Tug of War

‘Ah,’ said Bo

He pulled a file across his desk. ‘You may take this away and study it. You will be impressed,’ he promised. ‘You will admire the technical skills and the speed. You will tell of it in Scotland Yard when you return.’

‘Come on, man!’ Joe smiled. ‘Put me out of my misery. The last page? What does it say?’

‘Thibaud’s fingerprints we already had on record. When a comparison was made it was discovered that there were thirteen distinct points of agreement . . . ample to declare an absolute identification. Page 16. Got it? And what all those bifurcations, arches, whorls and loops are spelling out is this: our Thibaud and Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges’s soldier-lover are one and the same! The man who’d reached Chapter 52 of War and Peace, who sat drinking her brandy, who put his feet up at her hearth and stoked her fire is the patient in Dr Varimont’s care.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Joe faintly. ‘It was an outside chance, Bo

‘We took the pipe and the book you mentioned but it was the dirty brandy glass that gave the best evidence. Sentimentally, she’d left them untouched just as she told you she had and on a surface like that a print is virtually permanent. So, if you think I’m treating your run-in with la Houdart a little lightly – well, you see, I can afford to. Her claim has suddenly begun to look very shaky. We’re now down to one tick – Desforges – one question mark – Houdart – and two crosses.’

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, Bo

He waited while Bo

‘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, Bo

‘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, Bo

They got to their feet, gri

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

‘I have an old aunt who has a very a

Bo