Cold Harbour (19 page)

SHE TOOK OUT
another cigarette and he hastily produced a lighter. “I trust you had a pleasant stay in Paris?” His French was good enough in its way, but his accent was terrible.

She said, “Not really. Service is abominable now and one is constantly stopped and searched which is very inconvenient. Still, you soldiers do have to play at something, I suppose.”

“Mamselle, I can assure you it is all very necessary. My comrades of the SS in Paris have had considerable success in tracking down terrorists.”

“Really? I’m surprised all those soldiers haven’t succeeded in putting down the Resistance movement entirely.”

“You don’t understand the difficulties.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t want to. Not very interesting.”

He was angry then, but she gave him one of the beautiful smiles for which her sister was famous and had the satisfaction of seeing him swallow hard.

“How is the General?” she asked. “In good health, I trust?”

“As far as I am aware.”

“And Major Priem?”

“Standartenführer since yesterday.”

“Colonel? That’s nice.” She laughed. “He does take himself rather seriously, but he really is most efficient, you must admit that.”

Reichslinger scowled. “With others to do the work for him.” He was unable to hold back.

“Yes, it must get very boring for you. Why don’t you apply for a posting? Russia would suit you very nicely, I should imagine. Lots of honour and glory there.”

She was actually enjoying herself now because it was working, because he had totally accepted her as Anne-Marie Trevaunce. In a sense, she saw now that running into him had been the luckiest thing imaginable.

“I am pleased to go where the Führer sends me,” he said stiffly.

At that moment they came round a corner and René had to swerve violently to avoid an old woman leading a cow along the road on a halter. Genevieve was thrown into the corner, Reichslinger with her and she became aware that his hand was on her knee.

“Are you all right, Mamselle?”

His voice was hoarse, the grip on her knee tightened.

She said icily, “Please remove your hand, Reichslinger, otherwise I’ll have to ask you to get out of the car.”

They were coming up towards the village of Dauvigne and René, scenting trouble, started to pull in at the side of the road. Reichslinger, who had gone too far to draw back, moved his hand a little higher.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Aren’t I good enough, is that it? I’ll show you I’m as good a man as Priem on any day of the week.”

“Not really,” she said, “Because the Colonel is a gentleman which you are very definitely not. To be perfectly honest, I find you just a little beneath me, Reichslinger.”

“You arrogant bitch, I’ll show you . . .”

“Nothing.” Her hand came out of her pocket holding the Walther. She slid off the safety catch in one smooth movement as Craig Osbourne had taught her and pushed the muzzle into his side. “Get out of this car!”

They came to a halt as René braked. Reichslinger pulled away from her, eyes wild. He got the car door open and stumbled out. She closed it behind him and René drove away instantly. She looked back and saw Reichslinger standing at the side of the road looking strangely helpless.

“Did I do well?” she asked René.

“Your sister would have been proud of you, Mamselle.”

“Good.”

She leaned back in the seat and lit another Gitane.

THEY CAME OVER
the hill and she saw it half-a-mile away, nestling at the foot of the mountains amongst the trees. Château de Voincourt, grey and still in the morning sun. House of nobility, survivor of religious wars, of revolution, of one bad time after another. As always since childhood, whenever she had returned to this place, there was the same feeling of calm. Of total happiness just at the sight of it.

It vanished for a few moments, as they followed the narrow road, pine trees crowding in and then there it was again, a couple of hundred feet above as they climbed the slope, like a fortress behind those grey walls, waiting for her as it had always done.

THE GATES STOOD
open, but the way was blocked by a swing bar. There was a wooden guardhouse just inside and a sentry holding a machine pistol. He was only a boy in spite of being SS and he leaned down and said uncertainly in bad French, “Papers?”

“But I live here,” she said and he looked totally bewildered. “Don’t you know me?”

“I am sorry, Mamselle, my orders are firm. I must see your papers.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll give myself up. I’m a British agent and I’ve come to blow up the Château.”

A quiet voice cut in, speaking in German. She didn’t understand a word, but the sentry did, running to lift the barrier at once. She turned to the man who had emerged from the guardhouse, the SS Colonel in the paratrooper’s flying blouse of field grey, Knight’s Cross at his throat, the Death’s Head in his cap gleaming in the morning sun. One thing was certain. She didn’t need René to tell her who this man was.

“Max, how nice.”

Max Priem opened the door and got in. “Drive on,” he told René. “The boy, by the way, has only been here for three days.” He kissed her hand. “I’ll never understand the pleasure you get from baiting my soldiers. It’s bad for morale. Reichslinger gets very upset about it.”

“Not at the moment,” she commented. “He has other things on his mind.”

The vivid blue eyes were suddenly very alert. “Explain.”

“His car broke down near Pougeot. I gave him a lift.”

“Really? I don’t see him.”

“I put him out again on the other side of Dauvigne. I don’t know where he did his training, but it certainly didn’t include how to behave in the company of a lady.”

His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were not. “And he went quietly? Reichslinger? Is this what you are telling me?”

“With a gentle prod from my friend here.”

She produced the Walther and he took it from her. “This is German Army issue. Where did you get it?”

“A friendly barman in Paris. Such things are readily available on the black market and a girl needs all the protection she can get these days.”

“Paris, you say?”

“Now don’t expect me to tell you the name of the bar.”

He weighed the pistol in his hand for a moment, then returned it to her and she slipped it into her handbag.

“So, you enjoyed your trip?” he said.

“Not really. Paris isn’t what it was.”

“And the train journey?”

“Abominable.”

“Is that so?”

There was, for some reason, a certain irony to his voice and she glanced at him quickly from under her lashes, out of her depth a little and not understanding why. They stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the front door. He handed her out and René went round to the boot and got her suitcases.

“I’ll take those,” Priem said.

“You really are mortifying the flesh today,” she told him. “An SS Colonel with a bag in each hand like a hotel porter? I should have a camera. They’ll never believe it in Paris. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”

“One of our several mottos,” he said, “is that to the men of SS, nothing is impossible.”

He started up the steps. René said loudly, “Will there be anything else, Mamselle?” and whispered, “The Rose Room is your bedroom, remember. The Countess next door.”

It was an unnecessary point to make for they had discussed the layout of the Château thoroughly enough at Cold Harbour. He was a little afraid now, she could see that. There was sweat on his brow.

She said, “Nothing, thank you, René,” turned and went up the steps after Priem.

THERE WAS A
sentry on each side of the door, but the hall was exactly as she remembered, right down to the ornaments, the pictures on the walls. They ascended the wide marble staircase together.

She said, “How is the General?”

“His bad leg is a little stiff. All the rain we’ve been having. I saw him earlier, walking in the sunken garden.”

They reached the top corridor. She paused outside the Rose Room and waited. He sighed, put down one suitcase and opened the door for her.

As a child, she had slept in this room often. It was light and airy, tall french windows opening on to a balcony. There were red velvet curtains and the furniture was completely unchanged. Polished mahogany. Bed, dressing table, wardrobe. Everything.

Priem pushed the door shut, came across and put the suitcases on the bed, then turned. There was a slight, grave smile on his mouth, a strange air of expectancy as if he was waiting for something.

“Well?” she said.

“Well yourself.” He smiled. “Poor Anne-Marie. Was Paris really that bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then we’ll have to try and make it up to you.” He clicked his heels formally. “But duty calls. I’ll catch up with you later.”

She was aware of an overwhelming surge of relief as the door closed behind him. She tossed her coat on the bed, opened the french windows and went out on the balcony. It overlooked part of the garden only. The main entrance was to the right, her aunt’s balcony around the corner.

There was an old rocking chair in hand-carved beech that she remembered well. She sat down in it, gently rocking, the sun warm on her face. How often had Anne-Marie done this?

PRIEM WALKED ALONG
the landing and paused at the top of the marble staircase, aware of the boots of the SS sentries slamming in salute outside. A moment later, Reichslinger entered.

“Reichslinger!” Priem called.

“Colonel?” Reichslinger looked up.

“My office. Now.”

Reichslinger looked hunted, walked across the hall and disappeared into the corridor. Priem went down the steps slowly, paused at the bottom to light a cigarette, then crossed the hall. When he entered his office the young Hauptsturmführer was standing at his desk. Priem closed the door.

“I hear you’ve been playing naughty boys again?”

Reichslinger looked sullen. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mademoiselle Trevaunce. I get the impression you didn’t try hard enough to be the gentleman.”

“She had a pistol, Standartenführer, a Walther.”

“Which you provoked her into using?”

“The penalty for a civilian found in possession of a weapon is death, as the Standartenführer well knows.”

“Reichslinger,” Priem said patiently. “There are wheels within wheels here. Things you know nothing about. In other words, mind your own business.”

And Reichslinger, unable to hold his anger, said viciously, “That the Trevaunce girl is your business, I understand only too well, Standartenführer.”

Priem seemed to go very still, his face calm and yet suddenly, Reichslinger was afraid. The Colonel moved close and, very gently, fastened a button which was undone in the other man’s tunic.

“Careless, Reichslinger. Won’t do. I can’t have one of my officers setting such a bad example to the men.” He went round his desk and took a document from his in-tray. “A signal from Berlin. Rather depressing. SS battalions in Russia are desperately short of officers. They enquire if we can spare anyone.”

Reichslinger’s throat went dry. “Standartenführer?” he whispered.

“An indifferent posting, especially as the Army is in total retreat there.”

Reichslinger said, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Suddenly, Priem looked like the Devil himself. “If you ever speak to me like that again, if you step out of line just once.” He held up the signal.

Reichslinger’s face was ashen. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get out.” The young man hurried to the door and got it open. Priem added, “And Reichslinger.”

“Standartenführer?”

“Interfere with Mademoiselle Trevaunce again in such a way and I will most certainly have you shot.”

SITTING IN THE
rocking chair on the balcony of the Rose Room, Genevieve, for no accountable reason, remembered an incident when she was fourteen, crouched on the landing in the dark, watching the guests at one of Hortense’s balls when she and her sister should have been in bed. Anne-Marie had discovered that the best-looking young man there was also one of the richest in France.

“I shall marry him if I find I haven’t enough money when I’m older. We’d make a perfect couple. He’s so fair and I’m so dark.”

Genevieve had believed her totally. The voice echoed down the years and then she realised suddenly that Anne-Marie
must
have changed to some degree because everything in life did. The girl she remembered from childhood who, excepting Hampstead, she had last seen four years ago, must be different. Had to be. In a way, the whole thing needed rethinking.

She’d always had a fear of being swallowed up by Anne-Marie, just as she always had the feeling that in some strange way she should never have been born. Sitting there, thinking about it all, she saw that there had always been some kind of bond between them. A kind of mutual resentment of the fact of each other’s existence.

Strange how this quiet place could cause such thoughts and then she became aware of movement in the room. She stood up and went in. Black dress, white apron, dark stockings and shoes, the perfect lady’s maid. Maresa was leaning over her suitcases.

“Leave them!” Genevieve ordered.

Her voice was angry, for inside, she was a little scared. Here was another to convince, someone else who knew her intimately.

“I want to sleep,” she said. “The train was awful. You can unpack later.”

For a moment, she thought she saw hatred in the dark eyes and wondered what Anne-Marie could have done to earn that.

Maresa said, “Perhaps I could run Mamselle a hot bath?”

“Later, girl.”

She closed the door behind Maresa and leaned against it, hands shaking. Another hurdle passed. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was just after noon. Time she braved the lioness in her den. She smoothed her skirt, opened the door and went out.