‘Time to ring Varimont,’ said Joe, beginning to pack up the sheets in their remembered order. ‘Are you ready for this?’

Dorcas settled down, ear to the telephone again as Varimont’s voice boomed out.

‘Got them! Well, one of them,’ he announced. ‘One of the orderlies, a Frédéric Lenoir by name, is actually married to a woman who was a Miss Tellancourt. There you have it! A phone call was made, he admits, to the mayor’s secretary in St Céré from where the message went out and, overnight, the family made their plans. Thomas’s mother rehearsed her lines and, word perfect, impressed you with her piety. I’ve crossed the Tellancourts off my list. And dealt with Lenoir.’

‘And the Houdart family? Any connection with them? Any possibility that Madame Houdart showed gratitude for information rendered?’

‘Gracious! You don’t let anything by, do you?’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. I honestly don’t think so. The man was a family member simply marking the card of the Tellancourts. He says he didn’t (and I believe him) tell anyone else. But at least that reduces the claimants to a manageable two. Mademoiselle Desforges and Madame Houdart. Oh, and yes, Sandilands, you were quite right. Thibaud has neat ears but they are attached to his face at the side. Look, do you want me to convey all this to Bonnefoye?’

‘I’d be most grateful. I’m planning to call on him again when I can extricate myself from this scene and perhaps we can even come to a satisfactory conclusion. Thank you for all this, Varimont.’

‘Not at all, my man! Not at all. Give my best wishes to Mademoiselle Dorcas.’

‘I will, indeed. She’s right here.’

He put down the telephone with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Well, that’s it, Dorcas. The ears have it! Did you catch that? Thibaud’s are attached just as Aline said and the photographs show. Now – the question is: why didn’t Mireille think of mentioning that if her bloke were indeed Thibaud? She could talk about the chevrons on his sleeves till the cows come home – and you’d expect a seamstress to know all that – but she didn’t mention the oddity of the ears.’

‘Well, you don’t notice much!’ said Dorcas with deep scorn.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It didn’t occur to Mireille to declare it as an oddity for the good reason that for her it is not. Didn’t you see? Her own ears are attached! She’s one of the one in four people who have them, apparently. She was wearing the most lovely pair of silver earrings but I don’t suppose you noticed them either?’

Joe continued collecting together the contents of the notebook, unhappy with the ruminative silence that ground on.

‘Tell you what, Dorcas,’ he said cheerily to show he bore no grudge. ‘This lad, this Georges, is a very good sort. Don’t you think? If ever you decided the time was right to whisper in his ear, I’d give you my blessing.’

He was pleased with his comment. Unstuffy Marcus would have approved.

‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Joe,’ she said, stuffily.

On the point of clipping the notebook together he was struck by a thought. ‘Hang on a minute . . . there is something more we can do before we give this back. Sit down again, Dorcas. I’m going to read out names, pack drills and dates. Write them down, will you? Here’s a notebook.’ He produced a Scotland Yard issue pad and a pencil. ‘I’m going to work backwards from July ’17. Right? We’ll start with Edward the Partridge Slayer . . . surname Thorndon . . . and he’s listed here with a Captain John. They seem to occur as a pair,’ he said, looking back. ‘Same regiment – 10th battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. London men, most probably . . . This John is still alive since I see we have a birthday card sent for Georges’s sixteenth birthday and it was posted in India of all places.’

‘Is that John as a surname or John as a Christian name?’

‘Could be either. Just write it down. Then there’s a Raoul and an Yves and a Jean-Pierre, no surname given, 1 Corps of the Fifth Army – Lanrezac’s outfit. May 1917 . . . In April ’17 le Colonel Pontarlier and a contingent of cyclist infantry . . . Oh, I say! In February 1917 we’ve got a rather splendid English General! Staying at the same time as a rather splendid French General.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet it took all of Aline’s grace and charm to get those two to be polite to each other. And I wouldn’t have cared to arrange the seating at the dinner table. Now we’re back in 1916 . . . November, and here’s a contingent of recuperating wounded. Aftermath of the Somme, I expect. Not letting them get too far away from the amphitheatre – a quick recovery and back in the arena, I shouldn’t wonder. And we have Edward bobbing up again. Must have been a casualty . . . He stays for quite a time. Longer than a regular leave at any rate.’

A feverish quarter of an hour later and the list was drawn up. Dorcas presented it.

‘We’ve forgotten something,’ said Joe. ‘The most important incidence. Let’s just add to the list Clovis’s appearances, shall we? Mark them with a C alongside in the margin. That’ll do.’

‘Oh, Joe! Do you see what I see?’ she asked.

‘Certainly do! Stands out a mile! And perhaps we weren’t the first ones to see it? Look, Dorcas, I think I must make one more call.’

He asked the operator to connect him with a London number. Whitehall 1212. From there he was put through to Ralph Cottingham’s office. He had expected a duty sergeant to answer but was delighted to hear Inspector Cottingham himself.

‘Sandilands! Sir! How good to hear you! How are things in Champagne?’

‘Fizzing along nicely, thank you, Ralph,’ Joe gave the expected answer. ‘But listen – two things. I’ll make this quick. First: when you’ve performed in accordance with number two below, you are to go home. That’s not a suggestion – it’s an order. It’s Saturday here in France and I expect it’s much the same in London. Number two: I want you to call the War Office. I need urgently to contact a chap in their ex-servicemen’s records department. Quicker if you do this from your end. Bates is the name. Ask him to ring me on this number from his office – that’s important, I want him with his records to hand – as soon as he can.’ Joe read out the house telephone number. ‘Tell Bates he is to announce himself as “Scotland Yard” not the War Office, would you, and hold until I answer.’

‘Got that, sir. Will do. Right now.’

‘I can see where you’re going with this, I think,’ said Dorcas. ‘Raking up a witness to a murder? But Joe, before you go asking about, don’t you think you ought to know for certain whether there ever was a murder? It seems to me there’s a quick way to find out. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Can’t you just knock the wall down using all the clout of Interpol?’

‘I’d rather use all the clout of one of those trolleys they keep down there,’ said Joe. ‘Did you notice? Very substantial. Made of oak with iron-bound corners. Perfect for the job. Perhaps with a pickaxe in reserve? But I think I’ll wait until I’ve heard from Bates.’

‘Who on earth is Bates? It’s the weekend – you said it yourself, Joe. And it’s August. There’ll be nobody in the War Office. They’ll all be licking ice-cream cornets in Brighton or killing things on Exmoor.’

‘Ah! You don’t know Bates! Bachelor. Fanatic. He lives under his desk. But – fingers crossed! Ralph Cottingham will roust out someone who can help us. He’s well connected in the military world. And he’ll start at the top. Probably find we’re answering the telephone to a Field Marshal before the day’s out. Anyway, I think we should go back to being good guests now – as far as we can. Keep our heads down. Go to your room, finish your siesta and be discovered awaking refreshed in . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘In ten minutes. I’ll do the same. Off you go! And, Dorcas – thank you for your help. It’s as good as having Ralph by my side.’

Joe did not need to feign sleep half an hour later when Georges banged on his door and put his head round.