They drank companionably together, Redmayne talking knowledgeably of blending, first and second pressings, remuage, dégorgement, while Joe waited for the blow to fall.

‘More wine, Sandilands?’

‘Thank you. Would this be a good moment, sir,’ he said genially, ‘to tell me why you’ve summoned me here? My detective skills lead me to suppose you wouldn’t have called in a Scotland Yard Commander to hand him a shopping list for champagne. I’m wondering what service, exactly, Monsieur Houdart would be expecting me to perform – were I to accept this chalice which I suspect will turn out to be heavily laced with some poison or other?’

Joe held out his glass.

Redmayne smiled as he poured. ‘As a matter of fact there is something you could do for him. Just a small favour. Army involvement, of course. French, possibly British. This thing landed on my desk, diverted from the Department of the Adjutant General, the Directorate of Prisoners of War and Personal Services – if you can believe! – but mainly it’s the French police you would be helping. The request for assistance came, in fact, from them. From the very top. Oh, yes. Police Judiciaire involved . . . and rather puzzled to be involved, I gather. At all events, they handed it swiftly to Interpol and you’ll be only too aware, after that last lot, that we owe them a considerable favour. Your mob owe them a considerable favour. The least we could do, I thought, when they approached me, was to send someone along to liaise with them. Interesting case. You’ll be intrigued.’

Not quite at ease with his presentation, Redmayne got up and strode to the window, hands behind his back. He pushed up a pane, the better to catch the bugle call coming up from Horseguards below, and looked out with satisfaction over to the crowding green canopy of trees in St James’s Park.

He cleared his throat. ‘Of course, it’s the press involvement that stirred the whole thing up. And now the country’s in a frenzy. Nothing like a mysterious death and a grieving widow to get the Froggies going! The whole population dashes out in its slippers every morning to buy a paper and read the latest instalment of the drama. Haven’t seen anything like it since the death of Little Nell hit the news-stands.’

Joe had, as a child, ridden without permission a horse which, he had very quickly realized, was out of his control and heading for the hills. The same sick feeling was growing as Redmayne talked.

‘Sir! A moment!’ He attempted a tug on the reins. ‘Police? Interpol? Mysterious death? This doesn’t sound like a matter I can attend to between sips of champagne and polite conversation. Whilst flighting south for the summer. There’s an officer in my department, ex-guardsman – Ralph Cottingham. I know he would be delighted to get away for a week or two.’

Joe had overstepped the mark.

‘Thank you for the suggestion, Commander,’ came the curt reply. Redmayne turned and glowered. ‘Cottingham’s name came up, of course. I always choose the best man for the job and in this case, with your wartime experience in Military Intelligence and your knowledge of the language, you are he.’

His words had a finality which depressed Joe but then the Brigadier unbent and gave a tight smile. ‘And I don’t forget that you were right there – on the spot as it were. Caught up in the battle of the Marne, weren’t you? Your local knowledge may come in handy. And, better yet – travelling under no one’s auspices but your own, your section will avoid any belly-aching from accounts in the matter of extra departmental expense. We’re all accountable these days to pen-pushing pipsqueaks of one sort or another. It irritates me to have to take these petty restrictions into consideration and I expect it’s much the same with you but – this way neither Nevil nor I will be expected to foot the bill. Some might consider the offer of a weekend’s hospitality at a château a more than adequate quid pro quo.’

‘And so it would be, sir, if I were free to accept it.’ Joe’s voice had an edge of desperation. ‘But, you see, there’s a . . . an . . . impediment. For the outward leg of my journey, at least, I am not a free agent.’

The Brigadier returned to his desk and poked again at the file. ‘Something you haven’t declared?’

‘Not something, sir. Someone. I shall not be alone. For the journey down to Antibes I shall be travelling with a female companion.’

Chapter Three

A questioning flick of Redmayne’s eye towards the file betrayed, to Joe’s satisfaction, that the official records evidently did not contain full coverage of his private life.

‘A lady, you say?’

‘I think I said female, sir. Not sure the word lady would be appropriate.’

Redmayne was, for a moment, disconcerted. But only for a moment. His expression adjusted itself into one conveying comprehension and collusion. ‘Look here – is the presence of this, er, companion absolutely essential to the success of your vacation, I wonder, Sandilands? You refer to her as an impediment. Quite understand your position. Most chaps would be only too glad to use the opportunity of an emergency posting abroad to get off by themselves. I’ll be pleased to put it in writing . . . tiddle it up and make it look official if that would smooth a few feathers . . . ease your path. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that female companionship – if that’s what you’re after – is available and of a superior style in France.’

Redmayne sat back, pleased with his solution. He exchanged an old soldier’s knowing smile with the handsome young man sitting opposite. He didn’t think he’d assumed too much. As well as the details he’d picked out from Sandilands’ file he had had a full report from Sir Nevil and, indeed, had even met the man in a social context on one or two occasions. You never quite knew where you were with a Scotsman but first impressions had been most favourable. Undeniably a gentleman, impeccable war record. He was, to date, unattached and that suited his department. With no wifely or domestic concerns, he had always shown himself ready to move at a second’s notice from his bachelor apartment in Chelsea without demur, travel any distance and take on any task, Nevil had assured him. But this was a state which could not, realistically, be expected to last. The Brigadier sighed. This promising chap would soon, inevitably, announce his decision to settle down in some green suburb with wife, children and labrador. Redmayne dismissed this gloomy picture. With a bit of luck he might just turn out to be that useful thing – the eternal bachelor. Still in his early thirties, fit, active and charming company. Thick head of black hair, neatly barbered. Quiet grey eyes. Pity about the face. The war wound. Still, there were those, mainly women – and Lady Redmayne one of them – who maintained that the crooked brow was most intriguing and gave a certain mystery to the otherwise clear-cut features.

Sandilands was speaking again in his low voice which still retained a slight Scottish huskiness. Another of the man’s attractions apparently. But, on this occasion, he was intrigued to hear an unaccustomed note of hesitation.

‘Quite agree, sir, and I only wish it were so easy but the scenario is quite a different one. You see, the female in question is a child. My niece. At least, my honorary niece. Little Dorcas Joliffe, the daughter of Orlando, the painter whose sister –’

‘The Wren at the Ritz! That Joliffe? Beatrice Joliffe? Done to death three months ago . . . Yes, of course I know about that disgraceful affair. Good Lord! Are you saying you’re still in contact with that rackety family? Believe me, Sandilands, you owe them no consideration. Your professional attentions ought properly to have ceased at the closing of the case. Surely Nevil . . .?’