‘Do be serious, Commander.’

Joe smiled. ‘The resemblance is, actually, quite striking.’ He looked again at the finely drawn, handsome face with its neat moustache.

‘Interesting. Ramble on, will you. First impressions are usually worth hearing. When they’re not flippantly delivered.’

‘No, I agree, sir, this could not possibly be a screen actor. This man is unaware of or indifferent to the camera. He’s not seeing the photographer, you’d say. He’s not looking in that slightly embarrassed way we have to the side or past the lens or narcissistically into it. His expression is impossible to read. A mask. There are signs of a wound along his jaw and I’d say he was about two stones underweight.’ He began to read out snatches from the accompanying text. ‘The man of mystery was found wandering around a railway station . . . It’s thought one of a batch of late-release prisoners from a German prisoner-of-war camp for the mentally ill . . . Poor chap. That would account for his vacant expression. The man cannot speak, has lost his memory and has been passed along from one asylum to another, fetching up at Reims where he is thought to have originated. The director of the asylum . . . um . . . from a swift perusal of this report I’d say he would seem to be a splendid fellow . . . has interested himself in the stranger’s case and taken this unusual step to try to establish his identity and locate his family.’

Joe looked up more cheerfully. ‘Well, I can’t see a problem there. A man with such striking looks must have been instantly identified, wouldn’t you think?’

Redmayne sighed. ‘And there’s our problem, Sandilands. Would you believe – over a thousand families from all over France have claimed him! They’ve mobbed the asylum demanding to take him home with them. And, as you might guess, most of the claimants are female! Mothers, wives and sisters by the dozen. All desperate to get their man – or perhaps any man – back from the front after all these years. Poor devils.’

‘Easy enough to rule out most of the candidates, I’d have thought. Just a matter of process. Now I’d have –’

‘Yes, yes. Whatever you can think of, the French authorities have already done. Height five foot eleven, fair hair, blue eyes. Well, in a country of largely dark-haired, dark-eyed inhabitants, those facts ruled out ninety per cent of the bidders for a start. He didn’t feature in their Bertillon files so – no criminal record. Unless he went uncaught during his career of course. There’s always that. The French police only record the sportsmen they’ve actually apprehended and put behind bars.’

‘Fingerprints, sir? Have they explored the possibilities? I know the system hasn’t captured the French imagination – so much invested in the Bertillon recording method – but surely a comparison would be possible and most revealing? I understand their police laboratory in Lyon to be in advance of anything we can supply ourselves here in London.’

Joe heard the touch of eagerness in his own voice and sighed.

Redmayne hurried on, playing his fish with confidence. ‘Other physical details like limbs broken before the war . . . presence or absence of . . . eliminated a few more candidates and the upshot is – the authorities were left with a solid core of four claimants who will not be discouraged. They are all perfectly certain that the man belongs to them. Here’s a list.’

Joe took the sheet of paper and read out one by one the names and addresses of the claimants. ‘Number one: Madame Guy Langlois. A grocer’s wife – or widow, do you suppose? From a village near Reims. Claims to be his mother. Her son, Albert, disappeared during the first battle of the Marne.’

‘“Missing in action. Presumed to be dead,”’ supplied Redmayne. ‘But no body was ever found and no identification medallion handed in.’

‘Number two: a Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges of Reims, claiming a “certain relationship” with the mystery man from before the war, vows she can identify him to everyone’s satisfaction by particular physical characteristics not yet revealed to the public. “A certain relationship”? Rather coy phrasing from our confrères?’

‘Yes. Family newspaper. Probably means he was her what d’ye call it? . . . her pimp? And the “satisfaction” she promises would undoubtedly be her own. Chap probably made off with her money in the way of those gentlemen and the lady wants to retrieve some of it.’

‘Number three: a whole family, evidently. The Tellancourts. Small farmers from the Reims area. Brother and sister adamant that this is their older brother Thomas.’

‘Some urgency to their claim. Sad case. Lost almost everything in the war. Father and mother are still alive and equally certain of their identification. They present a strong claim. Whole village has come out in support. Papa Tellancourt is very ill and not expected to last much longer. They are vociferous in their cries for an early decision. They were actually caught in the act of smuggling the chap out of the institution,’ he smiled, ‘in their eagerness to acquire him.’

‘Number four. Ah . . . Now I see why I’m here and about to ruin my first holiday in three years!’ Joe cocked an amused eyebrow at the Brigadier. ‘Madame Clovis Houdart. Of the champagne house near Epernay The invalid could be her husband, Clovis, posted missing in 1917. Do you wish, at this point, to declare an interest, Sir Douglas?’

‘Well, of course!’ He rapped sharply on the desk. ‘But an interest in finding out the truth! You must hear, Sandilands, the facts of the matter . . . be aware of the pressures and expectations then you won’t fall foul of them. I was approached by my friend, Charles-Auguste, when he heard of the involvement of the British authorities. He appeals to me to do what I can to ensure that the widow’s claim is rejected. Proved false. He is quite certain that the man in question is not his cousin. And he is deeply suspicious of the widow’s motivation in all this. Aline. Her name’s Aline. It’s no secret that the two in-laws do not get on well but more than that I can’t tell you. They’re perfectly polite to each other in their French way but you never can tell what’s bubbling under the surface, can you? Awkward, what!’

‘Sir, it occurs to me that we have the same theme running through each of these claims. And I don’t refer to the affection they may or may not have for a dear and supposed departed one.’

‘Go on.’

‘A very prosaic and unromantic but deeply compelling motive. And particularly so in these hard times in France. Money, sir. I fear each of these claims could be based on financial gain.’

‘What an unworthy thought! Had the same one myself. Mm . . . yes . . . been researching this. Save you some time. If he is ever identified to the authorities’ satisfaction, the man will, of course, even though he’s out of his head and unaware of anything, be qualified to receive a very generous allowance from the state. A sort of war pension, calculated from the time of his vanishing to the present day and beyond. Froggies are quite a bit more open-handed than we are when it comes to paying for damages. His family, whoever they are proved to be, can count on receiving – shall we say – eight years’ back pay. A fortune to some of the names on that list.’

‘Park the poor fellow in a rocking chair in the corner and they can go on drawing his pension as long as they can keep him alive,’ said Joe. ‘I would expect he qualifies for a disability allowance? But your friend Houdart? Some other financial advantage there, surely, I would guess? If the widow’s claim were to be upheld, “Clovis” would be restored to the family estates and Charles-Auguste’s presence would be in question, probably redundant. “Thank you so much, dear cousin, but you may leave now. I will do all that is necessary from now on.” Not confident I could navigate the intricacies of the Gallic laws of inheritance but obviously spanners would be thrown into works with a resounding clang.’