‘Orlando is an entertaining and talented fellow and, yes, I’m proud to count him my friend. His children, who, as you know, are motherless and live like gypsies, have been taken under the wing of my sister Lydia who lives quite near to them in Surrey. The oldest girl, the impediment referred to earlier, this Dorcas, is, oh . . . fourteen? (Not sure she knows herself.) She’s become particularly attached to my sister’s family and seems to be living with them in the capacity of third daughter. Waifs and strays have always gravitated towards my sister and she’s made something of a project of young Dorcas. Clever little thing. Most unusual. It was her observation and insight that led to the uncovering of her aunt’s murderer.’
‘What extraordinary company you keep, man!’ said Redmayne. ‘And what’s all this nonsense about “waifs and strays”? Hardly a description of the Joliffe children, I’d have thought? Pots of family money in the background. Good home in leafy Surrey. Yes? Death and treachery swirling all around, as all admit, but a respectable grandmother to keep the lid on. I understand she has wisely done her best to minimize the impact of her daughter’s scandalous behaviour and sudden death. And it suits us to support her in this. Beatrice Joliffe died in the course of a robbery . . . we must all hang on to that. The old lady, at least, seems to have got the picture. Should be enough to protect those children from the public opprobrium which might otherwise have come their way.’
‘Deprivation can take many forms, sir, and these children have been rejected by their grandmother – on whom they are materially dependent – on account of their illegitimacy. Rejected with inexcusable and unnecessary cruelty, some might say. Their father, fond though I have become of him, is feckless – not uncaring but inadequate . . . say rather, perpetually distracted. When his model and current mistress, herself heavily pregnant, set fire to his caravan (and Orlando inside it at the time, under the influence of something or other) the eldest child, Dorcas, suffered burns whilst helping to rescue her father. Sister Lydia leapt in, scooped up the whole brood and took them home with her to introduce them to the civilized life.’
‘Don’t recall hearing any of this penny-dreadful, Perils-of-Pauline stuff from Nevil?’
‘No, sir. These skirmishings post-dated the premature closing of the case.’ Joe did not attempt to hide his disapproval.
Redmayne chose not to pick up the implied criticism of the military pressure which he was quite aware had been applied. ‘And the child is now loosely under the protection of your sister? A public-spirited gesture. Admirable woman! But I can’t see why her self-sacrifice should extend to and involve you, Sandilands.’
‘Oh, people do occasionally talk me into undertaking unwelcome projects,’ Joe said genially. ‘Orlando gathered his remaining four children together with his current mistress, put them aboard a train and went off to the south of France as he does every year. He carouses all summer at a sort of awful artists’ jamboree – returning in the autumn. He hobnobs with the likes of Georges Braque, Matisse, Picasso . . . Augustus John, I shouldn’t wonder . . . All egging each other on. At this time of year, my sister travels in the opposite direction, going north home to Scotland, and Dorcas, discovering this, kicked up a fuss. She thinks of herself as a Child of the South, which, indeed, she very much appears . . . girls with her dark looks are thick on the ground in Arles . . . and I was cajoled into escorting her down through France to whichever villa they’ve all descended on and there I hope she will rejoin her father.’
‘A sorry tale. I fear you allow yourself to be used too readily, Sandilands. Disappointing that you have let yourself become so embroiled in that family’s affairs. They must all, inevitably, be tainted in some minds . . .’ Redmayne swept a warning glance up to the ceiling. This was his way of referring to the shadier elements of the government departments concerned with aspects of national security who were rumoured to have offices complete with the latest in listening technology situated in remote parts of the building. ‘. . .tainted with the scurrilous behaviour and treachery of that woman,’ he finished with tight-lipped distaste.
Joe had noticed that the few people who needed to refer to Dame Beatrice did so in a hushed voice and called her ‘that woman’. The words ‘espionage’, ‘blackmail’ and ‘traitor’ were always in mind but never spoken.
‘Hum . . . Look, take the girl with you.’
This was an order not a suggestion. ‘Might work in our favour. Give an impression of a cosy family visit, policeman on holiday with his niece, relaxed, convivial. You could well learn a lot more – and faster – that way. And let’s not forget Houdart Fils! He’s, as you calculated, sixteen.’ Redmayne smiled with satisfaction. ‘Does this Joliffe child speak any French?’
Joe recalled with dismay the fast and colloquial street French Dorcas had picked up trailing about after her father in the loucher parts of the Riviera. ‘Fluently,’ he said diplomatically.
‘She does? Good. Yes, this might all work out to our advantage. Look here, don’t hesitate to telephone us if there’s anything we can supply. Full back-up guaranteed. Shan’t be at my desk myself unfortunately. Like your sensible sister, I’m going north for a week or two.’ He glanced at the dramatic Victorian paintings of stags at bay and frothing Scottish salmon streams hanging on his panelled walls and sighed with satisfaction. ‘But there’ll be someone here keeping communications open.’
‘Telephone?’ said Joe morosely. ‘Do they have the telephone down there?’
‘They certainly do. Halfway between Paris and Reims, you’d expect it. Things have changed, Sandilands, since you were dodging German shells over there eight years ago. No one like the French when it comes to reconstruction. Still, when you come to think of it – they’ve had a lot of practice, poor souls. Look at it this way – sorting out Charles-Auguste’s little problem is the teeniest bit of last-minute reconstruction. Least we can do, wouldn’t you say?’
At this point Joe, mystified and discouraged, sighed and surrendered the pass.
‘Now. To business!’ At last the file was opened and Redmayne pretended to riffle through it. He had clearly made himself familiar with the contents and barely needed to refer to it during his briefing.
‘Know anything about shell-shock? Or the condition we must now call “neurasthenia” or “war psychosis”?’
‘I’ve encountered cases, sir. I can’t say I’ve made a study of it.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to. We have, naturally. In fact I’ve managed to put together a few papers here outlining the very latest thinking on the condition. Make yourself familiar with them. It may help you in your enquiry.’
‘My enquiry? And does it have a subject, my enquiry?’
‘Of course. But not what I gather to be your usual kind of subject. No rotting corpse on offer, no member of the aristocracy done to death in mysterious circumstances. No, the reverse, in fact. You’ll be helping to solve the mystery of someone who’s decidedly (and rather inconveniently) alive.’
He produced from the file a cutting from a French newspaper. The article occupied the whole of the front page and carried a large portrait photograph. Joe took it and translated the headline. ‘Do you know this man?’ He studied the photograph for a few moments and looked up. ‘Of course I know him. Doesn’t everybody?’
‘What! Are you serious?’
‘But his face is everywhere in London at the moment. On billboards ten feet high. It’s Ronald Colman.’
Pleased to have puzzled his boss he added kindly, ‘The film actor, sir, but a Ronald Colman after a heavy night out on the tiles, you’d say. Looks rather beaten up. You haven’t seen him in Her Night Of Romance? . . . Lady Windermere’s Fan? And most recently Beau Geste? Oh, an excellent film! I do recommend it. I’m sure Lady Redmayne could tell you all about him. The gentleman is English by birth, wounded in the war and now making a name for himself on the silver screen in America.’