Tug of War

by Barbara Cleverly

  He was pleased to see Joe’s raised eyebrows. ‘We’ve been busy, Sandilands, while you’ve been off sampling la vie de château. I despatched two sergeants in opposite directions to the country. Smart lads! One extracted a confession from the Tellancourts and they have grudgingly retracted their claim. Though the old girl stuck to her story throughout. With those ingenuous saucer-like blue eyes of hers and her mourning clothes and lace-edged hankies, she very nearly put one over on my chap. She only caved in when he called her bluff and threatened to take a second look at the evidence buried in the churchyard. My other bloke, following instructions, grilled the grocer’s wife, Langlois, closely followed by the local schoolmaster, Barbier. My instincts proved sound,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Some naughtiness of that kind. Coercion perhaps? Madame Langlois has the goods – would you say? – on the schoolmaster. A nasty snakes’ nest of low-level corruption came hissing into the daylight. And yes, I will be following it up. The man Barbier has been betraying his pedagogical trust for years. His time is up. And, Madame Langlois decided that her time had come to put certain information that she had to use: “Support me in my claim or I’ll tell the school authorities the stories the children have been circulating for decades.”’

  Could it be so simple, in the end, Joe wondered? Did Thibaud’s pipe and slippers beckon? Dorcas, at least, would be pleased. To say nothing of Mireille, so longing for her Dominique to come home from his last campaign. No, of course it could not be so simple. Joe cleared his throat.

  ‘Sorry, Bonnefoye, but we’re not quite done yet. I’m about to throw another spanner into the works. I want you to take a look at these photographs we brought away from Septfontaines. In particular, I want you to study the man who’s sitting on Clovis’s right.’

  He waited while Bonnefoye turned the photograph this way and that, around and about, hissing with disbelief. ‘This is crazy!’ he said eventually. ‘But – “Self” it says here on the back. This is surely Clovis Houdart? Attached ears and all. And he’s the man Dr Varimont is holding at the sanatorium. Are we agreed on this much? Yes? But the man Mireille Desforges has identified as her lover, one Dominique de Villancourt, is actually sitting here in the photograph, next to Clovis – entwined with Clovis you might say – and, Sandilands, he’s dark-haired and at this moment, very dead. Quite clearly he is not our mental patient.’

  ‘Yes. There are three of them, you see, three friends. The closest of friends. My niece jokingly called them the Musketeers.’

  ‘I see where you’re going, Sandilands. “One for all and all for one”, are you thinking? I am.’ He pursed his lips and looked tenderly at the photograph. ‘Didn’t we all read Dumas at an impressionable age? So young! So gallant! Tell me, Sandilands, you were a soldier and must have been young once – would you have allowed your closest friend to make use of your identity to conceal his own in an affair of the heart? An affair played out rather too close to home for comfort?’

  Joe smiled. ‘Oh, certainly. The least one could do for a friend. These men would have cheerfully given their lives for each other. Some probably did, I’d guess. What’s the loan of a name in comparison?’

  ‘And may I remind you of the motto of the cavalry – was it the dragoons or the cuirassiers? Je secours mes chefs et mes frères d’armes.’

  ‘I come to the aid of my commanders and my brothers-in-arms. Hmm . . .’

  ‘You remember I told you of an officer who survived a German cavalry ambush and spent the rest of the war in prison? The one who reported the dying actions of Dominique de Villancourt?’ He tapped at a face on the photograph. ‘Here he is. This chap here. I remember his name. We have his address. I can contact him and ask for information on his other friend Clovis.’

  Joe sighed wearily. ‘Well, yes, you could. But it might be more informative if you were to contact someone quite else. I don’t know about you, Bonnefoye, but I can tell you – I’m getting a bit fed up stirring around in all this sticky speculation, personal opinion, bad memory, good memory, downright lies. It’s like snatching at moonbeams. You think you’ve got it and then the light shifts and your hand’s empty. Let’s get some verifiable, recorded-in-black-and-white, factual information, shall we? The fingerprints were a start. Now I think I see how to conclude this.’

  ‘Who’ve you got in mind?’

  ‘Someone rather prosaic – Houdart’s bank manager. In Paris. Any favours you can call in to wring a little information out of him?’

  After a sweaty half-hour on the telephone, threading his way through departments, alternately charming and threatening, Bonnefoye finally hung up the receiver with a smile of mild triumph. ‘He’s agreed to give us what we want! He’ll ring back in an hour. Sending someone up to the attic probably to dust off a file. At least he still does have the file. Had Houdart banked in Reims, it would have been destroyed. Now, we can’t sit here waiting – let’s nip out and have that well-earned breakfast, shall we?’

  They got to their feet, grinned at each other and both began to speak at the same time: ‘Bonnefoye, had you thought . . .’

  ‘Sandilands, shall I say it, or will you?’

  ‘I have an old aunt who has a very annoying saying: “There’s an elephant in this room, is there not?” We’re skirting around, pretending to ignore the huge truth that’s staring us in the face.’

  Bonnefoye took his kepi from a stand, put it on and adjusted it to his favoured rakish angle. ‘I think I saw the elephant first,’ he said confidently. ‘But have you realized how very much worse this makes everything? What we’ve got on our hands is a genuine tug of war, a life-or-death tug of war. And we have to decide which end of the rope we are heaving on, Sandilands.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They ordered breakfast sitting on a café terrace in the sunshine while it was still cool enough to be comfortable. Crunching his way through his first croissant from the pile of still-warm rolls served in a napkin inside a silver basket, Bonnefoye stopped chewing, wiped his mouth and spoke to Joe in a low voice.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve noticed . . . will be surprised to hear . . . that your niece is also taking breakfast at the Café de la Paix? And she’s not alone. She is accompanied by a gentleman. Odd choice of escort, I’d have said. They’re sitting four tables away, north-north-west.’

  Joe was alarmed and puzzled. He’d slipped a note under Dorcas’s door which clearly said he’d left instructions for breakfast to be brought up to her in her room and she was to stay there until he returned. He risked a quick look over his shoulder in the direction indicated. Dorcas caught his eye and waved to him. He identified her escort at once and turned back to Bonnefoye with a relaxed smile.

  ‘All’s well. I know the gentleman. Nice chap. He’s staying at our hotel. He’s a mayor from a small town in the Ardennes, I think he said. Poor fellow – I’d say he’s on his last legs. He had a heart attack or something very like it just after dinner the other day. I suspect there’s not much one can do for him. Don’t worry, he’s quite safe with Dorcas. The child has had a rather sparse and unsatisfactory family for the early years of her life and it’s my theory that she goes about collecting relations. She picked up an older brother in Georges Houdart and now she’s acquiring a grandfather figure, I’d say. They were both alone in the hotel – much better to have someone congenial to chat to over the café au lait in the sunshine. All the same, I don’t think we’ll ask them to join us.’

  ‘A mayor? What did you say his name was?’ said Bonnefoye.

  ‘I didn’t. But he’s called Didier Marmont and he’s an old soldier.’

  The telephone call came, as promised, exactly an hour later and Joe was able to infer from Bonnefoye’s responses that there had been results and the results were confirming their suspicions. After effusive thanks, Bonnefoye put down the receiver.

  ‘There we have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘A large amount of money was withdrawn from the account of Clovis Houdart in late Augus
t 1914. It was in the form of a cheque made out to one Dominique de Villancourt. Now we can’t get at his banking details but what’s the betting that this same sum of money made its way through agents and lawyers carrying the signature of de Villancourt and ended up paying for the purchase of a flat overlooking the Bois de Boulogne – it’s about the right price for such a property in 1914. The legal papers which, er -’ Bonnefoye flashed a disarming smile – ‘you may possibly not be aware that I had seen . . .’

  ‘Mademoiselle Desforges, at least, would appear to be the epitome of honesty and forthrightness,’ said Joe. ‘She told me you had them.’

  ‘Indeed. These papers, as she avowed, bear his signature and this I have been able to authenticate. The same signature also appears on the subsequent transfer of the deeds to the grateful lady. A good friend! A man happy to lend his name to a bosom pal anxious to hide his amatory activities from family and acquaintances – activities carried on within a few miles of the home he was determined to protect? Time to say hello to your elephant?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Joe. ‘Our Thibaud was a busy boy. Leading a life of danger on the battlefield and off it . . . But I’m thinking, Bonnefoye, that from what I’ve perceived of the French way of going on over the years – and I know you’ll shoot me down if I’m wrong – keeping a mistress, in whatever state of luxury, is not held to be a cardinal sin or even anything out of the ordinary Not a reason for all these expensive manoeuvrings, surely? And he had, from the start of the affair, told Mireille that he was a married man.’

  Bonnefoye nodded his agreement and waited to hear more.

  ‘So why the rather desperate attempts at concealment? I think we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. I don’t think Clovis was hiding his wife from his mistress. I think it was the other way around. Don’t you think that perhaps Clovis was all too aware of the strength of his wife’s emotional surges – her unpredictability? And was at pains to shield his lover from her,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Having seen the lady at close quarters, I must say, I’d rather face a charge of Uhlans than an Aline Houdart who’d just discovered that her husband was madly in love with another woman, intending to leave her for a nobody – a little seamstress from Reims. Or even worse – intending to send her back to her parents in Paris and retain his son and his life at Septfontaines. I’m just surprised that he managed to get away with his throat uncut. On that occasion.’

  ‘But you tell me that Aline was herself conducting an affair . . .’

  ‘The fact that she was betraying him would not weigh heavily with Aline. Charles-Auguste said it – “What Aline believes to be the truth becomes the truth.” He thinks his cousin may be a little . . . there may be a slight cerebral . . . not sure what the correct medical term would be . . .’ Joe finished delicately.

  ‘Crazy?’ said Bonnefoye. ‘I had wondered! And if you were married to her wouldn’t you want a Mireille in your life? I’ve got to know Mademoiselle Desforges slightly in the course of this case and I have to say, Sandilands, that were she not so earthy, so worldly, so full of life and mischief we’d have to say she was an angel.’

  He sighed a very Gallic sigh.

  ‘But she’s about to be a disappointed angel, I’m afraid,’ said Joe. ‘Clovis and Dominique are one and the same and there’s no separating them. I suppose we could take a leaf out of King Solomon’s book in the matter of assigning possession but I’ve always thought that a very chancy procedure. In law the man must be returned to his rightful home and the bosom of his family. You’re going to have to make the decision, Bonnefoye. Sign the forms. Yours is the finger on the pen.’

  ‘Correction,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We’ll have to make the decision. I’m not bearing the weight of this alone. We will summon the good doctor to a conference and he as the medical authority in the case, you representing Interpol and I as the case officer, will come to a unanimous decision. This afternoon. This has gone on for quite long enough. We’ll do this at the hospital. Can you attend, let’s say after lunch at two o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Joe nodded. ‘So – we have an identity. The unknown soldier is unknown no longer. I wonder if the general public will remain enthralled by the story?’

  ‘Perhaps – if we were to tell them the whole tale. But I shall give out a severely edited version. I don’t know about you, Sandilands, but I got quite fond of the old bugger – Clovis, I suppose we should get used to saying. I’d like the rest of his semi-life to be as uncomplicated as possible. And I’ll deliver a strongly worded warning about patient-care to la Houdart before she takes delivery, don’t worry!’

  ‘Poor old Thibaud,’ said Joe sadly. ‘I shall always think of him as Thibaud, I’m afraid.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘I have the strongest misgivings about this. You may only come if you swear to stay in the background and not protest about the decisions taken. You know what you’re like. This is official business. A man’s life and future are at stake, to say nothing of three men’s reputations – I won’t have you sticking your oar in.’ He flicked open his napkin in a decisive manner.

  ‘Very well, Joe. Of course, Joe. If you’re going to be such a fusspot, I’d really rather not go at all. I’ll stay behind and do a little souvenir shopping. And your appointment’s for two o’clock?’ Dorcas looked at her watch and frowned. ‘If we have a quick lunch we’ll have time to pack up the car and get straight off afterwards and then we could be in Lyon by this evening.’

  He was pleased to be distracted by a practical arrangement.

  ‘Never sure you’re to be trusted. Going off on your own like that this morning! Marcus warned me to treat you like Carver Doone . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His pet ferret. Rabbiter. Half trained he was. Never lived to be fully trained. Nine times out of ten he’d do what was expected of him but on the tenth, he’d run away and go wherever the fancy took him. Gone for hours. One day, poor old Marcus was discovered shouting vainly down various rabbit holes one after another, ordering the villain to come out at once or else. Suddenly, there was the most awful scream and Marcus raised his head from the hole with Carver Doone attached by his fearsome little teeth to his nose. It led to a painful separation. Now, something light, I think you suggested . . . And while we’re choosing, why don’t you tell me what you were talking about so earnestly with old Didier?’

  ‘He’s a wonderful man. A soldier. Something of a Bolshevik, I’d have guessed. He was telling me about his daughter Paulette and her American husband. He’s devoted to his family. He’s got a baby grandson called John. Only six months old. He knows he’s dying, Joe, and can talk about it as though he’s just going on holiday. So matter of fact. I expect it was the truly awful time he had fighting on the Chemin des Dames that ruined his health.’ She thought for a moment and then went on: ‘Have you noticed, Joe, that throughout this case that name has kept coming up like a chorus in a song? Everywhere we turn it seems someone’s whispering about . . . what would you say in English? The Road? Path? Of the Ladies? Which ladies? And which road?’

  ‘The Ladies’ Way, ’ said Joe. ‘A pretty name for a blood-soaked piece of country. North-west of Reims. The ladies were the two aunts of Louis XVI – the one who was guillotined after the Revolution – and the way was their favourite coach-ride along a high bluff overlooking low-lying plains to north and south. A fearsome strategical position since the Stone Age. Any army wanting to defend Paris has to hold that height.

  ‘And – chorus, you say!’ Joe shivered. ‘Have you ever heard it, Dorcas, the song that came out of that battle? The song of Craonne? The song of the mutineers? It has the most haunting of choruses.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’ She looked around her. ‘We’re out of earshot and we’re English eccentrics anyway – why don’t you sing it? You can always stop if the waiter comes.’

  ‘I warn you – I rarely manage to get to the end of it, it’s so sad,’ he said and, self-consciously, but confident of his ba
ritone voice, Joe leaned over the table and began to sing.

  Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,

  Adieu toutes les femmes,

  C’est Men fini, c’est pour toujours,

  De cette guerre infâme.

  C’est à Craonne, sur le plateau,

  Qu’on doit laisser sa peau.

  Car nous sommes tous condamnés,

  Nous sommes les sacrifiés.

  Unusually, Joe managed to get through the lilting song dry-eyed but hurriedly passed his handkerchief to Dorcas.

  ‘Sing it again slowly and I’ll translate as you go, if I can keep up.

  ‘“Goodbye to life, goodbye to love and goodbye to all women . . . It’s all over – for ever, this terrible war . . . It’s up there in Craonne, on the plateau, where we must all leave our skins? . . . Die, does it mean? . . . For we are all condemned. We’re all to be sacrificed.” They don’t sound like – what did you say? – mutineers, Joe. They’re saying goodbye, they know they’re going to lose their lives. It’s far too sad, too hopeless to be a song of revolt.’

  ‘It was a very strange revolt. And yet the army authorities were so afraid of the power of the song to move a whole army, a whole people perhaps, that they banned it and offered a huge reward to whichever soldier would turn in the man responsible for writing it. And, do you know, Dorcas, the money went unclaimed. No one betrayed the song-writer. And they all went on singing it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of this. But then I don’t know much about the war.’

  ‘No one knows very much about this part of it. Even the English army fighting on the flank were not aware that the French had downed tools and declared they’d soldier no more. And yet that’s not exactly right – they never surrendered. They were not traitors. They held the line but declared that they would not advance another inch until peace had been declared. They were holding out for a settlement.’