Ring me back on this number, Captain.’
Joe wrote it down.
He was joined a few minutes into his vigil at the telephone by Dorcas, who waited with impatience for Joe to pick up the receiver.
Bates answered at once when he got through. ‘Got ’em, sir. Both of ’em. Thorndon, Edward Alexander. 1st City of London Regiment. Royal Fusiliers, as you say. Educ. Harrow and Cambridge. Entered the war early, rose to Major by 1917. I have a list of wounds and decorations but that’ll keep, I expect? Send a copy to your office, shall I? Right-oh. Disappeared at the time you mention, end July ’17. Posted “missing in action, presumed dead” on his way up to rejoin his regiment at Ypres. They were bivouacked in Vélu Wood if my memory serves me right. Overcrowded.’ Joe could imagine Bates’s mouth curling with disapproval. ‘Weather wet and cold for August. Not much comfort after his château accommodation!
‘I have a letter here – well, copy of – condolences to Thorndon’s parents (can let you have their details if you want them) written by his fellow officer, John. Then Major John, DSO. That’s Sebastian John. Now serving in India. Lieutenant Colonel John is up in Peshawar. Anyway – at the time, he was already stationed two miles north-northeast of Bapaume at Frémicourt. His pal never turned up for the party. With German Uhlans known to be patrolling the environs, he guessed he’d been shot, shelled or taken prisoner. All too likely. Several of our patrols went missing on the roads up there.’
‘Mists of war, Bates. Mists of war. Hang on a tick, would you?’
Dorcas was mouthing something at him. Catching it, he nodded and added, ‘You don’t happen to have a service identification photograph of Thorndon, do you?’
‘Hang on, there’s something in the correspondence. Stack of letters here from the parents. Enquiry after enquiry. Went to the very top. Looks like they refused to accept his death. The usual heartbreak. Yes, thought I’d spotted one. Here’s a photo. Not a military one. Civilian. Taken before the war I’d say. He looks young . . . middle twenties tops.’
‘Describe him, will you?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Very English-looking. Hair: light. Rather more than his fair share. I expect his mum took him to the barber’s before he marched off. Eyes: pale . . . grey? Blue? Moustache: neatly trimmed.’
‘Sort of man ladies might find attractive?’ Joe persisted. ‘Ronald Colman type perhaps?’
Bates gave this suggestion his serious consideration. ‘More in the way of Douglas Fairbanks, I’d have said. Cheeky expression. He’s grinning like he’s just cracked a joke. Smartened up and in uniform, he’d have been a sharp lad. “Follow me, chaps!” Up the rigging or over the top – they’d have followed him all right.’
‘One last thing, Bates. Look at his ears. Tell me about them.’
‘Eh? One on each side of his head. Usual thing.’
‘Look closely and see if the lobes are attached to the sides of his face.’
There was a clunking of the receiver and a rustling as Bates tweaked experimentally at his own lobes. ‘Not easy to say from this print. Reconnaissance rendered difficult, Captain, by presence in target area of thick ground cover. He’s got dundrearies.’
‘What was that, Bates?’
‘Sideburns. Down to an inch below the ears.’
‘Bates, thank you for this. A bit of a mixed bag there. But I’d say you’ve managed to shine a light on a murky little area down here. Sent up a Very light, you might say! We might not like what we see but at least we’ve got a look at it.’
They signed off with mutual expressions of regard and Joe filled in the details for Dorcas.
‘There’s only one thing we can do, Joe, isn’t there?’ said Dorcas. ‘You can’t go to Bonnefoye with this and you can’t tell Uncle Charles either. You said you wouldn’t. We’ve got to tell Georges. He ought to know about the scene the doctor witnessed at the hospital when Thibaud spoke in English and mimed killing someone. He ought to know about the identifying marks on his father. Someone ought to suggest to him that there is a possibility that the body – if there is a body – in the cellars may not be his father and his mother may not be a murderer. Nothing will ever be known for certain as long as the truth stays walled up. You’ve got to speak to him, Joe.’
‘Correction – we’ve got to speak to him.’
‘He said he’d be in the stables,’ she said, a little too readily perhaps.
They made their way unobserved over to the stables and slipped inside. Georges was busy polishing up an already gleaming black stallion and Joe wondered if the boy’s hands were ever still. Seeing them, Georges closed the stall and dismissed the groom he was talking to. They approached, remaining a respectful distance from the large black, Joe noting its wicked eye and waltzing hooves.
‘Ah! This’ll be the God of Thunder?’ he said admiringly. ‘Knew a fellow just like him in the war. Early days. Name of Gatecrasher, for obvious reasons. Crasher for short. Hell on the hunting field but he knew what to do, faced with a contingent of German cavalry.’
Georges smiled, stowed his brushes and beckoned them over to a pile of hay bales in the corner farthest from the doors. A bucket by the side of the bales contained a scattering of cigarette ends and, seeing Joe’s eyes on this, Georges remarked with an easy grin: ‘Dangerous habit, I know. But smoking, swearing and whistling are three vices you can only indulge in in front of the horses. Banned from the house.’
And, as they settled down one on either side of him, ‘You have news for me?’
‘We have, my friend, and it’s a bit mixed. Not quite sure what you’ll make of this,’ Joe began ponderously.
‘It concerns Edward,’ Dorcas said impatiently. ‘Edward Thorndon, the English officer who was billeted on you.’ She produced the notebook open at the page showing the frequency of his visits and the two heads bent over it. In a few short sentences Dorcas set out the extent of their discoveries and outlined their suspicions and speculations. ‘Do you see, Georges – they were never here at the same time. Not until that July in 1917 when they clashed. The day they both disappeared. Neither was seen again.’
Georges listened without interrupting, finally sighing. ‘I loved Edward,’ he said simply. ‘You’re right – he did come . . . not often . . . leave was scarce in the British Army as well, and whenever his company took leave they went to Paris, of course, but he always came here, sometimes with his friend Captain John. I think it must have reminded him of his home because he fitted in at once. He never asked what jobs
needed to be done, he rolled up his sleeves and just got on with it. I followed him about everywhere, copying what he did, correcting his French. It was good to have a young and vigorous man about the place. Even when he was wounded and couldn’t do much he still . . . would radiated confidence be too strong an expression?
‘The first time I met him . . . I was just returning from the fields . . . he was out in the yard. A squad of six or so had arrived an hour earlier. He was splitting logs for firewood. He looked up and said, “You must be Georges. Here, Georges, have an axe and let’s get this pile stacked before the stable bell rings five, shall we?” I’d never been allowed to use an axe before.’
‘Did you do it?’ Dorcas asked. Irrelevantly, Joe thought.
‘I’ll never forget putting the last log on the pile as the first note rang out,’ said Georges with quiet pride. ‘I think, looking back, it was a stage-managed moment but,’ he shrugged, ‘it was one of many lessons I learned from Edward.’
‘Did you ever think he might be . . . regard him as . . . your father?’ Dorcas asked bluntly.
‘No. I never confused them. And he never tried to be a father to me. More like an older brother. My mother liked him too. She was always cheerful when he was in the house. I remember she was delighted when he came to us wounded with permission to recuperate. She was a nurse, you know, and she gave him the very best attention.’
He went silent and stared at his boots for a very long time. Then he looked up at them angrily under his brows. He swallowed and said stiffly, ‘Well, you must think me the most awful fool – not realizing what was going on all those years until two foreigners arrive and spell it out for me. I am supposing – nine years too late – that something was going on. You must think me incredibly naïf!’
Tug of War Page 19
