Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

Crossing the courtyard he encountered a stern-faced Georges. ‘My mother’s in the salon,’ he said curtly. ‘She’s not obliged to — don’t think it — but she’d like to have a few words.’ And, challenging and suspicious: ‘What have you done with Dorcas?’

Joe was suddenly angry. ‘What the hell do you suppose I’ve done with her? Knocked her on the head and sealed her up in an alcove? Not the kind of behaviour we go in for in my family! She’s with your uncle, desperately trying to clear up your family’s mess!’

Georges’s head went back as though he’d been slapped and to Joe’s dismay tears began to trickle. He sniffled noisily and put a large hand in embarrassment across his face.

Instantly, Joe threw out both arms and seized the boy in a tight hug. ‘Forgive me, Georges, old man. Awful thing to say! Insensitive! Unforgivable! Be kind and put it down to strain — the strain of having to go in there and speak to your mother — will you?’

Georges nodded his understanding.

‘And, I say — before you rush off to find Dorcas — any chance you could rustle up a drink?’

Georges gulped, raised a dim smile and found his voice. ‘A twenty-year-old Glenfiddich?’ he offered. ‘Would that fit the bill?’

Joe tapped on the salon door and entered on hearing the quiet instruction to come in. He was carrying a tray loaded with whisky bottle, glasses and a jug of iced water.

‘Well, I wasn’t quite sure what would appear round the door,’ she said. ‘The local gendarmerie flourishing handcuffs perhaps? I didn’t hope for a Scotland Yard commander bearing a tray of refreshments. I’ll have a large one, please. Neat, no ice.’

He poured out her drink, taking the same measure for himself, and they sat and sipped the whisky silently.

Her hat and hymn book had been abandoned on the floor at her feet and she was sitting perched anxiously on the end of her chaise longue, puffing rather inexpertly on a small cigar. Her tawny hair was dishevelled, her face tear-stained. She looked small and frightened and Joe could no longer imagine what about her had so disconcerted him in the cellars. But, whatever that quality, it was not so much to be feared as this new show of vulnerability, he decided, taking out a little insurance.

A few more sips and puffs and she had recovered sufficiently to look up and sketch a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you all,’ she said. ‘Making an appearance like that and spoiling your moment. I didn’t go to church. Guilty conscience, I suppose, made me fear to leave what you’d probably describe as “the crime scene” for too long. Not with a sharp and determined bloodhound like you within a few yards of a concealed body.’

He was relieved to hear her light tone.

‘So you know about Edward?’ she said.

‘I couldn’t say that with any confidence,’ he replied. ‘I know that the body we have just found is that of Edward Thorndon and that he died here while sheltering under your roof in late July 1917. I know that your husband Clovis disappeared at the same time. I know that you, Aline, were observed dragging the body into its hiding place and giving instructions for it to be immured.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she cut him short. ‘Georges has just told me what he saw. My poor boy! All those years. . out of loyalty. . I had no idea. . I am much to blame for never realizing.’

Her head went up and she held out her glass for more whisky. Joe was glad to oblige and poured a second generous measure. He had never suspected that this might be the way to melt Aline’s ice crust. She delicately invited him with a gesture to refill his own glass.

‘But I did it for him , you know. For Georges. I couldn’t bear to lose him.’

‘I think you’re going to have to explain that,’ he said.

‘But first — I want you to tell me what you have deduced from that terrible scene down there. No!’ she added, seeing his cynical surprise. ‘No! I did not see the murder, I certainly did not play a part in it. I came across the body of Edward. There was no one about. Clovis had been stamping and raging all day and I feared his temper might lead to some sort of scene. . but I never expected this madness. A servant told me they’d gone down to the cellars. Together. And they were both in uniform. Both about to go back to the front. You can imagine what I thought — some sort of awful duel! Clovis was capable of anything. Do you think they fought a duel, Commander?’

Joe outlined as simply as he could the evidence he had drawn from the murder scene and linked it with the doctor’s report. ‘. . so, I’m assuming Clovis, having lured Edward down there — issuing a challenge or an invitation of some sort, “Sabres at seven,” “Why don’t we find a quiet place to discuss this?” — ambushed him, overpowered him and tied his hands. Perhaps some exchange of views took place and as a result of what was said, Clovis kicked him in the head as he knelt begging for his life.’

Joe hesitated, wondering how much of his knowledge he should share with her. ‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘like a terrifying echo from the past. . a recorded scream you might say if you were being fanciful, we know exactly what was said by the victim with his last breath. His words scored themselves on to the mind of his killer to be replayed like a phonograph recording years later in the course of a nightmare. Dr Varimont observed and noted. And that last desperate plea being wrung from him in his native language — in English — was the reason for my involvement. For good or ill.’

He repeated Edward’s dying words and her head drooped, heavy with grief.

‘Having stabbed him to death, I’m supposing Clovis himself cut the ties from Edward’s hands, though I can’t imagine why. .’

‘A cavalryman like Clovis would never want to be accused of killing a restrained man, Commander. It’s a matter of honour. Like shooting a sitting duck. He would want it to be thought — if discovered — that he had killed a worthy opponent in fair combat. But this is worse, much worse, than I had ever envisaged. My poor Edward. .’

She dragged herself free from the cold grasp of her imaginings, steadied her voice and started on the explanation Joe was waiting for. ‘It was a difficult visit. I had quarrelled with Clovis. He made it clear that he had no regard for me — suggested I return to my parents in Paris when the war ended. He was sure that it would be over by the end of the year. And he proposed to go on living here with Georges.

‘If he survived! But I think he wasn’t seriously expecting to survive the next battle. He was clearing up things here. He knew I loved Edward. It must have been obvious even to him. And I cannot be certain that Edward did not tell him. He was a very uncomplicated character. Open and good-hearted. He was not, by nature, an intriguer and what was going on here was, on one level, a torment to him, I knew that. I warned him to be discreet but, knowing him, he would have seized an opportunity of telling Clovis all.’

‘Do you mind telling me exactly what was going on, madame?’

‘Well, a love affair,’ she smiled. ‘You remember the doves? I was speaking of Edward, of course. We had met in 1915. In September. I’d cycled back from my shift at the hospital in the village to find the house full of troops. I assumed they were our troops — that Clovis had come back on leave — and I hurried off to the stables where they told me he’d gone. Clovis would never waste a minute waiting about. It was dark in the corridor but there he was coming in through the back door. He was wearing Clovis’s old clothes — his own uniform was in the tub. His fair hair was gleaming in the sunshine, he was being trailed by Georges and the dog. I was sure it was Clovis and I ran to him and threw my arms around him. Silly thing to do — he was carrying two bottles of champagne in from the cellar. The last thing he could have expected was a bloodstained nurse hurling herself at him and kissing him! He picked me up and swung me away from the broken glass and I realized.’