The Very Thought of You (22 page)

‘We're not stupid,' said Frances. ‘We know something is going on.'

‘And we know that it has to do with Eric Baxter,' Della added, wagging her finger at him. ‘You and Beau can't get away with it.'

Robert took off his glasses and slowly polished them on his khaki tie. Frances guessed that he was thinking of something to say. Would it be conciliatory or threatening? Whatever it would be, she felt prepared.

He looked at Catherine. She wouldn't meet his eye and stared beyond him to the rather grubby tiles on the wall, but when he transferred his gaze to Della and Frances, they, not intimidated, glared back at him.

‘Alright,' he said finally, ‘I agree that you're not stupid, and yes, there is something going on. But I can't tell you what it is. We are at war, and in war there are secrets, secrets that affect our military security. So I am asking you to trust me. Please.' He looked at each of them in turn, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. ‘Don't voice any of your suspicions to the police or the redcaps. Play it as neutral as you can, because I promise you, it matters. It matters a lot.'

‘Is the tour going on?' asked Della.

‘Yes. I can't see that there is any need to postpone it. That is' – he glanced at Catherine – ‘unless you're too upset to carry on.'

‘No,' Frances said. ‘It isn't that. But what about Baxter?'

‘He'll be with you. I'll speak to him about his behaviour – don't you worry. He won't upset you again, but he is going on with the tour.'

The girls looked at each other, and then Della nodded. ‘Alright, we won't say anything, but, Robert' – she narrowed her eyes – ‘stop trying to bully us, and don't take us for fools. Never again.'

The door suddenly swung open and a young officer came in. He gaped at the sight of the three young women and started to back out. ‘It's OK – we're leaving,' said Robert, smiling. ‘Our meeting is finished.' And as the startled officer held open the door, the three girls glided out, followed by Robert. Catherine was the last to leave, and when they were out in the corridor, Robert caught her hand. ‘Did you understand?' he asked, his voice quietly anxious. ‘It is for the best reasons.'

‘Yes, I think so,' she said. ‘And … I do trust you, Robert.'

He looked down into her dark eyes and smiled. ‘I don't know what you've done to me,' he said. ‘You're making me soft.'

‘Is that bad?'

He took a deep breath and then gave a short laugh. ‘In my line of work, yes. Now, we must hurry.'

The questioning didn't take up much time. The boys had gone first and said they didn't know if Davey had enemies, and although Tommy said that Davey hadn't got on with Eric Baxter, as did Godfrey and Colin, nobody took much notice. The two redcaps looked at each other with raised eyebrows and a hint of a grin. It was obvious that they imagined that these theatre people were prone to having little tiffs.

‘Where is this Eric Baxter?' asked the redcap sergeant.

‘We don't know,' said Tommy, shrugging.

‘He's gone on ahead to prepare our next venue,' Beau suddenly announced. ‘I asked him to go straight away after last night's show. He got a lift with some BBC reporters who were heading the same way.'

The members of the company looked at each other. This was the first they'd heard of it, and Della opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better of it and, sitting back in her chair, lit another cigarette.

The redcap frowned. ‘You wanted to speak, Miss Stafford?'

She drew heavily on her cigarette and, after blowing out a lungful of blue smoke, grinned at the soldier. ‘Me, darling? No. Nothing to say.'

The French police were more persistent and Catherine, who had been called to interpret, was careful in her translation.

‘Mademoiselle,' the police inspector said, ‘ask Monsieur James when he last saw Monsieur Jones. Indeed, mademoiselle, ask everybody, if you please.'

Frances seemed to have been the last person who saw Davey, and with one eye on Robert, she told the inspector that Davey had wanted to add something into his act.

‘And that was all, mademoiselle?'

‘Yes. A new monologue, he said.' Frances let Catherine interpret. Her ability to speak and understand French was something she'd mostly kept to herself.

There were no more questions, and when Robert asked if they could go on with their tour, both the redcaps and the French police inspector nodded. ‘We'll know where you are,' said the redcap sergeant.

The inspector turned to Catherine. ‘You must give us your schedule, mademoiselle.'

‘Yes, monsieur,' she said. ‘Monsieur Bennett knows where we're going. I'll ask him.'

Before he turned away, the inspector spoke to her again. ‘Are you sure you've told us everything, mademoiselle? Interpreted correctly?' There was a suspicious edge to his voice and Catherine felt suddenly nervous. She knew Robert was watching her.

‘I have, monsieur,' she said, keeping the tremor out of her voice. ‘Absolutely. And, monsieur' – she lifted up her left hand to point to her wedding ring – ‘I am Madame Fletcher, not Mademoiselle.'

He blushed and bowed his head. ‘My apologies, madame.'

‘Well done,' said Robert when the police and the redcaps left. ‘You got him on the back foot.'

‘Not deliberately,' she smiled. ‘I was being correct.'

Tim O'Brien came into the dining room arm in arm with Felix, and Della jumped up and went over to greet them.

‘What's going on?' asked Tim, and Frances went to join them and explanations were made.

‘Jesus,' said Tim. ‘Sure and that's dreadful.'

‘It's bloody awful,' Della cried. ‘I knew him from before. He was a nice bloke.'

Felix reached out his hand. ‘Frances,' he said, ‘are you alright?'

She went over to him and took his hand. ‘I'm fine,' she said. ‘But how about us getting away from here? I need some fresh air. Remember? We had planned a day out.'

‘Let's buy some cheese and perhaps bread, if we can find some, and a bottle of wine,' Tim suggested. ‘I'm told there's a fine park, here in the city. We could go there. It'll be a grand picnic.'

‘Yes,' enthused Della, ‘I love the idea.' She looked around for Catherine, who was standing beside Robert. He was gathering up the papers scattered on the canteen table. ‘What about you two?' she called.

Robert looked up. ‘I need Catherine to look through these documents that the police left. They're copies of our statements and they're all in French. Perhaps we'll join you later.'

Della gave a little smirk before they left. ‘He wants her all to himself,' she whispered to Frances.

Alone with Robert, Catherine felt strangely vulnerable. She knew that he spoke and understood French perfectly, so his excuse for keeping her behind was exactly that, an excuse. But what for?

Robert stuffed the papers in his briefcase and then turned to look at her. ‘I have a Jeep outside. How would you like to go to the coast for the day? It's only a few miles away, quite safe, and I know a place that's relatively unspoilt by the war.' He grinned. ‘Maybe you could dip your toes in the water.'

Catherine nodded. She didn't want to walk with Robert in the park – that's what she did with Christopher – and the thought of a few hours at the seaside was entrancing.

‘Yes,' she smiled. ‘I'd like that.'

The road to the coast was crammed with lorries bringing supplies to the advancing army, and with soldiers, each heavily laden with the equipment of war, marching in single file along the edges of the road. One or two waved to her as she and Robert drove past them in the open Jeep and she waved back and smiled. They looked young, eager and excited. The thought of what might lie ahead didn't seem to be bothering them at all. Some locals had gathered at the road junctions to cheer on the invasion force and throw flowers. Catherine saw one old man press a bottle of wine into a young soldier's hands and a girl run forward to kiss the cheek of the man behind him.

It was an exciting sight and Catherine laughed out loud. ‘Isn't it wonderful?' she said. ‘These people are so happy to see the army.'

Robert braked slowly and, turning the steering wheel, drove off the main road and onto a narrow country lane. It was empty of trucks and people, and led away through meadows and high hedges towards the coast. ‘Yes,' he said, eventually responding to her remark. ‘They'll be glad to be free. The sooner the war's over, the better. For everyone.'

This last seemed heartfelt and she gave him a quick glance. It occurred to her that she knew nothing about him except for the fact that he'd been at the same school as Frances's brother. He knew all about her, everything; but even last night, at the cafe, when she'd spoken about her grandparents, Robert had given nothing in return. Did he have a family? Was he married? The thought made her uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as it should have done. She was simply happy to be with him.

Ahead, the light was changing. The pale summer sky was taking on a translucent gleam as it reflected the sea beneath it. Catherine couldn't see it yet but knew it was close, for she could smell the salt in the air and feel it sharp on her face.

‘Where are we going?' she asked.

‘Ah,' he said, concentrating on missing the bumps in the road. ‘I'm keeping that as a surprise, but I'm reliably informed that it's the one area around here that hasn't been damaged by the invasion and that we'll be able to get some lunch.'

Soon they crested a little hill and the whole coastline lay ahead of them. ‘Oh,' Catherine said, entranced by the view, ‘it's so beautiful.'

‘From here, yes,' Robert agreed with a sigh, ‘but when we get closer, signs of the war will become evident.'

He was right. As they drove along, Catherine could see the beaches more clearly and was shocked at the sight of yards of barbed wire, damaged vehicles and all sorts of military debris. She wondered if there would be dead bodies lying in the sand, washed constantly by the incoming and outgoing tide, and then assured herself that was silly. What had happened here was weeks ago now, and those poor soldiers who had died would have been buried.

At one point, the broad sweep of the coastline horseshoed into a narrow cove before straightening out again to continue on. Above the cove, a small group of houses clustered on a flat meadow, which after a hundred yards dropped gently down to the sea. Robert turned towards the largest house. It was square with a low-pitched grey-tiled roof and a white veranda running round the front of the building. The windows were open, with curtains blowing out against the pale blue shutters, and a thin plume of smoke spiralled up from the chimney.

‘Are we going here?' asked Catherine, intrigued. ‘What is it? A small hotel?'

‘No.' Robert chuckled as he drew up on the sandy gravel in front of the veranda. ‘Not a hotel, a house. My house.'

She was still taking in that remarkable announcement when a middle-aged woman with wild black hair came out of the house and ran down the steps. ‘Oh, Monsieur Robert,' she cried. ‘How wonderful.' She enveloped him in her arms and kissed him several times on the cheeks. ‘I thought I'd never see you again.' Tears came then, which were dabbed away with the corner of her red velvet shawl.

‘I'm here now, Agathe,' Robert smiled, disentangling himself, ‘as you see, and as I told you on the telephone, I'm alive, quite safe and undamaged. Now' – he turned to Catherine – ‘I'd like you to meet my friend. Madame Fletcher.'

Agathe gave her a searching look when she shook hands. ‘Ah,' she beamed. ‘Such a pretty girl.'

‘And half French,' Robert warned. ‘So mind what you say – she'll understand it.'

‘Silly boy,' Agathe growled, and then took Catherine's arm. ‘Come inside, madame. Lunch is ready.'

Sitting on the veranda after a delicious meal of soup and mushroom omelettes, and with a glass of white wine on the basketwork table in front of her, Catherine asked Robert about the house.

‘It was my uncle's,' he said. ‘He came here after the Great War to live and to paint. Surviving the trenches left him in a bad way and he couldn't face going home, so my grandfather bought this house for him and gave him an allowance to live on. I visited here often as a child, particularly after my mother died. Uncle Matthew was a kind man, and closer to me than my own father.' He leant back, holding his glass up to the light before taking a deep drink. ‘He left me the house when he died, on the understanding that Agathe could live here for her lifetime. I was happy with that.'

How strange, Catherine thought, leaving the house to his nephew but insisting that his cook should live in it too. She leant back and looked out over the green meadow to the sea. It sparkled in the afternoon light, serenely peaceful and inviting. I must go down there, she thought, before we leave, but now that Robert's finally giving something of his life away, I want to hear it.

‘Was he a good artist?' she asked.

‘No.' Robert shook his head. ‘Not really. His seascapes weren't bad, and he sold a few of those, but what he really wanted to do was to paint nudes.' He lowered his voice. ‘Agathe was his model and his lover.'

‘What?' Catherine was astonished and looked back into the house to see if she was there. She was clearing away the lunch dishes and, seeing Catherine looking at her, gave her a pleasant smile and waggled her fingers.

‘Oh yes. It was quite the scandal in the village below here. But she didn't care. I think she loved him.' He paused. ‘No. Not think. I know she loved him, and he adored her.'

‘But why didn't they marry?'

‘Because he already had a wife at home. Aunt Dorothea. A first-class bitch. I hated her.'