They watched as she snapped it in two, releasing a seductive scent of vanilla and a cloud of icing-sugar, and, murmuring, offered half to Thibaud. Joe felt Varimont, standing close by him, tense as his patient turned his head slightly. He allowed her to open his hand and then close it again over the biscuit. Dorcas carefully moved his hand towards his mouth and he began to eat. Having swallowed the first half, he opened his hand and stretched it out. Dorcas gave him the second half and he crunched his way through that too, to her evident satisfaction. When he’d finished, she tenderly whisked a crumb from his chin, crooning to him in a language Joe had not heard before.
And then Joe heard the doctor gasp in surprise. Thibaud turned to her and looked at her as though he saw her at last and he smiled. A smile of utter sweetness and childlike pleasure. And, swallowing his emotion, Joe acknowledged that of the many smiles that would be directed at Dorcas in the coming years, this was the one above all she would remember. A hand came out again, hesitantly, and reached for her shiny black head. He stroked her hair gently twice.
Standing once again outside Thibaud’s room, Joe detained the director before he could lock the door. ‘A moment, sir. That was all very interesting and involving but in no way does our encounter begin to address the problem of your patient’s nationality. I wonder, would you permit me . . .?’
He outlined his plan and the director nodded in agreement. ‘Can’t do any harm and may tell us something. Carry on, Commander.’
Joe opened the door again and checked that the man had, as expected, settled back into his slumped posture, sideways on the bed, face turned away from the door.
In a loud and convincing rendering of an English sergeant major’s voice, he barked out an order.
‘Atte-e-e-nSHUN! On your feet, laddie! Stand by your bed!’ More parade ground commands followed and each was received blankly, with not the slightest twitch of a muscle. Joe went to stand directly in front of him and snapped off a smart salute. ‘Reporting for duty, SIR!’ This time the voice was that of an officer. Impossible for a trained soldier of any rank not to offer the reciprocal salute.
Not one joint of one finger moved in response. Joe looked keenly at the man’s features, awake to the slightest shifting expression.
And, finally, Joe’s efforts were rewarded. At last the face began to twitch. His nostrils flared. His upper lip trembled. His mouth opened. Thibaud gave a wide yawn, collapsed on to his bed and pulled the blanket over his head.
Chapter Seven
Joe waited until he was navigating his course with certainty back across the city before he spoke to Dorcas.
‘So – the doctor’s efforts “will have been worth it” eh? And where, pray, did you learn to juggle the future perfect tense with such confidence, miss?’
He was aware that his question sounded ponderous but he was keen to hear her answer.
She left a silence just long enough to reprove him for his condescension. ‘Well, it could have been – if I’m allowed to use a conditional perfect without incurring disapproval – in the stables of the Vicomte de Montcalme last year. Indeed, I do remember now that it was.’
‘Oooh! Hoity-toity! If you’re going to talk to me like an offended duchess – or worse, her lady’s maid – I’m going to throw you out on to the cobbles right now. Are you going to elaborate on that throwaway remark?’
‘I don’t know where you get your information about me but you must have noticed that my father is a gentleman. He may well be a painter and an English eccentric but I can tell you that these qualities make him very acceptable to aristocratic or rich people who live in the south. He can paint in whatever daubist style is fashionable but what you may not know is that he’s a jolly good portrait painter in a traditional way. His productions are “lively and perceptive”, people say – and I’d add, more importantly, flattering. Last summer he was painting the Vicomte de Montcalme and I used to go along with him and play . . . ride,’ she corrected herself hastily, ‘with the Vicomte’s children. Two sons and a daughter. The oldest boy, Félicien, was my special friend. He’ll be seventeen now. I’m quite good at copying accents, which is a help. Orlando’s been summoned back again to do an equestrian portrait of the Vicomtesse. I can’t wait to see them all again!’
Was all this nonsense true? He had no idea. Ought he to have been annoyed by her sharp tone, lacking the deference due from one of her age to a well-meaning adult and amounting, in fact, to a set-down? Joe smiled. Probably. But pulling rank and demanding respect were not his style. There were other ways.
‘I see. But I still can’t imagine the circumstances,’ he said innocently, ‘that would precipitate the use of complex tenses in a stable. I find horses respond best to a simple imperative.’
Dorcas smiled slightly. ‘“In a year’s time you will have forgotten me.”’ She sighed a lingering sigh, remembering.
‘Talking horses? Whatever next!’
After a startled moment she burst out laughing and he felt it wise to change the subject. ‘Tell me, child – whatever prompted you to treat our friend Thibaud in the way you did?’
‘He reminded me of a boy in our village who’s blind. I know the doctor said all his senses are unimpaired but there was something about his unseeing expression . . . I did what I normally do when I greet Robin.’
‘And do you take Robin biscuits?’
‘When I have them to offer, yes. I take them from Granny’s Chinese jar. Reid always tells me when he’s just refilled it. I was thinking that if this man is really from this area he might respond to a prompting from one of his other senses. Worth a try. A smell associated with his childhood might awaken some memories and, I’d guess, every child born in Champagne was familiar with those pink biscuits. It seemed to work.’
‘It certainly did. I think you achieved more in two minutes than the medical profession in as many years.’
‘I was longing to ask, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise – do you know if they’ve tried hypnotism?’
‘What do you know about hypnotism, Dorcas?’
‘There’s a chapter in my book . . .’ She held it towards him and a swift glance revealed it to be The Wounded Mind by Lt. Col. M.W. Easterby MD. ‘Aunt Lydia whipped it from a shelf just before we left. She’s done a lot of voluntary work on the wards at St Martin’s, did you know that? She thought it might help you out. It’s only just been published. The most intriguing thing – I’ve marked the page for you – is the story of a shell-shocked soldier who had lost the power of speech. He began eventually to speak again and he talked in the London accent of the nurses and orderlies who tended him, but under hypnosis he suddenly astonished everyone by reliving his wartime experiences in a northern accent. Another patient recognized it as Wearside – you know, from around the River Wear. They tracked him down. He was a Northumberland Fusilier who’d gone missing on the Aisne. But the minute he came out of hypnosis he lost his Geordie accent and became a Londoner again. I wonder why the doctor’s not hypnotized Thibaud?’
‘It’s not a popular technique in France, I believe. But it’s a suggestion worth putting if we see him again.’
‘Were you able to form an impression of Thibaud’s nationality? Is he English, do you think?’
‘Not proven, I’d say.’
‘But he spoke in English. We’ve seen the doctor’s record.’
‘Yes. But I haven’t heard him speak myself. I don’t know the doctor. I liked him and I think I’d grow to admire him as I got to know him but I take no stranger’s evidence without checking, especially witnesses who are closely involved and may be pursuing an agenda of which I’m unaware. I’ve decided, if you don’t mind, Dorcas, to take this problem further. A day more of research in Reims, perhaps two, before we go off to the château.’