Tug of War djs-6 Read online

  Was all this nonsense true? He had no idea. Ought he to have been annoyed by her sharp tone, lacking the deference due from one of her age to a well-meaning adult and amounting, in fact, to a set-down? Joe smiled. Probably. But pulling rank and demanding respect were not his style. There were other ways.

  ‘I see. But I still can’t imagine the circumstances,’ he said innocently, ‘that would precipitate the use of complex tenses in a stable. I find horses respond best to a simple imperative.’

  Dorcas smiled slightly. ‘“In a year’s time you will have forgotten me.”’ She sighed a lingering sigh, remembering.

  ‘Talking horses? Whatever next!’

  After a startled moment she burst out laughing and he felt it wise to change the subject. ‘Tell me, child — whatever prompted you to treat our friend Thibaud in the way you did?’

  ‘He reminded me of a boy in our village who’s blind. I know the doctor said all his senses are unimpaired but there was something about his unseeing expression. . I did what I normally do when I greet Robin.’

  ‘And do you take Robin biscuits?’

  ‘When I have them to offer, yes. I take them from Granny’s Chinese jar. Reid always tells me when he’s just refilled it. I was thinking that if this man is really from this area he might respond to a prompting from one of his other senses. Worth a try. A smell associated with his childhood might awaken some memories and, I’d guess, every child born in Champagne was familiar with those pink biscuits. It seemed to work.’

  ‘It certainly did. I think you achieved more in two minutes than the medical profession in as many years.’

  ‘I was longing to ask, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise — do you know if they’ve tried hypnotism?’

  ‘What do you know about hypnotism, Dorcas?’

  ‘There’s a chapter in my book. .’ She held it towards him and a swift glance revealed it to be The Wounded Mind by Lt. Col. M.W. Easterby MD. ‘Aunt Lydia whipped it from a shelf just before we left. She’s done a lot of voluntary work on the wards at St Martin’s, did you know that? She thought it might help you out. It’s only just been published. The most intriguing thing — I’ve marked the page for you — is the story of a shell-shocked soldier who had lost the power of speech. He began eventually to speak again and he talked in the London accent of the nurses and orderlies who tended him, but under hypnosis he suddenly astonished everyone by reliving his wartime experiences in a northern accent. Another patient recognized it as Wearside — you know, from around the River Wear. They tracked him down. He was a Northumberland Fusilier who’d gone missing on the Aisne. But the minute he came out of hypnosis he lost his Geordie accent and became a Londoner again. I wonder why the doctor’s not hypnotized Thibaud?’

  ‘It’s not a popular technique in France, I believe. But it’s a suggestion worth putting if we see him again.’

  ‘Were you able to form an impression of Thibaud’s nationality? Is he English, do you think?’

  ‘Not proven, I’d say.’

  ‘But he spoke in English. We’ve seen the doctor’s record.’

  ‘Yes. But I haven’t heard him speak myself. I don’t know the doctor. I liked him and I think I’d grow to admire him as I got to know him but I take no stranger’s evidence without checking, especially witnesses who are closely involved and may be pursuing an agenda of which I’m unaware. I’ve decided, if you don’t mind, Dorcas, to take this problem further. A day more of research in Reims, perhaps two, before we go off to the château.’

  ‘Are you always as pernickety as this, Joe?’

  ‘Yes. It drives the men mad. I check and recheck and I make them do the same thing.’

  Dorcas pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I thought I was coming on holiday with Mr Holmes — all flash and flare, inspiration and dramatic deduction — and what I find I’ve got is Inspector Lestrade.’

  Joe grinned. ‘The world can get along without Holmes, I suspect, but it can’t do without its Lestrades.’

  ‘But Thibaud looks English,’ Dorcas persisted.

  ‘Looks are not a reliable indicator. Quite a few French from the north have Scandinavian blood like the English and fair or red hair is not uncommon. Like us, they were invaded by waves of Norsemen. Followed by English from the west, Ottoman Turks from the south and Prussians from the east.’

  Dorcas was looking about her as they threaded their way back to the centre. ‘The poor French! They’ve been invaded so many times. It’s a wonder they stay French. But they do. Look at those clapboard houses, Joe.’ She pointed to a row of wooden buildings hastily erected amongst the rubble of an ancient market place. ‘You could imagine a shanty town in the Californian gold rush but then you see the beautiful lettering on the shop-fronts, the net curtains, the shining paintwork and the neat piles of produce and you know you couldn’t be anywhere but in France.’

  ‘They came up from their cellars, rolled up their sleeves and just got on with it,’ said Joe. ‘And all the way through that misery they kept saying the same thing: “On les aura!” — “We’ll get ’em!” And in the end, they did,’ he said sentimentally. ‘But at what a cost!’

  ‘And so many people paid the bill,’ said Dorcas quietly.

  Joe stared in dismay at the blackened stumps on either side of the great doors on the west façade of the cathedral and felt foolish.

  ‘It’s gone! Of course. . smashed to pieces by long range artillery like the rest of the statues. I had thought that here on the western side they might have escaped. These portals were crowded with them. . saints and angels. The loveliest of medieval sculptures and all very natural, quite unlike the stylized, elongated ones at Chartres. They used to be there.’ He waved a hand. ‘Standing about. You’d have said a cocktail party was going on. And there,’ he pointed above his head, ‘is where you’d have found your host — the smiling angel.’

  ‘There’s work going on — listen!’ said Dorcas. ‘It’s bound to take time. It makes a lot of sense to rebuild the houses and shops before the churches. I’ll have to come back in a few years from now if I want to see this famous angel.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Impossible to recreate, I’d say. I think, sadly, I’ve looked my last on him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so sure of that,’ said a jovial voice behind them and they turned to see a figure from the Middle Ages watching them. A miller was Joe’s first impression. Surely not? He wore a miller’s hat, white with dust, and an equally dusty smock of holland fabric down to his knees. Plaster-caked trousers were secured with string at the bottom and his feet were shod with clogs. Above a grey-streaked beard, sharp, kindly eyes twinkled at them through a pince-nez.

  ‘Come with me and I’ll show you a wonder! This way, young lady, over that plank and mind where you put your feet.’

  Intrigued, they followed their jaunty guide through a stonemason’s yard and into the shell-damaged but serviceable shelter of an outbuilding which might at one time have been a chapel but was now a workshop. Joe was enchanted by the medieval scene being played out all around them, a reassuring blend of bustle and order. Men looked up from their chipping to greet them and to smile warmly at Dorcas. Their work reclaimed their attention at once and claimed Joe’s attention also. Figures from the façades and ledges of the cathedral were being recarved. The fine-grained limestone of the region was being used for repair or complete reconstruction and by hands which were the equal in skill, it seemed, of their ancestors.

  ‘Over here!’ They followed their guide, whom Joe guessed to be a master builder, judging by the signs of recognition he was receiving from his crew as he passed. ‘There he is. The gentleman you were looking for, young lady.’

  He waved an introductory hand as Dorcas stood wondering, a tiny figure, in front of the seven-foot-high angel. A perfect, gleaming new figure. Beneficent and urbane, he beamed his remembered welcome.

  ‘But how? Can it be. .?’ Joe murmured.

  ‘Not the original unfortunately. No. That was shattered beyon
d repair. But — ’ he held up a finger for emphasis — ‘the Monuments Museum had, years ago, had the forethought to have a cast made and it was preserved in Paris. I have replicated the angel using the cast as a guide for my carving.’

  ‘What a beautiful result!’ said Joe. ‘Worth every effort and a witness for evermore of your talent, monsieur.’ His admiration compelled an old-fashioned but spontaneous bow.

  The sculptor beamed in recognition of the compliment.

  ‘And when may we see him back in his rightful place?’

  ‘I fear this will be some time in the future. Money has been short. What the town has it spends on rehousing its inhabitants.’ He smiled. ‘You’d say every architect in France is busy in Reims and all trying to express themselves in the new style.’

  ‘Art deco, you mean?’ said Joe.

  ‘Is that what you’d call it?’ said the sculptor with gentle irony. ‘Not sure about “deco”. . or “art” for that matter. But we’ll see. I shall have to try to get used to it. Repairs to the damaged fabric have been going on here at Notre Dame though not as fast as some of us would like. But with the injection of a very large sum of American dollars and some English pounds, work — as you can hear — goes on apace. Soon we may have a façade on which to mount him. Well, there you are. I hope he does not disappoint the young lady.’

  ‘I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen! Don’t you think so, Joe?’

  ‘Always have,’ said Joe.

  They said farewell to their guide and made their way back out into the morning sunshine.

  ‘Two special smiles in as many days,’ said Joe. ‘Any similarity?’

  ‘Hardly any,’ said Dorcas. ‘Thibaud’s smile was sweet but it was just a reaction. There was no thought behind it. It didn’t really reach his eyes, did it? The angel was all bright intelligence and good humour. His brain was creating the smile. I really think Thibaud’s brain is mostly dead or frozen up somehow. But I’ll tell you this, Joe — if ever our forgotten soldier were to come back to the world again and if he were to smile. . good heavens!. . it would be a smile worth waiting for.’

  ‘Are we going back to the hospital?’ Dorcas wanted to know as they regained the car.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I’d make a start on interviewing one or two of the claimants. With Bonnefoye’s introduction and signed permission in my pocket I think they’ll agree to see me. Though I rather thought I’d start by going off at a tangent. One of the names on that list is a bit of a dark horse and I’d like to take a surreptitious look at its teeth before I begin anything so formal as an interview. My first call is at a house a street or two away and there is no way in the world I will agree to your accompanying me there. I’m going to park the car a couple of doors down and lock you in with your book while I go in.’

  ‘Are you seeing one of the claimants?’

  ‘No. I’m paying an unscheduled visit to someone who may be able to shed light on one of them. A past employer, if you like, with. . um. . commercial premises in the rue de la Magdeleine. The lady may be able to furnish a reference and background information.’

  Dorcas’s look of puzzlement cleared. ‘Oh, you’re off to a brothel! On the trail of Mademoiselle Desforges.’ She nodded wisely. ‘That’ll be the Rêves de l’Orient. Everyone’s heard about that! It has quite a reputation in tourist circles. Well, don’t get carried away by your research. I don’t want to have to tell Aunt Lydia you parked me outside a Reims house of ill-repute for an hour while you visited. Oh — and I won’t be locked in. Suppose the car caught fire? They do, you know! Look — park the car here,’ she said as they passed along an elegant shop-lined street. ‘There’s things for me to look at. I can see the new Galeries Lafayette. You can walk from here. Leave me the keys and I promise I’ll be here safe and sound when you get back.’

  She consulted her watch in a marked manner.

  ‘If she tells me to “run along now” I shall put her on the first train to Nice with a label round her neck,’ Joe vowed silently.

  He strode along the pavement of the rue de la Magdeleine checking the blue enamelled numbers of the refurbished town houses, a run of elegant façades. Had he got the right street? And there it was at the end, set a little way back and looking very proper with its newly painted front door and fresh draperies at the windows. He avoided turning in through the wrought-iron gate and strolled on around the corner. A second entrance at the side of the house and giving on to a street leading towards the river showed signs of use. The iron handrail which led up to the door was worn to a ribbon slenderness, the steps slightly dipped towards the centre. He was quite certain that, in their discreet French way of going on, there would be an even more reticent back door if he were to pursue his exploration. As he lifted the knocker and rapped he thought he could well be visiting his doctor or his dentist. Only the brass plate was lacking.

  The door was opened at once by a maid in dark dress and white cap. She took his hat and whisked ahead of him down the tiled hall, calling to him to take care — the floor was just washed and not yet dry. She showed him into a parlour overlooking the street. Joe looked around him. The furnishings were sumptuous and very new and all were imported from the East. A small jungle of large-leafed plants appeared to have broken out.

  ‘Do sit down, monsieur. Madame will be with you directly,’ the girl said sweetly and left him deciding what to do with himself.

  The air was stale with the scent of last night’s Havana cigars, last night’s Soir d’Été perfume too, both beginning to lose the battle with the not unpleasant smell of freshly laid Wilton carpet and beeswax polish. A silk-covered divan which appeared to be the principal seating was piled high with cushions in raging shades of red and purple and was disconcertingly low. He did not wish to be discovered lolling. Nor did he wish to stand about in a menacing way. His eye lit on two Louis XV chairs, one on either side of the door, and he firmly carried them over to the window and set them facing each other. He’d carry out this interview knee to knee, eye to eye. A moment’s study of the window-locking arrangements, never simple in France, was productive; in six moves he had managed to raise the window a foot and stood by it breathing in the fresh morning air.

  ‘Monsieur makes himself at home?’

  He hadn’t heard her enter and turned to see a handsome woman of middle age watching him. There was calculation in her eyes though the tone of her question had been light, almost teasing.

  ‘I’ve never felt at home in a kala jugga, madame,’ he said, waving an explanatory hand at the greenery.

  ‘Ah? Monsieur has lived in India?’

  ‘For a short time.’

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘Say rather — Scottish.’

  She appeared to be encouraged by this confidence and moved forward to take the chair opposite him. Lydia would have approved of the single row of good pearls and the dark linen pleated day dress which could have come from the hands of Mademoiselle Chanel. The head-hugging haircut with its emphatic fringe framed a face which needed no additional emphasis. The strong, over-large nose and black eyebrows would have been overpowering without the sweetly curving red cupid’s bow of a mouth. She crossed her legs neatly at the ankles and leaned towards him. ‘Always delighted to welcome a Scottish gentleman,’ she murmured. A flash of interest in her expression made him think that perhaps her sentiment owed more to experience than flattery. She looked at him with increasing warmth.

  A not unusual reaction. He’d learned to use this French affection for all things Scottish to his advantage. For them, the English would always, though fighting and falling shoulder to shoulder with them, represent le perfide Albion but the Scots were a different matter. He’d first become aware of this perception of his fellow countrymen at a very low moment. Shot though the shoulder fighting a rearguard action at Mariette Bridge near Mons, he’d insisted on getting back into the thick of things as soon as he could struggle out of the hospital cart and, separated from his unit, ha
d been sent along with the front ranks of the fast-retreating British Expeditionary Force south to. . who knew where? He’d been instructed to act in the capacity of Staff Officer with knowledge of the language — never enough of these to be found — in order to facilitate the liaison of the French and British commanders — when they could be herded together. As these gentlemen appeared only too happy to avoid each other, Joe felt he’d been handed an uncomfortable duty. On the one occasion he’d met the Anglophobic General Lanrezac he’d been bursting to give the supercilious commander in whose unreliable hands lay the fate of an exhausted British Expeditionary Force a piece of his mind. His fingers had itched to turn the map upside down and tell him to get on with it. Lanrezac could, with his eternal back-pedalling, have given Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator a lesson in time-wasting. But Joe’s duty was to stand unremarked in the background, listening and quietly seething as he murmured into the ear of his own commanding officer translations of Lanrezac’s dismissive remarks and disconnected policy.

  For the rest of the time in those desperate days when the British had force marched their way, fighting every inch down the undulating white road towards the Marne, he’d made himself useful in the confusion, organizing supply dumps at crossroads, clearing the roadways, directing lost soldiers to their companies. He’d even caught a runaway horse and joined a cavalry patrol riding out to ambush and exterminate a German cavalry force threatening their right flank.