by Charles Todd
His face flushed, and he reached out, sweeping our plates off the table, sending the rolls and shards of china flying in every direction, just missing my coffee cup. I leapt back, expecting the scalding liquid to splash all over me.
“Don’t talk to me about my son. Let him rest in peace, damn you. He was hounded like a criminal until he couldn’t stand it any longer. She can have her dreams, I want no part of them. There’s nothing she can say that will bring him back, and I’ll not have her going about telling lies about him when she doesn’t know anything about—”
His wife had come up behind him, a cleaver in her hand.
“Get out,” she said. “I’ll not say it again. Leave the living to mourn for the dead, and don’t come to us with foul lies.”
I wanted very much to tell her that her son had been murdered, that it wasn’t suicide. But perhaps the police had already told her, and it hadn’t mattered. Jerome was still dead.
“It was a dream—she wanted you to know how real it was, and how it gave her peace, absolution.”
“Real or fancy, dreams or ghosts, we want no part of it.”
Madame Ezay was scrambling to her feet. “Mademoiselle? We must go.”
I got slowly to my feet. “I’m going,” I said and held their gaze as I walked around the table and made my way in Madame’s wake to the door.
What I read there in the twisted, heavy Breton features was anger. Mixed with fear.
I could have told Marie-Luc what had happened. Instead I led her to believe that Jerome Karadeg’s parents had been grateful for her words of comfort.
She lay back against the pillows exhausted, the frenzy that had possessed her during the night seeping away. There were circles under her eyes, and I thought she had lost weight since I’d first met her, for her cheeks seemed sunken, her hands thinner.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Did they understand that I did all I could for him? And that I tried to tell the police what had really happened?”
There was a basin of water on the table beside me, with a clean cloth over the edge. I picked it up, dipped it into the water, wrung it out, and began to wash her face and hands, cooling them and making her more comfortable.
She talked about Jerome for almost another half hour, about the boy she’d first met sitting in the doorway of his parents’ café, carving a bird from an old bit of wood, of the man he’d become, and the soldier, mentioned in dispatches multiple times. She said nothing about the broken wreck sent home by the Army and left to his own devices, to survive or to end it all as he saw fit. Her voice began to slur, her eyes grew heavy, and yet she fought sleep. I could see that while Jerome’s presence in her mind had been a powerful symbol of relief, she was unsure whether she wanted to experience it again.
I wondered if this young soldier she had tried to save had represented all the other young men she had failed to save, or if he had become the son she would never have, a borrowed child whom she had learned to love. So very different from Madame Moreau, who had willingly sacrificed the child she hated.
And then Marie-Luc was asleep and I could go.
Sister Claire was waiting for me. “We’ve changed the dosage of her sedatives. Thank you for coming. Will the family she was so concerned about be calling on her later in the morning? Do you think you ought to stay to guide that meeting?”
“They won’t be coming,” I assured her. “I carried her message to them. It will suffice.”
“Thank you,” she said again and glanced toward the closed door behind me. “It’s for the best.” With a nod she walked on. Madame Ezay appeared out of nowhere and fell into step beside me.
Ahead of us a postulant was scrubbing the floor and we gave her a wide berth, staying close to the wall. We’d just passed her with a smile when a woman coming down the other way, her arm in a sling, slipped in a puddle of soapy water. I could see the danger before she started to fall and hurried forward to help her. As she fought for balance, the sticks that braced her swollen arm hit me hard in the side, taking my breath away. We collided with the wall together, and it was a miracle that we didn’t go down on the hard stone paving of the floor.
She was profuse in thanking me, and for a moment clung to me as the shock passed, then went on her way.
“Are you all right?” Madame Ezay asked, her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s fine. It only hurt for a moment.” But I felt it all the way out to the street, where we walked to the third corner before finding a taxi.
It was nearly ten in the morning when we stepped back into the clinic, and I went down to the kitchens for a late breakfast.
I couldn’t face the dining room and the chatter of the walking wounded sitting at the little square tables that must have replaced the long table that had belonged to the family. The bustle around me and the clatter and banging as the staff washed up the dishes and the pots and pans, talking among themselves, was soothing. Impersonal.
I had a good deal to think about. And I wished Simon had stayed on, so that I could talk to him about the morning’s experience. It had been unsettling.
Afterward I went up to my room and sat there. Tired as I was, I was restless, my side hurting still with a dull ache. Bruised, but no other damage. Even when I lay down on my bed, sleep wouldn’t come.
There wasn’t much more I could do, I thought. I should have left with Simon. After all, Inspector Duplessis knew about Philippe Moreau now. He could sort it out. If nothing came of his inquiry, Paul Moreau for one would be quite happy. And I had done my duty to those who had suffered at Philippe’s hands. I could leave the judging to others.
And what was I to do with the envelope I’d taken from the fräulein’s cottage? By right it belonged to Marie-Luc. I must see that she got it before I left Paris.
I heard the rumble of ambulances coming in from the base hospitals, bringing us new convalescents. I collected my coat and went down to offer my help. But there were enough hands this time to do the work. I walked around them and decided—since it was broad daylight—to go on, aimlessly, using the exercise to help me think.
I had no idea where I went or how I got there, deep in thought, feeling safe with the numbers of people on the streets this morning.
There was a café ahead, the outdoor tables under an awning, the chairs stacked to one side, waiting for spring. But there was a man sitting at one of the tables, a lonely figure reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee at his elbow.
I didn’t recognize him until I was almost on him, and he looked up as I approached, as if he expected someone to join him, or perhaps liked to know who was near him. I realized almost in the same instant that he had his back to the restaurant wall, and that he was using the newspaper as a shield.
We stared at each other, and he got slowly to his feet.
I closed the distance between us, and then when I was near enough, I reached for a chair and pulled it to his table, effectively blocking him, unless he chose to shove me to one side.
“Hallo,” I said in French. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
It was Philippe Moreau. Still wearing his American officer’s uniform.
Chapter Sixteen
Since I’d arrived in Paris, I had seen him only in the dim light of a taxi as we passed. I could see him clearly now.
He looked like a man recovering from a long illness. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed, and there were lines of pain around his mouth.
He stood there, his gaze riveted on my face, and said nothing.
“I know you can speak French. And English. And German,” I added. “Which language do you prefer?” And all the time I was thinking about what Simon would have to say about this confrontation. It wasn’t yet noon—he was still in Paris. But at the embassy, not here.
That remark must have stung, because Philippe Moreau snapped, “Oh, shut up,” in French, and then switched to English as he sank back into his chair. “What do you want?”
There was a cold wind blowing over my left shoulder. I would ha
ve liked to go inside. The windows were steamed, and it would be warm. But I was afraid that if I moved, he would leave.
“How are you?” I changed my tone of voice. “Have your feet healed?”
“Well enough,” he answered grudgingly.
I didn’t believe him. They must still hurt when he wore shoes or walked too far on cobbles or the boards that kept much of Paris out of the mud in the back streets.
“The English doctors deserve the credit.”
“All right then. Thank you.” It didn’t sound like gratitude.
“How did you know where to find me?” I asked then. “When you tried to frighten me in the dark.”
“I’ve no idea where you live in Paris.”
I let it go. He sat there across from me, saying nothing unless I asked a question. He’d picked up the cigarette lighter that lay on the table. I’d seen that kind before. It was made from a cartridge casing. Toying with it now, turning it about in his fingers, he stared at it for a time, then put it in his pocket.
I let the silence lengthen.
“What do you want from me?” he asked for a second time.
“I don’t know.” And I meant that. Having found him, I didn’t know what I should do. Run screaming for the nearest gendarme? I smiled at the thought.
At length I said, “The truth, I expect.”
Surprised, then wary, he looked up at me. “I don’t think I know what the truth is anymore.”
“Did you kill the Lavaud family?”
He recoiled, as if I’d struck him with the newspaper that lay between us, or thrown the contents of the coffee cup all over him.
What I read in his face then was terrible, and I wished I hadn’t mentioned the past.
Quickly changing the subject, I said, “I saw Paul last night.”
He looked away.
“He’s convalescing from his own wounds. But he’ll be all right. Fräulein Theissen died recently. The complications of age. But you must have realized that the end was near. Did you know Sister Marie-Luc? She’s a nun.”
I might as well have been sitting there reminiscing about family members, cousins we hadn’t seen in years. The way people do when they have known each other for a very long time but haven’t kept in touch.
He cleared his throat. “Should I?”
“I don’t know. Someone tried to kill her. She says it was you.”
That brought his attention back to me. “Why?”
“Because she knew about the house near the Bois.”
He neither confirmed nor denied it. We sat there in silence again. The café door opened, startling both of us, and a soldier came out with a pretty girl on his arm. They were laughing, a touch of the normal world going on around us. I felt a sweeping sadness.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“The police know that you’re in Paris. They’ll be looking for you.”
“It doesn’t matter. The war is nearly finished,” he replied, his face haggard, his voice so tired that I knew without being told that he was no longer able to run. “Are you sitting here, waiting for them to come? Is that it? A marker, so they’ll know where to look?”
“No. I didn’t expect to find you here. There’s only me.” I realized it was not the smartest thing to say. But I didn’t like being thought of as a marker for the police. He’d been betrayed by the woman he’d known as his mother. I couldn’t add to that by letting him think I’d come here to betray him too. I gestured to the street at my back. “You are free to stand up and walk away. But this Inspector, his name is Duplessis, is a very sharp policeman. He’ll find you in the end.”
“Thanks for the warning.” His voice was bitter.
And then, as if to test my words, he rose, looking up and down the street, preparing to walk away.
I had only seconds now. I said, “Did you spy on your own country?” And then, realizing that he might well consider another country to be his own, I repeated, “Did you spy on France?”
His face was twisted in anger now.
“Go to hell!” he shouted at me in English. And then he was walking away, limping heavily—whether for my benefit or because walking was still painful, I couldn’t tell.
Passersby were staring. It must have looked like a lover’s spat, a nurse and her officer sweetheart having words. I managed a smile, and then turned and purposely walked the other way.
It occurred to me all at once that this was another candidate for the river. Philippe Moreau looked to be at the end of his strength, with no will to run again. More than one hunted man had taken that way out.
I wished with all my heart that I hadn’t seen him sitting there this morning. It’s easier to hate at a distance.
Over my shoulder I watched him go, and then on the spur of the moment, an indication of my own distress, I looked around, realized where I was—how far I had come from the clinic. I should have gone back there. Instead, almost without conscious decision, I started to walk toward the British embassy. It wasn’t noon yet; Simon would still be there. I could still accompany him back to England.
I was only two streets away from the embassy when I saw Colonel MacInnes’s motorcar leaving Paris. It was too far away to hail. I stood there, willing Simon to look out the back window and see me.
But he didn’t. Even if he had, I was only a distant figure. Bess Crawford had no reason to be in this part of Paris. He wouldn’t have looked for me here.
Eventually I found my way back to the hotel. Footsore and tired, I went down to the kitchen to beg a cup of tea.
It was as weak as could be, as if the leaves had been used several times, and they were bitter. But it was hot and there was even a little honey to put into it.
I sat there cradling the cup in my cold hands, my feet stretched out toward the kitchen fire.
I didn’t hear Major Anderson come in. The first indication that he was there was his greeting.
“Bess? What are you doing hiding down here in the kitchen?”
I turned quickly and managed a smile. “Hallo,” I said. “Not hiding, really. It was warmer by the fire. I’d been out walking, and I forgot my gloves.”
He smiled. “I’d been looking for you. I’ve learned the name of the man who was court-martialed. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“A sergeant by the name of Allard. The charge was desertion. He’d gone home to tend his farm. It was time to plow and there was no one else. My brother-in-law felt someone had turned a blind eye, and Allard had simply rejoined his regiment. Not the first such case, I’ll be bound.”
“How interesting,” I said, although Paul Moreau had told us much the same story. “Thank you, Major. I find it hard to blame such a man. I’m glad he wasn’t shot.”
“There was a very different case two years ago. In 1916. Claude hadn’t anything to do with the court martial, but it was the talk of the Army. A Lieutenant Theissen, that was. Claude didn’t know much about the man or the trial, but Theissen overpowered his guards and got away. He had a knife hidden in his boot, threatened to cut their throats. The Army tried to hush that up, but the story got out. He released two German officers incarcerated in the same building. Rumor was, the three of them made it to German lines and were never seen again.” He smiled. “That’s a better story to tell your father one day.”
I sat there, caught completely by surprise.
Shrugging, he said, “That’s all I could discover.”
I managed to collect my wits and ask, with unfeigned interest, “What was his first name? Do you know?”
“Claude didn’t say. Well, he wasn’t on that court.”
“I’m thunderstruck. And to think it actually happened.” It was the best I could do.
“Not a name you’d know.”
“No. And a good thing.” I got to my feet and set my cup in the dry sink. “Well, my curiosity is satisfied.”
He followed me up the back stair to the ground floor. “Bess. Did yo
u expect it to be Moreau?”
“I didn’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I was afraid it might be. Just as well it wasn’t.”
“Yes.”
I thanked him again and accompanied him back to the wards, looked in on Captain Barkley, who was sleeping, and went on up the stairs. This time I locked the door to my room and took out the tub of soldiers. I retrieved the envelope and went to the window, standing there for a moment with it in my hand.
What had Fräulein Theissen been thinking when she put these bits of her life away, hiding them from casual prying eyes?
When Paul Moreau had come to the cottage the night that Captain Barkley and I were there, was he looking for them? Or for a bed, as he claimed, when the house beyond the church was closed, cold, and empty?
Had Father Robert ever looked for them, driven by curiosity or a need to know the truth?
I was beginning to think that the best thing I could do would be to burn the lot. It was a measure of my uncertainty and frustration. Certainly there was no need to keep the cutting. Marie-Luc knew about the murders. She too must have known how much they had hurt Fräulein Theissen. Paul already knew more than he could live with. And so did Philippe Moreau.
Inspector Duplessis didn’t need it—he had access to the original file.
But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to throw any of the contents on the fire.
Instead I took the papers to the chair near the hearth and went through them again, this time reading a few more of the letters.
From former pupils, they were touching. She must have been a fine governess, because invariably the letters thanked her for the care and upbringing she had given her charges. Most were from young women, although there were a number from young men as well. A few, dated after the summer of 1914, even mentioned the fact that she was French in their eyes, even though she was from Alsace. One spoke of her father, who had been killed in the fighting a generation ago, adding that he had lost his own father in this war.
I felt guilty reading these very personal tributes to a woman who had spent her life educating other people’s children.
