Those in Peril (27 page)

Duval continued. ‘If we had radio transmitters, then there would be no need for me to go to and fro like this.'

‘Unfortunately, there are none available. There are always the carrier pigeons, of course.'

‘My God, those pigeons! They're a liability. A positive danger, in my opinion. Difficult to conceal, hard to handle, and the Germans can shoot them out of the skies and find the messages they carry.'

‘They're all we've got at the moment.'

Duval shrugged. ‘I'd sooner do without.' He lit another of his cigarettes. ‘Tell me, do you have any news of that young RAF pilot we picked up?'

‘He's been taken to hospital in Plymouth, that's all I know. They'll probably move him on to a special unit.'

‘He was very badly burned.'

‘Yes, I'm afraid so.' He had overseen the ambulance transport of the pilot and been shocked by his condition. ‘He was very lucky you happened to pass near enough and saw him. A chance in a million.'

Duval said thoughtfully, ‘You know, Lieutenant Commander, until we picked up that boy I had been thinking only of my own country – only of France. I admit this frankly to you. But now, I find that I am also thinking of what this country – your country – is doing. The sacrifices it is making and will have to continue to make. The young pilot made me aware of that.'

At ten minutes to eight, Powell drove up the hill towards Bellevue and parked the car a short way down the road, as she had asked. He was early, as usual, and it was five past eight before she appeared, walking quickly towards him. He got out of the car.

‘Have you been waiting?' she asked. ‘I'm sorry. Mrs Lamprey kept me talking.'

He opened the passenger door of the car for her and then got in himself, thumbing the ignition. ‘Would you like to go for a drink? One of the pubs?'

She shook her head. ‘No, could you just drive – somewhere where we can talk.'

He drove out of Kingswear, towards Brixham and Berry Head. There was a narrow lane, he knew, that led up onto the cliff tops overlooking the Channel where the old fortifications still stood from an earlier invasion threat – from Napoleon. He parked and turned off the engine. ‘Now,' he said. ‘Tell me what's happened.'

‘It's about Monsieur Duval.' She stared ahead through the windscreen. ‘I know that when he was supposed to be in London, he was actually in Paris.'

‘I see. Did he tell you that?'

‘No, I found out.'

‘How?'

‘I pressed a jacket for him – the one that he'd been wearing when he was away. There was a bill in the pocket – from a restaurant in Paris, with the date on.'

Very careless of Duval. But then he'd never been properly trained. He was an amateur in the unforgiving and lethal world of espionage. Powell said, ‘You're sure about that?'

‘Quite sure. I looked at it closely. All the details.'

‘What did you do then?'

‘I put it back in the same pocket, before I returned the jacket.'

‘Did you say anything to him?'

‘No.'

‘Or to anybody else? Mrs Lamprey, for example?'

‘
Her?
heavens, no.' Her face turned towards him. ‘What I want to know, Alan, is did
you
know he was there? Or did you believe him to be in London, working for the Free French – like he told
me
?'

He debated what to say to her. ‘I'm afraid I can't answer that, Barbara. I can't tell you anything. All I can say is that there's nothing for you to worry about.'

‘Nothing to worry about! He's been over in occupied France. What was he doing there? Spying? For
whom
?'

‘There's nothing for you to worry about,' he repeated.

‘Yes, there is. I can't trust him now. He's living in my house, and I don't know what sort of a man he is or who he's working for. He might be spying for the Germans, for all I know – a double agent, or whatever they call them. A traitor. I have to
know
, Alan. Don't you see?'

He saw very well. She's in love with him, he thought bitterly. That's why she's so upset, and why she wants to know. It matters very much to her. He sat in silence for a moment. It would be easy to make her mistrust Duval; to think ill of him. So easy.

‘Alan? Please tell me.'

He said quietly, ‘He's not a double agent, Barbara, or a traitor. You have my word on that. He's working for us. He's a man you can trust absolutely. And a brave man.'

She gave a deep sigh of relief. ‘I suppose that's all you'll tell me?'

‘Yes, it's all I can say.' He took his eyes away from her face. ‘Shall I take you back now? Or would you like to stop somewhere for a drink?'

‘Thank you. That would be nice.'

He drove down to a pub in Brixham – a cheerful sort of place and a definite improvement on the grim hotel in Torquay. They sat in a corner of the crowded lounge bar and he bought her a gin and orange and a pink gin for himself.

‘I wanted to ask you before, Alan,' she said, as he set her drink down on the table, ‘but there were all those old ladies eavesdropping on us. Do you have any other life – outside the Navy, I mean? Are you married?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I'm not married. I never have been. And I'm afraid I don't have a very interesting life, apart from the Navy. I have a sister, a brother-in-law and a nephew, some cousins, various old friends. I have a flat in London and I keep a small sailing boat in Essex – but that's about it. I went to Osborne at eleven, then on to Dartmouth . . . it's always been the Navy.'

‘How did you get your medal?'

He glanced down at the DSO ribbon. ‘In the First World War.'

‘
How
, not when?'

‘Putting out a fire after we'd been hit by a shell from a German cruiser.'

‘Were you wounded?'

‘Yes.'

She persisted. ‘Badly?'

‘Pretty badly. I nearly lost my left arm and I was in hospital for a very long time – all kinds of problems and complications, and so on. By the time I was fit again, life and the Navy had moved on. I rather lost my place in the queue. I ended up in command of a desk. Not quite what I'd originally hoped for.' He prayed to God that he didn't sound pathetic or bitter.

She was silent, then she said, ‘I can see how very much the Navy has meant to you. It's been your whole life, hasn't it?'

‘Yes, I suppose it has.'

‘I don't know exactly what work you're doing now, Alan, but if it's important, and I'm sure it is, it might help to make up for what happened to you.'

He summoned a smile, more hopelessly in love with her than ever. ‘We'll see.'

The house was dark and silent. She stopped for a moment outside to check the blackout at the front windows before she let herself in. The hall light had been left on and, as she went towards the stairs, she heard a sound from the direction of the sitting room and expected Mrs Lamprey to emerge, demanding to know where she had been.

‘I've been waiting for your return, madame,' Monsieur Duval's voice said behind her. ‘Please tell me what is the matter? Why you don't speak to me, or look at me. Not since last night.'

She turned to face him. ‘Nothing's the matter.'

‘I have not imagined it. Tell me, please.'

She hesitated, then said, ‘There was a bill in the pocket of your jacket – I found it when I was ironing. It was from a restaurant in Paris, with the date on it, so I knew you must have been in France – when you were supposed to be in London.'

‘And so? What did you think?'

‘I thought you might be a traitor, spying for the Germans.'

He looked shocked. Angry, even. ‘You could believe such a terrible thing of me? That I would betray my country? And yours, too?'

‘I know now that it's not true.'

‘How do you know?' he said harshly. ‘How can you be so sure?'

‘I've been told.'

‘By whom?'

‘Lieutenant Commander Powell.'

‘I see. And did he tell you anything else?'

‘Only that I could trust you completely. And that you were a brave man.' He was still angry and upset, she could tell. ‘I'm sorry to have doubted you.'

After a moment, he said more calmly, ‘I am sorry, too – that I have not been able to tell you all the truth. I regret very much that I have been obliged to deceive you.'

‘I understand. It's the war, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It's the war. The excuse for everything.'

When she started to go up the stairs he called after her. ‘You are going to bed, madame?'

‘I'm rather tired.'

‘Shall I turn out this light downstairs?'

‘Please. If you would.'

He followed her up to the landing. ‘And this one here?'

‘I usually leave it on.'

‘Of course. So you do.'

He stood there while she fumbled agitatedly for the bedroom door handle at her back.

‘Permit me, madame.' He reached past her and opened it.

‘Thank you. Goodnight, then, Monsieur Duval.'

He didn't answer. Instead he took hold of her arm, drew her inside the room and closed the door behind them.

At breakfast Mrs Lamprey was at her worst.

‘
Oui, merci, madame.
i slept very well, thank you.'

It seemed to Barbara that the question had been put even more coyly than usual and that, as she put Mrs Lamprey's bowl of cereal on her table, the old woman gave her a sly upward glance. Perhaps it was only imagination, but her bedroom was next door to her own. Had she heard her cry out? Listened eagerly with her ear pressed to the wall?

‘Is anything the matter, Mrs Hillyard? You look quite flushed this morning.'

‘I'm perfectly all right, thank you, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘Oh dear, you've forgotten the milk.'

‘I'll get it for you at once.'

He looked up briefly as she passed his table. She made herself pause, as she usually did, knowing that Mrs Lamprey was watching. ‘Can I get you anything, Monsieur Duval?'

He met her eyes. ‘No, thank you, madame.'

In the kitchen, Esme was feeding her cornflakes to Fifi. ‘She likes them.'

‘Well, don't give her too many. Save some for yourself.'

She took Mrs Lamprey's milk back into the dining room.

‘It should be
pleuvoir
, Mrs Lamprey.
Pleurer
is to cry.'

‘
Thank
you, Miss Tindall. It was just a slip of the tongue. Oh, Mrs Hillyard. I wonder if I might trouble you for a spoon? I don't seem to have one.'

She had forgotten to put out the rear admiral's sugar ration as well, and Miss Tindall's butter. And Mrs Lamprey, at the toast stage, found she was missing something else.

‘I can't see my special pot of marmalade, Mrs Hillyard . . .'

‘I'm sorry. I'll fetch it straight away.'

She cocked her brassy head at her. ‘You're quite sure you're all right? You don't seem at
all
your usual self.'

After breakfast, when she was at the sink, washing up, he came into the kitchen. Esme said to him at once, ‘Did you know that Fifi's going to have kittens? The vet says so.'

He clicked his tongue. ‘
Oh, la, la
.'

‘They're going to be born in about five weeks. We don't know how many yet.'

He looked at Barbara. ‘I hope it won't be a great nuisance for you.'

‘No, of course not. It'll be fun.'

She sent Esme to collect her things for school. When the child had left the room he said, ‘What has happened to make little Esme so different?'

‘Her father came to see her.'

‘And the mother?'

‘Apparently, she's run off with someone else. I've promised Esme's father that I'll keep her here until the war's over and he can take her home.'

‘You take in every lost soul, Barbara. Esme, Fifi, myself . . . I hope that you don't have any regrets?'

She knew what he was asking. ‘No.'

‘None at all?'

‘None.'

He kissed her hand, still soapy and wet from the washing-up. ‘I'm very glad.'

The kitchen door opened and Mrs Lamprey poked her head round its edge.

‘Oh, there you are, Mrs Hillyard.
Et vous, Monsieur Duval. J'espère que je ne vous dérange pas?
'

He said smoothly, ‘You do not disturb us at all, madame. I only wished to tell Madame Hillyard that I shall not be in for lunch.'

‘It is also a great pity for me.' As he passed Mrs Lamprey at the door he lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Until this evening, madame.'

Mrs Lamprey followed him with her eyes and heaved a sigh. ‘Frenchmen know exactly how to treat us women. Don't you agree, Mrs Hillyard?'

Alan Powell took the early train from Kingswear to London. From Paddington he went by taxi to the Georgian house north of Wigmore Street, passing recent bomb damage: piles of broken glass, rubble, boarded-up windows. The same impassive-faced woman showed him first into the waiting room and then up to Harry's office. The report on Louis Duval's mission, sent up by despatch rider the day before, lay on Harry's desk.