Cold Harbour (8 page)

“By eleven minutes. Oh, Hortense had no legal claim, but my father gave Anne-Marie free choice in the matter, in spite of the fact that she was only thirteen.”

“He hoped she’d choose him—right?”

“Poor Daddy.” Genevieve nodded. “And Anne-Marie knew exactly what she wanted. For him, it was the final straw. He sold up in London, moved back to St. Martin and bought the old rectory.”

“It’s good enough for the movies,” Craig said. “Bette Davis as Anne-Marie.”

“And who for me?” Genevieve demanded.

“Why, Bette Davis, of course.” He laughed. “Who else? When did you last see Anne-Marie?”

“Easter of 1940. My father and I visited Voincourt together. That was before Dunkirk. He tried to persuade her to return with us to England. She thought he was quite mad. Charmed him right out of the idea.”

“Yes, that I can imagine,” Craig wound down the window and flicked his cigarette out. “So, you’re the new heir?”

Genevieve Trevaunce turned to him, her face suddenly drained of colour. “God help me, but I hadn’t thought of that—not for a moment.”

He put an arm around her. “Hey, come on, soldier, it’s okay. I understand.”

She suddenly looked very tired. “When do we get to London?”

“Early evening, with any luck.”

“And then you’ll tell me the truth? The whole truth?”

He didn’t even glance at her, but kept his attention on the road. “Yes,” he said briefly. “I think I can promise you that.”

“Good.”

It started to rain. She closed her eyes as he turned on the wipers and after a while she slept, turning on the seat, arms folded under her breasts, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

The perfume was different. Anne-Marie, yet not Anne-Marie. Craig Osbourne had never felt so bewildered in his life and drove onwards to London glumly.

AS THEY APPROACHED
London it was dark, and there were the first hints of fire on the horizon, the crunch of bombs as the Ju88S pathfinders operating out of Chartres and Rennes in France laid the flares that would lead in the heavy bombers following.

As they drove into the city, there were signs of bomb damage everywhere from the previous night’s raid. On
several occasions, Craig had to divert where streets were blocked off. When Genevieve wound down the window she could smell smoke on the damp air and people were crowding into the tube stations, whole families carrying blankets, suitcases and personal belongings ready for another night underground. Nineteen-forty all over again.

“I thought we’d finished with all this,” she said bitterly. “I thought the RAF was supposed to have dealt with it.”

“Somebody must have forgotten to tell the Luftwaffe,” Craig said. “The Little Blitz, that’s what they’re calling it. Nothing like as bad as the first time around.”

“Unless you happen to be underneath the next bomb they drop,” she said.

There were flames over to the right of them and a stick of bombs fell close enough for Craig to swerve from one side of the street to the other. He pulled in at the kerb and a policeman in a tin hat emerged from the gloom.

“You’ll have to park here and take shelter in the tube. Entrance at the other end of the street.”

“I’m on military business,” Craig protested.

“You could be Churchill himself, old son, you still go down the bleeding tube,” the policeman said.

“Okay, I surrender,” Craig told him.

They got out and he locked the car, and they followed a motley crowd streaming along the street to the entrance to the tube station. They joined the queue and went down two escalators, finally walking along a tunnel until they emerged into the tunnel itself beside the track.

The platforms were crowded, people sitting everywhere, wrapped in blankets, their belongings around them. WVS ladies were dispensing refreshments from a trolley. Craig queued and managed to secure two cups of tea and a corned beef sandwich which he and Genevieve shared.

“People are marvellous,” she said. “Look at them. If Hitler could see this right now, he’d call off the war.”

“Very probably,” Craig agreed.

At that moment, a warden in a boiler suit and tin hat, his face covered in dust, appeared in the entrance. “I need half-a-dozen volunteers. We got someone trapped in a cellar up on the street.”

There was a certain hesitation, then a couple of middle-aged men sitting near by got up. “We’ll go.”

Craig hesitated, touching his wounded arm. “Count me in.”

Genevieve followed him and the air raid warden said, “Not you, love.”

“I’m a nurse,” she said crisply. “You might need me more than the others.”

He shrugged wearily, turned and led the way out, and they all followed, back up the escalators and into the street. The bombs were falling further away now, but fires blazed over to the left and there was the stench of acrid smoke on the air.

About fifty yards from the entrance to the tube, a row of shops had been blasted into rubble. The warden said, “We should wait for the heavy rescue boys, but I heard someone crying out over here. Used to be a café called Sam’s. I think there’s someone in the cellar.”

They crowded forward, listening. The warden called out and almost immediately there was a faint answering cry.

“Right, let’s get this lot cleared,” the warden said.

They attacked the pile of bricks with their hands, burrowing deep, until after fifteen or twenty minutes, the top of the area steps appeared. There was barely room for a man to enter headfirst. While they crouched to inspect it, someone cried out in alarm and they scattered as a wall crumpled into the street.

The dust cleared and they stood up. “Madness to go down there,” one of the men said.

There was a pause then Craig put his cap in his trenchcoat pocket, took the coat off and handed it to Genevieve. “Jesus, I only got his damn uniform two days ago,” he said, dropped on his belly and slithered into the slot above the steps.

Everyone waited. After a while they could hear a child crying. His hands appeared holding a baby. Genevieve ran forward to take it from him and retreated into the centre of the street. A little later, a boy of about five years of age crawled out, covered in filth. He stood there, bewildered, and Craig emerged behind him. He took the boy’s hand and crossed to join Genevieve and the warden in the middle of the street. Someone cried a warning and another wall cascaded down in a shower of bricks, completely covering the entrance.

“Blimey, guvnor, your luck is good,” the warden said and he dropped on one knee to comfort the crying child. “Anyone else down there?”

“A woman. Dead, I’m afraid.” Craig managed to find a cigarette. He lit it and gave Genevieve a tired grin. “There’s nothing like a really great war, that’s what I always say, Miss Trevaunce. What do you always say?”

She held the baby close. “The uniform,” she said. “It’s not so bad. It should clean up very well.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a great comfort?” he enquired.

LATER, DRIVING ON,
she felt tired again. The bombing was well into the distance now, but even this area had seen action, glass crunching under the tyres. She saw a street
sign—Haston Place—and Craig stopped outside number ten, a pleasant Georgian terrace house.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“About ten minutes’ walk from SOE Headquarters in Baker Street. My boss has the top floor flat here. He thought it would be more private.”

“And who might this boss be?”

“Brigadier Dougal Munro.”

“Now that doesn’t sound very American,” she observed.

He opened the door for her. “We’ll take anything that comes to hand Miss Trevaunce. Now, if you’d follow me please.”

He led the way up the steps and pressed one of the buzzers at the front door.

Jack Carter was waiting on the landing as they went up the stairs, leaning on his stick. He held out his hand. “Miss Trevaunce. A great pleasure. My name’s Carter. Brigadier Munro is expecting you.”

The door stood open. As she went in Carter said to Craig, “Everything all right?”

“I’m not sure,” Craig told him. “I wouldn’t expect too much at this stage.”

The sitting room was very pleasant. A coal fire burning in a Georgian grate, a great many antiques on display, all of them an indication of Munro’s original career as an Egyptologist. The room was shadowed, the main light coming from a table lamp of brass on the desk by the window. Munro sat behind it reading some papers. Now he stood up and came round the desk.

“Miss Trevaunce.” He nodded. “Quite remarkable. I
wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it with my own eyes. My name is Munro—Dougal Munro.”

“Brigadier.” She nodded in acknowledgement.

He turned to Craig, “Good God, you are in a state. What on earth have you been up to?”

“A little tricky getting through town tonight with the bombing,” Craig told him.

Genevieve said, “He saved the lives of two children trapped in a cellar. Crawled in and got them out himself.”

“Dear me,” Munro observed. “I wish you wouldn’t indulge in heroics, Craig. You really are too valuable to lose at this stage and it can hardly have done that damned arm any good. Please sit down, Miss Trevaunce, or may I call you Genevieve? Your sister was always Anne-Marie to me.”

“If you like.”

“A drink, perhaps. We’ve limited supplies, but Scotch would be a possibility.”

“No thanks. It’s been a long day. Do you think we could get down to business?”

“A little difficult to know where to begin.” He sat behind the desk and Genevieve stood up.

“Some other time perhaps, when you’ve made up your mind.”

“Genevieve—please.” He raised a hand. “At least listen to me.”

“The trouble with listening is that one so often ends up by being persuaded.” But she did sit down again. “All right. Get on with it.”

Jack Carter and Craig sat by the fire opposite each other. Munro said, “I imagine Major Osbourne has explained the situation regarding your sister?”

“Yes.”

He opened a silver box and held it across the desk. “Cigarette?”

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“Your sister did—incessantly and this brand. Gitanes. Try one.”

There was a persistence to him now that she didn’t like. She said impatiently, “No—why should I?”

“Because we’d like you to take her place,” he said simply.

He held the cigarette box open and she stared at him, stomach suddenly empty as everything fell into place. “You’re mad,” she said. “Quite mad. You must be.”

“It’s been said before.” He snapped the box shut with a sharp click.

“You want me to go to France in my sister’s place, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, on Thursday of this week.” He turned to Craig. “The moon is right that night for a Lysander drop?”

“Yes, if everything the Met. boys promise about the weather holds true.”

She turned to look at him. He sprawled in the chair, smoking a cigarette, face calm as ever. No help there and she turned back to Munro. “This is nonsense. You must have any number of trained agents far better qualified than I to take on this job.”

“No one else who can be Anne-Marie Trevaunce, niece of the Countess de Voincourt at whose Château, this coming weekend, some very important members of the High Command of the German Army will be holding a conference to discuss the Atlantic Wall defence system against the coming Allied invasion. We’d like to hear what they have to say. It could save thousands of lives.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Brigadier,” she said. “That one went out years ago.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, a slight frown on his face as he considered her. “You know, it occurs to me that perhaps you don’t really have any choice in the matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“You aunt—you have something of a fondness for her, I understand?”

“To ask that question means you know the answer already.”

“She’ll be in a difficult position when Anne-Marie fails to materialise from that trip to Paris on Friday.” He shrugged, “German Intelligence hasn’t the slightest idea who was in that Lysander, you see.”

And now she really was afraid. “Did my aunt know about Anne-Marie’s activities?”

“No, but if she vanishes from the face of the earth completely the Germans will start to dig. They’re very thorough. It would only be a question of time before they knew something of the truth at least. Then, I think, they’d turn to your aunt and she’s not exactly up to the kind of pressure they’d put on her.”

“What are you saying?” she said. “Is she ill?”

“I understand her heart’s not been too good for some time now. She’s leading a normal enough life on the surface, but that’s about all.”

Genevieve took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “No,” she said, “I think you’re quite wrong. As Major Osbourne said earlier, she’s valuable to the Germans for propaganda reasons. They wouldn’t touch her, not Hortense de Voincourt. She’s too important.”

“I think you might find that things have altered a little since you were last in France,” he said. “No one is safe any more, believe me.”

“What would they do?”

It was Craig who answered. “They have camps for people like her. Very unpleasant places.”