by Charles Todd
Had Juliane Theissen fostered this obsession, because the child had been her brother or possibly even her own son? She wouldn’t have wanted to believe that the boy she’d given up to the Moreau family had become a killer, but she would still protect him.
Then why had she come back to live in the same small village where the Moreau family lived? To remind them every day of every week what she must have believed they had done to the boy? If he was indeed her son, and she had been forced to allow them to adopt him, her bitterness must have known no bounds. And yet, as a woman alone in a strange country with a small boy to care for, what sort of life could she have given Philippe?
It was an interesting perspective, and I sat there by the window, looking down on the courtyard of this house, considering a very different direction.
What had become of the boy who had been called a monster, a murderer?
And what effect had these charges had on the other child in the Moreau family? How had Paul Moreau dealt with this? After all, he was only a child himself. I was beginning to see why he was a man with a temper.
Perhaps that was where to begin, not with Marie-Luc’s view of Philippe Moreau.
I got up and went to the small desk here in the nanny’s room. I wrote a short letter to Paul Moreau, and then went down to the orderly in Reception and asked him to post it for me.
And then I had nothing to do but wait.
The trick would be receiving an answer before I was ordered to leave Paris.
There was nothing to do, it wasn’t time to read to the other patients, and so I spilled the toy soldiers out across my bed and took out the envelope that had come from Juliane Theissen’s house.
This was all there was. I hadn’t pulled up the floorboards or tapped at the walls, ripped open the mattress or the seats in the chairs. I wasn’t convinced that the fräulein had hidden more than this envelope. I hadn’t found the lacquer box, of course, but it would hardly be concealed in a mattress or a chair seat. Very likely I held in my hand the contents from it. The hinges could have broken or it might have been dropped—such things were fragile. Or perhaps too many people knew about it and she had got rid of it after choosing the photograph on the wall as a safer place.
So why, I asked myself, had she chosen to keep these few pieces of her past out of sight, where no one would think to look for them?
Turning the envelope over in my fingers, I wondered again that there was only the one cutting. Why not follow the account to the end of the inquiry? Or at least keep the final news story, however it ended? Had she feared that her employer at the time might find them and connect her to the Moreau family? But they would already have known whom she had worked for in the past.
Then why keep the beginning, the first account?
Paul Moreau was the child of both his parents. When they adopted Philippe, before Paul was born, he became not only the elder son of the house but also an heir. The interloper taking precedence.
How did Paul feel about it? More to the point, how did his mother feel?
Had she seen this adopted son through his incarceration? Was it she who had put up the money to spirit him safely to Alsace? I hadn’t really thought about her role in all this. Paul, at ten, was too young to help anyone. Had she come to care for Philippe? Was that why she had sent away his governess?
It was an interesting thought.
There was a knock at my door.
“A moment, please,” I called, and hastily shoved the envelope and the soldiers back into the tub, putting it under the bed out of sight.
It was Madame Ezay.
She looked frightened.
“There’s someone at the door, asking for you.”
“For me?” I repeated, surprised.
“He’s an English staff officer. Très formidable!”
I reached for my coat and ran out the door, only to remember the healing wound in my side. I walked down the stairs more sedately, smiling with excitement, my heart beating fast.
My father had found an excuse to come to Paris.
Chapter Fourteen
I couldn’t see him as I came down the last flight of stairs—he must have stepped into an adjoining room—but I thought he’d heard my footsteps because someone was returning to Reception, long strides across the tiled flooring echoing up the staircase. I hurried down the last few steps and turned to greet him.
The height, the uniform, the dark hair just threaded with gray were right. The face was not.
And then I recognized him, and my greeting died on my lips.
It was Colonel MacInnes, one of my father’s friends.
“Hallo, Sister Crawford,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took it, summoning a smile.
He grinned. “You must have been expecting to see your father. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. But I’m his emissary. He discovered I was being sent to Paris, and he asked me to call on you and find out exactly what he can do for you.”
I could think of a dozen things, if it had been my father standing there. But Colonel MacInnes, a fine officer and a good man, couldn’t be dragged into my problems.
“I’m well,” I said. “They’re talking about sending me back to the Front in a few days.”
“That’s good news indeed. Your mother will be pleased to hear it, and I can tell her myself that you are looking fine. She’s been worried, you know.”
“I expect she has.” I should have written, I scolded myself. But I hadn’t. “I am feeling stronger every day.”
“Excellent. And Captain Barkley? I’m told he hasn’t reported to your father for several days.”
Oh, dear. No word from me, none from the Captain. No wonder my father was worried.
“Um, he’s had an accident, but he’s recovering nicely. Would you care to speak to him?”
“There’s no time. I have a meeting with Marshal Foch in an hour.”
We chatted for several more minutes, and then he asked me to walk with him to his motorcar. He helped me with my coat and nodded to the orderly still standing behind his desk, then opened the door for me.
The wind was cold after the rain. “I’m only here for forty-eight hours,” he said, “but I’ve brought someone with me. At your mother’s insistence. My God, I wish I had an officer on my staff like her. She could field an army without turning a hair.” He chuckled, and as I looked up, I saw Simon Brandon standing by the Army motorcar’s door.
“My father’s Sergeant-Major,” I said, trying not to give myself away, but I was nearly as glad to see Simon as I would have been to see the Colonel Sahib.
“Tomorrow at noon, I need him to meet me at the embassy. Any messages you may have for your family you can give to him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We had reached the gates, and Simon turned, nodding to me as if we were strangers.
“Sergeant-Major,” I said, formally.
“See that she writes her mother,” Colonel MacInnes said to him as he stepped into the vehicle.
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He closed the door, then watched the motorcar drive away and disappear around the corner. I waited as well.
Then he turned to me, grinning. “I expected to find you in an invalid chair, drooping amidst your blankets. Where’s the Captain?”
“Drooping in his blankets. Someone tried to kill him. And narrowly missed me.”
“Good God. Your mother told me you were up to your ears in trouble. I should have believed her. I only have twenty-four hours, Bess. But if you’re in danger, I’ll find a way to convince Colonel MacInnes to take you back to England. He appears to be under your mother’s spell.”
“I think he’d have married her, if my father hadn’t got there first,” I said, taking his arm. “There’s a café in this direction. Not very far. We can talk there.”
“How is that wound?”
“Much improved. I think they may have erred on the side of caution because I’m my father’s daughter. But it has been slow to heal. There was infecti
on, to start with. They were quite worried about that.” Which probably explained the appearance of Captain Barkley, I thought. Unless my father had learned that he was here and sent his own orders. “Simon, I need to find out if a certain Lieutenant Philippe Moreau is known to the British Army. As a German spy. Or if he’d been court-martialed but disappeared. For that matter,” I added, realizing what I’d just said, “it may well be that he’s got a habit of disappearing.”
We found the café, the windows steamed from the warmth inside, but we had it nearly to ourselves. I warned Simon against the coffee, and instead he had a glass of wine.
He gave me news of home as we waited to be served, and when the waiter had left us, he changed the subject. “Tell me the story.”
“Oh, good heavens,” I said, struck by a realization. “This afternoon I must read to the convalescents. Please don’t let me forget.”
And I launched into an account of everything that had happened, holding nothing back. He listened intently, watching my face as I talked. It was good to be sitting here with him. I knew I could trust him, I knew I could depend on him. The only thing I had to fear from him was being kidnapped back to England, if he was worried enough.
The woman behind the counter had been eyeing him, examining me as if to wonder how I had attracted such a handsome escort. I was well into my account when she walked over to ask if he’d care for another glass of wine. He smiled at her and told her he would. When she brought it, she lingered by the table, asking if he was English, and if he intended to stay in Paris very long. She was attractive, possibly thirty, and had very pretty eyes. She knew how to use them too.
I sat patiently waiting for her flirtation to end, then finished what I wanted to tell him. Simon digested it for a time, looking out the window at the passersby. Then he turned to me and said, “I don’t like this. Whatever is happening, whoever is behind this business, he’s prepared to kill. Let it go, Bess.”
“I was hoping for more practical advice.”
“I know. And I know you. You’ll see this through to the end, if you can. I’m not likely to distract you.”
It was nearly noon. We ordered lunch, much to Madame’s delight. Simon asked me for clarification on certain points, making sure he knew exactly what had been happening.
“It seems to me that Barkley is in no condition to confront this man Paul Moreau. And you can hardly drag Major Vernon further into this business. You shouldn’t have taken him to this village in the first place. If anyone learns that he’s involved, and he’s attacked, it could cause an incident. Did Barkley report what had happened to him?”
“I don’t think he’s had a chance. And that’s another point, Simon. I’d give much to know why he’s in Paris to start with. I can hardly imagine that an officer of his experience is here to hunt deserters, although he makes it sound reasonable enough. He was telling me about the salons he’d attended. Most deserters can barely feed themselves.”
“You’re right. That duty is generally left to the Foot Police. He’s been dispatched to Paris on other business. I had that from the Colonel.”
“Did he also tell you what he’s doing here?”
Simon smiled. “No. Above my rank, I expect. But if I had to guess, I’d say the Captain is looking for someone.”
“Perhaps he thinks he’s found him,” I said, finishing my potatoes. They had been the best part of the meal, although the onions had been well cooked too. The meat was gristly and tasteless. “That’s why he’s so willing to give me his help.”
“You say you’ve written to this Paul Moreau?”
“If he answers me. I expect he won’t.”
“And you’ll go back there, to meet him if he asks it?”
“He’s recovering from wounds. I don’t believe he’ll come to Paris to see me.”
“Very well. I’ll walk with you as far as the clinic, and I’ll see if I can commandeer a motorcar. I don’t care for the possibility of your walking into trouble. You know nothing about the man.”
I felt an unexpected surge of relief. With Simon at my back, even a furious Paul Moreau was no threat.
“Captain Broussard has one, but I don’t think you’ll have much luck there.”
“We’ll see.”
He paid for the meal and we returned to Belle-Île. The wind cut through my coat, and I shivered. “I hope the war ends soon. I don’t know how we’ll survive another winter of fighting.”
“There’s an ambulance at your door. Look.”
He was right, it was just pulling up. Hurrying, we got there in time to see that there were new arrivals being brought into the clinic. Simon walked on as I stopped to help with the task of unloading the stretcher cases. Matron and several of the Sisters came out to meet the newcomers a moment later. We got them inside and sorted rather quickly, and then I went to the library to read once more.
“There’s fierce fighting at the Front,” one of my regular officers said as he came in and took a chair by the hearth. “I just spoke to a Lieutenant Raymond. From Gloucester, he says. The Germans aren’t going quietly.”
“I’ve heard the French are bickering over what terms they’ll demand as reparations,” another man commented. “That’s going to delay any chance of an early end.”
I wondered if that was why Colonel MacInnes was here, to keep the French from fighting amongst themselves.
Picking up my book, I was surprised to see Captain Barkley being wheeled in, in an invalid’s chair. He was pale but seemed to be alert and eager to get out of his bed.
I read for the assigned hour, and then, giving everyone to believe I was tired, excused myself quickly, before Captain Barkley could wheel himself across the room to where I’d been sitting. They were still talking about the chapter as I shut the door. I hurried to Reception and looked out at the street.
A motorcar was sitting there, waiting.
I’d left my coat and a rug, among other things, behind the stairs, and so it took no more than a matter of seconds to collect them and leave.
Simon got down to hold the door for me, then turned to the crank. “I hope you know where you’re going,” he said.
“There shouldn’t be any trouble,” I assured him. “Is this Colonel MacInnes’s motorcar?”
“I was afraid you’d notice.” He got in, gave me a grin, and we set out. I had no trouble finding our way out of Paris, and then we settled down for the journey to Petite-Beauvais. We talked very little. I asked for news of Mrs. Hennessey, and was surprised to hear that Simon had stopped in to see her only last week.
“She sends her love. And she’s concerned about what’s going to happen to her lodgers when the war is over. I told her it’s likely that you’ll keep the flat.”
“Yes, I expect I shall,” I said slowly. I hadn’t thought about that aspect of the war ending. After four long years, it seemed as if this was what was normal now, and that what had been before was no more than a dream of a distant time. How it would be afterward, I don’t think any of us could imagine. “I’m fond of her,” I added. “Were any of my flatmates in London? Diana? Mary? Lady Elspeth?”
“Not when I was there. Mary was in France, Diana had stayed in Dover, and Lady Elspeth had just left for Folkestone.”
“I’ve hardly seen them for months,” I said. “And Melinda?”
She was a Crawford cousin who had married another Crawford cousin—an Army man like so many of us—and was now a widow living in Kent. When she was a child, she and her mother had survived the bloody Siege of Lucknow during the frightful Indian Mutiny of 1857. She had been quite the heroine, in fact.
“Your mother had a letter from her only recently. She’s well. I gather she knows more about the war than the Prime Minister. Your mother tells me your cousin keeps up a correspondence that includes half of Parliament, most of the Army, and a good part of the Navy. You might write and ask what Captain Barkley is doing in France. I’ve no doubt at all that she could tell you.”
I laughed. Still, he wasn’t
exaggerating.
We fell into a comfortable silence, except for the occasional direction that I needed to give.
We had always been comfortable together, although I could hardly remember the angry, stubborn boy who had come out from England as a private soldier. My father had seen something in him that others hadn’t, and the dire predictions that he’d be cashiered or court-martialed before he had served out his first year hadn’t proven true. And in the end, well liked by officers and other ranks, Simon had become the youngest Regimental Sergeant-Major in the history of the regiment. My father had also privately called him one of the best soldiers he’d ever come across, and had tried to persuade him to go back to England to train as an officer. Simon had steadfastly refused.
There was an overturned hay wain at the crossroads, and we lost half an hour as farmers tried to right it. Simon got down and organized the effort, or it would have been midnight before we were on our way again.
It was dark, well past the dinner hour, when we reached the village. There was no one about on the streets. We drove directly to the Moreau house, and I pounded on the door, to no answer.
“Leave it to me,” Simon replied when I voiced my frustration.
He disappeared into the shadows, and I stood there in the cold wind waiting for him to return. But he didn’t. The minutes ticked by, and I began to feel distinctly uneasy. What was keeping him? Had something gone wrong?
I was on the point of going around the house myself when the door opened, and Paul Moreau stood there, outlined by a lamp on a small table behind him. His face was twisted with anger and a frustration that went far beyond my own.
“Come in, then,” he said without any politeness or courtesy, and stepped aside. It wasn’t until I was well inside the door, uncertain whether or not I should have waited for Simon, that I saw him just beyond the lamplight, near the stairs.
Without another word, our host led us down the passage to a sitting room. The dustcovers had been taken off one of the chairs, and a table had been cleared. The remains of a dinner occupied it now. I saw a crust of bread and what appeared to be an omelet. There was also a half-full bottle of wine and a glass with a little left at the bottom.
