All hesitations and doubts abandoned, shaking with excitement and caught out by an unexpected rush of affection, she called out his name. He was blinded by the sunlight and it was a moment before he saw her standing in the shadows. She ran to him, hugging him, breathing in the familiar smell of his brown linen shirt, moving her arms up around his neck and teetering on her toes to reach his lips.
The bottles crashed to the marble floor, frothing in scented eddies around their feet as he put both arms around her and lifted her up, swinging her round and laughing with delight.
Chapter Two
The War Office, London, August 1926
‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly. Of course, I would have liked to oblige but. . no. . the answer has to be — no. I’m afraid it simply can’t be done. I have to plead a prior engagement.’
Joe Sandilands stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He was unused to refusing to fall in at once with a requirement, order, wish or whim from a superior officer. And Brigadier Sir Douglas Redmayne was a very superior officer. No one ever got into the habit of denying Sir Douglas anything. A second opportunity never presented itself. The Brigadier seemed equally surprised and discomfited by the feeble rejection. He bristled at Joe across the breadth of mahogany desk, bushy eyebrows gathering in attack with moustache coming up in support.
His hand reached out and he pressed a buzzer.
Joe rose to his feet and turned to face the door. He braced himself for the entry of a matched pair of the heavy brigade he’d caught sight of standing on duty in the corridors of the War Office on his way up to the fifth floor and prepared himself for the ceremony of ejection from the premises. It would be embarrassing, of course, but not entirely unwelcome. In fact he’d need an escort to find his way out of this imposing baroque building with its two and a half miles of corridor. Everything around him from the shining white Portland stone cladding on the pillared exterior to the heavy gold and ivory desk furniture was designed to overawe.
To Joe’s surprise the two expected thugs made no appearance; the door was opened by one small female secretary.
‘This would seem to be as good a moment as any, Miss Thwaite,’ said the Brigadier with a nod. ‘If you will oblige?’
Miss Thwaite favoured them both with an understanding smile and disappeared.
‘Resume your seat and hear me out, Commander.’ Redmayne smiled and selected another card from his strong hand: ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that I am seeing you with the knowledge and permission — encouragement even — of your Commissioner. From whom I continue to hear good things. Liaison between our departments, I’m sure you’ll agree, has. .’ Into the slight pause, Joe knew he was meant to slide the thought: ‘until this moment’. ‘. . been cordial and effective.’
Joe sat down again, eyeing Redmayne with what he hoped was an expression at once undaunted but unchallenging. The officer was, he reckoned, ten years older than himself, probably in his early forties, lean, active and professional. His title was as impressive as his appearance: ‘Imperial General Staff, i/c Directorate of Military Operations and Intelligence’. As baroque as the building, Joe reckoned. He’d always known it as ‘Mil Intel’. A survivor of the war, Redmayne had worked his way to his present eminence, it was said, thanks to more than his fair share of luck. But Joe would have added: intelligence and a speedily acquired understanding whilst under fire of the changing nature of warfare. And, if the stories were to be believed, a strong streak of ruthlessness had stiffened the blend.
‘Now, be so kind as to hear me out, old chap!’ said Redmayne into the silence, trying for a tone of bonhomie. ‘I’m perfectly aware of your travel arrangements.’ He poked at and then straightened a folder in front of him, a folder containing as the top sheet, Joe was sure, the outline of his holiday plans. ‘Nevil was kind enough to send over your file before he left for Exmoor.’
Out of courtesy and custom Joe had sketched out his itinerary beginning with departure early tomorrow morning from his sister’s house in Surrey where he would pick up a package and make for the Channel port, and going on at a speed dictated by the performance of his car and the state of the roads all the way down to the south of France. He’d even given estimated dates of arrival at hotels along his route. But his plans further than Antibes he had not confided for the simple reason that he had none. He was looking forward to a blissful two weeks of wandering around Provence before starting for home again.
‘I see you’ve elected to take the Dover crossing to Calais and then on down through the battlefields, fetching up at Reims.’ The Brigadier looked at him with speculation. ‘Many chaps would have gone Newhaven-Dieppe to Paris and avoided all that.’
‘Avoiding “all that” is not something I would ever want to do,’ said Joe quietly. ‘I have respects to pay. Memories to keep bright.’ In embarrassment he added, ‘And you have to admire what the French and the Belgians are doing by way of transforming all those hellish bone-yards into memorials and cemeteries. There are some quite splendid monuments designed by Lutyens I should like to take a look at. .’
‘Good. Good. Well, I see I’m not sending you out of your way then. Not at all. You’ll be passing through Reims. Centre of the once glorious champagne trade. All I’m asking you to do is break your journey at this address instead of staying at a hotel. Here you are.’
He passed over the desk two small white cards. Joe looked first at the visiting card and read in curlicued, florid French lettering: Charles-Auguste Houdart, Château de Houdart, Reims, Champagne. The second card was a merchant’s copy of a wine label. A spare architectural sketch of a small château nestling between beech trees showed ordered lines of vines marching up a slope behind and disappearing into the distance. Across the top was printed the name of the champagne house, which appeared to be Houdart Veuve, Fils et Cie.
‘Your wine merchant, sir?’
‘Yes, that, but also my friend. Charles-Auguste. Splendid fellow. You’ll like him.’
‘And is your friend Charles-Auguste the son of this house?’ Joe asked, intrigued despite his unwillingness to show the least co-operation with this scheme to divert him from his plans.
‘No, he isn’t. I suppose you could say he’s billed as Cie — la Compagnie. He runs it after all. On behalf of the aforementioned Widow and Son. Ever heard of this brand, Sandilands? No. Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s a very small house. . not one of the grandes marques like, oh, Moët et Chandon, Ayala, Bollinger, Veuve Clicquot. But to a connoisseur the name Houdart speaks volumes. Interesting history. Especially recent history. You’ll remember the two battles of the Marne damn nearly scoured this country out of existence? Some of the larger estates are only just beginning to get back to pre-war production levels but this little château managed to survive practically unscathed. And all in spite of losing the owner and moving force of the enterprise to the war. Clovis. His name was Clovis. He rode off to war, disappeared and was posted “missing, presumed dead” in 1917. He left a widow and a seven-year-old son behind. But quite a widow as it turned out! Gallant, in the tradition of Champagne widows. Nothing loath, she rolled up her sleeves, kicked off her sandals and trod the grapes, so to speak, alongside whoever she could get hold of to work the estate. And it paid off, it would seem. Nothing prospered, of course, in that dreadful four years but it survived. And now it’s prospering like anything!’
‘I’ve identified the Veuve, and the Fils — her son — must be about sixteen now? But where does your friend, who I see bears the family name, come into this?’ Joe’s interest was polite and professional but no more than that.