The Last Dance (36 page)

All of that risk and hurt because Rafe wanted to hold Stella . . . alone, without prying eyes. His farewell.

One last dance, Stella
, his voice echoed in her mind like he was wishing her adieu.

Stella wilted, pain and terror combining to double her up. He was already out of reach. ‘Rafe!’ she cried to him, but it came out as a whisper.

He looked back, ignoring her suffering. ‘And if for any reason I’m held up, do get that stuff to old Fruity, would you? He’s waiting for it – you know what a stickler he is for deadlines.’

And then he and Joseph were gone, hurried from her by their German escort as the elderly pair arrived.

‘Oh, my dear,’ said the woman as Stella crumpled against them. ‘Harold, darling, quick, she’s swooning.’

When Stella regained her wits, she was in the shadows of the café being fanned by the elderly woman, with her husband and one of the waiters watching on, concerned. Her head snapped back with the eye-wateringly pungent smell of ammonia laced with an astringent top note of lavender.

‘There you are, that’s better,’ her companion said, fanning harder. ‘Take this, Harold,’ she said, handing off a tiny, clear glass bottle. Her husband stepped forward and obediently took the smelling salts. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m . . . I’m fine. Did I faint?’

‘I think you did, my dear,’ her new friend admitted. ‘Would you like to use my fan?’

Stella shook her head, everything flooding back now. ‘Have they gone?’

The woman blinked. ‘Er . . . ?’ She looked around at her companions and it was the waiter who answered in French.

‘The men have left, Madam,’ he confirmed.

Stella moved slowly to stand. ‘Did you see the men I was with?’

Harold nodded. ‘We did. They were leaving and you called us over.’

Harold’s wife, exasperated with his explanation, took over. ‘Should we know you, my dear? I’m sorry, perhaps our ageing minds are letting us down but we don’t recognise you. You’re not the Hampton-Cooper girl, are you?’

Stella felt nervous laughter warbling in her throat, knew her emotions were rising towards hysteria and clamped her mouth shut. She coughed it out instead, shook her head in response, forcing a sense of control about herself. When she felt she could, she answered properly. ‘I’m sorry, no. I’m Stella Myles.’

They looked at her blankly, then at each other as if running the family name of Myles through their collective memories.

‘You don’t know me. Forgive me.’ It would make no difference to explain so she fibbed again. ‘I mistook you for another couple.’

‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed with gentle understanding. ‘That’s quite all right. Happens all the time.’

‘Which direction did they go?’ she asked the waiter in French.

‘He does not wish you to follow,’ he replied, dark eyes fixing her with an implacable stare.

‘Tell me.’

‘He has paid me not to,’ he said.

She was aware of the couple’s attention darting back and forth between them. ‘I shall double whatever he paid. Triple it!’

He stood unmoved. ‘I am not for sale,’ he answered.

Her mouth quivered in her sense of helplessness.

‘He also paid me to escort you back to the hotel.’

‘I don’t want you near me.’

‘Nevertheless,’ the man said, ignoring her. He was older and something in his tone overwhelmed her natural desire to imagine herself hypothetically spitting at his feet, but her combined sorrow and rage was such that she could imagine such a heinous display of poor manners to make her dead parents fidget unhappily in their graves.

‘My dear?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m sorry. I came over so light-headed. I had no idea that I would faint.’ She gave the woman a peck. ‘You’ve been so kind, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Margaret and Harold Eversham. Card, Harold, dear,’ she said, turning to her husband who instantly dug in his waistcoat pocket. She took it and passed it to Stella.

She read it, nodding, taking a slow deep breath to steady herself and her nerves. ‘Norfolk,’ she said, unsure of what else to say. ‘How nice.’

‘Beautiful. We live on the Broads. You’re most welcome to visit some time.’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘Well, you seem sad, my dear. Norfolk might cheer. Can we do anything for you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, this man will guide me to where my friends are. Thank you for being so generous and understanding.’

Harold tweaked his white moustache, mumbled something about it being no trouble at all. His wife squeezed her hand. ‘We’re staying at the Hotel Gallia . . . it’s a fine
riad
, my dear, must have been a rich old merchant’s home before it changed over to a guest house. Feel free to look us up there. We’re staying for another couple of days before we go to Tangier.’

‘Thank you.’ Stella set her shoulders and forced a smile. ‘I’d better go find my friends,’ she said, feigning brightness. ‘Thank you again.’ She nodded at the waiter.

‘I am Zarif,’ he said, bowing slightly, hand over heart.

‘Thank you, Zarif. Shall we?’ she said in English this time.

Stella sat on a bench in Kensington Gardens, not far from the Peter Pan statue, and wished she too could disappear into Neverland. She’d spent some time in the ornamental Italian Gardens that she’d read somewhere had been a grand gift from Prince Albert to his beloved Queen Victoria. It was all a little florid for Stella, with its marble fountain and massive stone urns and statues, and she’d drifted down, following the path of the Long Water that would lead into the Serpentine to find a spot where she could be still and unnoticed for a while. Sitting near Peter with a copse to her back, flowers around her and the waterway in front was ideal. It was only nearing nine-fifteen so the day was young and few people, save those taking the fresh air with infants or workers using the gardens to cut through from Bayswater to Knightsbridge, interrupted her vision with their movement.

The morning was warm, the day promising to be hot, and the emergence of drifts of daisies reminded her that the warmest season spoke of happy moods and laughter – but she would forever associate the feeling of the sun on her skin with a sense of misery.

She’d arrived early for her appointment and had time to contemplate and observe those few Londoners going about their day. She felt every ounce the outsider, amongst the nannies and mothers who emerged through the park gates with their new-fangled large-wheeled stroller prams. Her father had insisted that the cumbersome large perambulator that had been purchased when Stella was born would do just fine for her siblings who came so much later. Inevitably it was she who had struggled to control a baby inside the monstrous vehicle with an eager, often restless toddler at her side when her mother asked her to take the children out for some air. What wouldn’t she have done for one of these modern contraptions, where the infant faced out and could see the world rather than staring at the sky or up into their mother’s nostrils.

She had sat here now for more than an hour considering the exquisite bronze sculpturing of tiny fairies and squirrels and other furry creatures playing around Peter. Her thoughts had ranged from how life’s odd journey had brought her to this place.

It had been a week since she’d arrived home from North Africa. She could not bear to remember returning to that hotel room of love feeling so bereft. She’d paced for several minutes, glad to be rid of hotel staff and even the waiter who seemed to know a lot more about what had occurred than she did. He’d even given her instructions, apparently briefed by Rafe during their hurried discussion in Arabic. It’s why she recalled now how Zarif had glanced her way during that conversation. Rafe must have all but accepted that the meeting with Joseph would turn sour. Zarif had escorted her, reminded her to write down every single memory of the twenty minutes or so with Joseph before Klipfels arrived. To find Fruity, to give him everything.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she had asked.

The waiter had looked back uncomprehendingly. ‘You are supposed to understand, Madam,’ he had said as politely as he could in French.

But she hadn’t understood, not until the journey home on the aeroplane. She’d ripped open the envelope she found waiting for her on the hotel dressing table and knew in her gut, before the contents spilled, that there would be paperwork for only one person. Her instincts served her well. There were no return travel documents for Rafe Ainsworth.

In that hotel room she had crumpled in on herself, coming to rest on the floor in deep, silent sobs of heartbreak, fully appreciating that he’d feared since before they left England that he would never return.

And in the course of the next few hours she’d drifted in and out of her grief, finally emerging into the latter half of the afternoon to realise his note was still crushed in her hand. Of course he could write nothing down that was incriminating – he could tell Zarif nothing that could be repeated to their enemies either – and so she had needed to read between the lines of his affection and regret.

My darling Stella,

If you are reading this, the worst has occurred and we are separated. Poor old Joseph. I had to presume he would be watched because of his position so close to the power brokers. And I had to presume he would be followed on his sudden departure from Berlin even if they were not sure about what he may know. I mustn’t dwell and write of my love and admiration for you, for I know as you do read this that time is frighteningly short and you must use the travel documents enclosed and get yourself back to London.

Please do not look for me, do not linger in Morocco for me, do not talk about me to anyone. Be safe and get on that flight back to England. I trust you and that clever, agile mind of yours to work out everything.

Make it all count for something, my darling. Make me even prouder . . . I love you with all of myself; even my shadow that now whispers goodbye to you, Stella, because I will not feel your soft skin again or hear your bright laughter. But wherever I am I cannot miss you because you are here with me, remember? You covered my heart with your hand and promised me you will always be there. And so it is . . . we are bound in spirit and, perhaps, other ways, to keep you in happy company.

She didn’t understand that sentence but couldn’t dwell to work it out, knowing he was probably feeling uncharacteristically emotional when he wrote the letter.

Go home, Stella, my love. Don’t forget to give dear old Fruity all that stuff on the research expedition we assembled for Kew. Anything else of mine, for whatever it’s worth, please keep as you see fit and take back.

She could tell how careful he was being in this letter, wanting to say so much more than he was, but urging her to understand. They’d assembled nothing for Kew, so that was a ruse for anyone who happened upon this letter other than herself. So that left his few clothes and the photo album. She would take it all back with her. She needed to think but Stella felt her heart racing with the tension of needing to leave at once, to get away as he was urging her to.

I can never regret asking you to dance but forgive me now for the sorrows I have caused you since. I’m guessing, though, there may be at least one or two happy memories that will remain when the sadness fades.

When you wear green, think of me, mint juleps, minted tea and our hours in Brighton, our day in Marrakech, a waltz in Piccadilly and twenty unforgettable minutes in a London taxi that changed my life. To you alone have I given all my love and that will never change.

R.

Too broken in her mind to do anything but obey and flee to the loving security of family, she had washed her face, gathered up her few belongings, including his shirt that smelled of him, which she wrapped his notebook in. The photo album she tucked into her handbag. The flight to Britain, which should have been a thrilling experience of awe and wonder, felt as though it was happening to everyone else in the narrow metal tube that was roaring them through the skies. Stella was lost to her thoughts, wracking her mind for what he’d tried to communicate to her. The man seated next to her had given up on the small talk when Stella had donned sunglasses and leaned her head against the window. Couldn’t he see how red her eyes were? Why did he want to talk about the woman he loved, their new baby, their whole happy life stretching ahead?

With the drone of the aeroplane’s engines sounding like drills into her mind, even her miserable thoughts were drowned. It wasn’t until she’d noticed her neighbour showing the air hostess a photo of his wife and child that a glimmer opened in her mind like a door from a lit corridor into a dark room. When her neighbour had released his seatbelt to use the bathroom, Stella had hopped up to rummage in the overhead compartment for Joseph’s photo album.

With reluctance she opened it to confront smiling pictures of Rafe and his non-blood brother in childhood in happier times. She didn’t think Rafe had changed much; he had been a good-looking boy who fulfilled all his handsome promise. She came to her favourite image. There he was grinning from the opening of a tent flap, looking relaxed and as merry as she could imagine him being, surrounded by desert, even a camel obligingly heaving into view in the distance.

Remember this
, he had said – no,
hissed
– as he had pointed meaningfully.

Why? What was in the image she had to focus on? Rafe. Sand. Tent. Camel. She shook her head. She’d flicked through all the rest of the photos, pondering each for clues. She’d checked the actual album itself, picking at the corners of the lining, wondering if anything could be beneath. No luck and no point because if something were hidden in such a way, surely Rafe would have clued her. Except he had clued her, hadn’t he?
Remember this.
Stella returned to the photograph she could sketch out now if asked because she knew its grainy image so well. Maybe it was the place . . . maybe its location was what Rafe needed her to communicate. But she failed to see how saying out loud ‘Moroccan desertscape’ was going to help anyone with anything. Perhaps it wasn’t Morocco, though – was that the point?

She blinked in consternation, recalling again how deliberately he’d gestured. Rafe had wanted her to do something with this photograph – only this one – and his words about getting the stuff back to old Fruity were not hollow either. Rafe rarely wasted words and certainly not in that urgent situation.

Then it came to her, in a flash.
Was there something on the back of the photo?
She eased it out of its corners and as it came away from the page of black card, so did a page of the flimsiest tissue paper covered in tiny handwriting. Time stilled as Stella carefully unfolded the sheet. It was not his handwriting. It belonged to Joseph, who declared in the briefest preamble that this was a faithful copy that he’d translated into English of the notes made in March 1933 by Adolf Hitler, Chancellor, of his plans for the German Reich. Unless this was the deepest of conspiracies, then Joseph had not lied and Poland was indeed in the German leader’s sights, as was a ‘cleansing’ in his adopted nation. Her neighbour had paused in his return to his seat to remain standing and to talk to the air hostess so Stella kept reading, despite the fear tingling through her that no one but Basil Peach must read these notes after her. Hitler’s thoughts were sometimes garbled, often ranging, but it was clear – even to Stella – that the thinking was more than simply inflammatory. The man was looking towards domination in Europe.

So now that whole scene in the café made sense to Stella. Between Rafe and Joseph they’d purposefully handed Klipfels the original, intentionally ensuring if Joseph were followed that his observers would see him handing over those papers. Klipfels had looked at the album but dismissed it in favour of the sheets of paper shiftily withdrawn and given to Rafe. How quickly Rafe had caught onto the unspoken plan that the information was hidden in the album and that the original could be given back – must be given back, in fact – to protect the copy. So simple and yet so cunning. The years had clearly not dulled their ability to think as one, to understand invisible messages, to read signs between each other. They had deliberately given Klipfels a sense of security that he’d got the information before it left German hands, when both Rafe and Joseph had known all along that the duplicated information was to be carried back to England in the photo album, whether that information was delivered by Rafe or by Stella. Masterful!

And so now here she sat with blackbirds busy about their gathering while other birds happily warbled in the sunshine. She watched a youngster rush up to the statue and hug it. Stella smiled, believing that’s how she felt about Peter Pan too . . . and about Rafe, who was also something of a boy who had not truly grown up but lived in his own Neverland world. She looked at her watch. Eight minutes. More than sufficient time to get to where she needed to be.

Stella stood, feeling the cold unstretch from her stiff body. Once she fulfilled this task for Rafe maybe she might feel another leash snap that connected them so that the bonds of attachment could loosen just enough for her to escape the tight hold he held on her. She didn’t want to leave Rafe behind but knew that to survive this terrible year of her life, she had to lock him away and change her life, go somewhere else. To where she had no proper idea yet . . . only that it was time to leave, time to take care of herself and her children, as she’d come to think of her sister and brother.

She turned and headed towards the great pond that sat before Kensington Palace. They were to meet on the side adjacent to the bandstand. She carried nothing but her handbag, which in turn held her purse, a handkerchief, a powder compact she would not need and a double-sided sheet of handwriting that belonged to a German Jew.

Stella arrived at the enormous pond and scanned the landscape. She wasn’t alone but the majority of her companions were ducks and geese making an enjoyable racket. A mother and child were feeding the waterfowl, the child squawking with both fear and delight at the larger, more eager birds.

She checked her watch again. Two minutes. Stella wandered the circumference of the pond, finally coming back to her starting point in line with the bandstand from where she saw a figure hail her.

She recognised Basil Peach immediately by his monocle and rather than wait for him to approach, she covered the distance quickly on flat shoes.

‘Hello, again, Miss Myles,’ he said and she heard once more the friendly warmth she recalled in this man but also knew it now to be his public tone. She had heard him speak in an entirely different tone to Rafe when he’d forced him to meet Joseph against all of Rafe’s instincts.

‘Mr Peach,’ she said, evenly.

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘I don’t believe I had much choice. We both have something for each other.’

‘Indeed.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we sit?’ he offered, gesturing to the chairs that had been stacked beneath the canopy of the bandstand to keep out of the rain. He pulled a couple free. ‘I thought it was quieter here than next to the pond. All those ducks make quite a racket, don’t they?’