‘It’s a good thing you came back now, sir. I couldn’t have waited any longer. Our three chaps were drinking themselves silly in the bistros and talking their heads off, and everyone was wondering why the engine wasn’t fixed yet and wanting to help. Then some bossy little port gendarme turned up here earlier, asking to see our papers – damn lucky we had them by then. Nasty piece of work. I told him that we were leaving first thing in the morning. By the way, one of our crew’s decided to stay here. Daniel says he wants to go off and see his girlfriend.’ Smythson raised his eyebrows comically. ‘He says he misses her too much.’
He changed into his Breton fisherman’s clothes and lay down on a bunk. They’d drunk all the Algerian wine – waiting around for him, they explained apologetically – and there was nothing to eat but the tinned meat and biscuits. Not that he cared. He smoked another cigarette, thinking about what he’d achieved. Not such a lot, perhaps, but it was a start. And he thought he could see the way forward.
At dawn the Espérance sailed for England.
‘Lieutenant Reeves left this for you, sir.’ The Wren laid the file on the edge of his desk. ‘He said you’d requested it.’
‘Thank you.’ Powell waited until she had left the room before drawing the buff-coloured folder towards him and opening it. There was only one sheet of paper inside – the information it contained very basic, but all of interest to him. Barbara Ann Sutcliffe had been born in Croydon on 12April 1906. Her parents were British – her father an accountant by profession. Both parents were now deceased. She had attended Croydon High School and left at sixteen to take a domestic science course at a college in Eastbourne. Afterwards she had worked as a receptionist at the Grand Hotel, Eastbourne. In 1928she had married Noel Hillyard, a dentist with a practice in Eastbourne. He had died of an aneurysm in 1931.In 1932she had sold their home there and bought the property, Bellevue, in Kingswear which she ran as a lodging house. Her brother, Frederick John Sutcliffe, had been born in 1915. He had joined the Royal Navy four years before the outbreak of war and was now serving as a lieutenant on a destroyer. There was nothing whatever in Barbara Hillyard’s past to indicate any connection or sympathy with the Nazi party in Germany – he would have been astonished if there had been. And she was a widow.
Six
Louis Duval and Lieutenant Smythson came straight to the headquarters in Kingswear, still in their Breton clothes and smelling strongly of fish. After seven days of Smythson playing his part, Powell reckoned that his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him – the young Wren who showed them into his office, wrinkling her nose, clearly hadn’t. Duval produced the documents that he had brought back with him: passes and papers and permits demanded by the German overlords of France – some unwittingly furnished by a Wehrmacht officer himself – together with a sheaf of notices giving new regulations, lists of conditions, instructions, warnings, threats. Smythson handed over the signed and stamped crew and customs clearance forms. The town mayor had, apparently, been more than helpful. Altogether, it was an impressive haul that had opened the way for future missions and he congratulated them. ‘What else can you tell us?’
Duval said, ‘Well, it seems there are only a few hundred German troops in Pont-Aven and the surrounding area, but there is talk of large numbers of them assembling along the coast of Normandy and of the canals and rivers there being full of barges. The Germans apparently brag in the local cafés about how easy it will be to invade England. How accurate or true all this is, I can’t say for sure. Also, there are rumours of submarine pens being built at Brest and Lorient. Lieutenant Smythson heard much the same in the bars when he went ashore.’
It all fitted with the latest aerial reconnaissance results, Powell thought. The photos had shown a lot of activity between Courseulles and Ouistreham. The invasion threat was real enough, the U-boat threat to shipping and convoys carrying vital supplies even more so, and he found that much the more alarming. The Germans would find invading England a great deal harder than they imagined, but U-boats roaming the North Atlantic like packs of savage wolves would be deadly. ‘What else?’
‘The four-mile fishing limit is strictly enforced,’ Smythson told him. ‘We were buzzed by a Dornier when we were outside the limit on our approach, and lucky not to be spotted in daylight on our return. Also the rule of all fishing vessels returning to port at sundown definitely applies – except for tunny boats fishing much further offshore who can stay at sea for two or three nights. As far as we could tell, the Germans inspect boats randomly as they enter harbour. Fortunately, they didn’t bother us. There is a curfew at the moment from nine o’clock in the evening until daybreak.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. Unfortunately, the Germans are rationing petrol for the fishing boats. A number of them are already having to operate under sail. Any vessels crossing in future ought to be rigged so that they can make the final part of the journey under sail. Also, we’ll need another man for our crew. Daniel decided to stay so he could go and see his girlfriend. I couldn’t exactly order him to leave with us.’
Duval laid a French newspaper on his desk. ‘This might be of interest as well. Articles, local news, and so forth The newspapers are effectively under German control, of course.’
He glanced at it. There was a large photograph on the front page of smiling Wehrmacht troops chatting to a group of French children. ‘Are they really so friendly?’
‘They’re trying to be – in Pont-Aven, at least. They’ve put up posters everywhere: Put your trust in the German soldier, with a picture similar to that one. The commanders seem to be keeping their men well in line. Their behaviour is generally very correct.’
‘And the French themselves?’
Duval considered his answer, frowning. ‘Lost at the moment, I would say. Bewildered at what has happened. They feel betrayed but they’re not sure by whom. There is a slogan that one sees chalked on walls: Vendu pas vaincu.’
Betrayed not beaten. ‘Betrayed? By whom?’
Duval shrugged. ‘Whoever they care to point the finger at. The British, of course, who deserted them, the Belgians who threw in the towel so unforgivably, German agents, communists . . . even their own people. The French betrayed the French. Soldiers can blame their commanders, right-wing politicians can blame those on the left, the communists blame the fascists, the fascists, naturally, blame the Jews.’
Smythson nodded in agreement. ‘I heard that sort of talk all the time. And I’m afraid the British certainly aren’t too popular just at the moment – after what happened to the French Navy.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Powell said. ‘We have to hope they’ll get over it.’
Duval said, ‘It will pass. There will still be those in France who have kept their heads.’ He leaned forward. ‘I have been thinking about the best way to gather the intelligence you need as quickly as possible. I already have the names of three men in Pont-Aven who can be relied upon and who are willing to help – to amass all the useful information they can about the Germans. One of them has contacts across Brittany and will make good use of them if need be. We only need to give the word – to let them know exactly what you need to know. In my opinion, it’s the ordinary men, and women, that you should use in France – people who belong to a region, who have lived there all their lives and know every stick and stone of it. The baker, the farmer’s wife, the bank clerk, the tiler, the shunter who works in the railway marshalling yard, the schoolmaster, the doctor, the lawyer . . . hundreds of eyes watching. Perhaps thousands. Agents who look normal because they are normal. They can watch the Germans while they go about their daily work and gather information to pass on. These men and women would be completely unknown to each other, and the man who is in charge of them would receive his directions from another source. A secret network of anonymous people extending across the whole of France. Do you see, Lieutenant Commander?’
Powell said dubiously, ‘It’s a very tall order. It would take a long time to set up – ev
en if such a thing were possible.’
‘But consider this, also. Suppose the Germans abandon their plan to invade and conquer England? We know that it would not be so easy. They must then think instead in defensive terms. If they fail to take this country they will have to guard against being attacked and invaded themselves. That’s a different game altogether. And the war could go on for years. There would be plenty of time to set up big networks of people such as I have described.’
It made some sense – in the long term, at least. Meanwhile, they had to carry on as planned. He had been told that Free French agents from General de Gaulle’s Deuxième Bureau had just been landed by boat in Normandy in an attempt to get more information on the German invasion plans, and he had received instructions to arrange for a second trip to be undertaken to Brittany as soon as possible. In addition to all the enemy activity in Normandy, reconnaissance photos had shown the Germans to be very busy on the coast between Quimper and Douarnenez. Two of General de Gaulle’s Free French had been lent to him for the purpose of investigating that area. They would cross in another Breton fishing boat, equipped, this time – thanks to Duval and Smythson’s successful mission – with all the necessary papers. He cleared his throat. ‘Could we discuss the possibility of your returning to Brittany, Monsieur Duval? You are not, of course, under any military orders and so there is no obligation for you to do so, but would you be prepared to make a return trip – soon?’
‘Yes.’ A simple answer to his simple question.
‘There was no suspicion at your returning to Pont-Aven?’
‘No. Artists seldom conform to normal patterns of life. I can go more or less where I please. It’s expected. And now, I have the papers that permit and authorize me to do so – the personal support of a respected officer of the Wehrmacht. I can travel to Paris to see my wife without attracting comment or suspicion. I sell my work through a gallery there and I have friends there, just as I have friends in Brittany and in other parts of France. I could begin the work of recruiting trustworthy agents such as I spoke of to you just now.’
Powell hesitated. There was no doubt that Duval would be useful in a limited way, but he had to disabuse him of any wild notion of freelancing. To involve a whole lot of French civilians could be a security nightmare. And the man himself was scarcely unnoticeable.
‘It’s not for me to approve such an idea, or otherwise. But I’ll pass it on to the people whose job that is and let you know what they say.’ He paused. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Duval smiled. The offer had evidently amused him. ‘No, thank you. But I should like to be able to change my clothes and clean up before Madame Hillyard sees me and wonders why I have returned from London filthy dirty and stinking of fish.’
He knocked gently on the kitchen door and opened it. She was busy at the sink, an apron tied round her waist and scrubbing away at a saucepan with some kind of scouring pad. The tap was running and so she had not heard the knock.
‘Madame Hillyard.’
She swung round. ‘Monsieur Duval! I wasn’t expecting you back yet.’
Mademoiselle Citron had been equally startled by his reappearance but there the parallel ended. Madame Hillyard, he could swear by the rush of colour to her cheeks, was pleased to see him. Or so he hoped. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you when you are busy, but I thought I should let you know that I had returned.’
She fumbled hurriedly with the tap – turning it quite the wrong way at first so that a sudden burst of water splashed everything before she could stop it. ‘I was just cleaning this pan.’
It was a great pity, he thought, that she had to slave away like a domestic. ‘Do you not have someone to help you with such things?’
‘I did – before the war. A girl from the village used to come but she joined the ATS.’
‘The ATS?’
‘The women’s army.’ She was mopping round the sink, her back still turned to him. ‘Did you have a good trip to London?’
‘Yes, indeed. It went quite well.’
‘I hope the train wasn’t too crowded. It’s sometimes hard to get a seat.’
He lied smoothly. ‘There were many passengers, but I was lucky.’
‘Was it the first time you’ve been to London?’
Here, at least, he could speak the truth. ‘No, I have been there several years ago – before the war. It’s a beautiful city.’
She turned round again, surprised, and he saw, with appreciation, that the tap water had soaked the front of her blouse, making it cling to her. ‘You really think so? But Paris must be much more beautiful.’
‘No. It’s beautiful in a different way, that’s all. And it will certainly not look so beautiful now that it is full of German troops.’ He took his eyes tactfully, but reluctantly, away from the wet blouse. ‘You were born in London?’
‘Not exactly. In Croydon. It’s just south of London. In Surrey.’
‘And then you went to Eastbourne. And when your husband died, you came here?’
‘Yes.’ She turned back to the sink and did some more mopping. ‘It was a bad time after my husband died. I didn’t know what to do, or where to go at first. But then I thought of Kingswear. I’d been here as a child, you see. My parents used to rent a holiday cottage in the summer and I’d always remembered it.’
He nodded, understanding. ‘We always remember the places where we have been happy as children.’ His own childhood was hazy now, but the smell of ripe apples took him instantly to the orchard next to an aunt’s house in the country outside Rennes. One sniff and he was a boy again, climbing trees and running wild with his cousins. Torn clothes, scratched limbs, endless energy and not a care in the world. Golden days, gone, alas, for ever.
‘You must be tired after your journey, Monsieur Duval. Can I get you a cup of coffee?’
He didn’t want one in the least – or not the terrible substitute kind – but he wanted to stay. ‘That would be very kind, madame – if it’s not a difficulty.’
‘It won’t take a moment. Do sit down.’
She filled the kettle and put it on the stove to heat. He was amused to see that she had noticed the way the blouse was clinging and kept tugging at it surreptitiously. He watched her take a cup and saucer from one of the cupboards and a bottle from another, which she set down on the counter. From where he was sitting, he could make out the curious label on the front showing some Scotsman in Highland regalia outside a tent, and read the words: Camp Coffee. She picked up the bottle again to measure a spoonful of brown liquid into a cup.
‘Would it be possible to have it without milk, madame?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She looked at him apologetically. ‘It’s awful stuff, isn’t it? Nothing like the real thing.’
‘Not at all. But for me it is better without milk.’ He felt something touch his ankle and looked down to see the black cat rubbing herself against him. The improvement in her appearance was remarkable. There was flesh on her bones and the mangy patch had almost gone. He bent down to stroke her. ‘You have not forgotten me, then, Fifi? But I think you are enjoying your new home. And you know how lucky you are. You might still have been alone and starving in France, and with the Germans.’
The kettle began to hiss and then, finally, to whistle a high, piercing note. Madame Hillyard went to fill the cup and brought it to him at the table. ‘Will you have some sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
He drank it valiantly while she began to slice up a loaf of bread. ‘You are always working, madame.’
‘It’s a pudding – for tonight.’
‘What kind of pudding?’ He had experienced a number of English puddings and few of them with any pleasure.
‘Bread and butter pudding. It’s made with milk, egg, currants and some sugar.’ She smiled a little. ‘Nothing too terrible.’
‘I’m sure that I shall enjoy it.’
‘It’s the rear admiral’s favourite.’
‘He has lived here a long time?’
> ‘Several years. Longer than Mrs Lamprey. Or Miss Tindall – she’s quite new. Incidentally, Mrs Lamprey has been asking after you almost every day. She’ll be very glad you’re back so that she can go on practising her French.’
‘Ah . . . alas, it’s very probable that I must leave again.’ He caught her eye and she laughed.
‘Oh dear, is it that bad?’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘No. Not at all. But, unfortunately, I am serious. I will have to go away again. Not because of Madame Lamprey.’
She stopped laughing. ‘Oh? Soon?’
‘Yes,’ he said, pleased that she seemed sorry about it. ‘Probably quite soon.’
He finished the dreadful Camp coffee. Far from perking him up it seemed to have made him feel worse. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his body stiff and sore after the rough sea crossing and his bad leg was aching. He dragged himself to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me, madame, I think I will rest a little now. Thank you for the coffee.’ Crossing the hall, he had the misfortune to encounter Madame Lamprey.
‘Monsieur Duval. Quel grand plaisir! Nous vous avons manqué.’
He mentally unscrambled the last bit to make sense. ‘Thank you, madame. I have also missed you.’ Her heavy perfume assailed his nostrils. Like the smell of apples bringing back his boyhood, perfumes evoked women from his past – in this particular case a beautiful but rapacious countess of a certain age who had used the same scent.
‘We shall see you at dinner this evening?’
‘Yes, indeed, madame.’
She wagged a finger at him. ‘We shall want to hear all about your trip to London. Toutes vos nouvelles.’
He hoped he was up to the invention of them. ‘Yes, of course, madame.’ He bowed and went on up the stairs. His room was pristine. Everything swept and dusted and tidied, the window opened for fresh air in the manic English fashion. His painting stood on the easel and he considered it critically for a moment. It was almost finished but some things were still not quite right. Tomorrow he would do more work on it to occupy himself while he waited to return to France.
Those in Peril Page 12
