Those in Peril (40 page)

The
Isabelle
was a yawl, not a fishing boat. She had been built in the Thirties for pleasure sailing until her owner, an industrialist who had named her after his wife, had grown bored with both the boat and the wife. The French Navy had bought her and used her for a while as a training ship for coastal pilots. Later, she had been sold again and used for tunny fishing – being built on similar lines to the local tunny boats. The spacious mess deck had been converted, ignominiously, into a fish hold. She had an auxiliary motor but it was unreliable and not very powerful, and, in any case, there was no fuel available. Masseron related all this to Powell, well pleased with his find. The tunny boats were allowed outside the limit to work in the Bay of Biscay, which provided the excuse they needed. It was early in the season but not unreasonably so. At the moment the
Isabelle
was lying at anchor some way downstream – another convenience. Her present owner had, apparently, had the misfortune to fall foul of the port authorities over certain irregularities and his permit had been cancelled. Wouldn't he object to his boat being appropriated? Object? Nobody would ask him. He wouldn't know about it until it was too late.

The papers were ready and they discussed the plan in detail. They would leave the house in time to walk down the river to the yawl and set sail by six o'clock. In that way they would have the tide in their favour and be able to join up with the other fishing boats in order to arrive in their company at Port-Manech, the German inspection point at the river mouth.

‘They usually board every other boat,' Masseron told them. ‘Your papers are all in order and so there should be nothing to worry about, though, of course, one never knows with the Boche. Sometimes they just like to throw their weight around.'

Powell reckoned that the crossing would take roughly three days – if they managed a steady five knots or so and kept out of trouble. He was well aware of the dangers so feared by the mayor. He was also aware of a sense of elation such as he had not felt for years.

Madame Masseron, who had thawed slightly over the days of waiting, produced bread, cheese, cold meat and the mayor added several bottles of wine. Powell and Smythson turned away tactfully as they said goodbye to their son.

Masseron gripped his hand. ‘You'll look after him for us?'

‘You have my word on it.'

‘Thank you, my friend. We'll meet again after the war.'

His elation increased at the sight of the
Isabelle
. She still had the graceful lines from her pleasure-sailing days and had kept her two masts – the tall main and much smaller mizzen abaft the stern. And her sails, like those of the other Breton tunny boats, were made up of different colours. She was a boat to lift the heart of any sailor.

They tacked downstream, joining a dozen or so fishing boats from Pont-Aven and other small ports, all heading towards the checkpoint at Port-Manech where they formed a line, moving up one by one for inspection. If they search us, there is nothing to find, Powell thought. An old French newspaper, days out of date and stuffed casually in a locker together with Madame Masseron's provisions, would surely be of no interest whatever. Even so, he held his breath as the
Isabelle
came alongside the jetty. There must have been fifteen or more German officials there, and a party of them went aboard the boat ahead, clumping noisily round the deck, making a thorough search. When it came to their turn, Smythson, at the wheel as pre-arranged, was the one to show their papers. He even made a joke as he did so and the German even laughed before he waved them on. The boy, Luc, with all the cheek of youth, actually waved back.

He took over the helm from Smythson once they had left the port behind and set the yawl on a north-westerly course. The wind was Force 4 – ideal for getting a move on – and the bows cut cleanly through the water, the multicoloured sails overhead a glorious sight. When he had the chance, he asked Smythson what he had said to the German.

Smythson grinned. ‘I told him we were English spies disguised as French fishermen. He thought it was a hell of a good joke.'

The
Isabelle
sailed on steadily, bearing away from France on her course for England. Powell flung back his head and laughed.

Seventeen

‘Just a very small portion, Mrs Hillyard, if you don't mind. I do have to be careful.'

Barbara served her the usual amount of lemon curd tart and passed on to the rear admiral and Miss Tindall, who murmured their appreciation and thanks.

Mrs Lamprey lifted her spoon and fork. ‘Still no news of Monsieur Duval, Mrs Hillyard?'

‘No, I'm afraid there isn't.'

‘You'd think he would have been in touch. He's usually so considerate. Quite strange.'

‘I expect he's been very busy in London.'

‘I suppose so. There seem to be an awful lot of French over here now. There was a group of them on the ferry yesterday – French sailors in those funny pompom hats they wear. I had a word with one of them but I don't think he understood what I was saying. I don't know why because I spoke very clearly. Monsieur Duval never has the slightest difficulty.'

‘Perhaps he came from a country region of France and was used to a different way of speaking,' Miss Tindall suggested tactfully.

‘Yes, that must have been the reason. It's amazing how badly people speak – simply swallow their words. That's where speech training is such a help. Actors are taught to project their voices so that they can be heard in the last row of the gallery – without shouting, of course. It's quite an art, you know. I particularly remember how beautifully Sybil Thorndike always enunciated her words.'

Barbara escaped to the kitchen. She had finished washing up the first-course dishes when the doorbell rang. She took off her apron and went to answer it.

‘Mrs Hillyard? I'm Lieutenant Reeves. We've never actually met – only spoken on the telephone.'

He looked very much like he had always sounded: spruce, brisk, keen-eyed, and with a handshake that made her wince. ‘I'm afraid all my rooms are taken, Lieutenant – if that's what you've come about.'

‘Actually, I came to let you know that Monsieur Duval won't be needing his any more.'

She went quite still. ‘What do you mean?'

‘He won't be returning here.' He smiled at her. ‘It was jolly good of you to take him on at such short notice. Much appreciated. I came to get his things, as a matter of fact. Take them off your hands so you can let the room – if you'd be good enough to show me where it is. It shouldn't take a tick.'

‘Has something happened to him?'

‘Just a change of plan. You know how it is when there's a war on.'

‘Lieutenant Reeves, as it happens, I know exactly how it is when there's a war on. I lost my only brother recently. So, would you please tell me what has happened to Monsieur Duval?'

He had stopped smiling. ‘I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't give you any details, Mrs Hillyard.'

‘You see, I know the kind of activity he was involved in. I found out quite by accident. He never told me and we never talked about it, but I discussed the matter with Lieutenant Commander Powell. Perhaps you're aware of that?'

‘Really?' He wasn't, she could see.

‘It's very important to me. Very important. You understand? Is Louis Duval dead?'

He was silent. After a moment, he said quietly, ‘Perhaps you could show me the room now, Mrs Hillyard. I'll do the rest.'

She led the way up the stairs and along the corridor. He was quick and thorough, taking the battered suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and laying it on the bed, undoing the two leather straps, snapping open the metal clasps, opening drawers one after the other, reaching into the wardrobe. She realized that it was something he had done before: clearing personal effects, or whatever they called it. This was what someone else would have done with Freddie's things. Gone to his lodgings and gathered it all up to go in the suitcase that had been sent to her. She had gone through it numbly: the clothes, the books, the photos in their frames . . . all that was left of him.

She watched the lieutenant deal with a jacket expertly – sleeves aligned precisely side by side, then the whole flipped over in half so that it fitted neatly into the case – the familiar loose black linen jacket, rather creased as always and faintly exuding the aroma of French cigarettes and France. When he had finished with the drawers and the wardrobe, the lieutenant inspected the canvases propped against the wall, the tin of oil paints, the jar of brushes and the sketchbook lying on top of the chest of drawers. He glanced rapidly at each page of the book, flicking them over in succession. ‘Perhaps you'd like to keep these? Shall I leave them?'

‘Yes, please.'

He snapped the suitcase clasps shut – click, click – buckled the leather straps and hauled if off the bed. She could remember Louis holding it when he had first arrived, looking like a tramp. The lieutenant nodded to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hillyard. I'll find my own way out.'

When he had gone, she picked up the sketchbook and turned the pages, looking through the sketches that Louis had made – the house, the garden, the hillside, the estuary, the harbour, the boats, Fifi curled up asleep, Esme holding Tom kitten on her lap, and herself sitting on the wall. He had written her name beneath it and underlined it. She could hear his voice saying it the French way:
Bar-bar-a
.

She covered her face with her hands.

‘Commander Chilcot will see you immediately, Lieutenant Commander.'

A different woman admitted him to the house in London, but she was cut from the same cloth. No smile, no expression in either face or speech. Harry, however, had plenty of expression in both.

‘What the bloody hell have you been up to, Alan? What sort of damn-fool game have you and Smythson been playing, getting yourselves marooned over there?'

‘It was no game, Harry.'

‘I should bloody well think it wasn't. You're damn lucky to have got back at all – God knows how. I want to hear the full story.'

He told him most of it. Harry listened, shaking his head periodically. ‘Madness, Alan! Sheer lunacy! Lord knows how the Germans didn't spot you. Smythson might have got away with it but you certainly wouldn't. You said yourself that the mayor knew at once that you were English. You took the most frightful risk going to Pont-Aven and hanging about like that.'

‘I thought it was important to find out what had happened to Duval.'

‘I could have told you. He was executed not long after he was arrested. Shot. The Free French passed on information that one of their people brought back.'

He said heavily, ‘I'm very sorry to hear that. Very sorry indeed.' He would always regret the failure to rescue Duval. He may have felt jealous of him but that had never, for one moment, lessened his respect for the man.

‘So was I. Damn bad show. When they found that transmitter, of course, he didn't have much of a chance. He was never what you might call a professional at the game.'

‘He established a very useful network over there.'

‘Indeed he did. Nothing of major importance, of course, but we can take advantage of it. Maybe expand some of our operations along those lines – in conjunction with the trained agents we send over. Apparently, he didn't spill any beans – so his contacts are still secure. No doubt the Gestapo tried plenty of persuasion. By the way, I got hold of Lieutenant Reeves down your way and told him to get all Duval's things cleared out of the place where he was staying. Just in case there was anything we wouldn't want anyone else to get hold of. It can all go to the wife in Paris after the war.' Harry had simmered down now and smiled wryly. ‘You know, Alan, to tell the truth, I rather envy you that bit of excitement. Being over there – right in the thick of the enemy. Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Something to tell your grandchildren one day – if you ever have any. Cigarette?' Harry leaned forward with his case. ‘We never did discover why Duval wanted to get back here so urgently.'

Powell lit his cigarette. ‘Actually, I did manage to find out.'

‘You did? Well why the hell didn't you say so?'

‘I didn't finish telling the whole story.' Powell produced the rolled-up French newspaper and laid it on the desk. ‘It was because of this.'

‘Lieutenant Reeves? It's Lieutenant Commander Powell speaking.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I gather you've been round to collect Louis Duval's things?'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘I take it you saw Mrs Hillyard?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘What exactly did you tell her – about Duval?'

‘I told her that he wouldn't be returning, that's all.'

‘Was she very upset?'

‘Well, she tried not to show it but I could see that she was. Very upset indeed.' The lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘I'm afraid I hadn't quite realized the situation there.'

‘Do you think she understood . . . why he wouldn't be coming back?'

‘Oh, yes, sir. I couldn't tell her in so many words, of course, but she understood all right. She said she knew about what he was doing. She'd found out by accident and she'd talked it over with you.'

‘Yes, she did. It won't have gone any further, I'm quite sure of that.'

The lieutenant cleared his throat again. ‘I left all his paintings with her, sir. And a sketchbook. It seemed the right thing to do.'

‘Yes it was. Exactly the right thing.'

‘Henrietta? It's Alan. I'm in London for a couple of days . . .'