For a second Joe had a sickening feeling that he’d heard this before and was struck by the similarity, if not in circumstances, then in determination between Aline Houdart and Mireille Desforges. Each, he did believe, motivated by undying affection.

‘Clovis has marks on his lower abdomen. His was a difficult birth, a breech birth, and force was used. He has the marks of those . . . pincers . . . on either side of his hip. His right hip. But there is more. Come back to the salon with me, will you? I wish to show you further evidence.’

Stopping to order coffee to be brought to them in the petit salon, she made her way back to the room where they had taken tea the previous day. Judging by the piles of novels and magazines and the cashmere throw draped over a chaise longue, this seemed to be where she spent her leisure time. Joe sat down in an armchair while she went to hunt about in the drawers of an escritoire. She brought over to him three photographs.

In the first, a man very like Thibaud stood looking aloof and aristocratic, slightly embarrassed perhaps to be modelling his cuirassier’s uniform for the camera, his presence in the studio insisted upon no doubt by a doting family. He wore a flamboyant helmet which covered most of his head and it was impossible to tell the colour of his hair.

The second, larger, photograph showed a group of young men in evening dress posing informally at the end of a party. A dozen of them were seated around a table strewn with the debris of an elaborate meal. They had reached the brandy stage and all looked very drunk.

‘Clovis is the second on the left,’ said Aline, pointing. ‘Taken in Paris – a passing out celebration with his contemporaries at the academy of St Cyr. In those days you couldn’t go to a dinner party without it being recorded by a photographer. A hard-riding lot! So much hope, such talent, such dash! I danced with all of them in my time. It breaks my heart to look at them and realize that, of this dozen, only two have survived. Clovis and the man on his left, both held prisoner until the war ended or they would have been killed too, no doubt.’

She was trembling with emotion at the sight of the twelve bold, laughing young men, her voice husky, and snatched it away to replace it with the third photograph.

This was more natural. Clovis was sitting in everyday clothes, relaxed and smiling and holding on his knee the young Georges clutching a toy train. His hair was fair, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and love and, yes, the man was the spitting image of Thibaud.

He said as much to Aline.

‘You haven’t noticed it, have you?’ She moved behind him and pointed. ‘It would take an expert in the Bertillon system of identification to spot it and if it becomes necessary, believe me, Commander, I will certainly employ one. Concealed under the straps of a helmet of course but here where he’s bare-headed you can see it clearly. Look at the ears!’

Joe looked and saw.

‘The lobes. They are joined to the side of the face not free like these.’ She tugged at her own dainty ears. ‘Now, I know – because I’ve been doing my own research on this – that a small percentage only of the population has this characteristic. One person in four, I understand. That, taken in conjunction with the other signs I have given you, ought to be more than enough proof.’

‘I hadn’t remarked Thibaud’s . . .’

‘Attached lobes,’ she said. ‘He has them! For the good reason that Thibaud is Clovis and these are his ears!’

Chapter Twenty

Halfway – and, Joe suspected, a calculated halfway – through coffee, they were joined by Charles-Auguste. Aline withdrew, content to leave the two men to talk to each other, perfectly confident and assured.

Left alone, Joe said as much. ‘Aline would seem to have a watertight case to make for the man in the Reims sanatorium being her husband?’

Charles-Auguste nodded. ‘I know! Believe me, Sandilands, I’ve heard it. Over and over. And it grows in strength. I can’t imagine why I bother to demur and throw an occasional, feeble “Ah, but . . .” into the mixture.’ He paused and, invited by Joe’s sympathetic silence, went on, pulling a rueful face: ‘But I do! Who am I to say this isn’t my cousin, you may well ask, when his wife of eighteen years, mother of his son, says otherwise? And we were never particularly close. All I can say is that every instinct I have is telling me that there is something very wrong . . . very disturbing . . . about this identification. And it stems, not so much from the mental patient himself as from Aline.’ His voice had lowered and he cast a quick glance at the door. ‘It’s her sanity I fear for. She’s unnaturally obsessive about this whole business!’

‘A bit harsh?’ said Joe. ‘The desire to have one’s husband restored can hardly be regarded as abnormal? I have spoken to Aline. She held . . . and still holds . . . Clovis in the deepest affection.’

Charles took a fortifying sip of coffee and levelled a sharp glance at Joe over his cup. His eyes were shining with cynical amusement. ‘I see she’s got you where she wants you, old man! Oh, don’t be concerned – she captures everyone.’ He stirred uncomfortably. ‘But, look here, the thing is . . . and you won’t believe me . . . I say this unwillingly anyway but . . . quite the reverse. Um. I’d say they positively disliked each other.

‘Once he’d got over the initial starry-eyed enchantment, Clovis became over the years, first cool, then irritated and then uncaring. He adored his son, of course. But even so, as soon as war became a possibility he rejoined his regiment. He was a second son. He trained as a soldier at St Cyr. You knew that? And you’re aware, I take it, of the French rules of inheritance? Our crazy Napoleonic law! Everything to be divided equally between the male heirs whether there’s two or twenty. Ridiculous! It’s ruined many a grand – and lowly – estate. And you’d be surprised how many families cease to expand after the birth of the first son. Though, if he dies, a second seems, miraculously, to appear in short order. Clovis’s older brother died and he inherited everything – threw himself into viticulture and was very effective. Then came the war. Brave man, intensely patriotic. I do think his country meant more to him than anything. In short he was gallant, to use an old-fashioned word. He would always put himself in the thick of things. Surprising that he lasted as long as he did.

‘But, as I say, I think he was not unhappy to leave his wife behind. From what I gathered from her complaints he rarely, suspiciously rarely, I’d say, came home on leave. Avoiding her. But he needed to see his son so the man must have been torn in two. He wasn’t a cold man, Sandilands, don’t think it. Reserved perhaps but . . .’ He reached forward and picked up the photograph of Clovis holding his son on his knee. ‘That was Clovis. Loving. That’s the man I remember and it’s the man Georges remembers.’

‘Well, he seems to have inspired deep emotion. Aline tells me she is motivated by love to pursue her claim on this man,’ said Joe. ‘But if you’re saying – not love on her part or his – then what? She is preparing to go to some lengths, involving experts in the fields of criminology and psychiatry, to make her case.’

‘And there’s where my concern lies. I was delighted when we were told they suspected he was English. A jolly good solution all round, I thought. Best possible outcome. And that’s when I contacted Douglas and stirred up the French police. At that stage the forces of law and order were not involved and the whole cat’s cradle was being handled by a sanatorium and the Ministry of Pensions. Hardly adequate, I thought, considering the increasing complexity. I knew I could depend on Douglas to send someone to shine a light on all this. And, Sandilands, I’m very glad you’re here. We need to know the truth – we can all work with that.’