Night Sky (82 page)

The hill steepened, but Julie kept her pace, pushing harder until the path levelled off again. She liked exerting herself: it made her tired and that helped her to sleep.

She sat on a rampart of the old fort and lifted her face to the warm sun. The islands were quite lovely now. Most of the heathland was covered in carpets of blooms – pink, yellow, white; flowers called sea pink, thrift, hottentot fig …

But no amount of loveliness could make things right again.

From the top of the hill it was possible to see some of the islands to the south-west. The tip of St Agnes and the beginnings of the Western Rocks. It was calm today. Hard to believe that they were the same rocks …

David was dead. They’d buried him in the quiet, shaded churchyard at Porth Hellick on the southern side of St Mary’s, next to the dead from other shipwrecks of long ago. Every two days or so she walked there, picking a bunch of wild flowers from the hedgerows to place on his grave.

There was only one consolation for his death. His package had been delivered. It was something at least. It was the only thing that assuaged her guilt.

It was a quarter to four. Time to go and meet Peter. She made her way down the path towards the town and, reaching the school, waited outside the gate with the other mothers.

Sharp at four a door opened and the children poured out, skipping and running and making a lot of noise. After a while Julie spotted Peter, slightly apart from the crowd, walking quietly on his own. Her heart went out to him. He looked so lonely.

When he saw her he gave a small wave and quickened his pace. She leant down to kiss him. ‘How was it, then?’

‘All right.’

They began to walk slowly down towards the town. ‘What did you do today?’

‘Oh spelling. And arithmetic …’

‘Do you hate it terribly?’

‘No,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s all right.’

They walked on in silence.

Julie glanced down at him. He was frowning slightly. ‘What is it, Peter?’

‘Nothing.’

But she could see he was disturbed about something. ‘Come on. Much better to tell me.’

There was a long pause, then he murmured, ‘I had a bad dream.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before? What was it about?’

He bent his head and she knew he wasn’t going to reply.

They were almost into the town, only a few yards from the lodgings. Julie paused; she didn’t want to go into the boarding house while they were talking like this. Her eye caught the gleam of water down an alleyway between two houses.

‘Let’s go and watch the water.’ She led him across the road and down the alleyway to the sea. They sat on the harbour wall and Julie asked again, ‘What was the dream about, Peter?’

Eventually he whispered, ‘Uncle Jean. And Tante Marie.’

‘And it was a bad dream?’

‘There was—’ The high voice faltered. ‘– the Germans took them away.’

Julie stared out across the harbour. She often had dreams like that herself.

Peter asked suddenly, ‘Is that where Tante Marie is, Mummy, with the Germans?’

She replied quietly, ‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’

He was silent again, picking at the stone wall with his fingers.

Julie said impulsively, ‘Peter, suppose I went to London, do you think you could manage on your own for a few days? Mrs Eldon would look after you.’

He froze. ‘Mummy, don’t go away. Please!’

She took his hand. ‘It would only be for a few days. Promise. I – I’m going to find out about Tante Marie.’ She added, ‘And maybe Richard too. If there’s any news.’

He nodded slowly.

‘I won’t be long, promise. It’s just that … I’ve got to find out. You do see, don’t you?’

He looked crestfallen.

She added brightly, ‘And I tell you what, since you’ve finished
Swallows and Amazons
, I’ll see if I can borrow another Arthur Ransome before I go in the morning. How about that?’

There was the faintest smile.

‘But for now, how about helping me to send a telegram?’

He nodded again.

Julie jumped to her feet and, holding Peter’s hand, made her way back to the post office. For the first time in a month, she almost felt cheerful.

Smithe-Webb looked at his watch and wondered when she’d arrive. The telegram hadn’t been very specific.

She arrived, in fact, just ten minutes later.

As soon as she was announced, Smithe-Webb and his assistant, Forbes, went straight down to the main entrance.

She wasn’t difficult to spot. She was waiting by the main door, a slim, nervous figure pacing back and forth over the stone floor. She was wearing a dress that was shabby and rather too large for her. Refugee issue, Smithe-Webb decided. It made her look particularly vulnerable.

‘Mrs Lescaux?’

She spun round, as tense as a cat. Immediately Smithe-Webb noticed the wound on her head which, though almost healed, was still conspicuous.

He put out his hand. She shook it, her enormous dark eyes searching his face. He said straight away, ‘No news, I’m afraid.’

She sagged visibly and looked down.

Smithe-Webb said quickly, ‘Look, there’s a flat we use not far from here. Shall we go and talk there?’

He led her by the elbow towards the door while Forbes went ahead and hailed a cab. During the ride she didn’t speak but stared disconsolately out of the window. Smithe-Webb asked politely, ‘How’s the head? All healed up now?’ She nodded vaguely and he didn’t bother to speak again.

The flat was on the fourth floor of a mansion block in Victoria. Forbes unlocked the door and said cheerfully, ‘What about some coffee, then?’

Smithe-Webb led the way into the sitting room and said, ‘Do sit down.
Will
you have some coffee?’

She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

She looked so thin and pale that he asked, ‘How about something to eat?’

‘Oh. Well, if you have anything …’

As he’d thought – she’d had no breakfast. He told Forbes to dig up a sandwich and said to her, ‘Won’t be a moment.’

She nodded. Smithe-Webb took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and began the solemn ritual of lighting up. Through the clouds of smoke he took a good look at her.

She was in a bad way, obviously very depressed. When she smiled she was probably rather a looker – she had lovely eyes, a clear skin and a wide, sensuous mouth. But at the moment she was frowning grimly.

Her eyes darted up to him. ‘No news at all?’

‘Sorry. We’ve put out a request about your aunt but … with no-one on the spot, well, it takes time.’

She was nodding. ‘Yes, I understand.’ She looked at him again. ‘And Richard Ashley?’

Smithe-Webb frowned and examined his pipe. ‘I have to admit that … the lack of news is worrying. He still hasn’t been registered as a POW.’

‘The Gestapo have him then.’

‘It’s by no means certain. All sorts of things could have happened—’

‘Yes.’

She was very pale, sitting motionless on the edge of her chair. Forbes came bouncing in with a plate of food and a mug of steaming liquid and put them on a side table.

She didn’t move.

‘You must eat!’ Smithe-Webb got up and put the plate on her lap.

Mechanically, she picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The taste seemed to revive her and she began to chew. She said, ‘Major?’

‘Yes, Mrs Lescaux?’

Her eyes were suddenly hard and bright. ‘What about Roger – the man Paul Fougères? Have you had any more news of him?’

‘Apparently he was executed in Paris quite recently.’

She looked startled. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Not absolutely … It’s hard to be definite.’

She was shaking her head slowly from side to side.

‘You still think it was him?’ asked the Major.

‘Oh yes!’

Smithe-Webb raised his eyebrows and didn’t reply.

‘I
know
it was. As soon as you have contact with Brittany again, you’ll hear it from there too, I’m sure! They’ll know by now! They always find out …’

Smithe-Webb cleared his throat. ‘I – er have heard from Rennes, through another organisation—’

She sat up.

‘Apparently no-one has heard anything definite.’

‘
Nothing?
’

‘There’s no certainty it was a traitor. Apparently.’

She stared at him, thunderstruck. ‘But it
must
have been. Can’t you find out more? Someone
must
know.’

The doorbell rang. As Forbes went to answer it, Smithe-Webb looked towards the door with relief. ‘Look, there’s a chap from the Scientific Intelligence Service who’d like to ask you a few more questions.’

‘About the package?’

‘I expect so.’

She nodded briefly. ‘All right.’

The man from SIS was a round, balding man with pebble glasses – just what you’d expect.

He pumped the girl’s hand warmly and sat down in a chair beside her. ‘I’m a sort of intelligence officer – but on the scientific side,’ he began. ‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of things, Madame. I hope you don’t mind—’

‘Not at all. Please go ahead.’

The SIS man adjusted his glasses and began earnestly, ‘When Freymann told you about the – er – device, what else did he tell you? Did he say
how
he got hold of the plans, for instance?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Well, as I told the Major before, they were David’s own plans. He’d been working on them. As I understood it, they were
his
alone.’

The SIS man nodded. ‘But did he say if anyone
else
knew about them?’

‘Well – he gave the
impression
that no-one else knew. But I couldn’t be sure.’

‘Did he mention destroying duplicate plans or anything like that?’

She shook her head, ‘I don’t remember. The Major – and the other people I talked to before – they asked me all these questions. And I’m afraid I still don’t remember.’

The SIS man nodded. ‘It was just that you’d had a big bump on the head then, and we thought that now you were fully recovered a few things might have come back to you.’

‘No. Sorry. Is it really vital?’

‘Yes. Very.’

She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you want to know if the Germans have got hold of the idea?’

‘Yes, that’s just what we’d like to know!’

‘David’s idea was a good one then?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Oh I’m so glad! I’m so glad!’ She smiled a little, the first time Smithe-Webb had ever seen her smile. It transformed her face. She asked, ‘It’ll be really useful then – to Britain? To the war effort?’

The SIS man licked his lips nervously and looked at Smithe-Webb, as if for assistance. ‘Well … er. In a way, yes. In a way.’ He looked down awkwardly.

Smithe-Webb thought: My God, he’s made a hash of it, bloody fool.

The girl was staring at the SIS man, confusion on her face. ‘What do you mean –
in a way
?’ She looked question-ingly at Smithe-Webb, then back to the SIS man. ‘Can’t you use it after all? I thought you said—?’

‘No, please forgive me,’ the SIS man said unhappily, ‘Of
course
we can use it—’

‘You’re not telling me the truth!’

Smithe-Webb breathed in deeply and said, ‘What he hasn’t actually mentioned, Mrs Lescaux, is that – we already have this type of radar.’ He hurried on, ‘Now that doesn’t mean that what you did was any the less important. You stopped the Germans getting hold of Freymann and the secret, and that
was really vital
.’

She stared at Smithe-Webb, a look of blank incomprehension on her face.

He added quickly, ‘You see, it was vital that Freymann be brought out of France. Otherwise the Germans could have tortured the information out of him. They could have held his family prisoner and
made
him work for them. So you see—’

She murmured something. Smithe-Webb missed it and hesitated. She said again, ‘So it was all for nothing. All for nothing.’

‘No, Mrs Lescaux. Really—’ Rather exasperated, he turned to the scientist. ‘You tell her, old chap.’

‘Well …’ The SIS man blinked nervously through his glasses. ‘What Major Smithe-Webb says is absolutely right. The Germans don’t have the radar and that gives us a tremendous edge … It means we can bomb their cities really accurately and … our planes can locate their submarines on the surface … But
they
don’t have the same advantage. Do you see—?’

‘But there were other ways, weren’t there?’ she cried bitterly. ‘Like destroying his plans so they’d never be found, like hiding him and stopping him from being caught. Instead … he died, trying so hard—!’ She put a hand over her face.

The SIS man was on his feet looking perplexed and mildly alarmed. Smithe-Webb said, ‘Better go, old chap.’

The man nodded and left. Smithe-Webb pulled up a chair and patted the girl’s arm. ‘Now look, we wouldn’t make this thing up, you know. What Freymann did really
was
important, you do believe that, don’t you?’

She took a large breath and raised her head. Eventually she said wearily, ‘Yes, I believe you. Yes … It was just that … I was so hoping that David’s invention would be
useful
. In a positive way. I wanted it for him – I—’ She sighed. ‘I wanted him to have the
glory
.’

‘Yes, I understand that. Yes, I do see. But what he did was very brave, you know. And very positive. I mean, he whisked the information away from under the German’s noses, didn’t he? They’ll kick themselves when they find out.’

‘Yes.’

Forbes brought in some fresh coffee and she sat drinking quietly, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Smithe-Webb could see that she was thinking hard.

Suddenly she put down her cup and looked hard at Smithe-Webb. ‘Send me back. I want to go back.’

Here it was, Smithe-Webb thought. She was bound to ask. He sighed deeply. ‘Mrs Lescaux, it would be most unwise. Think about it. You’ll be on the Gestapo’s list of most wanted people. They’ll have your photograph, your description. You couldn’t go anywhere
near
North Brittany. They’d have you in a second!’

She frowned. ‘But—’

‘What could you achieve there? Think about it. What would you
do
?’

‘What would I do!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d find the others! And regroup the line! And I’d—’