The Eden Inheritance (17 page)

‘It looks nasty,' Bridget said. ‘You should put some iodine on it.'

‘It's nothing,' Kathryn said again. Her hand was smarting, it was true, but she had scarcely given it a thought. She had been too preoccupied with the other implications of this afternoon's encounter to worry about such a minor discomfort.

What was she doing getting mixed up in something like this? she asked herself. She should never have kept the appointment, much less made another. The Englishman, whose name she did not even know, spelled danger – danger for her, for Guy, for the whole family. Supposing the Vichy patrol had seen them hiding in the thicket – how would they have explained themselves? And supposing the stranger had been picked up as he cycled back to wherever it was he had come from and been interrogated – would he tell them why he had been in Savigny and who it was he had come to see? A haze of perspiration broke out on Kathryn's forehead and she closed her eyes momentarily, feeling sick with dread. She shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have put Guy and the others at risk in this way. All very well to blame Charles' family for
collaborating
, suddenly she could see all too clearly just why they did it.

And yet … in spite of her fear Kathryn felt a knot of resolve hardening within her. That was precisely the reason why they should resist. It was demeaning, having to live beneath a regime that made it impossible to go where one wanted, talk to to whom one wished. Sometimes it was necessary to take risks in order to preserve one's self-respect. At least today she had shown some defiance of the state of affairs that existed, rebelled in a minor way against their German masters. The Englishman, whoever he was, was risking his life for their freedom and it could be that her own brother was doing the same. It wouldn't surprise her – it would be very like Edwin. If so, the least she could do was offer what help she could. But if she did she must be very, very careful. She must not trust anybody, not Charles, not Bridget, perhaps not even the stranger himself. She had a week in which to make up her mind. But somehow, in her heart of hearts, Kathryn knew she had already decided what she was going to do.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK
Paul Sullivan took the train to Angoulême. Today he was using a different persona – that of a travelling salesman in pharmaceuticals – and he thought that in his suit and overcoat he might look too conspicous on the country bus. Besides, the train was quicker, provided there were no unexpected delays, and time was beginning to be precious.

He had not wasted the week since he had cycled to Savigny to see Kathryn. She had been his first choice of contact but he could not rely on her too much. He did not know yet whether or not she would help him, and in any case he could see the difficulties that living in a house of collaborators would pose if she did. How much she lived her own life would have a bearing on that, he supposed, but there was a limit to the number of walks she could take, especially at this time of year. When summer came it would be easier, but summer was a long way off.

Paul had gone back to scratch and started his recruiting drive using Georges and Yves as the centre of a web, building outwards from them step by step. They were outside the area he had been dropped in to develop but they were keen to resist and needed direction and assistance. Using the radio transmitter he had brought in with him rather than their rather amateurish radio link, Paul had been in touch with London to ask for a drop of arms for their use, and he was tuning in nightly to the BBC, waiting to hear the coded message that would tell him it was on its way. Listening to the BBC was, of course, forbidden, but it was a small risk compared with transmitting himself. Paul was not the most adept of operators, barely competent, and he looked forward to the day when London sent him in a properly trained ‘pianist'.

He had also made a start towards the setting up of an escape route. He had enlisted the help of a
passeur
, a farmer whose land straddled the demarcation line, and a parish priest willing to allow the crypt of his church to be used for hiding Allied airmen until they could be passed on. There was, of course, a limit to how much of the line he could personally oversee. There was no way he could check it out all the way to Switzerland or the Spanish border; for that he had to rely on each member of the chain establishing the next link for themselves, but at least he could do his best to ensure that the escapees he pushed their way were genuine fugitives, not German plants. The sense of responsibility weighed heavily on him and he prayed he would not let them down. Try as he might to tell himself it had not been his fault, he still felt a sense of guilt about losing his last circuit. He wanted to do all he could to ensure he did not have other arrests or executions on his conscience.

But all these things were secondary almost to his main plan to form a circuit within Savigny itself. And for that he needed Kathryn's help.

As he was in good time Paul decided to try and see Kathryn before she paid her visit to the old woman who lived at the café. He had already planned to meet her in a different setting – much safer than repeating an exercise if there had been any breach of confidence. He made his way to the main street leading from the market to the café, fairly certain it was the route she would take, and mingled with the shoppers whilst he waited.

After a while he saw her coming up the street, the wind blowing her hair which had escaped from the same felt hat she had been wearing the last time he had seen her. He walked towards her, then stopped, turning as if he had only just noticed her.

‘Katrine! What a surprise!'

He saw from her startled look that she had not immediately recognised him in his different persona but she quickly recovered herself.

‘Oh – hello!'

‘Fancy seeing you here! It's a very cold day, isn't it? How would you like a nice hot cup of coffee?'

She looked around nervously – he must warn her, he thought, not to do that. But no one appeared to be taking any notice of them.

‘Yes, that would be nice,' she said.

He cupped his hand around her elbow, propelling her back up the street to a café he had noticed earlier. They went inside and he chose a corner table, almost hidden from the rest of the café by a large potted plant.

‘Well?' he said when they had ordered. ‘Have you thought things over?'

‘Yes, I've thought.'

‘And?'

‘And I've decided I'll do what I can to help.'

Briefly his hand covered hers.

‘Good girl.'

‘I don't know how much use I can be.' Her tone was sharp. She could not understand the strange, almost electric thrill that had run through her at the touch of his hand, understood even less the regret she felt that he had removed it. As she spoke she found herself looking down at his hand, broad, flecked with tiny dark hairs, wishing he would touch her again. Mentally she gave herself a small shake. ‘It will be very difficult for me to do anything at all, but if you have anything specific in mind let me know.'

‘I have.' His voice was firm and low. It sent another shock wave through her. ‘I need a base in Savigny. Could you get me into the château?'

Her eyes widened.

‘What on earth do you mean?'

‘Exactly what I say. Savigny is the exact hub of the area I want to activate. If I was staying at the château it would place me right at the nerve centre.'

‘You're mad! I told you – my husband's family are collaborators and General von Rheinhardt is a frequent visitor.'

‘All the better. They would think no agent in his right mind would operate in such a hive of enemy industry.'

‘They'd be right – no agent in his right mind would!'

‘I believe in bold moves,' Paul said. ‘I'd need a good cover story, of course, but I think I have one. You were in Switzerland at finishing school, right? You met me there. I am a Swiss national, though my father was English. My name is Paul Curtis and I am a teacher by profession. You have been thinking for some time that you should arrange for a tutor for your little boy. You persuade your husband I am the right man for the job.'

She shook her head, totally bemused by this unexpected turn of events.

‘But Guy is only three years old!'

‘Almost four.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘You'd be surprised how much I know about you, Kathryn.' For a moment a humorous light flickered in his eyes. ‘You think it would be an excellent idea to have Guy start lessons with a tutor who speaks not only English and French but German too.'

‘And you do?'

‘Yes.' He drew out a pack of cigarettes. ‘ Would you like one?'

She didn't often smoke but just now she thought she could do with one.

‘Thank you.'

He flicked his lighter on and leaned across the table. As he lit her cigarette his hand brushed hers again but this time she was too preoccupied to feel any response.

‘But what are you supposed to be doing in France?'

‘I was teaching at a small private school near Bordeaux. Because of the war it has had to close down. Oh, don't worry, the story holds up. There was such a school and if asked the principal will confirm I was on the staff there. It was all checked out and carefully set up before I left London.'

‘I can't believe it!' she said. ‘You really had all this worked out!'

‘In the hope that you would help me, yes. The SOE might be a relatively new organisation but it's learning fast. They don't leave anything to chance.'

‘Well.' She drew on her cigarette and coughed slightly. ‘I still think it's crazy, but if I should agree to it, how would I explain your sudden appearance?'

‘You bumped into me today. Coincidences like that do happen, believe me. Do you think you could carry it off? You'd have to be very convincing.'

‘I don't know … I'm not used to telling lies …'

‘But you are resourceful.' He looked at her steadily. He was already convinced that if she decided to go along with the plan she certainly was capable of carrying it off. Until he had met her he had withheld judgement – something like this required very special qualities if it was not going to end in disaster. Now his early doubts had vanished. She was the right type to get away with it; all he had to do was convince her of that The one absolutely necessary ingredient lacking was confidence. By letting her know he was willing to place his life in her hands he was doing all he could to instil it in her, but that alone was not sufficient. The rest she must do for herself.

‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Paul Curtis. I was working as a barman in the Hôtel Belles Fleures in Geneva for about six months while waiting to go to college. We'll go over the full story later. We need to agree on every detail.'

‘Yes, of course, I'm not stupid … Look, I shall have to go. Anne-Marie will think I'm not coming.'

‘All right. I'll contact you again.'

‘I haven't made any promises, mind …'

They stubbed out their cigarettes and went out into the street. As the door closed behind them Kathryn stiffened suddenly.

‘Oh my God!'

‘What is it?'

‘Over there – on the other side of the street – Charles' brother, Christian. I think he's seen us. Yes – he's coming over! What do we do?'

His hand went under her elbow. He could feel her trembling through the thick cashmere of her coat.

‘Bluff it out.'

‘How?'

‘Just be natural. I'm an old friend, remember.'

Christian had almost reached them. Any further conversation was impossible.

‘Christian! What are you doing in Angoulême?' she said, endeavouring to hide her nervousness.

‘I had to see someone on business. I can give you a lift home if you like, instead of you having to travel in Maurice Angelot's old rattletrap.' But as he spoke he was looking at Paul and Kathryn could see the unspoken suspicion in his eyes.

‘This is a very old friend of mine – Paul Curtis,' she said swiftly. ‘We knew one another in Switzerland. Paul – my brother-in-law, Christian de Savigny.'

‘Pleased to meet you.' Paul held out his hand without a flicker, of hesitation. ‘Katrine and I happened to run into one another in the market. It must be eight years at least since we last met – in very different circumstances. It's a small world, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' Christian said with a touch of irony. ‘ Yes, it is.'

Kathryn could feel her heart pumping uncomfortably yet suddenly her mind was crystal clear. Without stopping to give it a moment's further thought she heard herself say: ‘It really is a stroke of good fortune. Paul is a teacher and he has just lost his job when the school where he was working in Bordeaux closed. I was just saying to him it's high time Guy had a tutor. I'm going to ask Charles if we couldn't offer him a position.'

One corner of Christian's mouth lifted in a slight smile.

‘Were you indeed! I wonder what he will say?'

‘I very much hope he will agree,' Kathryn said with acerbity. ‘ I know Paul would be very good for Guy.'

‘Yes.' But the small smile was still there, faintly mocking. ‘What about it then, Katrine? Can I give you a lift home or not?'

‘I'm not ready to go yet. I still have to see Anne-Marie and in any case Maurice would be offended if I didn't ride home with him.'

‘Very well. I'm just leaving myself. I'd like to get home before it begins to get dark – my lights are not as good as they might be.' Christian held out his hand. ‘Nice to have met you, Monsieur. Perhaps we shall meet again before too long.'

Then he was gone, swallowed up by the market-day crowds.

Kathryn looked at Paul, the fear naked in her face now.

‘Oh my God, do you think he …?'

‘Not here!' Paul warned her. ‘ You did well, Kathryn. You see – I told you you could do it.'