Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

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.

‘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.