Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Stella could see his perspiration was nothing to do with the climate and she was privately appalled that they were both being defiantly open about their discussion. If they were so worried about being observed, why were they being so obvious? It seemed Rafe no longer cared about being watched or being cautious. He’d been careful for her presumably but now felt confident; either that or he was taking a fatalistic view, which she could believe given last night’s odd behaviour and today’s honesty to Joseph. She was feeling as though he was deliberately pushing her away and yet making sure his brother knew that she was the important woman in his life. Why? And what was the charade with the photos? What should she know? Stella sensed with every ounce of perception that the clue she needed was already present even though it was invisible.
Pay attention, Stella
, it demanded. And so she snapped her focus to all the elements before her: photo album, two sheets of paper yet to be unfolded, Rafe outwardly calm and jovial yet there was nothing casual about his seemingly casual gesture, certainly nothing happy in that smile of his. And Joseph was now freely perspiring: frightened, nervous. She wanted to scoop up the sheets of paper, throw them in her satchel and run. They had what they came for – why weren’t they moving, escaping potential harm? She opened her notebook again in a desperate attempt to appear distracted, uninvolved. She saw the lines of writing but couldn’t read them. It didn’t matter. She was acting out the charade.
‘Read it, Rafe. Tell me this wasn’t worth risking everything for,’ Joseph was saying. ‘It’s in Hitler’s handwriting, for heaven’s sake. The persecution has already begun but maybe I was deliberately blind to it or too protected from it because of my station. Now . . .’
It felt to Stella as though her throat was closing with anxiety for them and a helpless hushing sound escaped as she tried to stem their words as a mother might to her children. ‘Is this wise?’ she asked, although it came out in a squeak just as a shadow fell across them.
‘Not at all wise,’ answered a new voice and its owner’s arm reached between herself and Rafe. He was dressed in a greyish olive linen suit that sat unhappily below receding blond hair and a pale complexion. He was smiling but there was little sincerity in it going by the cold, pale eyes that glared above it. ‘I shall take that,’ he said, clamping a hand down on the papers that Rafe had just grasped. ‘Thank you,’ he said in a sarcastic tone, withdrawing the pages.
Stella closed her eyes momentarily, recognising the unmistakable accent of a German speaking English.
‘Greetings, Herr Altmann. Why don’t you introduce me to your companions?’
Stella was aware of three other men lurking. They’d surely materialised from one of the alleys behind the café. She glanced at Rafe, who appeared unmoved. Had he anticipated this outcome? He seemed suddenly more relaxed for the man’s arrival.
‘Karl. You of all people,’ Joseph said, his tone resigned, as though relieved the terror of discovery was now past.
‘Herr Klipfels to you from hereon, Altmann,’ the man cautioned.
Joseph nodded, as though now fully accepting the inevitable. ‘This is my friend, Douglas Ainsworth.’
‘Mr Ainsworth,’ Klipfels said. ‘English, yes?’
‘If you wish,’ Rafe said. ‘Escaping a cold German spring, Mr Klipfels?’
The German’s smile broadened but remained as wintry as his near colourless eyes whose corners didn’t so much as crinkle with the stretch of his thin mouth.
‘It’s just that your pale skin looks a little burned,’ Rafe offered, his tone full of generous concern.
‘Not yours, though, I notice,’ Klipfels replied.
‘I grew up here. The Moroccan sun is my friend, the streets of Marrakech a boyhood playground.’
‘I was under the impression you grew up in Tangier?’
‘Should I know you or have you been busy doing some homework?’ Rafe exclaimed, betraying no surprise despite his words. When Klipfels didn’t answer, he grinned. ‘I did, yes. So my skin is well accustomed.’
‘And who is this charming companion?’ Klipfels wondered, bored of Rafe’s feigned charm.
‘As you’ve done your background checks, I imagine you know that I am carrying out some special work for Kew Gardens. This is my research assistant, Miss Myles.’
‘Research?’ He laughed. ‘Is that what they call a tryst these days? How would you like to have dinner with me tonight instead, Miss Myles . . . later some German-style conviviality, yes?’ he asked, stroking her cheek.
With Joseph looking as helpless as a trapped rabbit and Rafe seemingly enjoying the tense banter, Stella felt it was left to her to disrupt proceedings and give her companions a chance to think through their escape. She pushed her chair back and stood. ‘How dare you, Sir!’
As she’d guessed he expected her to remain meek because of discovery, her fiery response took him by obvious surprise. He stepped back and Stella filled the space he’d left, taking her chance.
‘What are you suggesting?’ she snapped in breathy horror.
Klipfels glared at Joseph, then at Rafe, finally returning his unsure gaze to her. ‘My sincere apologies, Miss Myles. A wrong presumption.’
‘Presumption?’ she thundered, finding fear a helpful boost for her rage. ‘Are all Germans as poor mannered as you, Herr Klipfels?’ She watched him squirm, pushed on, buying more time for the two men still seated. ‘Well, your apology is not good enough. I’m deeply offended that you’d humiliate me in front of my employer and his friend I have only just a few moments ago met.’
‘And what were you all discussing?’ Klipfels asked, trying to wrestle back control of the situation.
‘I have no idea,’ she said, making sure none of her outrage had left her voice. ‘Surely as you arrived you could see I was reading?’ She gestured angrily at the notebook on the table.
He ignored it, reached again past the silently seated men and picked up the photo album. The air seemed to still as he did so; Stella wasn’t sure why. He flipped through the pages, his expression one of perplexed amusement. He looked up at Stella with query. ‘So what is this?’
She shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask Mr Ainsworth or Herr Altmann? I am an assistant on her way to our next research location. We stopped for a minted tea,’ she pointed, exasperated, ‘because Mr Ainsworth had an old acquaintance to meet. As to that you’re holding, it was simply a walk down memory lane for two old friends. What on earth is this all about?’
He had haplessly paused on the very photo that Rafe had impressed upon her to remember. Her heart was pounding so loudly now she was worried that Klipfels could see it drumming against her ribcage, preparing to explode from her chest.
‘The photos, gentleman?’ He turned away from her mercifully.
‘Look here, what’s it to you, anyway?’ Rafe demanded.
‘Nothing, Mr Ainsworth,’ Klipfels answered, flinging down the album. ‘I realise, of course, it is a useless diversion for your meeting. But this,’ he said, waving the pages that Joseph had so desperately passed on, ‘is none of your business. It’s none of your colleagues’ business and certainly none of the British ministry’s business.’
‘Klipfels,’ Joseph appealed.
‘You, Altmann, are in a lot of trouble. Traitorous trouble.’ He gave a tutting sound. ‘You’re not very good at this espionage work, Joseph; you should have stuck to budgets and reporting. We were friends.’
‘I thought we were,’ Joseph nodded sadly. ‘Our children go to school together, our wives lunch, you and I take brandy of an evening. Indeed, friends.’
‘But no longer, Herr Altmann. Not now that you’ve betrayed that friendship,’ Klipfels replied.
‘I don’t see it that way. Our family’s friendship is in jeopardy through no fault of mine. Going by what our Chancellor’s new plans are for Germany, it seems he marked us as enemies in his lunatic mind so you and I have no say in it. We are mere puppets.’
Klipfels bristled. ‘We may spare your family, if you cooperate, Joseph, and tell us how you acquired these pages.’
‘Spare my . . . where are Brigitte and the children?’
‘In safe care. She is a good woman, your wife; excellent family. We know she is not to blame.’
‘Please, Klipfels, don’t take this out on my darling family.’
‘Then help me to keep them all safe.’
Stella tasted sourness in her throat at the undisguised threat. It wasn’t just fear, she really did feel sick and maybe retching over Klipfels’ cream leather shoes was the answer for breaking this awkward deadlock. Instead, in her panic, she bumbled into another diversion of her own inspiration.
‘Oh, Captain Ainsworth, there’s that charming couple you introduced me to a couple of days ago.’
Everyone, including Klipfels, looked to where Stella was pointing at an elderly man and woman who had wandered arm in arm into the square. They were foreigners; the pale linens gave them away, along with their oversized hats and his walking cane and flouncy kerchief poking out from his outside breast pocket ‘Um, let me recall, Mr and Mrs Harpsend, isn’t it?’ she offered in panic. ‘They were fossicking when we found the skipper.’ She could barely believe the ridiculous notions she was fabricating.
Klipfels looked understandably baffled.
Rafe in contrast looked amused. He glanced back at her, vague astonishment ghosting before he grinned. ‘Oh, yes, poor old Dick and Daisy who were lost, you mean? Of course,’ he said, turning back to look at them.
‘They’re so interested in your work as a lepidopterist,’ she gushed. ‘Shall I call them?’ She didn’t wait for his reply but raised a hand and yelled to the couple – perfect strangers – who mercifully heard an English accent and predictably turned towards it. ‘Hello again, Dick,’ she repeated. They raised their hands, obviously confused, but no English couple would risk being rude, and that’s what she counted on.
Instantly the atmosphere surrounding their table changed to urgent.
‘I wish you hadn’t,’ Klipfels warned.
Stella frowned at him. ‘Hadn’t what? Been polite to people we know? Look, what do you want with us, Sir? I have work to do for Captain Ainsworth.’ She reached down, opened the notebook she’d studied and began reeling off details about the Linnean Society of London and the trail of the butterfly they were hunting.
‘. . . . drawing of a Moroccan small skipper,
Thymelicus hamza
, but we’re looking for
Pyrgus onopordi
, er . . . the rosy grizzled skipper, for the uninformed.’ She pressed on, desperately trying to be as dull as she could. ‘Any amount of Moroccan meadow browns – hundreds – and graylings, more than I could bear to count, but our task this trip —’
‘Do be quiet, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels ordered.
‘Karl.’ It was Joseph who sighed. ‘Release Miss Myles. She is here purely by coincidence. I suspect you’re making her nervous.’
‘Release!’ Stella’s voice was huffy but the Harpsends were frowning, discussing whether to come over. She knew Klipfels had an eye on them too. Precious seconds ticked by. ‘What does that mean? I’m no prisoner to be released!’ She looked between the two men. ‘What’s in those pages?’
It was Rafe’s turn. ‘Something Herr Klipfels is embarrassed by. Run along, Miss Myles.’ The Harpsends seemed to have made a decision and were tottering in their direction. ‘Hurry up, Klipfels. Perhaps she can stop them.’
‘Take your things and leave, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels directed and she could feel Rafe’s relief like a sharp gust of wind shoving her away.
‘Miss Myles,’ Rafe continued, matter-of-factly, ‘I shall meet you back at the hotel. It looks like today’s excursion into the foothills is a lost cause until we sort this business out.’
‘What business?’ she said, looking between Rafe and Joseph. She didn’t want to leave either of them.
‘Certainly not yours,’ Klipfels urged. ‘Gentlemen? Shall we retire to somewhere where we can talk in private?’
‘Stella . . . please,’ Rafe appealed but without the usual tenderness in his voice. ‘It’s best you leave. Write up yesterday’s notes, especially regarding those fossils we found.’ He closed the album, closed her notebook, piled them up and gave them to her, covering her hand with his own, which she felt like a farewell. There was a warning in his gaze that only she could sense.
‘What about you, Sir? When shall I see you?’
‘This afternoon.’
She knew he lied. They were all liars. All acting out the charade.
‘Run along now,’ Rafe added, his tone cuttingly off-hand.
‘As your employer says,’ Klipfels sneered.
She ignored him, eyes only for Rafe. ‘And you will be all right . . . Sir?’
‘I shall be fine,’ he assured. He began to move, Joseph dejectedly doing the same.
‘No scenes now,’ Klipfels warned, ‘or we shall have to have you accompany us, Miss Myles. And I should warn I have other colleagues posted who are carrying pistols. Let’s all stay calm and no one gets hurt.’
Rafe shot her a beseeching look of warning.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Myles,’ Joseph said, his face corpse-grey. She remembered that colour well from her parents. Was he a dead man? Was Rafe? She was torn. Should she shout for help and hope against hope they might all get away, or listen to Rafe now and hope he knew what he was doing? If he’d been in hot water previously he’d clearly got away. He was smart, clever, silver-tongued. He would keep them safe, wouldn’t he? Klipfels just wanted the pages. Joseph and Rafe were of no use to them beyond that, surely?
Joseph was muttering another apology.
‘Sorry doesn’t cover it, Mr Altmann. We had plans,’ she said, burying the truth in hollow words, surprised she could still remain in character and not reach for Rafe, scream for help. He wouldn’t want that, though. He had likely anticipated that this might happen, hadn’t he? Dawning entered her mind in a blindingly sharp manner, as though she’d stepped out of a dark room into bright sunlight. No, he’d
known
it would happen as he’d known that Joseph was no spy; Joseph wouldn’t know if he were followed; wouldn’t have a clue of the skills of espionage. She had a better training in duplicity through her work on the sales floor than Joseph Altmann did in his senior administrative role, whatever it was. It explained Rafe’s odd mood, his getting drunk, it even explained the argument on the ship and his manoeuvrings to give both of them one full day and night of loving together, because he’d known in his heart there would be no more. And he’d anticipated she would be smart enough to get herself away; that he would manipulate the situation to enable it and that she would use her perceptiveness and alertness to live up to his estimation of her. But he’d wanted that precious time alone with her first. In her moment of clarity, she believed it was likely Rafe who had whispered to Grace about Georgina’s lineage, reminded her of that argument between himself and Beatrice and words spilled that shouldn’t have been uttered in Grace’s presence.