‘I don’t know who he is, but he is not Doctor Lucien Puel. Lucien Puel is the Swiss psychiatrist at the Louis Bertrand hospital in Canada who treated Mitch. I don’t believe in coincidences, Thomas. There cannot be two doctors called Lucien Puel, can there?’
‘Yes, Madame Belland, there can, but there is not.’ Claire turned to see Lucien Puel hobbling across the room. He offered Claire a glass of water, which she took without thinking. Then she remembered what Doctor D’Aramitz had said about poisons and didn’t drink. ‘There was once another Lucien Puel--’ A loving smile softened the old man’s features and tears filled his eyes.
‘Grandfather!’ Doctor D’Aramitz had followed his grandfather into the room and now stood next to him. ‘You do not owe these people an explanation,’ he said. ‘You saved Madame Belland’s husband’s life.’ He gave Claire a cold hard stare. ‘Is that not enough for you, Madame?’
Before Claire could answer, the old man said, ‘No my dear, Matthieu, it is not enough.’ Leaning heavily on his walking stick, he walked back to the door and tugged on a maroon bell-rope. ‘If you trust that my housekeeper will not try to poison you, Madame, I would like to invite you and Monsieur Durand to join my grandson and me for refreshments. Then I shall tell you about the other Lucien Puel. What is more, we cannot have you fainting again, can we?’
Claire felt her cheeks colour. Her mouth was dry. She took a drink of water and felt better for it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Thomas to make sure he agreed.
‘We should both like that, sir,’ Thomas said.
Lucien Puel acknowledged their acceptance with a nod. He motioned to the fire and offered Claire his arm. Getting to her feet, she accepted the old man’s help and he guided her to a large comfortable looking sofa. When she was seated, he sat in the armchair on the left of the fire, Thomas sat next to Claire and Doctor D’Aramitz took the armchair on the right.
‘There are things you wish to know about a woman in the Resistance?’ Doctor Puel said, ‘and there are things I wish to know about the man in Canada who has my name.’ Claire’s eyes widened. Did she hear what the old man said correctly? Did he know Simone?
‘But first--’ He stopped speaking when a plump, rosy-faced middle-aged woman who Claire assumed was the housekeeper and a teenage girl, probably the housekeeper’s daughter, entered the room carrying trays with coffee, sandwiches and cakes, which they placed on a long table in front of Claire and Thomas.
When the housekeeper and the girl had left, Doctor D’Aramitz poured coffee for them all and handed round the sandwiches. Claire’s stomach was a tangle of nervous knots, but she was ravenous and took two sandwiches. They ate in silence. When Dr D’Aramitz had finished eating he refilled their coffee cups.
‘So, where to begin?’ Lucien Puel said, when he had finished. ‘Perhaps I should start by telling you that it was my other grandson, also Lucien Puel, who found your husband after he had been shot. And it was Lucien, with two young men from the village, who carried him to this house.’
Claire’s eyes brimmed with tears. She rubbed them quickly with the back of her hand. ‘Forgive me, Doctor Puel, I am confused. You said there was not another man with your name.’
‘And there is not.’
Claire frowned suspiciously. The old doctor was not making sense. He put up his hand. ‘Bear with me, Madame, and I will explain.’ He took a shaky breath. ‘I was blessed with two wonderful grandchildren.’ He looked at Doctor D’Aramitz with watery eyes.
‘Grandfather, you don’t have to--’
‘Oh, but I do, Matthieu.’
Claire sat back on the sofa and listened to what the old doctor had to say. ‘By the time your husband was brought to me he had lost a great deal of blood from gunshot wounds to his legs. I operated and took out two bullets. I did all I could, but I had no way of telling whether it was enough to save your husband’s leg, or, more importantly, his life. We had no blood you see, and-- Well, you know your husband survived.’
Claire leaned forward, tears falling onto her cheeks, and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
A wan smile brushed the old man’s face. Closing his eyes, he nodded. ‘Eventually, Lucien returned to his education and the Resistance arranged for your husband to be taken to Paris.’ Turning to his grandson, he said, ‘I think we could all do with a brandy, Matthieu. Would you?’
Dr D’Aramitz jumped up, fetched a decanter and four glasses from a side cabinet, and poured each of them a generous measure. Fortified by the drink, the old doctor continued. ‘When the war ended, the prison you visited yesterday was one of the first the Allies liberated. Our small village being so close to the camp was a dangerous place to be at that time. I had told Matthieu and his cousin Lucien not to return to St. Emile, but Lucien… He was young and high-spirited - and he disobeyed me.
‘He wrote to his mother saying he was coming home. He said he was excited that he had become a doctor, like his grandfather.’ Looking into the mid-distance with sad eyes, the old doctor lifted his glass and drained it. ‘On the day he was due to come home, the Allies liberated the camp and somehow Heinrich Beckman, the camp’s doctor, escaped.
‘When Lucien hadn’t arrived by suppertime my neighbours and I went out to look for him.’ The old man took a large handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘He was lying in the road, naked but for his vest and pants. He had been beaten so badly he was hardly recognisable. I took off my coat and covered him, and he smiled at me. He smiled at me!’ the old man roared.
Matthieu jumped up, but his grandfather put up his hand and he sat down. ‘I knelt on the road beside him and cradled him in my arms. “I am a doctor, grandfather,” he said. “I am Doctor Lucien Puel.” I told him I was proud of him but he should save his strength. He gave me a knowing smile and whispered something. I didn’t hear what he said, so I leaned in close, my face next to his, his lips touching my cheek. “Gestapo-- Doctor.” They were the last words my grandson said.
‘We carried him home and laid his broken body on his bed.’ The old doctor picked up his glass. ‘Would you, Mathieu?’ When his grandson had replenished his drink, he carried on. ‘There were no papers on him; no identity papers, travel permit, nor the doctor’s certificate that he was so proud of. How could there be?
‘The next day members of the local Resistance cell searched the woods. They found a half-burned Gestapo uniform and the identity papers of Doctor Heinrich Beckman!’ With tears in his eyes, the old doctor looked at Claire. ‘And that I am sure is how your doctor in Canada got his name, Madame.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Shocked by what the old doctor had told her, Claire was unable to speak. She needed to digest what he had said, understand the implications. If what he’d told her was true, and she had no reason to think the old man was lying, the Swiss professor Lucien Puel who had been her husband’s psychiatrist was a German Nazi called Heinrich Beckman. She caught her breath. If Mitch had recognised him from the Gestapo prison at Saint-Gaudens it would have been reason enough for Beckman to write to his commander and concoct the story about him being a traitor, in order to discredit him.
The old man had been heartbreakingly honest with her, now it was Claire’s turn to be honest with him. ‘Doctor Puel, forgive me, but I have not been truthful. My name is not Therese Belland. That is the name I am travelling under.’
The old gentleman smiled. ‘It was your nom de guerre, your Resistance name, no?’
‘No, sir.’ Surprised that he’d guessed that she had been in the Resistance, she said, ‘My Resistance name was Claire LeBlanc, my code name China Blue. If I may, I would like to explain.’ Claire told Doctor Puel and his grandson, Matthieu, the little she knew about the treatment Mitch had received in Canada. She told them that the doctor, who she now knew was Heinrich Beckman, demanded complete secrecy. ‘He said under no circumstances should I question my husband about his treatment, so I didn’t.’ She told them about Mitch’s nightmares, how in his sleep he would call out for a woman
who Claire suspected her husband was having an affair with. ‘His eyes would open and he would talk to her as if he could see her. Afterwards, he had no recollection of the dream or of what he had said. On the few occasions that he had talked about the hypnotherapy sessions he’d had with the doctor, he didn’t remember anything about them either.
‘I knew something was wrong when, not long before his treatment ended, Mitch, Alain, was kept in hospital overnight. He was put in an empty psychiatric ward with restraints on the beds and bars at the windows. When he woke he was confused, he didn’t know what he was saying. He called me by my undercover code name, China. Fortunately, Beckman wasn’t there and the nurse thought he was talking about the country.’
‘And is your husband still being treated by this man in Canada?’ Doctor Puel asked.
‘No, sir. The treatment finished and Alain was told he had been cured of shell shock. But he is now missing. At the airport, while my little girl and I were waiting for my husband to join us to fly back to England, an official told me that he had been informed by Canadian military intelligence that my husband had gone AWOL. He said we were to leave without him. That information led me again to think that Alain was having an affair with the woman he talked about in his sleep and he had stayed in Canada to be with her. But,’ Claire said, looking at the old man and then his grandson, ‘whether he was having an affair or not, I knew something sinister was going on. And I was right.
‘When I got back to England, to our home, Alain’s grandmother showed me a letter and a copy of my husband’s medical report. The originals were sent to Alain’s commander at the aerodrome and signed, of course, Professor Lucien Puel.’
How did you see a copy of such a report? Surely it would have been classified?’
‘It was classified. It had classified stamped all over it. But I assure you it was the real thing, as was “the private and confidential” letter written by “Beckman.” I now believe my husband missed the plane home because he returned to the hospital. I think he somehow got hold of his medical records, the report and the letter, copied them and posted them to his grandmother for safe keeping. If this professor is the doctor from the prison and Alain had recognised him, Alain would know he couldn’t stay in Canada, and because of the damning letter Beckman had written to his commander, he wouldn’t be able to come back to England, either. At least not without being court marshalled and sent back to Canada for trial.’
‘What?’ Doctor Puel and Doctor D’Aramitz exclaimed at the same time.
‘The medical report, which included transcripts of one-to-one sessions between Alain and Doctor Lucien Puel-- I’m so sorry…’ Claire’s cheeks flushed scarlet. She had called Heinrich Beckman by the name of the old man’s beloved grandson, again. He shook his head and lifted his hand as if to say, it’s all right, carry on. Claire took a breath and began again. ‘The medical report said pretty much what I expected it to say - that my husband had been suffering from severe shell shock, which had been getting progressively worse over the years. And that the treatment he had received at the Louis Bertrand hospital under the specialist care of--’ Claire shook her head and closed her eyes. She was loathed to say his name, “the professor” had been successful and in the professor’s opinion Captain Alain Mitchell was completely well and needed no further treatment.
‘But it was the supposed eminent psychiatrist’s accompanying letter that did the damage. He said, after talking to Captain Mitchell for many hours while the captain was under hypnosis, he believed the captain had worked for the Germans while detained in the prison at Saint-Gaudens.’
‘And he said Captain Mitchell was recruited by a French woman,’ Thomas added, ‘also in the prison, who was a double agent.’
‘It’s all falling into place,’ Claire said ‘From what Beckman wrote in the letter that Alain copied and sent to his grandmother, and from what you have told us, I’m convinced that Alain did recognise Heinrich Beckman from the prison. It’s the only explanation; the only thing that makes sense. Alain must have remembered being here with you - remembered your name was Lucien Puel and realised that the Lucien Puel who had been his doctor at the Louis Bertrand hospital in Canada was an imposter.’
‘No!’ Claire jumped at the sharp way in which Doctor Puel dismissed the idea. ‘No!’ he said again. ‘We never told anyone our names, not even our first names. The fewer people that knew the names of the Resistance members, couriers, doctors like me who were willing to stitch a wound or take bullets out of a body, the less chance there was of anyone giving out that information if they were captured by the Germans.’
Claire knew the no-names, policy. The Gisoir Resistance Cell which she had been a member of had the same policy, all the Resistance cells did. She sipped her brandy. Doctor D’Aramitz added another log to the fire, and Claire sat back and relaxed. The house had a strange feel to it. Calm and peaceful yet with a profound sadness that made the atmosphere heavy.
She cast her eyes around. With maroon drapes at the windows, embroidered cream cotton antimacassars protecting the arms and backs of the chairs and settee, and delicate lace runners on the dining table and sideboard, the room was more feminine than masculine, even though two men lived there. She looked up at the mantle shelf. Photographs in silver frames stood in a row. She recognised Doctor Puel and Doctor D’Aramitz, though they both looked much younger. There was a photograph of Dr Puel with a beautiful woman. He looked about forty and the woman early thirties. They were in summer clothes with cliffs and the sea in the background. It looked like a holiday snap that had been taken many years before. She guessed it was the beautiful woman who had made the soft furnishings, giving the house the feminine touch.
‘My grandsons,’ Dr Puel said, getting up and standing by the fire. He held a photograph of two young men with bronzed arms and legs in shorts playing tennis.
Claire stood up and joined him. ‘How long ago was this taken?’ she asked.
‘Some time in the late-thirties. Lucien and Matthieu were home from university for the summer.’
She held the photograph at arm’s length, so she could see both the photograph and Doctor D’Aramitz. ‘You haven’t changed much,’ she said. ‘And this,’ she held the photograph nearer and looked more closely at the other boy, ‘must be Lucien.’ Lifting her head, Claire glanced at Doctor Puel. With a warm smile, he nodded. Claire looked back at the image of the young Lucien Puel who, grinning cheekily, stood two inches shorter than his cousin. In an open-neck sports shirt, he looked handsome and relaxed.
The cousins were as different to look at as they could possibly be. Matthieu, well built with thick wavy black hair, dark eyes, high forehead, and a strong Norman nose, stood six-feet tall. Lucien, standing casually, hands in pockets, next to him looked about five-ten. He was slim with straight fair hair and boyish looks. On the photograph, Matthieu had a serious expression, Lucien a mischievous one. Claire tilted her head to the left and then right before passing the photograph to Thomas.
‘I can see how Beckman got away using Lucien’s papers,’ Claire told him. ‘Lucien has fair skin and his hair is blond or very light brown.’
‘Matthieu’s mother is my daughter. She has light brown hair and fair skin, like my late wife, but my son-in-law comes from just over the border in Spain and has an olive complexion. Lucien’s father was my late son. His wife is Danish. So--’ he said, opening his arms as if to say, that is why my grandsons look different.
Claire was desperate to find out anything she could about Simone, and although she had doubts as to whether this was the right time, she knew if she didn’t ask now, she might not get the chance again. She inhaled deeply to steady her nerves and said, ‘Doctor Puel, I told you that my husband spoke of a woman?’ The old man nodded. ‘Well, I believe he came to France from Canada to look for her. I was hoping that you might know her or know of her. I think my husband met her in the Gestapo prison, or later, while he was recuperating here in St. Emile.’
Dr Puel and his grandson looked
at Claire with interest. ‘What is her name?’ the old man asked.
‘Simone.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Claire and Thomas sat and waited for Dr D’Aramitz to return with news of Dr Puel. The old man had left saying he needed to take his medication and would be back, but he looked exhausted and Claire wondered if saying he had to take medication was an excuse to leave and not return.
‘He left pretty damn quick after I told him the woman we’re looking for is called Simone,’ Claire said. ‘It’s obvious he knows her.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Thomas said, going over to the window and pulling back the curtains. ‘It’s snowing, again.’ He leant closer to the glass and peered out. ‘Heavily!’
Claire heard a door open and voices in the hall.
Thomas turned back from the window as Dr D’Aramitz came in. ‘My grandfather has retired for the night.’ He took a couple of steps into the room, but didn’t return to his chair by the fire, which Claire took as a sign that she and Thomas should leave.
‘Is your grandfather all right?’ Claire asked. ‘I hope we haven’t worn him out.’
‘Physically he is fine but emotionally he is drained.’ Dr D’Aramitz took hold of the door handle. ‘So, if there isn’t anything else...?’
‘Well--’
‘No!’ Thomas said, ‘there is nothing. We must be going. It’s only a few miles to the hotel, but the country roads around here are narrow and since it is snowing, we should try to get to town before it settles.’
At the front door the housekeeper brought Claire and Thomas their coats. They were dry and the mud had been brushed off them. ‘Thank you,’ Claire said, ‘you needn’t have dried and cleaned our coats--’
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