No attempt was made to respond to his overture. The barman leaned over the counter and shouted over Joe’s shoulder: ‘Jules! He’s here. Get on over to the farm and tell your pa that the English flic is on his way.’

One of the youths drained his glass and hurried out.

Joe found himself the object of a knowing, mutinous glower. ‘War’s over, mister. Long ago. You’re not wanted around here. You’re not needed. Bugger off home!’

Joe put his beer down carefully and placed a coin beside it. His voice was polite, even pleasant: ‘Only too delighted to bugger off home, my dear chap. Sadly not possible until the English have pulled a few more French chestnuts out of the fire. Once again, it seems you need our help.’ His tone became more confidential: ‘Passed a cemetery on the way here. Chanzy. You know it? Four hundred and six soldiers of my old regiment are buried there. I paused to say a prayer or two. The memorial was interesting. Put up by the French and it says: “In remembrance of the soldiers of the British Army who gave their lives for our freedom.” A very proper sentiment, in the circumstances, don’t you think? I have always been impressed by French good manners.’

The young men stared truculently into their beer but the old domino players began to cackle. One raised his glass of marc and in a defiant voice said, ‘Vivent les Anglais! Arrogant sods but they knew how to fire a rifle!’

The other one raised his glass and added, ‘To the rosbifs! It’s true, Stéphane – you wouldn’t be here pulling pints if they hadn’t stood firm up there near Reims. Pay no heed to him, monsieur, he’s suffered more than most. Can leave you a bit curdled, experiences like he’s had.’

Joe, disarmed by the bluff attempt at good humour, smiled and nodded. Swiftly judging the mood of the company, the barman poured and handed out glasses of marc for everyone and, taking one himself, threw a challenging glance at the visitor. Joe realized he was expected to say something. He raised his glass. ‘To a final end to this bloody war. May we forgive and forget and may the last soldier return safely to his true home.’

‘To a safe return,’ agreed the old men.

‘He’s ours, you know,’ said the barman. ‘My brother’s lad. And we want him back before my brother snuffs it. He’s not in good health. Doctor thinks he won’t last another winter. Lungs. Poison gas did it. He should never have been up there fighting . . . over age . . . but he would go. Didn’t last long. And it’s cutting him up knowing that his son is stuck in a loony bin when he could be back here with his family. We can look after him.’

‘And he has a mother, your nephew?’ Joe asked.

‘My sister-in-law. Yes. Armande. She’s not from these parts. She’s from up north. Normandy. Came to work as lady’s maid up at the château . . . oh, it must have been in 1888 or thereabouts. A right fancy piece! My brother fell for her airs and graces and her blonde hair. She wasn’t the best choice for him but he was always in a rush and no one could tell him anything.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s done well enough.’

‘Grudging sod!’ commented one of the old men. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Armande – she’s faithful. She’s grieved for that boy from the day he . . . went missing . . . And since she’s heard he’s alive and likely to come home again she sits herself by the gate waiting and watching. Says she’s always known her Thomas would come walking home down the lane one day.’

‘And both parents have identified the patient in Reims as their son Thomas?’

‘Of course. We’ve all identified him. Signed statements. Hired a charabanc and we all went up, every last relation, and we all said the same thing: “That’s him. That’s Thomas.”’

‘He was always easy to pick out,’ chimed in the old man. ‘Go on, Andre, tell him!’ And without allowing the more slow-speaking Andre to get a word in, continued: ‘Fair hair. He had this fair hair. And the blue eyes, just like his ma. The other children were more like their father, dark and not so tall. Of course Thomas stood out in the playground and life wasn’t all that easy for him, he looked such a foreigner, but he was always a good-humoured lad – could make anyone laugh – and had a lively punch which was more of a help. We were all fond of the lad . . . the whole village . . . and we want him back where he belongs. It stands out a mile that this chap in Reims is Thomas. Changed of course, been through the mill, jaw bust, anyone can see that, but the main things like his height and his colouring, well, you can’t argue. And,’ he added meaningfully, ‘a mother knows. A mother always knows.’

Joe clung precariously, balanced side-saddle on the flapper seat of one of the motor bikes. A second round of marc had melted away any residue of bad feeling and loosened tongues to the point where one of the young men had awkwardly offered to take him to the Tellancourt farm. The car was better left in safety in front of the town hall, was the unanimous opinion of the company, instead of scraping down narrow lanes for several kilometres. As they bounced over the rutted ground, Joe was glad he’d spared his undercarriage by agreeing to this offer of outlandish transport. And he was glad to arrive finally at his destination.

Relieved and charmed. Some way distant from an already remote village in this chalky landscape, the farm buildings were grouped, he guessed, around a spring or water source of some description. It was at first glance impressive and extensive. They entered, throttling back, through a wide porte-cochère surmounted by a low-built wooden storey running the length of the transom, a useful construction which acted as a pigeonnier judging by the flocks of white doves perching there. The interior basse-cour was rectangular and spacious and lined on two sides by a barn and a stable block. Their arrival sent a guard dog into fits of rage and hens dashed to throw themselves under their wheels. Opposite stood the farmhouse, half timbered with walls of local limestone and dressed stone surrounds to the doors and windows. The roof was pitched at a low angle under a strong frame to bear the weight of heavy clay tiles. It was not lovely but it reflected the colours and fabric of the earth from which it sprang and it pleased Joe.

The motor cycle puttered to a brief halt at the door to allow him time to dismount. He did this with as much dignity as he could muster, aware of scrutiny from all sides and very much wondering how securely the still-raging dog was confined. He waved goodbye to his chauffeur and, approaching the door, made use of the heavy knocker. While he waited, he stepped back a pace to take a glance at his surroundings. The second look was less reassuring. Tiles had slipped and fallen from the barns and not been replaced. One or two doors and windows were broken, cracked or missing altogether. No paintwork had been renovated for years. In an establishment which boasted so many vigorous young men, he found this hard to account for.

The door creaked slowly open and he turned to smile a greeting but saw no one.

‘Are you the policeman?’

The voice had come from low down and he watched in amusement as the child warily stuck a head around the door and surveyed him. He must have looked unthreatening as the boy came forward and opened the door wide. He was about six years old, Joe estimated, and was dressed neatly in baggy shirt with a white collar, knickerbockers and buckled shoes. Turned out to welcome and disarm the visiting policeman? Joe thought so.

‘Oh, hello, young man. Yes, I am the policeman. I’ve come to see Monsieur and Madame Tellancourt. Here’s my card.’

He took the card and pretended to examine it. ‘Grandpa’s expecting you. He said to take you through to the back parlour. Uncle Victor and Aunt Isabelle are there as well. Come this way.’

He hurried off down the tiled corridor and Joe followed until he reached a door at the end and pushed it open. ‘In there,’ said his guide and abandoned him.