Tug of War

Chapter Twenty-Six

Joe closed the door quietly and stood outside, grinning and shaking his head to dispel his disgust at the melodramatic performance. ‘Pompous English idiot!’ was his judgement. ‘Against lying French schemer! Wonder who’ll prevail?’

He was disturbed enough by his conversation to wish to share his concerns with Charles-Auguste, recognizing now the man’s prescience in calling in a little help from a discreet quarter, and set off back towards the cellars. Charles was at the door, leaving directions with one of the men. Dusty and tired, he made his way over to Joe.

‘Kitchen, I think. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.’

Settled around the table and by themselves, they set about producing a second breakfast.

‘Here, have some bread,’ offered Charles. ‘It’ll soak up the whisky. You smell like a distillery, man! Trying to keep pace with her, were you?’

‘What? You’re not saying that. .?’

‘Oh, no! Aline’s by no means dependent on the stuff. She’s a winemaker, after all. Knows exactly where to stop. Usually doesn’t start but when she does. .! She was probably trying to drink you under the table. Seen her do it with buyers. But she should have known better than to try that on with a Scotsman, I’d guess?’

‘The capacity comes in useful sometimes. Even so, I’m ashamed to say I’d reached the loosening of inhibitions stage and made a gesture or two I regret. But, Charles, I want you to listen to Aline’s account and tell me what you’re thinking. I hardly know the woman. You do. I don’t want to come to a wrong conclusion about her and base my further actions on something false.’

Charles listened and asked an occasional question as the conversation and Joe’s interpretation of it were laid out for him. He grimaced and drew in a whistling breath as Joe recounted her Parthian shot. ‘No, actually she wasn’t making up that story about the dog. . I remember the brute. Black as night, keen as mustard and he died as described. Ouch! You’re for it, old man! But tell me — what are you going to do now?’

‘Head straight for the boar-trap, I’m afraid. Nowhere else to go. I won’t stand by and see Edward Thorndon shovelled into the earth as a nameless deserter, in a pine box in a French graveyard, with no one to mourn him but the woman who indirectly brought about his death. He has loving parents in England. They continue their search for information. They will want their son’s remains returned and, believe me, Charles, this is one missing soldier who’s going home if I have to carry him on my back!’

He paused to fill his coffee cup.

‘And that’s the easy bit,’ said Charles. He gave Joe a level look. ‘We’re both skirting round mentioning the obvious, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. And it goes right back to the beginning of all this. It was you who raised the matter with Sir Douglas, Charles. It’s your concerns I’m here to investigate. And I can tell you I have been picking up the hints. Now stop me if you think I’ve got this quite wrong but — it all hinges on a single, simple question: Why in hell does Aline want her husband back again?’

‘There we have it,’ said Charles with relief. ‘I’ve always suspected she hated my cousin — though I had no idea what good grounds she had for that hatred! And now, we’re looking at a woman who’s prepared to move heaven and earth to have this husk of a man brought back here into her life so that she may care for him. She knows how difficult that will be for her and for Georges. It would have been easy to have ignored the appeal in the paper — “Great heavens! What a surprise — doesn’t this man look incredibly like poor dear Clovis who was killed up near Craonne in ’17? I do hope they manage to locate his family I can imagine how they suffer.” And that, if any comment were called for — which it wasn’t — would have sufficed. But she went straight after him — like that bloody old Diabolo she told you about — hounding the doctor, spending time and money on research and bribery I shouldn’t wonder, determined to get hold of him.’

‘I’m bound to say there is a perfectly reasonable motive. She must know (as you say, she’s done some research on this) that the condition of shell-shock, Kriegsneurose or la confusion mentale de la guerre, whatever you want to call it, is not invariably irreversible. She must have considered the possibility of his recovering his memory with a click and a bang one of these days. There are many well-documented incidences. And what happens then? Clovis comes racing, hands down, back to his home to confront his faithless wife and reclaim his long-lost son? She’d lose everything. Would Aline be prepared to take even the slightest risk of this happening?’

‘Certainly not. She would not want that. She would prefer to have him under her control. Here. Not in Reims or anywhere else speaking his mind — should it ever come back to him. But — and I think you’ve seen it, Joe — there’s something else. Something darker.’

‘Yes. I think I have. The patient in Reims is not just a pathetic leftover from the war, he’s Clovis Houdart, the man she hated, the man who would have taken her son from her, the man who stabbed her lover to the heart and killed off her hopes. I’d guess that she’s pinned the blame for all that has gone wrong in her life, the disasters and the sorrow, on him. Oh, yes, she wants him back all right. But not to care for him. No. Not that.’ Joe shivered and rolled to a halt.

‘To torture and torment him,’ Charles finished for him. ‘She’s a vindictive woman who’s not happy unless she has someone in her power and if she can’t charm them into submission, she’ll resort to other means. I really believe — and, Joe, I would be only too relieved to hear that you think my suspicions absurd — that she means to have her revenge in her own twisted way. If she were to acquire him, be granted custody, I think I would be sent away back to Provence in short order and, after an almighty row, Georges would flee. With me? Perhaps. Into the army? More likely. He’s still maintaining, by the way, that Thibaud is not his father. And she would be left head to head with that poor, dribbling wreck. I can’t think any further.’ He stumbled to a halt, shaken by his own dark thoughts. ‘You’ll think the worse of me for even entertaining such dreadful suspicions.’

‘No, Charles. My mind has plumbed much the same depths. Look here — you have said to me, lightly and on one or two occasions, that you thought Aline might be “a bit mad”,’ said Joe tentatively.

‘Just a manner of speaking,’ mumbled Charles. ‘And if you’re talking medically, I’m no authority. Indeed, I have no personal experience of the condition and my views are not worth an airing. But — oh, why be so mealy-mouthed! — her behaviour is occasionally worrying. Her reactions, excessive. I’ve always put it down to her sufferings in the war — they were enough to have brought down a strong man, you know — and with this further evidence of mental torment uncovered, well, one understands and sympathizes.’

‘I think your fears may not be unfounded,’ said Joe. ‘I agree we could risk terrible consequences if the man — Thibaud — were to be turned over to her.’

‘But, I’d guess the ultimate decision rests with the French authorities, am I right? And they will act without the benefit of witnessing the little scene down in the cellar just now. You begin to see why I would so have liked you to arrive and declare him English! Our problem would have been carted off over the Channel to live out his days in some comfortable south coast clinic for officers instead of festering in a lunatic asylum or cooped up here being — ’

‘Cooped up?’ Joe’s memory was stirred. ‘“Sometimes the female has to fetch him back. . and sometimes he’s ripped to shreds by his mate. .’” he muttered, remembering with horror. With all the assurance of Athena she had told him the truth and had never attempted to conceal her intentions. She had no fear of interference by a foreign policeman, however deep he dug. His enquiries could only lead to the inevitable truth: the patient was her husband, her claim indisputable and she would have him returned to her.

‘Charles! I must return to Reims! At once.’