‘Poor chap,’ said Joe. ‘But listen, Dorcas – he’s a man of the world. He’s a mayor, for goodness’ sake! Which, in this country, means competent, efficient and fully able to negotiate the channels of bureaucracy. They are the channels of bureaucracy! If a mayor can’t do it, it can’t be done. Put him out of your mind. You can’t look out for every waif and stray and heart-attack victim you encounter on life’s road. You’ve quite enough on your plate watching out for me at the moment.’

He spoke gently, unwilling to be critical of Dorcas’s quality of large-heartedness. At far too young an age she had assumed responsibility not only for the well-being of her three younger brothers and sister but also for her feckless father whom she protected like a lioness. Not even Joe, who was conscious of, though mystified by, his own special standing with Dorcas, was allowed to criticize Orlando in her hearing.

She grinned. ‘Did you remember to brush your teeth and have you paid the bill? Goodness! Am I so annoying?’

‘Yes! Worse than Lydia! From whom you have learned a good deal of nonsense. And the answer is yes to both those questions. I also took the trouble to enquire about rooms for our return. When we leave the château, I thought we’d spend a day back here in Reims tying up ends, making a statement to Bonnefoye – that sort of thing. It’ll be okay. They have plenty of space next week. Now – Bonnefoye. Do you feel up to encountering him again? Getting another look at those wonderful teeth? I have a date with him in half an hour. To discuss progress so far.’

Dorcas blushed. ‘I’d simply love to,’ she said.

Joe looked her up and down with a critical eye. ‘Ah, yes, I do see that. New yellow dress, gloves . . . and aren’t those silk stockings? Good Lord! Now what game are you playing?’

‘If anyone’s playing games, it’s Bonnefoye,’ she said with spirit. ‘You know he’s using you, Joe? He hasn’t time or interest in this case, I think, and he just let you fish about in this murky pond vaguely hoping you might stir up something from the bottom that repays attention.’

‘Well, of course I realized. He was so keen to warn me off – to tell me how disturbed he would be by any interference – I interpreted this as a quite deliberate challenge, and he calculated that my response would instantly be to defy him and go my own way, risking the displeasure of the French police force.’

‘You’re double-bluffing each other?’

‘Exactly A comfortable arrangement. And, should anything go wrong, anything embarrassing occur, each of us feels he can cover himself. Misunderstandings, misinterpretations – all easily explained by the foreignness of the other player in the game. I liked Bonnefoye. Very professional. I’d have done just the same. But I still think I’d like to quiz him on the information he’s been holding back from us.’

‘Commander! How good to see you again.’ Bonnefoye did a gratifying double-take and added, ‘And Miss Dorcas?’ He gave her the benefit of his slanting smile, dazzlingly accentuated by the sharp black line of his moustache. He took Dorcas’s hand and kissed it with unnecessary gallantry, Joe thought. ‘But a Miss Dorcas transformed!’ he exclaimed with an admiring glance at her hair. ‘I see you have benefited from the skill of our local coiffeurs? Charming! Charming!’ Joe also noticed that he was addressing her in fast French. Communication on several levels had obviously occurred between the Inspector and the doctor. Just for once Dorcas was rendered speechless. She reddened and dimpled prettily. Joe sighed.

‘Now, Commander, perhaps you could tell me what progress you have made? Have you proved to Dr Varimont’s satisfaction that the patient is English? I have ready all the forms you will need if you feel we may now take the step of confirming officially his nationality and subsequently arrange for his repatriation.’ He poked at a file on his desk with the end of his pencil.

‘Hold your horses, Bonnefoye,’ said Joe firmly. ‘I have little evidence and no proof that he is English. Furthermore, I would say it’s unlikely that this could ever, in the present medical circumstances, be established.’ He gave a brief account of his encounter with Thibaud, knowing that he must already have had a similar version from Varimont.

‘But you believe the doctor when he tells you that the patient spoke in English, surely?’ Bonnefoye objected.

‘I do. But I have not heard him speak for myself. I do not think a foreigner like the doctor could be one hundred per cent certain, from this hearing, that the language was used as by a native speaker. After all, I might replay a nightmare scene quoting bits of French but my accent would not deceive a Frenchman. Though a fellow Englishman might well be taken in.’

‘I see what you mean. It all comes down to speech, doesn’t it?’ said Bonnefoye, shrugging. ‘Just a few words, that’s all we’d need. If he were French, Varimont could identify his class and the part of France he comes from, I don’t doubt. We’d know straight away whether he were an officer from Champagne or a sergeant from Brittany. Our accents are as much a give-away as our faces. Communication! We’ve got to get the man to communicate.’ He pondered this for a moment. ‘I wonder if they’ve tried sign language?’

‘It’s an interesting fact,’ said Dorcas, ‘that studies of shell-shock have turned up victims – and I believe they are victims,’ she added firmly, ‘who suffered from aphasia – dumbness – before entering the war. After their neurasthenia was diagnosed these poor men were found to be unable to remember their sign language. Nothing wrong with their hands as there is probably nothing wrong with Thibaud’s speech mechanisms – it’s the ability to communicate that’s cut off. The root of the problem is what appears to be a paralysis in the brain.’

‘Indeed?’ Bonnefoye looked at her in astonishment. ‘Mademoiselle interests herself in psychotherapy?’

Dorcas looked uncomfortable for a moment then raised her chin and favoured him with one of her best smiles. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I intend to study the subject at London University and qualify as a medical psychologist, perhaps a psychiatrist.’

‘A very worthy aim, mademoiselle. I wish you the best of good fortune.’ Bonnefoye looked genuinely admiring, Joe thought, realizing suddenly that he was not treating Dorcas as a child but as a young woman. And Dorcas was lapping it up. He decided to reclaim the initiative.

‘So. Your best course, Bonnefoye, would be to prove by some means or other that our man is definitely the relation claimed by one of the four feuding families. This I believe to be the only clear solution open to us. Yes, I appreciate, of course, that this entails quite a bit of detective work. Work which cannot be undertaken by the usual government agencies which interest themselves in these matters. Awkward, really, and delicate stuff. Emotions running high, public opinion being manipulated by means of the press . . . I do understand. It’s not police work. You have much more demanding affairs to deal with. So,’ he finished brightly, ‘I’m pleased to give you what I have. Make life a bit easier for you perhaps. And . . . if we were to pool our knowledge . . . how much more efficiently we would bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion. Now . . .’

Joe slapped down on the desk notes he’d taken in his three interviews. ‘That’s what I’ve got. You’re very welcome to it. And I’ll fill in the gaps with your findings and we’ll be getting somewhere. Case number one. Mireille Desforges, claimant. Says the man is one Dominique de Villancourt. Have you checked this man’s details in the army records?’

‘We have.’ Bonnefoye’s tone was clipped and businesslike. ‘There was such an officer in a cavalry regiment. The 8th Dragoons. Born and educated in Paris, trained at the military academy at St Cyr. Well-to-do family.’ He paused. ‘Problem is . . . his only living relations, mother and father, are practically fossils. Not interested in staking a claim and positively deny that this could possibly be their son. Refuse point blank to co-operate with us. They live in the past. And for them life ended with the receipt of the letter telling them of Dominique’s death. We have accounts from fellow officers written later to the parents and we can draw up quite a clear picture of his last days. He died in the charge on von Kluck’s forces in the first battle of the Chemin des Dames. Not the second affair in 1917, no, this was in 1914, early on, following on the first battle of the Marne before everything got bogged down in trenches.