by Kate Mosse
The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change. ‘How does he come to be here now?’
Raoul was not surprised by the old woman’s hostility, but he could see Sandrine was taken aback at her abrupt tone.
‘We ran into each other in town, outside the post office,’ Sandrine replied defensively. ‘Can supper stretch to one more?’
‘Madomaisèla Suzanne is still here. Madomaisèla Lucie too.’
‘I’d like him to stay,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to put anybody out . . .’ he began.
‘I invited you,’ Sandrine said quickly, now evidently embarrassed.
Marieta continued to stare, but then turned and walked towards the table.
‘In which case, I will lay an extra place.’
‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Raoul said under his breath.
‘Marieta’s like that with everybody at first,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t take it to heart. She’s a lamb really.’
‘She’s looking out for you,’ he said, touched Sandrine was trying to make him feel better. ‘I don’t blame her for that.’
They were standing close together now, close enough for him to smell the scent of her skin. His heart tightened another degree. There was a clatter of plates, then Marieta emerged from the larder carrying a wooden board with a large cut of ham in one hand, and the remains of a white loaf in the other.
Raoul stepped forward. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked.
‘I can manage.’
He swung the rucksack off his shoulder. ‘I have some wine. It’s not much, but I’d like you to have it.’
He took out the bottle and put it on the table. For the first time, Marieta looked directly at him. Then, finally, she nodded. Sandrine smiled with relief and Raoul stopped caring about anything else.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’
‘Is there anywhere I could clean up?’ he said.
Marieta stood back from the sink. Raoul quickly put his hands under the tap and splashed water on his face, the worst of the grass stains and dust of the day. When he was ready, he followed Sandrine down a long dark corridor towards the front of the house.
The last of the day’s light filtered through a large patterned glass window on the half-landing, illuminating three small black and white framed photographs. Raoul stopped and looked up. All were views of the countryside: the first, a village set high on a hill; the second, two or three odd flint huts, like tiny stone igloos. The third was a shot of a ruined castle.
‘Where were they taken?’
Sandrine smiled. ‘Coustaussa. We have a summer house there.’
‘What are those strange buildings?’
‘Our capitelles – castillous, the locals call them. They’re actually quite famous. Visitors come from all over the place to photograph them.’ She paused. ‘Well, they did before the war.’
‘What are they used for?’
‘My father said they were a form of very old shepherds’ shelter, for those taking their flocks south over the mountains in autumn and back again in the spring after the snows had melted. Truthfully, nobody even knows how old they are. When my sister and I were little, we used to play hide and seek in them, though we weren’t allowed.’
In the darkness of the corridor, their fingers found one another. Just for a moment. Sandrine squeezed tight, then let go of his hand. Briefly, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt, but for the first time in a very long time, he looked happy. Then he remembered the events of the day, remembered César and Antoine, and his eyes clouded over once more.
Behind a closed door to the left, he heard women’s voices and the sound of a wireless in the background.
‘Come on,’ Sandrine said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
Chapter 35
‘Arrêtez!’ Laval shouted. A single bulb illuminated the long, dark corridor that led to the holding cells in the gaol in Carcassonne. ‘You, stop.’
This time, the guard turned round. Sylvère saw him take in his uniform, his rank. Confusion, then belligerence clouded his obdurate features.
‘Are you talking to me?’
Laval’s eyes slipped to the prisoner. The man’s hands were cuffed behind his back, his knuckles were purple, swollen, and the thumb of his right hand was bleeding.
‘Is this Max Blum?’
The prisoner raised his head and stared at Laval.
‘What if it is?’ demanded the guard.
‘I need to question him.’
‘You have no jurisdiction here.’
Laval strode along the corridor. The guard’s hand slipped to his revolver, a spurt of defiance on his bovine face.
‘I’ve no orders to release him into your custody.’
Laval stared at him. ‘And somewhere private to have our conversation.’
‘Unless you have written orders,’ the guard spat the words out, ‘I’m taking the prisoner to the cells, with all the others.’
Laval held his gaze for a moment longer, then, without warning, drove his fist into the guard’s soft stomach. The man grunted and doubled over, but went for his gun. Sylvère grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the wall, once then again. He yelled and dropped his pistol, which skidded along the concrete floor. Before he had time to recover, Laval circled his arm around the man’s fleshy neck and jerked his head back, then again. His cap fell to the ground. The guard’s eyes bulged and the gasping sound grew fainter.
‘Will this do in lieu of written orders?’ said Laval, jerking his victim’s neck back again. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he choked.
Laval pushed the guard away from him, then crossed the corridor, picked up the weapon. He cocked it open, removed the bullets from the drum, clicked it shut again and threw it at the guard’s feet.
‘And somewhere to have the conversation,’ he repeated.
Rubbing his throat, the guard put his cap back on his head. Without meeting Laval’s eye, he walked a couple of steps back down the corridor, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened a door. Laval grabbed Blum by the arm and pushed him into the room.
‘Wait outside,’ he ordered the guard, taking the keys from the man’s hands and shutting the door.
‘Sit.’
Blum didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’
It was the first time he’d spoken. He was tall, but slight, so Laval was surprised at how deep his voice was.
‘Sit down,’ he said again, forcing the prisoner down into one of the chairs set either side of a plain wooden desk.
Laval sat on the corner, then leant forward and removed the glasses from Blum’s face. This time, he saw clear protest in the prisoner’s eyes, though still he didn’t complain.
‘Why have I been arrested? My papers are in order.’
‘Are you long-sighted or short-sighted?’
‘What?’
‘Answer the question, Blum.’
‘Short.’
‘Your sister, Liesl, where’s she tonight?’
Laval saw a flicker of alarm in Blum’s eyes, though he hid it well. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, now I know you’re lying, Blum. Because it says here . . .’ he made a show of pulling some papers from his pocket and looking at them, ‘that you keep a close eye on her. So, I have to ask, why you were out? Leaving her on her own.’
‘There’s no curfew,’ he said shortly.
‘Not for us, Blum, but for you?’
He saw the man struggle not to react to the provocation. He dropped his eyes to the papers again.
‘We’ve had five or six complaints from your address. Even so, you left your sister alone?’
‘The last time,’ Blum said, ‘those thugs were outside for three hours. Throwing stones at the window, shouting abuse.’
‘High spirits.’
‘Criminals.’
‘The police aren’t there to protect your kind, Blum.’
‘French police are supposed t
o protect French citizens. All French citizens.’
Laval leant forward again. ‘Tell me about Raoul Pelletier.’
‘Who?’ Blum said immediately. He sounded genuinely surprised.
‘You heard me. Raoul Pelletier.’
‘I don’t know anybody of that name.’
From the look on Blum’s face, Laval was certain he was telling the truth, but he needed to be sure. He drew back his arm and hit the other man on the side of his head with his open hand, taking him by surprise. Blum’s head snapped back and his legs shot out in an attempt to stop the chair from toppling over.
‘Raoul Pelletier,’ repeated Laval. ‘Who is he?’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
Laval laughed. ‘Pelletier’s name has been all over the wireless. There can’t be a man, woman or child in Carcassonne who’s not heard of him.’
‘If you recall, we are no longer permitted to own a wireless,’ said Blum, struggling to catch his breath.
Laval picked up Blum’s glasses and twisted them between his thumb and forefinger.
‘This morning, you attended the demonstration with your sister and your, what shall we call her, salope.’
Finally, a spark of anger. ‘Don’t talk about her like that.’
Laval hit him again, harder this time, splitting the skin beneath his eye. Blum swallowed a gasp, but said nothing as the blood trickled down his cheek.
‘An illegal demonstration,’ Laval continued. ‘Pelletier was there.’
‘I told you, I don’t know anyone called Pelletier.’
Laval saw Blum brace himself for the blow, which didn’t come.
‘Where’s Pelletier now?’
‘I don’t know anyone called Pelletier.’
‘Who was the girl at the river?’
Laval saw the confusion at the abrupt change of subject and then, for the first time, the flicker of evasion.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do, Blum. Think. We know you were there – we traced the number plate – you and your tart. Did you give the girl a lift somewhere?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘How does she know Pelletier?’
Laval could see Blum was struggling, trying to put the different questions together. Trying not to get caught out.
‘I don’t know Pelletier,’ he repeated for the third time.
This time, Laval went for his stomach, landing the punch just beneath the diaphragm. Blum grunted, but still managed to raise his head and stare at him.
‘You’re lying, Blum. Why was Pelletier at the river yesterday?’
The reaction was so quick, Laval almost missed it, but it was there. Confirmation that he genuinely didn’t know Pelletier. Or at least he didn’t know that he had been at the river. He moved on with another question before Blum had time to think.
‘This girl, is she a friend of “Mademoiselle” Ménard?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Max said, strain cracking his voice.
‘Do you want me to ask Mademoiselle Ménard myself, Blum?’
‘Leave her alone,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t know anything. There’s nothing to know!’
Blum flinched, clearly bracing himself for another blow, and relaxed a little when it didn’t come. Laval stared at him – he was stronger than he’d expected – then leant forward and put the warped glasses back on his bruised face.
‘She’s got to know more than you, Blum. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us the girl’s name. Or that little sister of yours. Pretty girl, for a Jewess.’
Blum sprang out of the chair, even though his hands were still cuffed behind his back.
‘Don’t you go near her, either of them,’ he warned. ‘Or else I swear I’ll . . .’
‘You’ll do what?’ Laval laughed. ‘You’re here, Blum, she’s out there. You can’t protect her. Your sister, your whore, you’re no use to either of them.’
Finally he saw fear in the other man’s eyes. ‘You can’t hold me,’ Blum said. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You’re a Jew, Blum,’ Laval said.
‘I’m French.’
‘Not in my eyes.’
‘A Parisian.’
‘Yet here in Carcassonne. Attending an illegal demonstration.’
‘There were thousands there. You can’t arrest everybody.’
Laval stood up and threw open the door. The guard, who had clearly been trying to listen in, sprang back.
‘Process him. Put him on the deportation list with the others.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Blum shouted. ‘You’ve got no right!’
Laval walked out into the corridor. ‘I can do anything I like, Blum. Send you anywhere I like. No one even knows you’re here.’
He turned. ‘And you,’ he hissed to the guard, ‘if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll be on that train tomorrow too.’
Chapter 36
‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, leading Raoul into the salon. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’
An attractive woman sitting on a sofa looked up, a book in her lap. Raoul recognised her from boulevard Barbès. In an armchair to her left, a tall woman with cropped hair and slacks. A pretty bottle blonde was adjusting the dials on the wireless. All three immediately stopped what they were doing and looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and interest.
‘Mesdames,’ he said, wishing his throat wasn’t so dry.
‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, her voice too sharp, too fast, too high. ‘This is Raoul. He’s stuck, needs somewhere to stay. I said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Darling, I’m not sure that’s a . . .’
Sandrine carried on talking over her. ‘It was Raoul who fished me out of the river yesterday,’ she said. ‘Without him, who knows how long I might have been lying there.’ She put her hand on his arm and he felt how nervous she was. ‘Raoul, my sister Marianne and our friends Lucie Ménard and Suzanne Peyre. Everyone, Raoul Pelletier.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Suzanne stood up and offered her hand. ‘How do you do.’
‘Did you say Pelletier?’ said Lucie.
Sandrine nodded. ‘Yes, why?’
Lucie leant forward and turned up the volume on the wireless. The crackling voice of the presenter grew louder.
‘Police in Carcassonne therefore request anyone who has any information pertaining to the whereabouts of the suspected bomber to contact them immediately. Following the discovery of a number of items in the apartment where the suspect resided . . .’
Raoul felt a trickle of dread. He knew they’d be after him, but to be set up for the whole thing? He couldn’t work it out.
‘. . . and the police advise that Pelletier may be dangerous. He should not be approached. The telephone number will be repeated at the end of this bulletin. We repeat, he may be dangerous and should not be approached. In other local news, the celebrations for the Fête de Saint-Nazaire will still go ahead in Carcassonne, despite the damage caused by this afternoon’s outrage in the Bastide. Organisers say . . .’
Lucie flicked the dial off. ‘They’ve been running bulletins every half-hour,’ she said.
‘You can’t believe anything the wireless puts out,’ Sandrine said, squeezing his arm. ‘You’re always saying as much, Marianne.’
His situation was even worse than he’d imagined but, despite that, despite everything, Raoul’s spirits lifted a little at how Sandrine sprang unconditionally to his defence. Something inside him shifted.
He looked around the room, trying to work out what to say. How even to begin. He felt Marianne’s eyes on him.
‘Monsieur Pelletier?’
Raoul met her gaze. ‘I wasn’t responsible for the bomb.’
‘Were you there?’
‘Yes, and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘And I know who set it off, I saw him, though there’s nothing I can do about it. No one will believe me.’
‘Someone died,
’ Marianne said.
‘A boy?’ Raoul said, remembering the child’s white face.
‘Yes.’
‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, sounding upset as well as embarrassed. ‘Raoul told me he was in trouble. I invited him. He doesn’t have to answer to us.’
‘Your sister has a right to know what happened,’ he said. ‘I’d expect the same in her position.’
‘No,’ Sandrine said firmly, ‘she doesn’t. You told me you didn’t do anything and—’
‘Darling, let him speak for himself.’
Sandrine threw her hands in the air. ‘How can he possibly do that when you’re sitting in judgement?’
Marianne patted the sofa cushion. ‘Come and sit by me.’
Sandrine hesitated, then went to the sofa and sat down. Suzanne plonked herself back in the armchair. Lucie perched on the arm, swinging a shapely leg to and fro.
Raoul looked at Sandrine – her fierce eyes, the two spots of colour on her cheeks, her black curls framing her face – and the sight of her gave him courage. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if there was ever to be something between them, he had to break the habit of deception he’d been forced to adopt and tell the truth. Trust Sandrine and her sister, their friends. Tell them what had happened, leave nothing out.
‘May I sit down?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Marianne replied.
Raoul pulled a wooden chair from next to the sideboard and put it in the middle of the room.
‘The man who detonated the bomb is called Sylvère Laval,’ he said. ‘I know because he was a member of a group I was also in. I realised today – too late to do anything about it – he’d been working undercover with the police.’
‘What kind of group?’
He was aware of Sandrine’s dark eyes on him, but he continued to focus his attention on Marianne. He took a deep breath.
‘A Resistance group.’
‘And you, Monsieur Pelletier?’
He held her gaze. ‘You’re asking if I am a partisan?’
‘I am.’
Raoul hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. ‘Yes.’ He almost expected an alarm to go off at the admission, or for the police to storm the house. ‘I am a partisan. Of course.’
