Cold Harbour (20 page)

When Genevieve went into her aunt’s sitting room, it was like entering another world. One wall was entirely covered by a mural some famous Chinese artist had done for her. It was exquisite, beautiful, intricate details as finely painted as the green trees and the strange, unfamiliar figures and temples. Heavy blue silk curtains hung from ceiling to floor and she knelt on the faded
chaise-longue
by the window and looked down into the garden.

When she had last been here it had been lush and beautiful in the warmth of early summer, roses climbing over the statue of Venus. No flowers now, but the important things were still there like the large stone fountain with a boy on a dolphin in the middle of the lawn.

General Ziemke was sitting on the bench by the high wall over to her right. His hair was silver, more silver than in the photos, his face more arresting at a distance, giving him the air of a man still in his prime. A greatcoat with an
enormous fur collar was draped over his shoulders and he smoked a cigarette in a long holder. He appeared to be deep in thought, but every so often rubbed that bad leg of his as if he would restore feeling to it.

“What do you want?”

Genevieve turned and there she was, totally unchanged since the last time she had seen her. “Chantal—you gave me a shock.”

Her grim ugly face didn’t relax in the slightest. “What do you want?” she repeated.

“To see my aunt, of course. Any objections?”

“She’s resting. I won’t let you disturb her.”

Hatchet-face, they used to call her, grim and unrelenting and no one had ever been able to do anything with her.

Genevieve said patiently, “Do as you’re told for once, Chantal. Ask Hortense nicely if she’ll see me. If you won’t, then I’ll go in anyway.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Suddenly she was impatient, Anne-Marie taking over completely. “Don’t be so irritating for God’s sake.”

Chantal’s eyes darkened at the blasphemy for she was very religious. “You know where you’ll go, don’t you?”

“Just as long as you’re in the other place.”

The door behind her was slightly ajar. As Genevieve turned to it, she heard the voice, so familiar in spite of the years and her mouth went dry, the heart beat a little faster.

“If she’s so anxious to see me, she must want something badly. Let her in.”

As Chantal pushed the door open, Genevieve could see Hortense beyond her sitting up in bed against the pillows, reading a newspaper. She smiled sweetly as she went past. “Thank you, dear Chantal.”

But once inside the room, she found herself totally at a loss. “What do I say?” she thought. “What would Anne-Marie say?” She took a deep breath and went forward. “Why do you put up with her?” she asked, flinging herself down in a chair by the fireplace and looking towards the bed.

She was conscious of a feeling of the most intense excitement, wanted only to go to her aunt. To tell her that it was she, Genevieve, come back after all these years.

“Since when have you cared?” She was a disembodied voice behind the newspaper. Now, she lowered it, and Genevieve had one of the greatest shocks of her life. She was still Hortense, but infinitely older than when she had last seen her.

“Give me a cigarette,” she snapped.

Genevieve opened her handbag, took out her lighter and the silver and onyx case and threw them on to the bed. “This is new,” Hortense said as she opened the case. “Very pretty.”

She lit a Gitane. Genevieve picked up the silver case, put it back in her handbag and put out her hand for the lighter, the wide silk sleeve of her blouse sliding up her arm. Hortense hesitated, her eyes blank, then gave it to her.

“Paris was a bore,” Genevieve told her.

“I dare say.” She inhaled deeply. “Chantal thinks I shouldn’t smoke. If I ask for a packet of cigarettes, she conveniently forgets.”

“Get rid of her.”

Hortense ignored her for a moment, giving her a chance to adjust. When Genevieve had last seen her, she hadn’t looked a day over forty, but that had always been so. The truth was not that she was old, only that she had got older by more than the four years since Genevieve had last seen her.

“You want something?” Hortense said.

“Do I?”

“Usually.” She took another puff at her cigarette and handed it to Genevieve. “You finish it, just to satisfy Chantal.”

“She won’t believe you. The original bloodhound, that one.”

“A game we play.” Hortense shrugged. “There’s little else to do.”

“What about General Ziemke?”

“Carl’s all right in his way. A gentleman at least, which is more than you can say for the others downstairs. Scum like Reichslinger, for example. They think breeding is something to do with horses.”

“And Priem? What about him?”

“I understand he carried your bags up from the car. Is he in love with you?”

“You tell me. You are, after all, an authority on the subject.”

She sat back against the cushions, staring at Genevieve, eyes narrowed: “I know one thing. He’s a man, that one. Just himself.”

“Indeed.”

“Not one to play games with. I’d give him a wide berth if I were you.”

“Is that a suggestion or an order?”

“You never were very good at doing as you were told,” she said, “but I never took you for a fool. You know I’m usually right in this sort of thing.”

Genevieve was in a real difficulty now, for Hortense was the one person who could tell her everything that went on in this house and yet she dared not involve her; certainly never tell her about herself. For her own sake, it was better that she remain totally uninvolved.

“What if I told you why I’m here?”

“You’d probably be lying.”

“A Swiss banker, desperately in love with me?”

“True love at last? You, Anne-Marie?”

“You don’t believe a word I say, do you?”

“Isn’t that always safer? Now, tell me what you’re up to and give me another of those cigarettes.”

She reached for Genevieve’s handbag, had it open before she could stop her and rummaged inside. There was a pause, she went quite still, then took out the Walther.

“Be careful,” Genevieve said and reached for it, her sleeve sliding back up her arm again.

Hortense dropped the pistol and grabbed her right wrist, a grip of incredible strength so that she was pulled forward on to her knees beside the bed.

“Once, when you were a little girl of eight, you waded into the fountain in the lower garden—the boy with a trumpet. You told me later that you wanted to climb up to drink the water as it spouted from his mouth.” Genevieve shook her head dumbly. The grip tightened. “One of his bronze fingers was broken. When you slipped, you caught your arm. Later, here in this very room, you sat on my knee, holding me tight as Doctor Marais repaired the damage. How many stitches was it—five?”

“No!” Genevieve struggled wildly. “You’re mistaken. That was Genevieve.”

“Precisely,” Hortense traced a finger along the thin white scar clearly visible on the inside of the right forearm. “I saw you arrive,
chérie,
” she said. “From my window.” Her grip slackened, a hand stroked Genevieve’s hair. “From the moment you stepped out of the car—from that moment. Did you think I would not to able to tell?”

There were tears in Genevieve’s eyes. She threw her arms about her. Hortense kissed her gently on the forehead,
held her close for a moment, then said softly, “And now,
chérie,
the truth.”

WHEN SHE HAD
finished, she still knelt by the bed. There was a long pause, then Hortense patted her hand. “I think I would very much like a glass of cognac. Over there—the Chinese lacquer cabinet in the corner.”

“But is that wise?” Genevieve said. “Your health . . .”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Hortense was frowning now.

“They told me you’d had trouble with your heart. Brigadier Munro said you were in poor health.”

“What nonsense. Do I look ill to you?”

She was almost angry. Genevieve said, “No, you look marvellous, if you really want to know. I’ll get your brandy.”

She went to the cabinet and opened it. So, another piece of dishonesty on Munro’s part, just to push her a little harder in the direction he’d wished her to follow and Craig Osbourne had gone along with it. Her hand shook a little as she poured Courvoisier into a crystal glass and carried it to her aunt.

Hortense took it down in one quick swallow and looked into the empty glass pensively. “Poor Carl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You think I could bear to have his hands on me now, knowing what those animals did to Anne-Marie?” She placed the glass down on the bedside cabinet. “We lived in a state of armed conflict, Anne-Marie and I. She was selfish, totally ruthless where her own desires were concerned, but she was my niece, my blood, my flesh. A de Voincourt.”

“And acted like one these past few months.”

“Yes, you are right and we must see that what she did is not wasted.”

“Which is why I am here.”

Hortense snapped her fingers. “Give me another cigarette and tell Chantal to run my bath. I’ll soak for an hour and think about things. See what can be done to pay a little back on account to those gentlemen below. You take a walk,
chérie.
Come back in an hour.”

AT COLD HARBOUR
it was raining when Craig went into the kitchen in search Julie. She took in the fact of his uniform, the trenchcoat.

“You’re leaving?”

“For the moment. The weather’s lifted at Croydon. I’m flying up there with Munro in the Lysander.” He put an arm about her. “Are you okay? You don’t seem yourself.”

She smiled wanly. “I know I amuse you with my Tarot cards, Craig, but I do have the gift. I get feelings. I just know when something isn’t as it should be.”

“Explain,” he said.

“Genevieve—her sister. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Much more. I don’t think Munro is telling anything remotely like the truth.”

And he believed her, his stomach contracting into a knot. “Genevieve,” he said softly and his hands tightened on Julie’s shoulders.

“I know, Craig. I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. I’ll sort it.” He smiled. “You’ve got Martin to lean on. Talk it over with him. Tell him I intend to do some digging when I get to London.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Trust me. You know what a wild man I am when I get angry.”

HE SAT BESIDE
Munro when they took off. The Brigadier produced papers from his briefcase and studied them. No point in a frontal attack at that stage, Craig knew.

He said, “She’ll be well into things by now.”

“Who will?” Munro glanced up. “What are you talking about.”

“Genevieve. She should be there by now. Château de Voincourt.”

“Oh, that.” Munro nodded. “We’ll have to see how it goes. She is an amateur, of course, one must remember that.”

“That fact didn’t bother you before,” Craig told him.

“Yes, well I hardly wanted to depress her, dear boy, did I? I suppose what I’m trying to say is that one mustn’t expect too much. Two-thirds of all women agents we’ve put in the field have come to a bad end.”

He returned to his documents, unperturbed and Craig sat there thinking. Julie was right. There
is
more. He tried to analyse it step-by-step, the factors involved, the way everything had happened. Central to it all was Anne-Marie, of course. If what had happened to her hadn’t happened, if it hadn’t been so essential for Munro to see her face-to-face. Craig thought of her as he’d last seen her and shuddered. The wretched girl, down there in that cellar at Hampstead and Baum, in whose care she was entrusted, and yet who couldn’t bear to go near her himself.

He straightened in his seat. Strange, that. Very strange. A doctor actually afraid to go near his own patient. There had to be an answer to that one.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. As they were walking across to the limousine waiting at Croydon, he said to Munro, “Will you need me tonight, sir?”

“No, dear boy. Enjoy yourself, why don’t you.”

“I will, sir. Might try the Savoy,” Craig said and opened the car door for him.

“
THE CONFERENCES ARE
always held in the library,” Hortense said. “The rest of the time, Priem uses it as his main office. He even sleeps there on a camp bed. He has a smaller office next to Reichslinger, but that’s for routine business.”

“How very dedicated of him,” Genevieve said. “The camp bed, I mean.”

“Any important papers are always kept in the library safe.”

“Behind the portrait of Elizabeth, the eleventh Countess?”

“Ah, you remember?”

“How can you be sure about all this?”

“Sooner or later,
chérie,
any man in my life discloses all, a habit I have always encouraged. Carl is no different, I assure you. You see, he is not a Nazi, God help him. He doesn’t approve, which means that when he gets angry, he talks. A kind of release.”

“You know that Rommel will be here the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes. To discuss their coastal defence system.”

“The Atlantic Wall?”

“And that’s what you are here for?”

“Any information I can get on it.”

“Which means getting into the safe because that’s where anything worth looking at will be.”

“Who has the key—the General?”

“No, Priem. Carl has great difficulty in getting into it himself. He’s always complaining. When they first came, I was compelled to hand over the key.”

“Didn’t you always keep a spare?” Genevieve asked.

Hortense nodded. “They asked for that, too. They’re very thorough, the Germans. On the other hand.” She opened the drawer of her bedside cabinet, took out a trinket box and lifted the lid. She rummaged amongst some assorted jewellery and produced a key. “I didn’t give them this. The spare to the spare, you might say.”

Genevieve said, “That’s marvellous.”

“Only a beginning. Such papers, if removed, would soon be missed.”

“I have a camera.” Genevieve took out the silver and onyx case, fiddled at the back until the flap dropped. “See?”

“Ingenious.” Hortense nodded. “So, the conference is to be held during the afternoon. In the evening, there will be a reception and ball, after which Rommel will return to Paris overnight. This means that if you are to see the contents of the safe, it will have to be during the ball itself.”