Those in Peril (17 page)

‘Yes, I know he is, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘He looks rather tired, poor man. I expect he had a busy time in London. I've told him he must tell us all about it – unless it's Top Secret, of course.' She poked her head round a little further. ‘Do you know, he reminds me a little of dear John Barrymore – not in looks, of course, but in manners.' The rest of her followed her head into the kitchen. ‘He was such a fine actor and a perfect gentleman. The two, I may say, do
not
always go hand in hand. I well remember when John was playing Hamlet and how charming he was to the rest of us in the company, even on matinée days when he would be quite
exhausted
. It's such a demanding role, you see. No chance to rest at all except during Ophelia's mad scene. You know the bit, I'm sure.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts . . . There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me . . .
'

Mrs Lamprey was wandering about the kitchen, head flung back and running her fingers abstractedly through her hair. Barbara only half-listened. She beat the eggs and milk together and poured them over the bread and butter slices, currants and sugar. He was back. But he would be going away again soon.

Alan Powell took a train from Kingswear station on the day following the return of the
Espérance
. It was a long, irksome journey to London, involving several changes, and he passed it reading his report and making further notes. Sometimes, though, he found himself simply staring out of the window and it was Barbara Hillyard's face that he saw, not the scenery. He couldn't get her out of his mind. What hope was there, though, that she would be in the slightest bit interested in him? Too old, too set in his ways, too reserved, and a not very impressive naval career. Nothing that would recommend him.

The train was almost an hour late arriving at Paddington. To save time he took a taxi to the address that Harry had given him, north of Wigmore Street. A woman in civilian clothes, her face devoid of expression, answered his ring at the door of the Georgian house and he was shown into a waiting room that looked remarkably like the one at his dentist's, whose surgery happened to be just round the corner. There was the same sort of ugly modern gas fire installed in the fine marble fireplace, the same sort of impersonal furniture, the same kind of landscapes of nowhere in particular on the walls. After ten minutes or so, the woman came back and he was shown up into a large and elegantly proportioned room on the first floor which must once have been the drawing room of the house. Harry was seated behind a government-issue desk and surrounded by grey metal filing cabinets. Powell apologized for his late arrival and handed over his report on the
Espérance
mission, together with the documents and information that Duval and Smythson had brought back. Harry examined them all carefully.

‘Well done, Alan. We'll get to work on these straight away. You did a damned good job.'

‘Not me.'

‘Well, you got the show on the road. Fixed it all up.'

‘And they carried it out.'

‘Good for them. Give them a pat on the back from me, will you? Now we can get down to the serious business of sending in trained agents, properly prepared. And let's hope we have more luck than the
Deuxième Bureau
so far. Their last expedition ended in bloody disaster.'

‘What happened?'

‘The navigator made a complete cock-up and got them to entirely the wrong place, miles away from the Ouistreham area where they were supposed to land, and the French chap who'd been sent refused point-blank to go ashore. Then the boat's engine broke down and they only just made it back. By the way, those impounded French Navy MTBs you told me about have been nabbed by Coastal Forces. I did my best to get them for you, but it was no go. The
Deuxième Bureau
are livid about that, of course. They were after them for themselves.'

‘We'll just have to do our best with the fishing boats.'

‘They're too damn slow – it takes too much time. They can't make it all under cover of darkness like the fast motor boats, can they? That's what we need. Unfortunately, the Admiralty are hanging onto all theirs like a dog with juicy bones, but I'll keep on trying. Submarines are far the best way of landing agents, to my mind, but try borrowing one of those from their lordships . . . You've got two Free French chaps on loan for the next trip to Brittany, haven't you? Do you think they're up to scratch?'

‘I hope so. Apparently, they both know the Quimper to Douarnenez stretch very well. One of them has relatives living near Audierne – an aunt and uncle. They'll go across in a tunny boat with a Breton crew and row ashore in a dinghy at night at a beach not far from the house. We're giving them five days to find out everything they can before we pick them up again. And they're taking carrier pigeons to send back messages. What we desperately need, of course, is some radio transmitters.'

‘I know, Alan. I know. It's the same old problem, though: none available right now. However, if I've got anything to do with it, you'll have 'em within the next month or two. The Prime Minister's very keen on our clandestine operations. We've got his full backing. He wants the answers we ought to be able to give him, and he wants them today.'

‘I'm well aware of that.' Powell waited a moment, choosing his next words. ‘As I understand it, Harry, there's the short-term view – get these agents over and back with as much general information as they can gather up, as fast as we and they can accomplish it. And there's a longer-term view – setting up agents who'll stay there on the ground for a period of time – perhaps for the duration – and send back coded messages via radio. The longer term applies, of course, if the war goes on for some years.'

‘Which it almost certainly will.'

‘Quite.' He went on slowly. ‘Louis Duval has something in mind that I thought I ought to discuss with you.'

‘Oh? What exactly?'

‘His suggestion is that he should start to recruit ordinary French civilians on the spot in France – as opposed to agents trained over here. The sort of people who've lived and worked in one place all their lives and who could secretly gather information about the Germans, unnoticed as they go about their daily business. The idea would be gradually to build up a network across the country of men and women who don't know each other's identity and receive their instructions from another source . . . in watertight compartments, as it were. For security.'

‘Hmm. Sounds a bit far-fetched. The French can't keep a secret, you know. Simply not in their nature. And there's not much evidence that there are many people in France who are in favour of General de Gaulle rather than Marshal Pétain. We couldn't trust them.'

‘Duval swears there are.'

‘How could he really know? Anyway, spying's not a game for amateurs, Alan. The Germans would soon root them out.'

‘I agree, in principle, but I think it's an interesting idea, all the same. Duval has already spoken to people in Pont-Aven who would be willing to risk it, and one of them has established commercial contacts all across Brittany. It's quite a hot spot in France just at the moment, as we know. Lots of German military and naval activity all along the coast and so on . . . it's worth giving it some consideration. As Duval points out, he himself can come and go pretty much as he pleases now. He's even on excellent terms with a Wehrmacht major in Pont-Aven. A big fan of his painting, apparently. The man arranged all his personal papers for him.'

‘Did he, by Jove? That's handy.' Harry nodded. ‘OK. I'll give it an airing at a higher level. I suppose we've nothing to lose by investigating all possible avenues. I'll let you know.'

‘Thank you.' Powell stubbed out his cigarette. ‘It's the rumours about the U-boat bunkers being built on the French Atlantic coast that worry me the most. If it's true, our merchant ships are going to be easy meat for them.'

‘The whole damn business worries me, Alan, to tell the truth. Every bloody thing. We're in a very tight spot.'

An hour later he left the house and walked down towards Wigmore Street. It was a beautiful July afternoon – warm and sunny and with a cloudless blue sky above the London rooftops and chimney pots. Civilians were dressed in lightweight summer clothes and looked in holiday mood. It was almost possible to forget that there was a war on, let alone a threat of imminent invasion. He had yet to see, or hear, any signs of fear or panic among either civilians or service people. On the contrary, it seemed that since France had fallen, they were, if anything, more cheerful and more determined than ever. United we stand, he thought.
Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war
. Churchill's memorable words had summed it up.

He called into the Times Bookshop on Wigmore Street – a favourite stopping-off place whenever he was in that area – and browsed for a while before catching another taxi to Dolphin Square. The flat awaited him – silent, orderly, everything in its proper place, and rather stuffy. He opened the windows onto the Embankment and let in the breeze from the river. There was some post to sort through and one of the letters was from his sister.
Where on earth have you got to, Alan? I've been ringing you for days and there's never any answer. Do let me know if you're all right
.

He phoned her reluctantly. ‘Henrietta? Sorry I haven't been in touch lately. I've been a bit busy.'

‘I was beginning to get
really
worried. We wondered what had happened to you.'

Once the older sister, he thought, always the older sister. It would probably be just the same when they reached their nineties. His first memories were of Henrietta – five years his senior – fussing over him. Picking him up, dusting him down, scolding him, hugging him. He had put up with it all then and, to a certain extent, he still put up with it today, though at a safe distance.

‘I've been away, actually.'

‘Oh? Where did you go?'

‘They sent me off to Devon. I'll be based down there for a while. I'm only in London for tonight, then I go back tomorrow morning.'

‘Then you must come and have dinner with us this evening.'

‘I was rather thinking of getting an early night.'

‘Oh, nonsense, Alan! Get yourself over here around seven thirty and we'll have time for a drink beforehand. William will be awfully pleased to see you, and so will I.'

He got his car out of its garage and miraculously found a florist on the way to his sister's home in Highgate. She gave him a hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek, much as she had done when he was three years old, except that now she had to stand on tiptoe to do it, rather than bending down.

‘Yellow roses! My favourite. How clever of you to find them, Alan, and how extravagant! William's going to be late at the hospital so he'll be a while. And Julian's still away at school – they don't break up until next week. So we can have a nice cosy chat – just the two of us.' He followed her into the cluttered drawing room – ornaments, photos, knick-knacks, books, magazines, all fighting for space. ‘Help yourself to a drink, while I go and put these flowers in water.'

He poured a gin and added a dash of angostura, then lit a cigarette. Henrietta's cosy chats usually took the form of not-very-subtle inquisitions, but were preferable to her other tactic which was to produce a single, unattached female to be dangled under his nose. It was some time since she had tried this approach but he knew perfectly well that she had never given up hope of him taking the bait. After a few moments she returned, carrying the roses haphazardly arranged in a crystal vase. He wondered where she was going to find room to put them, but she solved the problem by shifting a pile of magazines further up one end of a table.

‘Be a dear and do me a large gin and tonic. There's some ice in the bucket. Of course, you never take it, do you? That horrible Navy pink gin of yours . . . we only keep that bitter stuff for you.'

She was becoming an almost exaggerated version of her earlier self with the passing years, he thought affectionately. A kind-hearted, no-nonsense Englishwoman who pursued her way blithely on a well-worn path. Sensible girlhood, contented marriage, motherhood, doing good works. He poured her drink and lit her cigarette before he sat down, prepared for the cosy chat. She put her head on one side. ‘So . . . you've been sent off to darkest Devon. Where in Devon?'

‘Dartmouth, as a matter of fact.'

‘Your old stamping ground. How nice for you. I suppose I can't ask what you're doing there?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘I didn't think so. Well, at least it gets you out of London before the Germans start dropping bombs on us. William wants me to go and moulder away in the country somewhere but I absolutely refuse to leave. There's far too much to do here. We're rushed off our feet in the WVS just now.'

‘It would be safer if you did.'

She pulled a face. ‘But very boring. I like being busy. Besides, William really needs me around. I wouldn't want to leave him to cope alone.'

‘How is he?'

‘Overworked, as usual, but he loves it.'

‘And Julian?' The beloved only child, born after eight barren years.

She sighed. ‘As lazy as ever. Your nephew, unlike his father, never does a stroke of work as far as we can tell. He'll probably get the most frightful end-of-term report. Still, he seems to get by on charm. You know what he's like – it's hard to be cross with him. Do you realize, Alan, that he'll be seventeen this year? If this wretched war goes on much longer he'll be called up. He keeps talking about going into the RAF and learning to fly. Mad on the idea. You can imagine what I feel about that . . . I worry about him all the time. And I worry about
you
, Alan.' She studied him closely and anxiously for a moment. ‘Actually, you're looking better than you've looked for ages. Quite different. Have you met someone at last, by any chance?'