Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  She rose at dawn and dressed. Thinking about Klimt, about what she’d probably lost, about Nathan, and about Huber… all that helped when it came to Benoit. This affair was something she’d have to sort out by herself. If the crazy chose to take a crossbow to her, so much the better. That kind of death she could understand. Clean. Quick. Simple.

  Vas-y.

  19

  Mid-afternoon, Tam proposed a walk. The treacle tart, a disappointment after the miracle of the roast lamb, sat heavily on Billy’s stomach, and he was glad to get into the fresh air.

  They set off alone, Billy hurrying to keep up with the older man’s long stride. He’d collected a shotgun on the way out of the house, and a handful of shells he stored in a shoulder bag. He’d also whistled a dog from an outhouse at the back of the property. It was a spaniel, young, lively, and it answered to the name of Rabbie. It seemed to know Tam well which suggested he must be a regular visitor.

  They crossed the meadow, and a stream beyond, and then climbed through the trees towards the crest line of the nearby hill. Twice their progress disturbed pigeons. On the first occasion Tam raised his gun but didn’t fire. On the second, he gave the flock both barrels, just a beat in between. The spaniel vanished into the woodland and returned with both birds. Tam took a copy of The Times from the shoulder bag and knelt to wrap the limp little bodies in newsprint. It seemed the lady of the house was partial to game pie.

  At the top of the hill the trees thinned and Tam paused to show Billy the view. In front of them lay a vast expanse of moorland under the wideness of the sky.

  ‘Know Dartmoor at all, laddie?’

  Billy shook his head. The only time he’d been anywhere near the moor had been on a navigational exercise in a Halifax bomber before he’d started operational flying, an experience he was happy to share with Tam. On that occasion the Nav had made a couple of errors, bringing them way too far to the east, and Billy could still remember the instructor looming over the charts, bracing himself in the narrow fuselage as the pilot dropped a wing to fly the new course. The Hallybag was far too low and for a handful of moments Billy’s window was a blur of brown heather as the pilot fought for more height.

  ‘Enjoy the flying, did you, laddie?’

  ‘Not much, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Won’t miss it, then?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  Billy wanted to know more about this assignment he appeared to have been offered. So far Tam had only discussed his fictitious brother but Billy knew there was more to come. Tam, though, was in no hurry.

  ‘Hay Tor, laddie.’ One bony finger was pointing to an outcrop of rock a couple of miles away, black against the scudding clouds. ‘This is God’s country, believe me. Bare as a badger’s arse. The Cairngorms without the bloody midges. I was in the Royal Marines once. Can you believe that? They marched you right across the moor, top to bottom, full kit. After that they told you there wasn’t a war you couldn’t win. Nice views but bloody hard graft.’

  They walked on. The dog raised a hare but Tam didn’t bother to go for the shot. The animal bounded away, a brown zigzag in the heather, and Rabbie waited beside the path for them to catch up. Tam found a scrap of something edible in his pocket and tossed it to the dog.

  ‘We have it in mind,’ he said, ‘to drop you in France. I understand you don’t speak the language.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No matter. No sane Englishman ever does. Helps immeasurably with your cover.’

  ‘Cover?’

  ‘You’re a Wireless Op in a bomber crew. You’re returning from a raid on the U-boat pens. Saint-Nazaire, we think. The aircraft’s in serious trouble. We’ll work on the details later but the long and the short of it, laddie, is that you bail out.’

  ‘For real?’ Billy was staring at him. Bailing out was a nightmare he never wanted to experience.

  ‘Sadly not. We have to get you into the right company on the ground. Bailing out’s too hit and miss. I understand your people sometimes have enough trouble finding the right city, let alone the corner of some bloody field.’

  ‘So how do I get there?’

  ‘Lysander. We’ll fly you in. There’ll be people waiting. You’ll have a parachute, of course, and you’ll need to leave it somewhere obvious for them to find.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Our German friends.’

  ‘And the bomber? Won’t they expect wreckage?’

  ‘The bomber made it home. You were the only one to jump.’

  Billy nodded. He knew about Lysanders, the tiny two-man aircraft that flew into occupied France at the dead of night. They could land pretty much anywhere and be gone within minutes. Flying a Lysander called for steady nerves. Being a passenger was probably even worse.

  ‘So what am I doing in France?’ Billy asked. ‘What happens next?’

  They were walking on again, keeping to the crest of the hill. The wind was sluicing up from the valley below and Billy could just make out the shape of a buzzard, riding the thermals over the bareness of the landscape.

  Tam was talking about the reception committee awaiting Billy in France. These people would come from a known and trusted resistance network. One of them, in all probability a woman, would accompany Billy south. The end of his journey would be the Pyrenees and the Spanish border but en route he’d pause for breath at a series of houses judged to be safe. One of them was a chateau in the Touraine.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In the countryside south of the Loire. It’s the middle of nowhere, laddie. And there you’ll be staying a while because the whole journey so far has been deeply unpleasant. Why? Because you made a silly landing with the parachute.’

  ‘You’re telling me I’m injured?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. But that’s what the story calls for. That’s what you’ve got to make everyone believe. And you know how you’re going to do that, laddie?’ He was beaming now. ‘You act.’

  *

  They were back at the house in time for tea. It was Ursula with the trolley this time. Billy eyed the scones and the brimming dish of clotted cream. Tam had disappeared to sort out his dead pigeons, leaving Ursula to sketch out the rest of the mission.

  The Château de Neaune, it seemed, was the property of a French woman, Madame Hélène Lafosse, married to an art dealer, a Jew. The art dealer was safe in London but she’d elected to stay in France. According to a resistance network operating in the western suburbs of Paris, Madame Lafosse had a German lover, highly placed in the Abwehr. He’d moved into her apartment in Paris and surveillance had established that he made regular visits to her chateau down in the Touraine. The couple had been together for nearly three years. Which meant that Madame Lafosse had indirect access to some of the top names in Berlin.

  ‘What’s the Abwehr?’

  ‘German military intelligence. These people are always at each other’s throats. The Abwehr have had the upper hand so far. It’s run by a sly old fox called Admiral Canaris but he hasn’t got much time for Hitler and everyone knows it. The SS have had their eye on him for a while and they’re starting to make some interesting moves. Our money is on Himmler. We think he’ll be top dog pretty soon, which won’t be the best news for Madame Lafosse and her Abwehr man. So it might be wise to use this channel while we still can.’

  ‘You know all this? You’re certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask how?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘We want you to step out of the Lysander. We want you to have sustained a credible injury. We want you to go with the escort they supply. And when you get to the Touraine, we want you to make a very special friend of Madame Lafosse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just do it. She may be very personable. We’ve seen photographs. She’s certainly striking. Whatever happens, she has to like you. And beyond that s
he has to be interested in you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re going to be sharing confidences. Let’s call it friendship. You’ll be talking about your war. About Irene. About your Quaker faith. About what happened when you started flying in earnest. This won’t be hard for you, Mr Angell, because you take things to heart. It’s an endearing trait. It’s impossible to miss. She’ll like that. That’s why she’ll trust you.’ She paused, spooning cream and then jam onto another scone. ‘I understand you turned down the offer of the gun this afternoon. On the way back.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Because I’ve done enough killing.’

  ‘My point exactly.’ She offered Billy the scone. ‘And that’s what she’ll recognise. You’re very sincere. Maybe that’s why you put your heart and soul into every part. Maybe that’s what I recognised the night I listened to the Eugene O’Neill. My guess is you’re thinking all this is a game. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded. She seemed pleased. Billy had the feeling he was being coached through a particularly challenging script.

  ‘So what happens when the conversation comes round to your dead brother?’ Ursula asked.

  Billy thought about the question, toying with the scone.

  ‘I’m sad,’ he said finally. ‘And I’m angry, too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they lied when they told me he was dead. They said he’d been lost at sea in a training accident. No body ever recovered. No funeral. No chance to lay him to rest. Nothing.’

  ‘And did you ever find out the real story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Douglas had a wife. Or maybe a fiancée. She got the same lie. But then my brother’s diving buddy, the pal he was with that night, came and told her the real story. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he’d always liked the look of her. In any case, he told her what really happened. Why they went. And where.’

  ‘And she told you?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And how did you feel?’

  ‘Lied to. Taken for granted. Made a fool of. And robbed of the brother I loved.’

  ‘Good. Excellent.’ There was a new expression on Ursula’s face. Not surprise, or even relief, but something close to admiration. She brushed crumbs from her lap and then looked up. ‘So what do you do with this story of yours? About your brother? And his night on a beach at Dunkirk?’

  ‘That’s easy.’ Billy picked up the scone. ‘I tell Hélène.’

  20

  Hélène made her way around the village, avoiding the gaggle of requisitioned houses where Hauptmann Müller’s men were quartered. It was still early, barely half past six in the morning, and the streets were empty. She’d dressed carefully, a pair of work trousers she used to clean out the stables, and an old shirt of Nathan’s, far too baggy and buttoned to the neck. To anyone stealing even half a glance she must have looked like a farmhand on the way to the fields. Nothing must provoke this man, she told herself. Nothing must light even a flicker of excitement.

  Benoit’s farmhouse was a wreck. As far as she knew from local people in the village, the low brick dwelling had been extended by a succession of owners but the soil was poor, the drainage inadequate, and none of them had managed to coax a living from the handful of soggy fields. As a consequence, Benoit had paid a pittance for his new home and those few who had seen him at work were bewildered by his lack of basic skills. He didn’t know one end of a horse from the other. His single bid to take the borrowed plough to the gluey clay hadn’t lasted a full day. And most of the scrawny chickens he’d acquired from the market at Descartes had been taken by the fox.

  Benoit le pauvre, they muttered. And Benoit l’ivrogne.

  His drinking was legendary and Hélène had seen the effects for herself. The scarlet face. The watery eyes. The sudden eruptions of temper. Here was a man it was wiser to visit in the early morning before the alcohol fired him up again. Benoit with a bursting head she might handle. Benoit emptying yet another bottle she probably couldn’t.

  There was no gate on what passed for a farmyard. She picked her way through knee-high thistles, wondering what he used for a path. An old Renault van was parked outside the house. Eventually she found the front door of the house. To her surprise, it was open. She could hear the buzzing of flies inside and there was an overpowering sweetness in the stale air that she preferred not to think about. They’ve been here already, she thought. One of the countless enemies this man must have made had paid him a visit and put him out of his misery.

  She stepped inside the house, already anticipating what she might find. The room was empty except for an untidy pile of badly sawn timber heaped in the fireplace, a single threadbare rug on the wooden floorboards, and a tiny half-painted chair he might have stolen from the schoolhouse beside the church. A chipped cup had been abandoned on the window sill. She picked up the cup and sniffed it. Coffee, probably ersatz.

  She looked round, finding no explanation for the smell, wondering about the rest of the house. A pair of wooden stairs led upwards into near-darkness. On the other side of the room, another door. She went across, applied a little pressure with her fingertips, felt it give. The smell was suddenly much stronger. More flies. She covered her nose with her hand and stepped inside.

  This was the kitchen. A single tap was dripping onto something red and viscous in the sink but her gaze went to the stone-flagged floor where the flies were thickest. There must have been hundreds of them, thousands, crawling over the carcase. The deer had been ripped open from its throat to its belly. Entrails spilled onto the flagstones. Blood had crusted over a deep wound in its flank and the head lay at an odd angle, the bones of the long neck nearly severed.

  Hélène stared down at the wreckage of the beast. She had deer like this in the forest. She knew of nowhere else it might have come from. Its eyes were still open, filmy with death, and a tiny triangle of grey tongue protruded from its mouth. It must have been young, no more than six months. Had he killed it with the crossbow? Trapped it? Separated it from its mother and hunted it down?

  She shuddered, taking half a step backwards, knowing she had to get out of this place. It stank of death and of dying. Benoit the poacher, she thought. Benoit the thief.

  ‘Madame Lafosse…’

  She hadn’t heard him come in. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. His face was dark with stubble and he needed to lose a kilo or two but his eyes were clear and there was no smell of drink.

  ‘Is that my animal?’ She nodded at the floor. Take control, she told herself. Show no fear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you kill it?’

  ‘With this.’

  He gestured her aside and stepped round the carcase. She hadn’t seen the crossbow. It was propped in the corner. It looked crude.

  ‘Did you make that yourself?’

  ‘I acquired it.’

  ‘Stole it?’

  ‘Bought it. Two hundred francs and a cut of whatever I kill. This was the leaf suspension from an old car.’ He showed her the bow at the front. ‘The mainspring comes from a lorry. The man who made it was a mechanic. As well he writes poetry. Good poetry. Poetry the way poetry used to be.’

  ‘He lives locally, this man?’

  ‘He’s my brother, my brother in arms. He loves country broth and alexandrines. Difficult times demand a sensibility like his, don’t you agree, madame?’ He tipped back his head and rolled his eyes and cackled with laughter and in that one moment Hélène realised he was crazy. Not drunk. Not the burned-out husk of the man she’d been imagining. Not the member of some lunatic réseau. Not even le Corbeau. Just crazy.

  He was also, to her bewilderment, a man of some education. Alexandrines? Sensibility?

  He was offering her the crossbow for inspection. She took it. The weapon was heavier than she’d expected and he was right about the leaf spring. She could see the stampin
gs in the black metal. She gave the cord on the bow a tug. You needed strength to use something like this.

  She glanced up at him. Oddly enough, she felt no fear.

  ‘Two hundred francs? A bargain, m’sieur. For two hundred francs you can barely buy a loaf of bread.’

  ‘My friend is a poet. I told you. Men of letters have no time for petty advantage, for bargaining, for avarice, for the habits of the peasantry. They despise wealth.’

  ‘As do you.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘That’s what you told me. When we met in the woods.’

  ‘I was drunk. My apologies, madame. It won’t happen again.’

  Hélène nodded. She felt comfortably stern. ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘Is this the first beast you’ve taken?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve tried before but failed. Then the poet made this.’ He retrieved the crossbow and gave it a stroke. The stock was made of wood, crudely planed and sanded. Then he put it back in the corner and knelt to the open belly of the deer. Hélène watched him extend a finger deep into the carcase. When it came out it was glistening with blood. He examined it for a moment and held it out as an offering.

  ‘For you, madame.’ Hélène shook her head.

  ‘But it’s yours, madame. Your animal. Your property.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Benoit nodded, accepting the refusal. When he licked the finger he looked meditative, thoughtful, then he coated it with blood a second time and drew a cross on his own chest. His finger lingered over the intersection of the two lines.