Tug of War

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘No, we don’t!’ said Dorcas. ‘Young, trusting and betrayed by the adults around him.’

  ‘Papa, Edward and Maman,’ he said. ‘If something frightful happened that night in 1917, how could I ever assign blame? I loved them all.’

  ‘Georges, we don’t at present know what, if any, blame there is to be assigned,’ said Joe. ‘The answers are blocked up in the cellars under the auspices of St Martin. I think you know what we have to do. A little dégorgement has to take place, wouldn’t you say, so that whatever poison is gathering behind there is released, identified and dealt with. The pressure’s building, the bottle’s at the right angle . . . and the thumb on the cork is yours, old son.’

  Georges’s head went up. He attempted a smile and even acknowledged Joe’s extravagant metaphor. ‘Nine years in the bottle – that’s too long. And I’m sure you’re thinking I have my own internal dead yeast to get rid of?’

  ‘You said it yourself, don’t forget,’ said Joe softly, ‘– it’s nasty stuff but it plays a necessary part in producing the final aroma and flavour. Release it and the ’26 vintage could well turn out to be the best Houdart for decades.’

  Georges had come to a decision. It was a difficult one to deliver but he had no hesitation and, Joe knew, would never go back on it.

  ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘First: my uncle Charles must be made aware of all this. I rather trust you can find the words to tell him, sir? May we leave that to you? Second: we cannot do this in the presence of my mother. That I cannot allow. Tomorrow is Sunday and she goes to morning mass in the village. She will be gone for about two hours. Time enough, I think, for us to perform our investigations. So – will you parade at eight hundred hours? At the rond point St Martin? Dorcas, you may be excused . . . No, I thought as much.’

  ‘And if we find nothing, she’ll never be aware of the suspicions raised by two interfering English,’ said Dorcas.

  ‘Exactly.’

  The understanding between these two was instant, Joe recognized, with a twinge of concern. It had taken only one day for them to be confident of reading each other’s thoughts.

  ‘The difficulty will be in acting as normally as possible for the rest of the day.’ Joe thought he ought to raise this problem.

  ‘I find if you want to deceive, the best way to go about it is to have lots to prattle on about,’ said Dorcas in a practical way. ‘If you’re boring someone they’re not paying much attention to what you’re saying. Have you ever ridden bareback, Georges? Then we’ll start now. I’ll show you how. We’ll take two of the more docile horses and make for that wood beyond the vineyard. And we’ll have thrills and spills enough, I dare say, to chatter about over dinner. If there’s time we could ride over and talk to the gypsies. I know a few words of Romany . . . We could return bubbling with stories. I say – do you mind, Joe, if we just disappear?’

  Joe was irritated enough to say, ‘Not at all! Run along and play!’

  Joe found Charles-Auguste, although it could well have been the Frenchman who did the finding, on his way back to the main house. On hearing the seriousness of Joe’s tone when he asked for an interview, he steered him along to the study, leaving instructions with the footman that they were not to be disturbed.

  Joe set out his story succinctly and without emotion, managing, he thought, to get his facts in the right order from the scene of nightmare witnessed by Dr Varimont in Reims to Georges’s account of his own nightmare in the cellars, on the evening his father disappeared. He mentioned the presence in the château of the billeted Englishmen and talked of Edward Thorndon who vanished from Georges’s life and from the records of the British Army at the same time. He spoke of Georges’s undisclosed horror at the sight of his mother with the body, the bloodstains on the child’s shirt and the covering over of a burial place.

  All of Charles-Auguste’s concerns were for his nephew. ‘How can any child have hugged this appalling vision to himself all these years? My poor Georges! Why did he never confide . . .? Well, of course, I can imagine why he did not . . . It’s a child’s device – pretend something’s not really there and it will disappear. But this never did. I wondered, not very energetically, you see, about the flowers and St Martin. So many shrines down there, I just took it for one of a series, one personal to Georges. But I can’t believe Aline would be mixed up in anything of a homicidal nature. She’s a bit mad – I’ve said so – and rather wish I’d kept my mouth shut now! But she’s not violent. Oh, no! Nurse, you know, and a damn good one by all accounts. In the business of preserving life not taking it. None of this makes sense, Sandilands.’

  ‘And won’t begin to until we’ve taken a look at whatever rests behind that partition,’ said Joe.

  He outlined Georges’s suggestion for an inspection on Sunday morning.

  ‘I have to say that’s a sensible idea, if very distasteful,’ said Charles. ‘And it does amount to out and out deceit of Aline.’ He shuddered. ‘If she were ever to find out . . . Still, I agree – if we make the most colossal fools of ourselves, we can just put the cover back over things with little harm done. And the cellar men will have a laugh at least . . . “You got it wrong, Monsieur Charles!” they can turn on me and say. “Whatever made you think there were vintage bottles hidden away behind that wall?” Very well. Eight o’clock? I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Four silent figures gathered in front of the icon of St Martin, looking shifty rather than respectful, Joe thought.

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ said Charles-Auguste. ‘I think we can count on two hours, judging by previous form, what do you say, Georges?’

  Georges nodded miserably.

  ‘I didn’t ask any of the men to attend these proceedings,’ said Charles. ‘Thought we could probably manage the work by ourselves. Three strapping fellows. Ought to be enough. But I say, Sandilands, er – Miss Dorcas? Not perhaps a suitable thing for her to witness?’

  ‘You can try sending her away if you’re feeling reckless,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve tried. On her own head be it.’

  ‘Very well, then. Let’s have at it. Picks, Georges? Two. Shovel? Bring that trolley over, will you? That will smash down the partition once we’ve made a hole in it. What do you say it’s made of . . .? One thickness of brick? And a skimming of plaster over. Shouldn’t take long then. Well, stand back there, I’ll take the first swing.’

  He made the sign of the cross, signalled to Georges to remove the picture of the saint, raised one of the pickaxes and attacked the wall. Joe took the other pick and, working together, they had soon opened up a gaping hole. No waft of fetid air emerged, as Joe was half expecting, no cold draught, and he remembered that Georges had said this was no more than an alcove behind the partition and not a further corridor hacked out of the chalk.

  Georges held up a torch as the hole enlarged. They could dimly see behind the wall wooden racks, leather straps, a row of jugs still graded by size standing on a shelf. All the paraphernalia of a wine cellar. As the lower bricks crashed to the ground around their feet, a table became visible. Ladles were lined up on it, undisturbed, ready for use.

  Joe looked at Charles-Auguste and the same thought flashed between them: ‘This is all a nonsense. When we’ve finished here, we’ll sheepishly go back up to reality again and crack open a bottle of the best to celebrate having got this spectacularly wrong.’

  Joe took the next swing, a mighty clout that signalled his impatience to get it over and done with. He held up a hand to Charles-Auguste and peered into the hole. ‘Dorcas,’ he said in a voice suddenly tense, ‘if you’ve changed your mind, this would be a good moment to leave us.’

  She shook her head and, clutching Georges’s hand, came nearer.

  Silently Charles grabbed the shovel and cleared piles of bricks and plaster dust into one of the trolleys. Joe chipped away at the bottom row and Charles cleared some more. They pressed round staring, trying to make sense of what they were seeing, and then Charles-Auguste made the sign of the
cross again. Automatically, Joe made the same gesture.

  A huddled shape lay underneath the table, wrapped in the remains of a carpet or rug.

  ‘That rug – it’s the one Felix used to stand on when he was working the bottling machine,’ said Georges. ‘He suffered from rheumatism. Maman had it brought down from the house for him to stand on, to insulate his feet from the cold ground.’

  Joe took one end of the bundle and Charles the other and together they slid it out from under the table and into the light.

  Reverently, Joe pulled back the end of the rug where he judged the head to lie. He went on tugging, and revealed, inch by inch, to a subdued moan from Dorcas, a pitiful, shrunken corpse. Almost mummified, by some trick of the ambient conditions in the dry, cold cellar, it lay, stiff and brown as any ancient Egyptian taken from the sands after thousands of years. But this body was not bound in linen wrappings: the rags clinging to the emaciated shape were rags which had once been army-issue white cotton underwear. Spreading outwards over the vest with its centre at the heart, a brown stain of blood, much blood, trailed down towards the ground and lost itself in the swirling pattern of the Indian rug. His feet were bare. His head, which Joe could scarcely bring himself to look at, bared improbably white teeth at them from shrunken brown lips. It was crowned by a shock of still bright fair hair.

  ‘Sir,’ whispered Georges. ‘Tell us! Who do you think this is?’

  ‘Well, it’s perfectly obvious who this is! Silly boy!’

  Aline’s voice rang out, shocking in its sharpness and lack of emotion. They whirled around to see her, standing watching them from the corner, silhouetted in black dress and black veiled hat against the chalk walls. She still clutched her service book in black-gloved hands. Joe could not begin to guess how long she had been standing there observing them, a silent, malignant presence.

  She came on, moving slowly towards them, with never a glance at the body.

  ‘A deserter, of course. Probably French or German – they usually were. The English made for the coast, I think. How clever of you to find him! Poor Georges discovered a couple in . . . 1918, was it, Georges?’ Her voice was controlled. An interested adult was joining a group of children up to something slightly reprehensible. ‘And now another one. Felix must have failed to notice him huddled up in the alcove. The lighting was particularly erratic in those years and Felix didn’t have the keenest sight by then. Poor chap! I expect the curé will give permission to have him interred in the local cemetery. He’s very accommodating about these things. Better have him checked for identification, of course. Charles, arrange for the men to take over, will you? I really don’t think this is a proper use of your time on a Sunday morning. And what on earth you think you’re doing letting little Dorcas witness such a scene, Commander, I have no idea. Shame on you!

  ‘Now,’ she finished, ticking-off over apparently, ‘why don’t we all withdraw to the house and open a bottle of the . . . ’13 vintage, Charles? And drink a farewell toast to an unknown warrior?’

  In a few short sentences, Aline had offered a solution to the case, rapped a few knuckles and shown them the acceptable way out. Georges and Charles were looking shocked and sheepish, Dorcas had unconsciously crept over to stand behind Joe.

  Recovering from the shock of finding her amongst them, Joe rallied. She had gone too far in questioning his judgement. Spurred by a jab of icy anger, he decided to break through her thin crust of pretence. He had noticed that she still had cast not one curious glance at the corpse. Well, he would make her confront the victim.

  ‘Identification,’ he repeated, nodding acknowledgement of her suggestion. ‘Yes, it all comes down to that, doesn’t it? I wonder if this poor fellow has a name tag around his neck?’ He bent over the corpse, careful to avoid contact with any part of it. ‘Ah, sadly – no. But then, some soldiers, particularly the French, were known to carry theirs wrapped around their wrists. No again, I’m afraid.’ He straightened and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Here was a gentleman who did not wish to be known to posterity, apparently. Oh . . . hang on a tick . . . what’s that?’ He leaned closer, every inch of him on the alert. ‘Ah! Do you see that, Charles? Over the other side . . . There, gleaming in his left hand . . . there’s something, I’d swear!’

  All eyes were drawn to him, even Aline’s, wide and staring under her veil.

  ‘Do you want to do the honours, Charles? No? Very well, I’ll retrieve it. Your light over here, please, Georges!’

  With some distaste, he bent across the corpse and detached something small which glowed golden in the wavering torchlight.

  Joe gave a low whistle of astonishment. ‘Well, well! The very last thing I’d have expected to find clutched in the hand of a dead man in a champagne cellar!’ he said. ‘Just look at this! I think this speaks volumes, don’t you, Aline? You may even wish to remove your veil to take a close look at it?’

  He held up in front of her face between finger and thumb a small gilt object, no more than two inches high. Tormentingly, he moved it from side to side with the air of a satisfied conjuror.

  Ashen-faced, Aline stared, her head moving as though hypnotized by the object in Joe’s hand. Too shocked to respond, she opened her lips but made no sound. And still she would not crack. Joe decided to play his last card.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘It’s a cap badge,’ he announced, showing it to the company. ‘The flare at the top identifies it, do you see? It’s an exploding grenade. The cap badge of the Royal Fusiliers, I believe. London regiment. Damn good soldiers. Could fire fifteen rounds a minute! Poor bloke. But now at least we can identify him. Shouldn’t be too difficult to come by the names of any Fusiliers who went missing on the Marne in – when did you say this alcove was blocked up? In 1917? Summer? I’ll get on to it.’

  With a scream of fury mixed with despair, Aline turned and fled away down the gallery.

  Georges turned on Joe. ‘Did you have to be such a swine?’ he shouted. He hurled his torch down at Joe’s feet and ran after his mother.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Charles. ‘What a mess! What the hell was she doing here? How did she know? Look, don’t be upset, Sandilands. The boy was bound to react like that – I’d think the less of him if he didn’t. You did what you had to do. We did what we had to do.’ He patted Joe on the shoulder and his back stiffened in resolve. ‘And we haven’t finished by a long chalk. Leave Aline for later. She’s not going to run away. We’re going to have to clear this lot up. I suppose there’s a good deal here,’ he indicated the body, ‘a policeman will need to check over. Stroke of luck him dying clasping his cap badge though, wasn’t it? Could save us hours of research, I’m thinking.’

  Was there a slight question in his voice?

  There was more than a question in Dorcas’s voice when she spoke. It was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Joe doesn’t trust to luck just happening like that. Sometimes he engineers it. Like that little scene of discovery just now. I bet if I were to count out Georges’s collection of badges there’d be one missing and it would be an exploding grenade!’

  ‘Dorcas! How can you be such a cynic? Georges’s collection is complete. I didn’t make off with one.’

  ‘But then . . . what . . .?’

  He held up the badge again. ‘Sleight of hand, misdirection . . . Aline knows who this man is and she saw what she expected to see: a Royal Fusilier’s badge. But it isn’t! This one belongs to me – it’s the emblem of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. Very similar, to a civilian’s eyes. A grenade going off with flames curling out of the top – but mine has the lion and the unicorn on the base not the white rose, you see. And mine is gilt not bronze.’

  Dorcas peered at the badge and nodded. ‘Do you always walk about with your old cap badge in your pocket?’ she asked, her voice slow with suspicion.

  ‘In my pocket? Well, of course not! You were so interested in Georges’s collection, I dug mine out of my kit and brought it down to give to you. I thought you might like to start your own collectio
n – have it made into a sweetheart pin if you like – many girls do! I’ve given away dozens of these in my time. You find them all over London. But give it to Georges if you don’t want it. And if you’re going to be so sniffy. . . .’

  ‘Children! Children!’ said Charles with weary good humour. ‘Pressure’s mounting, I know, but do you think we could get on with the job in hand?’

  Contrite, Joe was instantly on his knees, going carefully and impressively through his post-mortem routine. With no possibility of taking notes on the spot, no photographer or fingerprinting facility available to him, let alone the supportive presence of a Scotland Yard-appointed pathologist, he did what he could.

  He gave a running commentary on his findings for his own benefit as well as to allay the curiosity of Charles and Dorcas: ‘I am assuming from an inferred identification on the part of a witness that this is the body of Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier, record of disappearance available from the War Office in London. Physical details of corpse concur with known characteristics of said Thorndon. Dental records, if such exist, and fingerprints ditto will doubtless give further information, probably confirmation. In the absence of any medical assistance I will carry out a preliminary and non-invasive examination of the fatal wound on the spot.’

  ‘I say, should we look the other way?’ said Charles, moving to shield Dorcas from the sight.

  ‘I’m not digging very deep,’ said Joe. ‘Haven’t got the equipment. And you’re a valued witness.’

  He took a penknife from his pocket and carefully cut a cross in the fabric over the centre of the bloodstain. With delicate movements of the blade, he peeled back the four corners from the wound. Murmuring, he lengthened his cuts and revealed a larger extent of the chest. ‘Wounds!’ he said. ‘Plural. There’s enough of the skin and flesh preserved to allow me to make out five at least. They appear to be one and a half inches in width, consistent with a cut from a sabre blade. Not a slash – a plunging cut. A great deal of blood was spilled and . . .’ Joe shuffled on his knees all around the corpse, observing closely, ‘and, oddly, the victim would appear – from the path of the blood flow – to have been recumbent at the time the blows were delivered. Do you see? If I’d stuck a blade in you, standing face to face . . .’ He got to his feet and offered up his penknife blade to Charles’s chest. ‘The initial outflow of blood would cascade down your front, staining your breeches and your feet. Here we’ve got a ponding of blood around the wound and a general overflow around what I think must have been a supine form. No stains, you see, on his lower limbs. But why would a chap be lying on his back in a cellar waiting for someone to come along and stab him? He clearly didn’t wander in here to die after a wounding that occurred somewhere else. You wouldn’t survive an attack like this for longer than a few seconds. Death must have been just about instantaneous.’