He smiled at Joe and confided: ‘One of the pleasures of advancing years is that you have collected a wide acquaintance. You know many people and can move them around like chess pieces on a board. You can put them together—drive them apart should it be necessary—even wipe them from the board if they fail to please. It’s a pity that you will be with us only for a day or two, Commander. I looked forward to watching you perform!’

‘Not as a pawn, I hope?’ said Joe with a smile calculated to veil rather than hide his irritation. ‘I rather see myself as a knight, bounding gallantly about the board.’

‘You are no bounder, Sandilands, unless I miss my mark. No. I picture you as the queen who bides her time, watches the play and swoops with deadly accuracy when the moment comes.’

He turned to Orlando. ‘But carry on with the tour, Joliffe. I understand Guy has given carte blanche to the Commander to begin his swooping when and where he thinks fit.’ An elegant hand flicked out, indicating the turret room. ‘This would seem a strange place to start perhaps but,’ he shrugged, ‘the Commander knows best.’ He edged to the doorway. ‘Are you coming down? Then I shall accompany you and bore you with information about the building …

‘This suite of rooms,’ he began, affecting the tone of a guide, ‘belonged in the thirteenth century to the mistress of the Lord Silmont of the day. Well, one of the mistresses. It’s said that he had four in all, one in each corner turret. His bastard sons—of whom there were many—served him in the traditonal role of page boy or maître d’hôtel. Imagine the domestic disputes … the jostling for promotion … the back-stabbing … the shin-kicking! The sudden unexplained deaths in the struggle for the succession! Thank the Lord I have to face none of that.’

‘You have sons, sir?’ Joe asked as the lord seemed to have left a space for a response.

‘Not so fortunate, I’m afraid. I have never been married. You’re looking at the last survivor in a long chain of inheritance, Commander. The broken link, if you will. And we have Napoleon to blame for the destruction. The decay started with the introduction of the Code Napoléon. A disaster for the landed gentry! The law of primogeniture was swept aside and instead of passing down as one piece to the oldest son of the family, estates, small and great alike, were divided equally between the surviving children—however many of them there were. The inheritances grew ever smaller with each generation. But the families adapted. We always do. There was no longer a compulsion to produce large broods. One son became the preferred production. To be replaced as and when war and disease made it necessary.’

Uncertain as to how he was expected to respond, Joe murmured something that sounded like condolences.

‘Oh, one ought not to set much store by a great name in these modern times. When I tell you that the aristocracy in France have flourished to such an extent since the Revolution that they number over two hundred thousand, you will hardly believe me! I know that you English assume we were all but extinguished … losing our heads to Madame Guillotine. It may surprise you to hear that a tiny percentage of the whole class—just over one thousand aristos—lost their heads. The huge majority kept theirs and either emigrated or lay low on their remote estates until better times arrived. All praise to Louis XVIII! Yes, Sandilands, we have a thousand times the number of gentlemen you have in England! Which might lead a sceptic—and I class myself as such—to say that the Silmont title is of little consequence. I shall leave it and my lands to my cousin Guy. Alas—he also is childless. And therefore, unless he pulls his socks up and remembers his familial obligations while he is yet young enough, the estate is destined, I’m afraid, to be bought up by aspiring neighbours. It will be absorbed by some marquisate or duchy. Or some rich nobody eager to avail himself of the noble particule. Monsieur de Silmont! Two letters, Sandilands! What extraordinary lengths people are prepared to go to in order to acquire them. Now, if you’d care to come this way …’

The cry went up at the most inconvenient moment. Somewhere deep in the castle a gong had announced it was time to think about assembling for drinks before dinner. Joe checked his watch and waited by the door of his room. Dorcas was late. Or Estelle was late. He found he could no longer remember who exactly was on herding duty this evening.

He heard the cry a second time and recognized Dorcas’s voice. A moment later she shot up the stairs and into the children’s dormitory. More shouts and yells and she came dashing out again. Joe saw her take a deep breath and try to control her voice as she caught sight of him but she could not deceive him. The terror behind the calm words was very evident.

‘I’m afraid there’s one of us missing, Joe.’

Chapter Fourteen

Joe listened on, hoping he’d misunderstood.

‘It should be Estelle on duty tonight but nobody’s seen her since teatime so I thought I’d better get on and do the rounding-up myself. I’ve counted six. There’s me, Peter, Dicky, Rosie, Clothilde, René …’ she recited, in her concern using her fingers to demonstrate. ‘We’re all here. It’s the littlest boy who isn’t. Le petit Marius. The cook’s youngest. I sent everybody out again to hunt for him … they’ve not done their teeth yet … to look in all the usual places. Nothing. We’ve yelled his name all about the castle. We’ve looked in every oven and every cupboard he likes to hide in. He’s just disappeared. I don’t know what to do. And it’ll be getting dark soon.’

‘I’m sure it’s all right, Dorcas. Look—if you like, I’ll come in and have a word with the others. Perhaps they’re playing a joke on you? Had you thought of that?’

‘Of course. First thing I thought of! And I’ve told them what I’ll do to them if they are. They aren’t having me on. Besides, René, his older brother, is crying. He thinks he’ll be blamed and he’s upset. I can’t make any sense of what he’s saying.’

Joe went into the dormitory to find a huddle of murmuring children gathered together on one bed for consolation. Trying to keep his voice brisk and reassuring, he began to question them. Peter answered first as the oldest boy and confirmed that the last sighting of le petit Marius, who didn’t know how old he was, had been just after tea, before they’d started play again. Awkwardly Peter told Joe he might like at this point to question René.

Joe took the hint and turned to René. He knelt down and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me if he was sad or happy, your little brother, when you last spoke to him.’

‘Sir, he was sad,’ whispered René.

‘Why—sad?’

‘We’d had an argument. I’d just told him that he couldn’t play with us in the game we were planning for after tea. He’s too little for some things—’

‘Don’t be angry with René,’ Dorcas interrupted. ‘Marius can be a pain in the bum. He thinks he can do everything the others do but sometimes he just can’t. And he always shouts the same thing: “I’m Marius! I’m a soldier!” I blame his mother for calling him after a Roman infantryman. Gives him ideas beyond his size.’

Joe smiled. ‘What was the last thing he said to you, René? Can you remember?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated then asked: ‘You want me to say the exact words? They were rather rude. Well, he said, “Damn you, crétin! I don’t want to play your stupid game anyway. I’m going down to Granny’s!”’

Joe breathed deeply, the relief washing through him. ‘Did that surprise you?’

‘Well, no. He’s done it before, stomping off in a rage. And telling tales. Granny always …’ René’s lips began to quiver and tears began to drip down his nose. Joe silently handed him a handkerchief and patted his head. ‘Granny always takes his side. She always believes him and I get a smack for not looking after him properly. If he’s gone home I’ll be in trouble again after last time. He knows that. He wouldn’t have landed me in it again, would he? He’s a pest but he’s not really bad. He’s my brother … I was sure he’d be about the place just hiding to … to …’