Cold Harbour (7 page)

She turned from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron, a tall gaunt woman, the strong Cornish face very still, blue eyes watchful. “Anne-Marie, is it?”

“She’s dead,” Genevieve said simply and closed the door.

When she went into the parlour, Craig was standing at the mantelpiece looking at an old photo of Anne-Marie and her as children.

“Not much difference, even then,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”

“You knew my sister, I take it?”

“Yes. I met her in Paris in 1940. I was a journalist then. We became friends. I knew she had an English father, but to be honest, she never mentioned you. Not even a hint that you existed.”

Genevieve Trevaunce made no comment. She sat down
in one of the wing-back chairs by the fire and said calmly, “Have you come far, Major?”

“London.”

“A long drive.”

“Easy enough. Not much traffic on the roads these days.”

There was an awkward pause, but it could be put off no longer. “How exactly did my sister die?”

“In a plane crash,” Craig told her.

“In France?”

“That’s right.”

“How would you know that?” Genevieve asked. “France is occupied territory.”

“We have our channels of communication,” he said. “The people I work for.”

“And who would they be?”

The door opened and Mrs. Trembath came in with a tray which she placed carefully on the side table. She glanced at Osbourne briefly and departed. Genevieve poured the tea.

“I must say you’re taking this remarkably well,” he said.

“And you’ve just managed to avoid answering my question, but never mind.” She handed him a cup of tea. “My sister and I were never close.”

“Isn’t that unusual for twins?”

“She went to live in France when my mother died in 1935. I stayed with my father. It was as simple as that. Now, let me try again. Who do you work for?”

“Office of Strategic Services,” he said. “It’s a rather specialised organisation.”

She noticed a strange feature of his uniform. On his right sleeve he wore wings with the letters SF in the centre which, as she learned later, stood for Special Forces, but underneath he also wore British paratrooper’s wings.

“Commandos?”

“Not really. Most of the time our people wouldn’t tend to go in wearing uniform at all.”

She said, “Are you trying to tell me that my sister was involved in that sort of thing?”

He produced a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not at all.”

He lit one, got up and walked to the window. “It was in the spring of 1940 that I met your sister. I was working for
Life
magazine. She was quite big on the social scene, but then you’d know that.”

“Yes.”

He peered out at the garden. “I did a feature on the de Voincourts which, for various reasons, never saw press, but it meant I had to interview the Countess . . .”

“Hortense?”

He turned, a wry smile on his face. “Quite a lady, that one. She’d just lost her fourth husband when I saw her. An infantry Colonel, killed at the front.”

“Yes. And my sister?”

“Oh, we became,” Craig paused, “good friends.” He came back to the fireplace and sat down. “And then the Germans took Paris. Being a neutral, they didn’t bother me at first, but then I got involved with entirely the wrong people from their point of view and I had to exit stage left rather quickly. I came to England.”

“Which was when you joined this OSS of yours?”

“No, America wasn’t at war with Germany at that time. I worked for a British outfit at first—SOE. Same kind of work, you might say. I transferred to my own people later.”

“And how did my sister come to be involved?”

“The German High Command started to use your aunt’s
château. Generals, those sort of people, putting up there for a few days’ rest, a conference or two.”

“And Anne-Marie and my aunt?”

“Allowed to stay on as long as they behaved, and it was good for propaganda purposes to have the Countess de Voincourt and her niece acting as hostesses.”

Genevieve was angry then. “You expect me to believe this? That Hortense de Voincourt would allow herself to be used in this way?”

“Hold on a minute and let me explain,” Craig said. “Your sister was allowed to travel backwards and forwards to Paris whenever she wished. She got in touch with people in the Resistance there. Offered to work for us and she was in a unique position to do that.”

“So, she became an agent?” she said calmly.

“You don’t seem very surprised?”

“I’m not. She probably thought your kind of work rather glamorous.”

“War,” Craig Osbourne said quietly, “is not in the least glamorous. What your sister was doing even less so, considering what they’d have done to her if she’d been caught.”

“I think I should tell you that I’m a Staff Nurse at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, Major,” Genevieve said. “Military Ward 10. We had one of your boys in during my last week of duty. An air gunner on a Flying Fortress and we had to amputate what was left of his hands. You don’t need to tell me much about the glamour of war. I meant something rather different. If you knew my sister as well as you say, I’m sure you’ll understand me.”

He didn’t answer, simply stood up and paced restlessly around the room. “We got information about a special conference the Nazis were going to hold. Something very
important. So important that it was necessary for our people to talk to Anne-Marie face-to-face. She arranged a holiday in Paris and a Lysander aircraft was sent to pick her up. The idea was that she would be brought to England for a briefing then flown back.”

“Is that usual?”

“Happens all the time. A regular shuttle service. I’ve done it myself. She was supposed to be driving to St. Maurice to catch the Paris train. But in fact, the car was looked after for her and she was taken by truck to the field where the Lysander was to put down.”

“What went wrong?”

“According to our Resistance sources, they were shot down by a German nightfighter as they took off. It seems the plane blew up instantly.”

“I see,” Genevieve said.

He stopped pacing and said to her angrily, “Don’t you care? Do you even give a damn?”

“When I was thirteen, Major Osbourne,” she told him, “Anne-Marie broke my right thumb in two places.” She held it up. “See, it’s still a little crooked. She told me she wanted to see how much pain I could stand. She used one of those old-fashioned walnut crackers—the kind you screw very tight. She told me I must not cry out, however much it hurt, because I was a de Voincourt.”

“My God!” he whispered.

“And I didn’t. I simply fainted when the pain became unbearable, but by then, the damage had been done.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. A playful prank turned sour, that’s all. Where my father was concerned she could do no wrong.” She poured herself another cup of tea. “How much of all this have you told him, by the way?”

“I simply said that we’d learned through our Intelligence sources that your sister had been killed in a bad car accident.”

“But why tell me and not him?”

“Because you looked as if you could take it, he didn’t.”

He was lying, she knew that instantly, but at that moment, her father walked past the window. She stood up. “I must see how he is.”

As she got the door open, Craig said, “None of my business, but I’d say you’re the last person he’d want to see right now.” And that hurt, really hurt, because in her heart, she knew that it was true. “Having you around will only make it worse for him,” he said gently. “Every time he sees you he’ll think it’s her for just a split second.”

“Hope it’s her, Major Osbourne,” Genevieve corrected him. “But what would you suggest?”

“I’m driving back to London now, if that would be of any help.”

And then she saw, knew beyond any shadow of doubt. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’m what you came for.”

“That’s right, Miss Trevaunce.”

She turned and left him there by the fire and went out, closing the door behind her.

HER FATHER WAS
gardening again, pulling weeds and throwing them into a barrow. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was still a fine soft day as if nothing had happened.

He straightened and said, “You’ll be off on the afternoon train from Padstow?”

“I thought you might want me to stay on for a while. I could phone the hospital. Explain. Ask for an extension of leave.”

“Would it alter anything?” He was lighting his pipe, his hands shaking slightly.

“No,” Genevieve said wearily. “I suppose not.”

“Then why stay?” He returned to his weeding.

SHE MOVED ROUND
her tiny bedroom making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything and paused at the window watching her father working down there. Had he loved Anne-Marie more because he couldn’t have her? Was that it? She’d never felt there were any similarities between herself and the rest of the family. The only one on either side for whom she’d had any genuine feeling was her Aunt Hortense, but she, of course, was something special.

She opened the window and called to her father, “Major Osbourne is going back to London now. He’s offered me a lift.”

He glanced up. “Kind of him, I’d take it if I were you.”

He returned to his digging, looking at least twenty years older than he had an hour earlier. As if he had already crawled into the grave with his beloved Anne-Marie. She closed the window, took a last look around the room, picked up her case and went out. Craig Osbourne was sitting on a chair at the door. He stood up and took the case from her without a word as Mrs. Trembath came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron again.

“I’m going now,” Genevieve said. “Look after him.”

“Haven’t I always?” She kissed Genevieve on the cheek. “On your way, girl. This is no place for you and never was.”

Craig went to the car and put her case on the rear seat. She took a deep breath and approached her father. He looked up, and she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll write.”

He hugged her hard and then turned away quickly. “Go back to your hospital, Genevieve. Do some good for those that can still be helped.”

She went to the car, then, without another word, aware of the strangest sense of release in his rejection of her. Craig handed her in, closed the door, stepped behind the wheel and drove away.

After a while he said, “Are you okay?”

“Would you think I was crazy if I told you I felt free for the first time in years?” she said.

“No, knowing your sister as I did and after what I’ve seen here this morning, I’d say that makes a certain wild sense.”

“And just how well did you know her?” Genevieve asked him. “Were you lovers?”

Craig smiled wryly. “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Lovers would be entirely the wrong term. Anne-Marie never loved anyone but herself in her life.”

“True, but we’re not talking about that. We’re discussing the flesh, Major.”

He was angry for a moment then a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Okay, lady, so I slept with your sister a time or two. Does that make you feel better?”

She sat face averted and for ten miles they didn’t exchange a word. Finally, he produced the pack of cigarettes, one-handed. “They have their uses, these things.”

“No thanks.”

He lit one himself and wound the window down a little. “Your father—quite a guy. A country doctor, yet according to that plate on the gate back there he’s a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons.”

“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t know that before you came down here?”

“Some,” he said. “Not all. Neither you nor he figured much in Anne-Marie’s vocabulary when I knew her.”

She leaned back, arms folded, head against the seat. “The Trevaunces have lived in this part of Cornwall past memory. My father broke a family tradition of centuries by going to medical school instead of to sea. He came out of Edinburgh University in the summer of 1914 with a talent for surgery which he was able to put to good use in the field hospitals of the Western Front in France.”

“I imagine that must have been one hell of a postgraduate course,” Craig said.

“During the spring of 1918 he was wounded. Shrapnel in his right leg. You probably noticed that he still limps. Château de Voincourt was used as a convalescent home for officers. You see how much of a fairy story it’s beginning to sound?”

“You could say that,” he said. “But go on. It’s interesting.”

“My grandmother, holder of one of the oldest titles in France in her own right and proud as Lucifer; the elder sister, Hortense, sardonic, witty, always in control; and then there was Hélène, young and wilful and very, very beautiful.”

“Who fell in love with the doctor from Cornwall?” Craig nodded. “I shouldn’t imagine the old girl would have liked that.”

“She didn’t, so the lovers fled away by night. My father was established in London and all was silent from the French connection . . .”

“Until la belle Hélène produced twins?”

“Exactly.” Genevieve nodded. “And blood, they say, is thicker than water.”

“So you started to visit the old homestead?”

“My mother, Anne-Marie and me. It worked very well. We fitted in. My mother raised us to speak only French in the house, you see.”

“And your father?”

“Oh, he was never made welcome. He did very well over the years. A Senior Surgeon at Guy’s Hospital, rooms in Harley Street.”

“And then your mother died?”

“That’s right. Pneumonia. 1935. We were thirteen at the time. The year of the thumb, I call it.”

“And Anne-Marie chose France while you stayed with your father? What was all that about?”

“Simple.” Genevieve shrugged, looking suddenly all French. “Grandmère was dead and Hortense was the new Countess de Voincourt, a title held in her own right by the eldest in the female line in our family since the days of Charlemagne, and the one thing which had become clear to Hortense after several marriages was that she couldn’t have children.”

“And Anne-Marie was next in line?” Craig asked.