Those in Peril (19 page)

‘No, it sounds truthful. Most people would lie.'

‘But we were very happy.'

‘I am sure that you were.'

‘We were married for such a short time and it's almost ten years since he died.'

‘One cannot grieve for ever. Was he a good man?'

‘Yes, very.' Good, kind, dependable. Safe. And, she thought guiltily, actually a bit dull.

‘What work did he do?'

‘He was a dentist.'

‘I am always a little bit sorry for dentists. Nobody is ever pleased to see them.'

She smiled. ‘Noel used to say that. In fact, it made him quite depressed sometimes.'

‘And how did you meet him?'

‘He was the brother of a girl who was at a domestic science college with me in Eastbourne. I was invited to lunch at her home one Sunday.'

‘The English roast beef with the Yorkshire pudding?'

She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. I think it was Welsh lamb, if I remember rightly. With mint sauce.'

‘
Mint sauce
? What is this?'

‘Mint chopped up with vinegar and sugar. It goes very well with lamb – at least we think so in England. But I'm sure you'd hate it, Monsieur Duval.'

‘I'm afraid that I might. I have never heard of eating such a thing with lamb. And so, you went to this home for this Welsh lamb with English mint sauce and there he was?'

‘Yes, there he was.' She'd walked into the sitting room and Noel had been standing over by the fireplace. Nothing special to look at, but she'd liked him instantly. He'd been easy to talk to. Uncomplicated. So nice. She had felt at ease with him despite the twelve-year gap in their ages.

‘But you have never married again, madame. That's strange. There must have been men who have asked you.'

It had started quite soon after Noel had died. Widows, she had soon discovered, were considered to be lonely and in need of consolation – particularly those with some money in the bank. Noel's life insurance policy had meant that she had had no need to worry financially, and his partner had bought his share of the practice. The house in Eastbourne was hers, too. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘But I didn't want to marry any of them.'

She had found the unwanted suitors a great nuisance and it was one of the chief reasons why she had decided to leave and go somewhere where she was not known. The college had taught her about cooking and all things domestic. It had seemed a logical step to open, first, a lodging house, and then later, if it went well, a small hotel. There was no need for her to work, but there was every need to do something with her life.

She slid off the wall. She'd stayed too long, talked too much and too frankly to him. Probably bored him. ‘I'm sorry if I disturbed you.'

‘But you did not. You inspired me.' He turned the sketch pad towards her. ‘See.'

He had drawn her sitting on the stone wall with her hands resting on each side. Her head was tilted back, her face in profile, her figure all too clearly defined. She flushed. ‘It's very flattering.'

‘I never flatter in my work. This is how I see you. How you are. A beautiful woman.'

Paying compliments, of course, was second nature to him. Even Miss Tindall had received them, much to her maidenly confusion.
How charming you look today, mademoiselle
. And Mrs Lamprey lapped them up as nothing less than her due. It was meaningless and harmless and she smiled at him to show that she understood that. ‘I don't think I am, but thank you.'

At dinner, Mrs Lamprey launched straight into the attack, wagging her finger in Monsieur Duval's direction. ‘
Vous êtes très méchant, monsieur
.'

‘
Mais pourquoi, madame?
Why am I so naughty?'

‘You never finished telling us about your visit to London.
Avez-vous rencontré votre Général de Gaulle?
'

‘
Malheureusement pas.
I have never met the general.'

‘But I thought you were working with the Free French –
avec les Français Libres?
'

‘
Oui, madame. Mais le général est très occupé
. A very busy man.'

‘What a pity. He sounds so interesting –
très intéressant, n'est-ce pas?
Perhaps next time?
La prochaine fois
?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Will you be going there again?
Vous retournez à Londres?
'

‘Without doubt, madame.'

Barbara finished serving the first course and went out to the kitchen. Esme had left her supper half-eaten and gone up to bed. Lectures on not wasting food in wartime had invariably fallen on deaf ears. She washed up the pots and pans while she waited to take in the pudding – a pie made with plums picked from the tree in the garden. When she went back into the dining room, Mrs Lamprey was still in full flood.

‘
Aimez-vous aller au théâtre, Monsieur Duval?
'

‘
Mais oui, madame.
i enjoy the theatre very much.'

‘Did you go often in France –
souvent?
'

‘Unfortunately, not so much as I would have wished. And I regret that I have never had the pleasure of seeing you on the stage, madame. It would have been an unforgettable experience.'

Mrs Lamprey looked delighted, and Barbara smiled to herself.

After they had finished dinner, she cleared the tables, washed up, dried up and put everything away before she laid the four tables for breakfast. When, finally, it was all done and the kitchen tidy, she went out into the garden. It was a warm evening, still not quite dark with the tall pines black against an opal sky, bats flitting about. She could smell the scent of the roses and then a whiff of another smell – French tobacco. Before she could retreat, Monsieur Duval spoke from the shadows.

‘You have finished your work at last, madame?' He had been sitting on the bench and strolled towards her across the grass, cigarette in hand. The smoke drifted on the evening air. ‘I am sorry if I offended you this afternoon – drawing the sketch of you without your permission.'

‘I wasn't offended.'

‘But you seemed very unsure.'

She said lightly, ‘Well, I don't think I look quite like that.'

‘I told you, I do not flatter.'

‘Oh, I think you do sometimes.'

He smiled. ‘With words, perhaps. Occasionally, it is required to lie for politeness. For instance, to Madame Lamprey.'

She smiled, too. ‘Perhaps you should draw
her
?'

‘I think not. If I did, it would not please her at all. My wife hated the portrait that I painted of her and yet it was exactly as she was.'

‘Is she still in France?'

He drew on the cigarette. ‘Unfortunately, yes. In Paris. I tried to persuade her to leave but she refused. She believes that everything will be all right under the Germans.'

‘How could it be?'

‘Indeed . . . how could it ever be all right to have one's country occupied and ruled by Nazis.'

There was a rustling in the shrubbery close by and a dark shape bounded out onto the lawn. Fifi on her night-time hunt. ‘Fifi knew that very well,' Monsieur Duval observed drily. ‘That's why she stowed away and came to England.'

The evacuee opened the door. Powell smiled at her and received a stony stare in return.

‘Is Mrs Hillyard at home?' A don't-know shrug in answer. He said firmly, ‘Well, perhaps you could go and see.' The child disappeared and, after a few moments, Barbara Hillyard came to the door. She looked surprised to see him. ‘I'm sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Hillyard, but I wonder if I could give a message to Monsieur Duval?'

It was a pretty lame excuse, of course. He could easily have telephoned, or sent Lieutenant Smythson, not taken the time and trouble to call himself.

‘I'm so sorry. I'm afraid he's out.'

‘Will he be back soon, do you think?'

‘I'm not quite sure. He said he was going across to Dartmouth. Would you like to come in and wait?'

He debated what to do. Duval might be hours and he couldn't afford to wait long; on the other hand, it was a golden chance to talk to her. ‘If you don't mind.'

She showed him into the sitting room. It was as pleasant as the kitchen: sunny, comfortable, welcoming. He admired the big vase of flowers on the table, the books, magazines, newspapers, cushions, pictures, ornaments. A similar feel to his sister's home, but a lot tidier. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Lieutenant Commander?'

‘That's very kind of you, but no thank you.' He could see that she was about to abandon him and searched quickly for something else to say. This time, he found it. ‘How's the French cat getting on?'

‘Fifi? Oh, you'd hardly recognize her. She's put on weight and grown.'

‘She's very lucky to have such a good home.' He gestured round the room. ‘You've made this house charming, Mrs Hillyard. Do you enjoy living here?'

‘Very much. I've always liked this part of the country. I used to come here on summer holidays.'

‘Really? I've known Dartmouth since I was a boy – rather more years ago than yourself. I was a cadet at the College.'

‘Rear Admiral Foster was there, too. I've heard all about the cold baths.'

He smiled. ‘They weren't so bad – once you got used to them. Did you go sailing here when you were on your holidays?'

She shook her head. ‘We didn't have a boat, or any idea how to sail one. My brother and I spent most of our time on the beach.'

‘I'd be very glad to take you out sailing. It's rather a nice trip up the river to Dittisham.' He saw her face change and a wary look come into her eyes.

‘The trouble is I don't get much spare time, I'm afraid. And there's Esme to look after.'

‘Yes, I'm sure you must be very busy.'

She added, quite unexpectedly, ‘But I'd like to do that – one day.'

Before he could say anything else, somebody appeared in the doorway – an elderly woman with hair dyed the colour of brass, dressed in an old-fashioned ankle-length gown. ‘I can see that I am interrupting you, Mrs Hillyard.' She surveyed them, head inclined to one side like an inquisitive parrot.

‘Not at all, Mrs Lamprey. This is Lieutenant Commander Powell. He's come to see Monsieur Duval.'

‘Oh.' She looked at him with mock severity. ‘I do hope you're not going to take our dear Frenchman away from us again. We're very fond of Monsieur Duval, aren't we, Mrs Hillyard? Such a lovely man.' She stepped into the room. Closer up, he could see the heavy make-up she wore, with vivid crescents of mauve eyeshadow on her eyelids and jet black mascara on lashes that were surely false. He inhaled some overpowering perfume. She was studying him with evident approval. ‘I always think the Royal Navy uniform looks so dashing. Did you win that medal in the Great War, Lieutenant Commander?'

‘Yes.' To his dismay he could see Barbara Hillyard edging towards the door, leaving the room. It seemed his fate, to be interrupted by overbearing women.

‘What did you do to earn it? Do tell me.'

He said shortly, ‘Nothing very much. It was a long time ago. I'm afraid I'm deskbound these days.'

‘Oh, I know just how it feels when one's days in the limelight are over. I was on the stage, you see. You may have heard of me. Vera Vane.'

With a great effort he said politely, ‘I'm sure I have. I must have seen you a number of times.'

‘Yes, indeed. I worked with all the great names, you know – Barrymore, Bernhardt, du Maurier, Beerbohm Tree . . . those were the days.'

She went on talking and talking until, to his great relief, Louis Duval returned. ‘If you'll excuse us, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘Oh, don't mind me, Lieutenant Commander. I'll just sit here quietly.'

‘We shouldn't wish to disturb you. We can go outside.'

When they had reached the safe haven of the garden, Duval said, ‘That was your first encounter with Madame Lamprey?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are very fortunate that you do not encounter her every day – especially at breakfast.'

‘You have my sympathy.'

He lit Duval's Gauloise for him, and his own Players. They strolled up and down the lawn. The garden was already taking on a mellow look, leaves beginning to turn, early summer plants over their best, later ones in flower, a Virginia creeper changing from green to red, wasps burrowing into the overripe plums that had fallen from the tree into the grass. The year was beginning to slip away. He would not be sorry to see it gone.

He said to the Frenchman, ‘I've got a piece of good news for you. There's been agreement at Cabinet level for your proposal. It's been decided that you should go back to France and try to recruit civilians as informants, as you suggested. There's a proviso, though. You have a time limit of one month. After that you must return to report any progress.'

‘
One month!
That's not nearly long enough.'

‘I appreciate that, but the order comes direct from the Prime Minister.'

‘I might make very little progress in so short a time.'

‘You'll have to do the best you can, I'm afraid. One month only.'

Duval shrugged. ‘All right. How soon can I leave?'

‘Probably within a week. Arrangements still have to be finalized.'

‘And do I take the same route – fishing boat to Pont-Aven?'

‘Not to Pont-Aven. You'll be taken to a beach a few kilometres to the west of there and rowed ashore by dinghy at night.'