‘We know he crossed the Seine with the cavalry in the first days of September and rode north to the Marne to fight on the right flank of the British Expeditionary Force. The British and French fighting together,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘took advantage of an opening gap and cut their way through to divide the opposing forces. Just like us, you’re thinking! The action led to the first allied victory of the war. But you were there, I understand?’

‘Right in the middle,’ said Joe. ‘Effecting liaison between the British GHQ and General Joffre.’ He swept a negligent hand over his eyebrow. ‘Souvenir of the Marne. If Dominique was 8th Dragoons he must have ended up in the French Cavalry Corps under General Louis Napoleon Conneau?’

Bonnefoye nodded. ‘We have a sighting of him on 3rd September, massing under Conneau behind the Petit Morin river ready to cover the left flank of the French Fifth Army. The next reference is an account from a fellow officer (I have a copy) describing Dominique’s last movements. He’d survived the Marne and fought his way north up to the plain at Sissonne, caught between the German First and Second Armies but hoping to storm the plateau between Soissons and Craonne.’

‘Huge casualties up there, British and French, in the second half of that September,’ Joe said quietly. He could never repress a shiver at the sound of the word ‘Craonne’.

‘His death was reported as taking place on 15th September, trying to break through the front between Cerny and Craonne. An eyewitness, again a fellow officer, wrote at length to the parents after the war so we know there was no censorship. It was his moving account which led to the award of the Croix de Guerre for Dominique. He tells that they were out on patrol, a flying column of seven men and two officers, when they came upon a thirty-strong and very fresh German cavalry troop. The French horses were exhausted, their backs stinking with running sores, the men hadn’t eaten for two days and they’d run out of ammunition. Only one thing to do!’ His chin went up, jutting with pride. ‘They attacked.’

Joe left a respectful silence.

‘In the skirmish that followed, Dominique’s horse was shot from under him and he was last seen grappling in combat with the German commander. Sabre to sabre. The French troop was wiped out with the exception of the letter writer, who was knocked unconscious and carted off for interrogation and three years of prisoner-of-war camp by the Germans.’

‘Terrible story. And you think our Mademoiselle Desforges is utterly confused? Her man whom she identifies convincingly and without prompting by his birthmarks was, according to her, present at the Chemin des Dames but I could have sworn she meant the second battle of that name in 1917. But, Bonnefoye, she even told me how many service stripes he would have had on his sleeve. Claims – and convincingly, I have to say – that she sewed his second wound stripe on his sleeve. The wound to the jaw. Result of a blow from a rifle butt, he claimed. It’s all in the notes. She was firmly convinced she had continued to meet her Dominique until his disappearance in 1917.’

‘I’m afraid the evidence rules her out. A body – complete with identification, I have to say – was returned to the parents, was buried with no query raised in the family vault in Paris. In October 1914.’

Joe was aware of Dorcas’s disappointment.

‘Can we be absolutely certain that it is his body?’ Joe ventured to ask on her behalf. ‘In the chaos of war strange things happened . . .’

‘We’ll have to take it as established, I’m afraid. There is no way in the world we’ll get permission to disinter a war hero. Posthumous Croix de Guerre and all that. The parents categorically refuse permission. And, the facts being what they are, I can’t say I blame them. We’d be flying in the face of common sense and the evidence if we pursued this.’

‘Don’t cross Mireille off your list yet!’ said Dorcas. ‘Oh, sorry, Uncle Joe.’

‘I understand your sentiments, mademoiselle, and sympathize,’ smiled Bonnefoye.

‘Talking of burials,’ said Joe. ‘If you look at my notes on the third lot, the Tellancourts, you’ll see I discovered – you might have warned me! – that their Thomas is comfortably buried where every French soldier wants to be buried, in the shadow of his own village church steeple. Amongst a whole tribe of Tellancourts. So what is all this nonsense about their claim?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Bonnefoye had the grace to look shifty. ‘Wondered if you’d trip across that. Are you aware, I wonder, of a rather disgusting type of business which has sprung up in these post-war entrepreneurial times? A business which is hard to suppress since there is such a continuing demand for it. There are companies which – you will find this hard to believe – have set themselves up as retrievers of corpses from the battlefields. It goes on. It still goes on. They dig about in mass graves occasionally finding bodies which still have the name tag of the soldier around his neck or wrist and they track him down and approach his relatives. Sometimes the families of the missing themselves, having exhausted all other channels – the Red Cross and so on – advertise for information in the newspapers, so desperate are they to bring their sons and fathers home to the village.

‘It was in response to such a plea posted by the mother that one of these firms contacted her. They had found the boy, they declared, and had his tag to prove it. They could box up the remains in a coffin and return it to St Cérésur-Marne. For a fee, of course. They charge a franc per kilometre, I understand. So, for a small fortune, a body was returned and buried in the family plot. And until that wretched photograph of Thibaud was printed, they were at peace, content to take their flowers along to his grave every Sunday. But now? Well, how certain can we be that the body in the grave is the Tellancourt boy? You tell me!’

‘Not at all,’ said Joe quietly. ‘And I have to tell you, Bonnefoye, that the wife I was to discover he had when I arrived at the farm roundly declares that Thibaud is not Thomas. She didn’t tell you that? No? Probably keeping quiet under duress from the rest of the family. I managed to get her by herself and found she was eager to communicate this.’

‘Silly woman! But that was well done, Sandilands. A denial by the wife! I’ll fetch her in and take her statement. That’ll amply satisfy the powers that be. Good, that’s one more off our list,’ Bonnefoye said cheerfully.

‘Wait! Not so simple, I’m afraid. I was to discover that the lady values her widow’s status and means to remarry. The thought of remaining chained to a mental patient for the rest of her life doesn’t appeal. And gives her a jolly strong motive for denying him.’

Bonnefoye opened his mouth to exclaim, caught sight of Dorcas and limited himself to ‘Dear, dear! What a nuisance.’

‘But wait! You’ll see I had a roller-coaster of a day – I also managed a private interview with the mother, though I can’t be certain that she didn’t do the managing . . . Anyway – when asked, she offered conclusive evidence as to the birthmarks. It’s all in the notes. She was even able to describe the one on the rear which apparently escaped the attention of his soi-disant lover, Mireille Desforges.’

‘So, we rule out Desforges, leave in the Tellancourts and, tell me, what are your thoughts on the Langlois claim?’

‘As with the Tellancourts, I suspect that the imperative here is a financial one. Dorcas has done some sound detective work of her own and discovers that Mother Langlois, having apparently mistreated her son through his young life, now wants him back in his damaged state to facilitate her flight from the family hearth. I can’t blame her for formulating such a plan but I have to say it casts doubt on the foundation of her claim. Much, I’d say, rests on the statement of this schoolmaster who seems to be so sure of his ground and fighting her corner. Anything known?’