The Men

by Anthony Masters

‘So it would seem he had a purpose?’ Metand said quietly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did his friends feel about him coming to France? His fellow escapees?’

  ‘They were very much against the idea. They put considerable pressure on me not to force Tim into this. So did their wives,’ Lucy added bitterly.

  ‘What are the names of these men?’

  ‘Peter Davis and Martin Latimer.’

  ‘You resisted their pressure.’

  ‘I was determined. Then Martin phoned the hotel. I didn’t know Tim had given him the number.’

  ‘A last moment idea?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Martin told me he’d changed his mind, that he thought it was a good idea for us to travel out here after all, but I think he was really checking that we’d arrived. I tried to call him later, but all I could get was his wife, May, who said he was in Birmingham. I’m afraid we had a disagreement.’ She paused, and then asked the question she had been building up to. ‘What about Solange Eclave? Do you think Tim came to see her?’

  ‘Why should he?’ asked Metand.

  I’ve no idea. He never mentioned her before. If he had I’d tell you. I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘Maybe he had.’

  ‘But what?’ There must be some rational explanation. Was amnesia a possibility? Could Tim have tripped and fallen in some wood or field? He didn’t have any motive for disappearing. Please God, he didn’t.

  ‘Was there some reason why your husband couldn’t confide in you?’

  ‘They – he and Peter and Martin – always said they couldn’t talk because they’d signed the Official Secrets Act.’ The fear began to creep back and Lucy had such a dry mouth that she could hardly finish her sentence. ‘Monique – Madame Dedoir -says you’ve mounted a search.’

  ‘Nothing full scale.’ Metand was cautious. ‘But I would like a more detailed description, the exact clothes he was wearing, and if you’ve got a photograph I’d be grateful.’

  She pulled a fairly recent one out of her bag which showed Tim in his cricket flannels walking out to the wicket. ‘He was wearing a brown sports jacket, open-necked checked shirt and grey corduroy trousers with brown brogues. Is that enough?’

  Metand nodded. He took out a small leather notebook and scribbled down what she had said, attaching the snapshot to the page.

  ‘This business about the collaborators that the Dedoirs mentioned,’ asked Lucy hesitantly. ‘Can you tell me about them?’ Could there be something there? She looked closely at Metand and wondered if he was also searching for a connection.

  ‘All I know is that three alleged collaborators were executed by local people. One of them was Claude Eclave – Solange’s husband.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I first met Solange when she asked my advice about security for the ruins of the château. She comes to see us occasionally -just as she does the Dedoirs. She’s come to rely on outsiders.’

  ‘Has she ever mentioned my husband’s name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you say she was mentally ill?’

  ‘She needs help, but she has not reached the stage where she is prepared to ask for it.’

  Lucy sipped at her coffee, but it was cold and bitter. She glanced at Metand and saw he was patiently waiting. Was this some technique of his? Provoking questions?

  ‘Is there any remote possibility that my husband is with this woman?’

  ‘That is what we have to discover. You’re obviously worried that your husband’s disappearance may have something to do with his activities in Occupied France. In my experience, much of what happens in wartime can’t be forgotten but gets pushed into a corner of the mind where it goes rotten. Like a sore, or a boil which continues to ache until it bursts.’ He paused, letting the silence stretch a little too far. ‘I hope you won’t think I’m being intrusive, but I need to know more about your marriage, about your relationship with your husband.’

  ‘You mean he might have left me? Or I might have killed him?’ She spoke flatly, letting the momentous words seem unassuming and unimportant.

  Metand looked at her slightly anxiously, and she guessed that he was wondering if she was still drunk. Well, she was. Lucy knew she would never have come out with such dramatic statements if she had been sober. Then he nodded, as if recognising her situation. He’s perceptive, Lucy thought, and was encouraged. Metand was more like a reassuring country doctor than a policeman.

  ‘We loved each other.’ She felt a stab of betrayal. Why in God’s name had she used the past tense?

  Metand stood up and Lucy started, for she had been expecting more questions. ‘I’ll phone you immediately there’s news.’

  ‘The search will continue through the night?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And this Solange. You’ll find out where she is?’

  ‘We’re doing that now.’

  Lucy went reluctantly upstairs with a smaller glass of brandy. Not the knockout drops this time. But she hardly even sipped at it, for when she lay down on the empty double bed she slept at once. Lucy woke, trembling, the mellow morning sunlight on the crumpled bedclothes. For a moment she was confused and then the pain returned with a savage intensity. Tim. Where are you? For God’s sake make it all right again.

  Looking at her watch she saw that it was after nine. How could she have slept this late at a time of such crisis? She dragged herself out of bed, stiff and cold despite the sun, and began to search in one of the suitcases for her dressing gown.

  For a while she couldn’t find it and then, cursing, she wrenched it out and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Lucy unlocked her door and padded down the uncarpeted corridor towards the galleried staircase.

  She looked down into the hall, where Monique was sitting behind the reception desk, reading Le Figaro. There was no sign of Louis. Why was she so damned idle at a time like this, Lucy wondered. Didn’t she care? More importantly, why hadn’t she woken her?

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Monique got up with a slight start and turned stiffly to gaze up at her. The white face was puffy-looking this morning with mauve marks under her eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept.

  ‘Metand was going to phone me.’

  ‘I took the call. He had nothing to report.’

  Lucy felt welcome anger beginning to fill her, temporarily submerging her acute anxiety. She wanted to make her temper felt. ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘He had nothing to – ‘

  ‘And told me what he had said. Even if it was nothing.’

  Monique flushed and looked for a moment as if she was going to argue. Then she decided against it. ‘You needed sleep,’ she said wearily.

  ‘You don’t look as if you had any.’ Lucy tried to be more reasonable but her temper was boiling. What was the matter with her? She was usually so passive, always having to build up to being assertive. Now she wanted, demanded, a confrontation.

  ‘No. I didn’t. Louis joined the search. He was out all night and I get worried about him. He has angina.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ But almost immediately her rage returned. ‘Did Metand find Solange?’

  ‘She got back home late.’

  ‘What about Tim?’

  ‘I don’t–’

  ‘Was he with her, for God’s sake?’ Why was Monique so stupid?

  ‘Of course not. I’d have told you straight away if he was. She hadn’t seen your husband at all.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? Why wasn’t I told all this? Immediately!’ Lucy’s voice was shrill. ‘You think he’s left me, don’t you?’ she shouted over the bannisters. Monique looked up at her calmly, appealingly. She thinks she’s got a hysterical woman on her hands, thought Lucy. Well, she has.

  Suddenly her temper went flat. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come down. We can’t talk like this.’

  ‘
Why didn’t you tell me he called?’

  ‘It was an error of judgement. Louis will tell you I often make them. He will also tell you I like to manage situations. Please come down.’

  ‘I’m not dressed.’

  ‘Let me bring breakfast up to you.’

  Lucy began to weep silently. At the same time she thought how fortunate it was there were no other guests at the Hôtel des Arbres.

  Monique ran up the stairs and took Lucy’s arm, leading her back to the sunlit bedroom. She didn’t resist.

  ‘Is Metand coming?’ she whispered, as she sank down on the side of the bed.

  ‘Later this morning.’

  ‘So there’s no news?’ She knew she must sound like a child in need of reassurance.

  ‘He says the search is being redoubled. He will take you out there.’

  Lucy nodded. That seemed a good idea. At least she would have something to do. She wouldn’t be isolated and left out any longer, as if she was awaiting a doctor’s round in hospital.

  ‘When you’ve had some coffee, don’t you think you should ring your friends in England and tell them what’s happening? Perhaps they could come out –’

  ‘You’ve stopped saying it,’ said Lucy emptily.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve stopped saying there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course there must be.’ Monique’s face was whiter than ever under the heavy powder and Lucy decided not to press her any further. ‘They’ll find him. I’m sure they will. There’s every hope.’

  Lucy nodded again. ‘Perhaps I could use the phone now?’

  ‘Have some coffee first.’ Monique was being managing again.

  ‘Could I use the phone? Now, please?’

  As she dialled Peter’s number Lucy could see the square through the half-open door. It was Saturday and a market had been set up, stalls crowded tightly together under an awning. A small crowd of people were buying fruit and vegetables and turning over the leather goods and bric-à-brac. Navise had come to rather lacklustre life.

  A police officer stood talking to a young man a few metres from the front of the hotel and Lucy wondered whether they were discussing the Englishman’s disappearance.

  ‘Yes?’ Peter’s voice was clipped, neutral, reassuringly home counties. She had never been so pleased to hear it before. It was as if she knew him after all.

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Thank God. May was so upset. Why did you hang up on her?’

  ‘I couldn’t cope.’

  ‘She’s been terribly worried and so have I. Where did Tim get to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Wilfully she didn’t tell him he was still missing.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing – because he hasn’t come back. The police are still searching.’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Christ!’ He was surprised, more than surprised. He was deeply shocked.

  ‘Did you know someone called Solange Eclave when you were in Navise?’

  ‘She was the caretaker of the château where we hid for a few days. The Château Pavilly. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wondered if Tim had gone to see her.’

  ‘Not a chance. He wouldn’t have wanted to spend five minutes in her company. What little we knew of Madame Eclave we utterly despised. She was a real bad egg.’

  ‘Peter – you’ve got to tell me what happened in the war. It could have some connection with Tim’s disappearance, so don’t throw your bloody Official Secrets Act at me.’

  ‘I’m not going to.’

  ‘Don’t keep anything back.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know. We had a contact who got us a room at the Hôtel des Arbres. We spent a night there and then went on to the château for a couple more. We were in Navise for three days in all.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We moved on. We couldn’t stay anywhere long.’

  ‘Was it Solange who allowed you to hide in the château?’

  ‘Yes. But a German patrol arrived while we were there. It was a nasty moment, but Solange had the initiative to move us into the wine cellar. Look, could I speak to the French police officer who’s in charge of all this?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To support you, of course. I can’t get hold of Martin. He’s away on a business trip.’

  ‘What about Solange’s husband being executed by the locals for collaborating with the Nazis?’

  ‘That was later. When we were gone. Lucy, I –’

  ‘I’ve been finding out a lot of things.’ She didn’t invent the menace in her voice deliberately. It seemed to be there naturally.

  Peter continued with a quiet authority. ‘I gather Claude was a collaborator. There were others, but Solange was not involved. Or, at least, we didn’t think so.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I was told by the War Office who got it from the French.’ His voice was as clipped and confident as ever. Peter was still very much in charge. In the background she could hear Sally asking questions and being told to go away. When she had gone he cleared his throat and continued, ‘They told me some young Frenchmen provided the German patrol with some local girls. Claude took photographs and sold them to the Nazis for them to use as propaganda.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘He was just a local peasant who seized an opportunity. His wife had got the job as caretaker of the château and moved up some social notches which hadn’t exactly pleased him so he exploited her position. Claude wanted to make some money and arranged to set up the little frolic in the château itself. Possibly he hoped Solange would lose her job. But she didn’t.’

  ‘Tim was never involved with her, was he?’ Lucy asked abruptly, feeling the flush travel up her neck and over her face.

  ‘Of course not. You’re getting things way out of proportion, Lucy. All Tim wanted was to get home. As we did.’ He sounded reproving.

  Lucy felt acutely self-conscious, aware that Monique was probably lurking near by, wondering how she was going to handle this hysterical British woman.

  ‘Is there anything else you know, Peter, that you should tell me?’

  ‘No. We want to look after you. The hiding, the tension, the German patrols, the fact that we might be given away at any moment – that’s what broke Tim. There was nothing else,’ He paused and she waited for his patronage. But it didn’t come. Instead she felt unexpected warmth. Then he ruined it all by saying, ‘We did warn you not to go.’

  ‘Martin changed his mind. He said I was right.’

  ‘He was anxious about you. I think he must have phoned to make sure you were both coping. He didn’t want to be dampening.’

  ‘How did he get this number?’

  ‘Tim gave it to him. No harm done, is there? Look – would you like me to get the next flight out?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Peter sounded incredulous.

  ‘I want to handle this myself.’

  ‘But I don’t think –’

  ‘You have to leave me alone. At least, just for a while.’ Suddenly Lucy felt more confident, enjoying staving him off.

  ‘I know you’re fluent in the language,’ he began. ‘But I still feel I could be of use.’

  ‘Please. I’m fine,’ she said, beating a tactical retreat.

  ‘You must promise to keep in touch,’ he demanded. ‘Ring me this evening. I’ll be waiting for your call. Say, about six.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be here. But I’ll contact you somehow if there’s any news.’

  ‘Very well. But listen, Lucy – ‘

  ‘Try not to worry,’ she interrupted him and put the phone down gently.

  ‘Breakfast.’ Monique was hovering in the doorway. ‘Come into the dining room. I’ve put out some croissants and I’ll go and make fresh coffee.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Metand is on his way. Is that an inducement to eat?’

  Lucy h
ad to admit that it was.

  As she followed Monique, Lucy felt a sudden homesickness as she remembered the warmth in Peter’s voice. She suddenly remembered them all sitting on the riverbank at Walton-on-Thames. The men were lounging with the Sunday papers, the women breaking stale bread to feed the ducks. An austerity picnic followed – but not austere enough to leave out some good Médoc – and this was followed by snoozing and chatting and then a game of French cricket in which the women had been allowed to join. The ball had gone in the river and Tim dived in, followed by Peter and Martin. They had wrestled for it. Then Peter had thrown the ball on the grass and Sally ran away with it screaming, hotly pursued. That had been just after the men had moved into Shrub Lane, the honeymoon period before Tim had gone down so badly.

  When Metand arrived in the dining room, he was wearing the same clothes as last night. He took his glasses off and began to rub at the lenses with his handkerchief.

  Once again, he was reassuringly direct. Lucy had the strange feeling of having known him for a long time.

  ‘We haven’t found your husband yet. But I got hold of Solange. She’d been for a walk but hadn’t seen him.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I have no reason not to.’ He paused. ‘She says she would like to meet you – if that might help.’

  ‘Is there any point? I understand she’s ill.’ Lucy was alarmed.

  ‘She can still do her job. She can still communicate.’ Metand was defensive. ‘But you don’t have to see her.’

  ‘No – I want to. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You are in a very difficult position, Mrs Groves. I am here to try to alleviate that.’ Metand put his glasses back on and tucked his handkerchief away.

  Lucy sat down at a table. The croissants were in a basket and jam and butter and honey was laid out on a white cloth. Some of the other tables were also laid. Obviously market day brought the Hôtel des Arbres a little passing trade.

  ‘The search has been widened.’ Metand paused as she poured coffee, offering him some. He took the cup and sipped at it as the silence between them lengthened. ‘Did you recollect anything more last night? Anything that could help us?’

  ‘Nothing of any use. Have you organized this kind of search before?’ Again, Lucy detected an unfortunate patronage in her voice.