‘So, we should know very soon that Thibaud is French and we can carry on with our journey?’

‘I rather think we’re committed to spending a day or so with the Houdart family,’ said Joe. ‘It’s all fixed. I telephoned to say we’d arrive the day after tomorrow for the weekend. And besides – it would be a shame to pass up the chance of wearing your blue dress.’

‘You’ve made your mind up to see each of these claimants, haven’t you? You’re ignoring what the Inspector had to say. And what you said yourself – “I’m only here to establish whether he’s English or not” – that was just so much blather. You can’t resist a puzzle, that’s what. And you can’t bear to leave the solving of it to anyone else.’

‘I honestly don’t believe that there is any way of establishing that he’s English,’ said Joe patiently. ‘But, on the other hand, there may be a way of proving decisively that he is a Frenchman which fills our aims just as neatly. And that’s what I’m going to attempt to do. Yes, I’m going to take a look at the other claimants, hear their stories . . . I thought Thibaud was probably a fine man and I would like to see his problems resolved. And I don’t fall victim to the first romantic tale I’m told. Now, when you’ve finished that . . . I’m off to see the widow Langlois. She claims that Thibaud is really her son, Albert. She lives in a small village a few miles away from here. Martigny. Do you want to come?’

The countryside rolled by, patchwork squares of green and gold seamed with narrow white threads of chalk roads as they drove eastwards. The caterpillar stripes of the vineyards gave way increasingly to fields of ripe corn where the harvest was well under way. Teams of heavy horses pulled fantastical pieces of machinery, toiling alongside workers a good number of whom were women in pinafores, headscarves and clogs. They stopped work at the sound of the engine and shaded their eyes to stare with suspicion at the oncoming motor car before responding to Dorcas’s cheery wave.

‘The natives don’t seem particularly friendly,’ she said.

‘If you’d had your village destroyed and the land laid waste by several warring armies swarming all over it you’d learn to take a long careful look at foreigners motoring through. And here we are. Martigny,’ he said, parking in the market square and looking around. ‘The new Martigny. Bit hit and miss. But it’s an attempt. They’ve got their priorities right, you see – the café, the inn, the boulangerie, the school and the mairie . . . pretty bell tower . . . And the place we’ve come to visit is there on the corner opposite the boulangerie – the grocer’s shop.’

‘Le Familistère,’ Dorcas read out. ‘Succursale no. 732. Guy Langlois, Patron. Were you prepared for a patron? I thought we were coming to see a woman?’

‘We are. Yes. The claim was made by a mother. Well, let’s go and see if she’s at home.’

A bell clanged over the door as they entered and two customers turned from the counter to stare at them. Joe doffed his hat and gave the usual polite French greeting. There wasn’t much to delight the eye in this dim and cluttered space. The staples of existence were on display in packets, tins and jars, their dull ranks enlivened by a smoked ham and a saucisson or two suspended from the ceiling. Joe guessed that the women of the village did their shopping for fresh food in the weekly market, the token line-up of wooden boxes of faded apples, wrinkled oranges and time-expired lettuce offering little temptation. When the ladies had finally snapped their purses shut, picked up their shopping bags and left, the elderly man behind the counter turned his attention to them, an ingratiating smile vying with curiosity to enliven his heavy features.

Joe introduced himself, watching the smile flicker and die as he proceeded. He handed over his letter of introduction and his Metropolitan Police warrant card and waited while both were inspected with the greatest care.

‘So, you’ve come out all the way from Reims to see my wife? Why was this necessary? She gave her statement some weeks ago and she has nothing further to add. We await the Department’s final decision on the affair. And it is a civil, not a police matter anyway.’

‘Your son’s identity, sir -’ Joe began and recoiled before the interruption.

‘Not my son, if you don’t mind! My wife Henriette’s son – and the man in question is most likely not even that,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s nothing but a mare’s nest. A waste of everyone’s time. The lad’s dead and gone . . . years ago . . . and I for one do not want the whole sorry business raked up again.’

Joe let the man’s explosion of bad humour roll away before replying mildly. He decided to borrow the ingratiating smile as window-dressing for his explanation: an international angle to the case had developed and, in confidential tones, he spoke of the involvement of the recently formed international police force with its headquarters in Lyon. Monsieur Langlois must be aware of Interpol? Even if he wasn’t, Monsieur Langlois could not help but be impressed by the respect in Joe’s voice as he mentioned it. And Scotland Yard’s assistance had been sought by this august body in an attempt to resolve the question of the unknown soldier’s possibly English nationality. This appeared to be not an unwelcome proposition to Langlois and he was just sufficiently impressed to fling up the hinged section of the counter which allowed access to the rear of the shop.

‘Oh? Well, in that case, you’d better come through then.’

He pulled back a curtain yelling, ‘Julie! Come and mind the shop!’ and a young girl slipped by them to take up her place by the till.

They followed their guide through into a storage area full of tins, boxes and flour-sacks and at the far end of this a woman in a high-necked blouse and copious cambric pinafore was sitting at a table weighing out kilos of sugar. She turned to look at them, incurious and unsmiling.

Joe thought that the woman he now greeted as Madame Langlois was all that was conjured up by the word ‘drab’. Her clothing was outdated and faded, her face was square, coarse and expressionless. Her dark hair, beginning to streak with grey, was divided precisely down the centre of her head by a parting through which the scalp gleamed like candle-wax.

‘A policeman to see you, Henriette,’ her husband announced and then, smirking: ‘It seems this loony of yours is actually an Englishman who took the wrong turning in the war. What a fuss about nothing! Well . . . things to do . . . busy man . . . I’ve wasted time enough on this silly business . . . I’m off to do my deliveries. I’ll leave you, Commander, to spell it out to her. My advice: be firm and speak slowly. Be prepared to repeat everything. Don’t fall for her nonsense.’

He bustled off leaving them facing a woman no longer expressionless. The stony features, released from their rigidity by his departure, registered a hatred of such a startling intensity that Joe rocked back on his heels. She collected herself and, slowly assimilating the news so callously delivered, shook her head from side to side like a puzzled ox.

‘Is this true, sir, what he says?’

Her bosom began to heave, she sniffled and rubbed a hand over her dusty face.

Alarmed by this show of emotion, Joe thrust his handkerchief at her and hurried to contradict the information fired at her by Langlois.

‘So the truth of it is that nothing is yet decided? And you have seen my son? Yesterday? Tell me how he was. Are they treating him well? I should like to visit him but Guy will not spare me.’ She brightened and began to take off her pinafore and smooth her hair. ‘I should like to hear what you made of him. Albert. He’s called Albert. Will you come through to the parlour and I’ll ask my daughter to prepare us some coffee. Does the young lady drink coffee? Or would you prefer a glass of milk, mademoiselle, and some bread and chocolate?’