Those in Peril (15 page)

The same question was asked repeatedly and Barbara always gave the same answer. ‘As soon as she's sure it's safe.'

‘The others went back when their mum came for them.'

‘Well, it really would have been better if they'd stayed. The Germans have started to drop bombs over here. They could easily bomb London.'

Kick, kick. ‘I wouldn't care if they did.'

‘Don't be so silly, of course you would. Your mother doesn't want you to be in danger, and nor would your father.'

‘Dad doesn't know anything about it – he's away at sea all the time.'

‘That doesn't mean he wouldn't want you to be somewhere safe. Why don't you write him a letter? Tell him all your news?'

‘I haven't got any. And there's not much point writing if he's at sea, is there?'

‘Yes, there is. My brother is in the Navy and I write to him all the time. The letters always reach them eventually.'

‘Dad's probably forgotten all about me.'

‘He'd never do that, Esme.'

‘Well, Mum has, hasn't she?'

‘No, of course she hasn't.'

At supper Mrs Lamprey lamented the absence of Monsieur Duval.

‘Such an interesting man. Will he be back soon, do you think, Mrs Hillyard?'

It was a day for being asked questions she couldn't answer. ‘I'm afraid I don't know.'

‘He's in London, you say?'

‘Yes, that's what he told me. Some liaison work – for the Free French forces there.'

‘It must have been dreadful for them to have to abandon their country. The French did their best, don't you think, Rear Admiral?'

As always, the rear admiral agreed with her politely. If he ever held different views – and Barbara suspected that he quite often did – they were never expressed. Miss Tindall, as a relative newcomer, knew her place and rarely offered opinions.

Later on, Barbara went upstairs to Monsieur Duval's room to check once again that everything was in order – clean towels ready for him, clean sheets on the bed, the furniture dust-free. She had aired the room daily but there was still a smell of oil paints and, very faintly too, the smell of the cigarettes he smoked. Not that she minded either of those things. There was an open packet of Gauloises, lying crumpled on the bedside table, and she picked it up and breathed in the foreignness of the tobacco. Then, for a while, she stood at the window, looking at the sea and at the sun going down, thinking of the Frenchman.

After visiting Vauclin, Duval had gone in search of the other three men named by Maurice Masseron. Paul Leblond, a shoemender, and Jacques Thomine, a greengrocer, proved very willing to help. The third, Robert Comby, had also been willing but he had wanted to know how much he would be paid. ‘Nothing whatever, my friend,' Duval had told him, striking him from the list. Those who demanded payment were, in his view, those who could never be trusted. In the morning, he returned to the
mairie
, as arranged, and Masseron gave him copies of all the permits and papers that he had been able to lay his hands on.

He went straight from the
mairie
to his studio to wait for Major Winter. To occupy himself he did a pencil sketch, from memory, of the garden at Bellevue – the shrubs and the ferns and the roses, the palm tree and the wrought-iron bench. He added the figure of Madame Hillyard, putting her at one end of the seat with a flower basket on her lap. He spent some time trying to recapture her just as she had appeared to him that day – seated on the edge, head half-turned away, as though poised for flight. He was putting the finishing touches to the sketch when, at last, the major knocked at the door.

‘I am pleased to say that I have been able to obtain an
Ausweis
for you, monsieur, as well as the military exemption papers and the driving permit. All is in order now and there should be no difficulty for you travelling in France in future. So far, I have had no success with the gasoline coupons but I will continue to try.'

‘I am obliged.'

‘And here is your identity card as well, safely returned.'

When it came to returning things, the Wehrmacht were a definite improvement on the Royal Navy. Duval said pleasantly, far more pleasantly than at their last meeting, ‘A glass of your cognac, Major?'

The offer was accepted, the glasses raised politely to good health. The major noticed the sketch on the table and picked it up. ‘Where is this?'

He shrugged. It had been careless to leave it there. ‘Nowhere particular. I imagined it.'

‘Strange . . . if it were not for the palm tree, it might almost be England.'

‘You think so?'

‘Oh yes. I know England rather well. My maternal grandmother was English and I spent several summer holidays in Kent as a child.'

Duval said drily, ‘Perhaps you plan to spend more time there soon?'

The major smiled. ‘Who knows? It would certainly be very pleasant to see the countryside again. My grandmother had a beautiful garden – and with a seat exactly the same. That is why it reminded me of England. Have you also been there?'

‘I did some painting in Cornwall years ago – it's very similar to Brittany.'

‘So I understand. I have never been in that part of the country myself – always the south-east.' The major was still studying the sketch. ‘And the charming lady – does she also exist only in your imagination?'

‘No, she is real.'

‘She also looks English – the clothes, the hair, the flat basket made for carrying flowers. My grandmother had such a basket to gather roses.'

He saw no point in denying it. ‘Yes, she's English. Someone I met once. For some reason, I was remembering her.'

‘I have always admired the English – not just because of my grandmother. It is a great pity that we must now fight them. In that respect it is fortunate that my grandmother is dead. It would have grieved her very much.'

‘And does your admiration also extend to the French?'

‘Of course, I admire a great deal about your country – your culture, your ancient history, your beautiful language, your cuisine . . .'

‘But not our politicians. Or our soldiers.'

‘Some of them, it has to be said, are a disappointment. It's difficult to have respect.'

‘You're not the only one to feel so, Major.' Duval removed the sketch from the table. ‘I am grateful to you for your help. If there is any one of my paintings that you would like to have, please take it.' What he would never have sold, he was prepared to give. The major must be cultivated as much as possible.

‘That's extremely generous of you. I should be delighted to possess such a treasure.'

He indicated the canvases stacked against the walls. ‘Choose whichever you prefer.' While the German went through them, he smoked a cigarette and drank the cognac, taking a surreptitious glance at his watch. There was less than half an hour before the curfew. All the fishing boats would have returned to port at sunset. The
Espérance
, if she were still there, could not sail until the morning, but he should be on board before and ready to go with her at first light. At last, the major reached a decision.

‘This I should like very much – if I may be permitted?'

It was one of his own favourites – a small landscape of the Aven river with two thatched-roof cottages in the background. He would be very sorry to part with it. Especially to the enemy.

‘But of course.'

‘I thank you. I shall have it framed and on my next leave I shall take it to my home in Dresden to hang on the wall in a place of honour.' The major finished his cognac. ‘Well, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting with you again. Will you be remaining in Pont-Aven for a while now?'

‘I'm not sure. I am always in search of interesting subjects to paint and the hunt can take me anywhere at any time. I act on impulse.'

‘I understand. And now that your papers are in order, there should be no problem for you. Please let me know if there is anything else that I can do for you.'

‘There is just one thing, Major. If I am away, I should be obliged if you would see to it that Mademoiselle Citron does not billet any of your people in my apartment.'

‘Have no fear. I assure you that she will not.'

When the major had left, he looked at the sketch once again before he tore it into small pieces.

He waited another ten minutes before leaving. The documents were stowed away in his pockets, a newspaper that he had bought earlier tucked under his arm. The fishing boats were in, the light fading fast and the quayside deserted except for a Wehrmacht soldier who addressed him in clumsy French. ‘A pleasant evening, sir.' He nodded curtly and walked on. The
Espérance
was still there, tied up at the far end. He lit a cigarette and stood around for a while smoking until the German had moved off in the other direction. Then he went aboard. Lieutenant Smythson was triumphant. The port Administrator had been more than helpful. He had provided them with a quantity of blank crew and customs clearance forms, already stamped and signed, which they could fill in and retain for future use. ‘How did you get on, sir?'

‘Not so bad.' He felt very tired. The lieutenant had the boundless energy and enthusiasm of youth – something that he had lost long ago.

‘It's a good thing you came back now, sir. I couldn't have waited any longer. Our three chaps were drinking themselves silly in the bistros and talking their heads off, and everyone was wondering why the engine wasn't fixed yet and wanting to help. Then some bossy little port gendarme turned up here earlier, asking to see our papers – damn lucky we had them by then. Nasty piece of work. I told him that we were leaving first thing in the morning. By the way, one of our crew's decided to stay here. Daniel says he wants to go off and see his girlfriend.' Smythson raised his eyebrows comically. ‘He says he misses her too much.'

He changed into his Breton fisherman's clothes and lay down on a bunk. They'd drunk all the Algerian wine – waiting around for him, they explained apologetically – and there was nothing to eat but the tinned meat and biscuits. Not that he cared. He smoked another cigarette, thinking about what he'd achieved. Not such a lot, perhaps, but it was a start. And he thought he could see the way forward.

At dawn the
Espérance
sailed for England.

‘Lieutenant Reeves left this for you, sir.' The Wren laid the file on the edge of his desk. ‘He said you'd requested it.'

‘Thank you.' Powell waited until she had left the room before drawing the buff-coloured folder towards him and opening it. There was only one sheet of paper inside – the information it contained very basic, but all of interest to him. Barbara Ann Sutcliffe had been born in Croydon on 12April 1906. Her parents were British – her father an accountant by profession. Both parents were now deceased. She had attended Croydon High School and left at sixteen to take a domestic science course at a college in Eastbourne. Afterwards she had worked as a receptionist at the Grand Hotel, Eastbourne. In 1928she had married Noel Hillyard, a dentist with a practice in Eastbourne. He had died of an aneurysm in 1931.In 1932she had sold their home there and bought the property, Bellevue, in Kingswear which she ran as a lodging house. Her brother, Frederick John Sutcliffe, had been born in 1915. He had joined the Royal Navy four years before the outbreak of war and was now serving as a lieutenant on a destroyer. There was nothing whatever in Barbara Hillyard's past to indicate any connection or sympathy with the Nazi party in Germany – he would have been astonished if there had been. And she was a widow.

Six

Louis Duval and Lieutenant Smythson came straight to the headquarters in Kingswear, still in their Breton clothes and smelling strongly of fish. After seven days of Smythson playing his part, Powell reckoned that his own mother wouldn't have recognized him – the young Wren who showed them into his office, wrinkling her nose, clearly hadn't. Duval produced the documents that he had brought back with him: passes and papers and permits demanded by the German overlords of France – some unwittingly furnished by a Wehrmacht officer himself – together with a sheaf of notices giving new regulations, lists of conditions, instructions, warnings, threats. Smythson handed over the signed and stamped crew and customs clearance forms. The town mayor had, apparently, been more than helpful. Altogether, it was an impressive haul that had opened the way for future missions and he congratulated them. ‘What else can you tell us?'

Duval said, ‘Well, it seems there are only a few hundred German troops in Pont-Aven and the surrounding area, but there is talk of large numbers of them assembling along the coast of Normandy and of the canals and rivers there being full of barges. The Germans apparently brag in the local cafés about how easy it will be to invade England. How accurate or true all this is, I can't say for sure. Also, there are rumours of submarine pens being built at Brest and Lorient. Lieutenant Smythson heard much the same in the bars when he went ashore.'

It all fitted with the latest aerial reconnaissance results, Powell thought. The photos had shown a lot of activity between Courseulles and Ouistreham. The invasion threat was real enough, the U-boat threat to shipping and convoys carrying vital supplies even more so, and he found that much the more alarming. The Germans would find invading England a great deal harder than they imagined, but U-boats roaming the North Atlantic like packs of savage wolves would be deadly. ‘What else?'

‘The four-mile fishing limit is strictly enforced,' Smythson told him. ‘We were buzzed by a Dornier when we were outside the limit on our approach, and lucky not to be spotted in daylight on our return. Also the rule of all fishing vessels returning to port at sundown definitely applies – except for tunny boats fishing much further offshore who can stay at sea for two or three nights. As far as we could tell, the Germans inspect boats randomly as they enter harbour. Fortunately, they didn't bother us. There is a curfew at the moment from nine o'clock in the evening until daybreak.'