‘In a nutshell. Yes. It may come down to inheritance.’

‘But you mentioned something, sir . . . just now . . . which intrigued me. You say your friend contacted you with his plea for assistance after the police and the British authorities were made aware? We may assume his approach to be subsequent to – and perhaps dependent on – the official representation? I’m wondering why they should be bothering you with this affair at all.’

Redmayne was happy with Joe’s perception and his increasingly obvious involvement with the puzzle. ‘Rem acu tetigisti, Commander. Spot on the problem!’ He leaned back, confident that his investigation was launched. ‘This director of the asylum, you had correctly identified as a good egg. Scientist by training, medical man, student of Charcot and Freud, I understand, not a civilian placeholder. You’re to liaise with him. He’s the target of much sniping from various French government departments for reasons you can probably guess but he has an interesting tale to tell. He got his voice heard largely because the new information he had to offer rather suited them, I’m thinking. But then, I have a very suspicious mind.’

Joe remained silent waiting for the final twist and jerk that would land him firmly in Redmayne’s net.

‘This medic has lavished care and attention on our mystery man, whose case seems to have caught his imagination. He has made copious notes on his condition and tried, by experiment, not electrical shocks – the doc is a humane man, it would seem – to find out the nature and cause of his illness. One night, a week or so ago, he was called by a nurse to the man’s room. The patient was reported to be having a particularly alarming nightmare and crying out in his sleep. Fascinating, of course. Normally completely dumb, perhaps, under the influence of the nightmare, he might well reveal some information? A useful name or two . . . “Odile, mon amour, tu me manques! Maman, ton fils, Robert, te cherche!” Something of that nature.’

‘Yes? And did he make out any words?’

‘He did. Most surprising. And how lucky for us that this director is an educated man. He recognized the language at once. The patient was screaming out a stream of words.

And this is where we find ourselves involved, Sandilands. The words he was screaming were English.’

As Joe paused in the doorway to readjust the bulky file under his arm, Redmayne called out: ‘By the way, Joe . . . a last word of advice. The name “Houdart” . . . know what it means?’

‘No idea, sir. I’ve never heard it before.’

‘No. Most unusual. Charles tells me it’s a very ancient one from two Germanic roots.’ He frowned in an effort to remember. ‘Hild, meaning combat and hard meaning . . . well . . . hard. Hard in combat. Tough fighter. And although Aline wasn’t herself born with that surname – I believe she started out as a de Sailly – she’s certainly grown into it. Oh, and Aline Houdart, you’ll find, is a damned attractive woman.’

The glance he directed at Joe was avuncular, amused. ‘Have a care, my boy!’

Chapter Four

As Joe ran downstairs towards the open door of the breakfast room he glanced at his luggage, set in the hall the evening before ready for an early start. His two suitcases had been joined by one Gladstone bag and a pile of books done up with string.

Cheerful voices and a clatter of dishes warned him that breakfast was well under way and he checked his watch, annoyed to note he had overslept by half an hour. He paused by the door to collect himself and prepare for the good-natured teasing that would greet his late appearance. As he listened he took a furtive step back, startled by what he was hearing.

‘Well, my money’s on this Houdart woman,’ Lydia was saying firmly. ‘Sounds to me like someone who knows what she wants and gets it. She’ll do a deal with the authorities, pull strings . . . pull Joe’s strings too, I shouldn’t wonder! And she’ll have this poor man for her nefarious purposes.’

‘Can’t say I’d mind being had for nefarious purposes by a glamorous champagne widow,’ said Joe’s brother-in-law. ‘She can have her wicked way with me any day. Oh, I don’t know. Let’s add a sporting dash of excitement! Why not? I’ll go for the dark horse . . . Mademoiselle from Armentières . . . what was her name? Pass me that sheet, Dorcas.’ There was a rustle of paper. ‘Mireille, that’s it. Yes, if you’re making a book put a tenner for me on the Tart from Reims.’

‘Marcus!’ Lydia protested automatically. ‘Language! Ladies present!’

‘You’re both wrong,’ said Dorcas. ‘Aunt Lydia – do I still get my weekly pocket money while I’m in France? Good! Then, will you put a shilling for me on the Tellancourt family?’ Raising her voice, she said casually, ‘I’ll pour some coffee for Joe and ring for more. I’m sure I heard him come downstairs just now.’

Joe snapped the catch of one of his cases noisily then entered looking distracted. ‘My file? I say, has anyone seen . . .? Could have sworn I’d left my file with the luggage last night . . . Oh, I see I did . . . There it is between the Cooper’s Oxford and the Patum Peperium . . . Good morning, everyone! Anything interesting in the papers this morning?’

Marcus and Lydia looked at each other and smiled guiltily.

‘Not really,’ said Dorcas. ‘We had to read your rubbish for entertainment. I can see why you didn’t bother to hide it. Hardly confidential. Not a single body on any page. I wonder when you were intending to tell me of the change in our itinerary, Joe? Sounds exciting – though I’m not sure I’m prepared for a weekend living la vie de château. What do you think, Aunt Lydia?’

‘Oh, goodness! Of course! We must pack your best dress – the blue one you said was too fussy . . . so glad we bought it! And you may borrow my pearls . . . Stockings! You’ll need silk stockings. Gloves! We didn’t think of gloves!’

Joe groaned and took the coffee Dorcas was handing him. Fortified, he reached out and gathered in the scattered pages of his file, reprovingly scraped a blob of marmalade from the top sheet and replaced them between the covers.

In frantic but silent communication, Lydia and Dorcas rose to their feet, hastily putting down their napkins. ‘Porridge in the pot, Joe . . . eggs, bacon . . . the usual,’ muttered Lydia. ‘How long have we got?’

‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘Wheels turning by nine?’

‘Dorcas, scoot along, will you, and find your dress and anything else that comes to mind in view of the change in plans? You’ll need another suitcase – ask Sally to fetch down one of mine. I’ll look out some suitable jewellery and other folderols.’

When Dorcas had charged out of the room Lydia turned to Joe wearing her big-sister’s expression. ‘A word, if you please, Joe.’

He looked at her warily.

‘You may be a senior police officer and a pillar of society, as all would agree, and never think that I’m ungrateful for your offer to escort the child down to the Riviera but -’

‘My offer! Come on, Lydia! I listen for your next pronouncement in the hope of hearing the words “sorry”, “twisting” and “arm” in that order. “Coercion” would be acceptable.’

‘Don’t be pompous! You ought to guess from my circumlocutions that, just for once, I am actually trying hard to choose my words so as not to give offence.’

He looked at his watch, hiding a smile. ‘Twenty-five minutes.’

‘Very well then.’ She hesitated and went on firmly: ‘In England no one will look with anything less than indulgence at an uncle chaperoning his niece down to her father. And that’s all very well. But I’m not so sure of customs and manners in France.’