The tin held carrot, leek and potato soup and was totally wonderful. She ate it all, scraping at the sides, before whispering, ‘Monsieur, the Boche are hunting me.’
‘I know. I saw,’ he said softly. ‘They came to this house in case the madame had seen you. But the Gestapo do not know I am here and madame —’ he spat ‘— her monsieur runs a nightclub for the Boche, but they are too fine to remember, to tell the Gestapo, “Old Jacques, he lives down in the potting shed.” Or maybe they think that if the Boche saw me they would send me, too, to Germany to work there in the factories. Then who would grow their leeks and asparagus?’
Sophie nodded. Almost all able-bodied men had now been sent to labour for the German war effort.
‘I cannot hide you for long,’ he added apologetically. ‘Someone might come at any time for the secateurs or a bucket. Nor do I have much food.’
And she had just eaten what must have been his dinner.
‘You are kindness itself, monsieur. But I must leave when curfew ends.’
He looked relieved. ‘If you would like the bed, I have many times slept with just a blanket, in the army.’
‘I would not sleep. Do you perhaps have water? And a mirror? And, by some miracle, a needle and some thread?’
It was indeed a miracle, for he had them all, though the mirror was a cracked shard. But these, and the light of the fire, were enough for Sophie to rip her petticoat to hide her conspicuously peroxided hair up in a scarf, to dampen the expensive silk so it no longer fell in shapely lines, but sagged a little, like nylon made to look like silk.
‘Monsieur, another miracle — shoes?’
‘They are not much, madame.’
They were perfect: wooden pattens, held in place with strips of faded cloth. ‘Monsieur, please sleep. I do not wish to deprive you, for I am sure they work you hard.’
He nodded, once more looking relieved. At his age, a full day’s labour must be exhausting. He added another handful of prunings to the fire, then gave her two of his blankets, both ragged but clean. She wrapped them round her shoulders and waited till he snored.
She looked in the mirror again, taking out a bright pink lipstick that would clash with her green dress. She plastered it on her lips, smudging it slightly, added streaks of a red lipstick to her cheeks then rubbed them in as an excess rouge. The eyebrow pencil made the line down the back of her legs — deliberately unsteady — to denote an attempt at stockings. She would have liked a full-length mirror, but hopefully she looked both different and sufficiently slatternly.
She glanced at the man on the bed. She suspected he would normally be up at dawn and asleep at dark, for lack of lantern or candles. A good man, who had risked his life, his livelihood, his few scraps of sustenance, for a stranger. She leaned against the shed wall on the floor by the fire and allowed herself to doze, waking each time she began to slip down. At last she peered at her wristwatch, gold and patterned with two tiny diamonds.
A watch was useful, but this one was conspicuous and if — or more likely when — she was taken it would be confiscated. She would have liked to leave her rescuer the vast diamond engagement ring, as well as the necklace and earrings, but they were too valuable, and too conspicuous. He might be suspected of theft. But a pawn broker would take the watch, for no one would have reported it stolen.
She shoved the jewels into her handbag, leaving the gold wedding ring and a pile of francs with the watch in the enamel mug on the ‘table’, large denominations enough for . . .
. . . she had no idea what this man would want. Cognac, the train fare to go and see his daughter, a decent suit? She hoped in the depressed war economy this much cash as well as the watch might cover the price of a cottage and the land it stood on, for his own. His choice. She would have little further use for money, for without identity papers she could not rent a room or take a train, nor even last more than a few days without being subject to a random inspection.
She padded her brassiere with rolled-up squares of bird netting that had the effect of both giving her a most improbable poitrine as well as spoiling the elegant line of her dress and shortening it too.
I am going home, she thought. I have achieved nothing, except expense and risk for others, a possible betrayal of Violette and all who worked for her, heartache for myself, for Daniel, Rose and Danny, and who knows what problems for Higgs. She had not even met Lily, for whom she had left her family and crossed the world. But perhaps on her return to England she might talk to her. No, she would talk to her, and make it extremely clear to ‘Bob’ that she deserved it, as well as the revelations Nigel had hinted at before she left.
Because this failure was not hers. If she had been in Paris for a month, even a week, she might wonder where or how she had let her disguise slip. But the Gestapo had come for her too soon, and known too much, for this mess to have been caused by her. Someone in James’s network, or even at Shillings, had betrayed her.
She hoped they would find them. She hoped James would tell her what had happened to the traitors too. She hoped that Violette, resourceful Violette, would find a way to convince the Gestapo she had been about to call them, or even to escape when the dark-suited figures first arrived at the salon, though it would mean abandoning all she had worked for, and her ‘famille’ as well.
She glanced at the sleeping man. She was glad goodness existed even in this twisted Occupation.
‘Bonne chance, monsieur,’ she said softly, and slipped from the door, one of the blankets around her shoulders, before he could endanger himself further.
Chapter 21
Kindness is contagious. One kind act will lead to another. An act of cruelty makes it more likely that the recipient will lash out in turn. It is simplistic to say, ‘Do good and good will follow.’ But simplistic can be true, as well.
Miss Lily, 1912
She kept to the gardens until the increasing light told her that it was past five am and the curfew had ended. Then she quickly let herself out of a front gate, sauntering down the road, the blanket still around her shoulders. A car muttered behind her. She let the blanket fall to her feet and gazed at the driver seductively, waggling her fingers and hips in invitation. He ignored her.
Excellent. She must look sufficiently like a tart who had spent a hard night. She walked on, still swinging her hips, but otherwise allowing herself to look as weary as she felt. A hard night indeed.
A huddle of shops, a bakery, a café, the proprietor putting out chairs and, yes, a public phone. She fumbled with cold fingers for the jetons, and dialled. A local number — Paris automatic exchanges covered only small areas.
‘Bistro Tante Louise.’ A man’s voice.
‘Excuse me, monsieur, I have a message for Michelle. Please tell her that Anna called. I need the bicycle she borrowed back again.’
‘Ah, Anna!’ The voice became friendlier. ‘Michelle told me you might call here. She said to tell you she has left the bicycle two days ago at . . .’ a pause while a note was read ‘. . . the Boucherie at Rue Didot.’
Sophie took a deep breath of relief. ‘Thank you, monsieur.’
‘A pleasure, madame.’
Sophie moved back into the café to consider directions. The code phrase ‘The Boucherie at Rue Didot’ should be translated to a butcher’s shop only two streets from here, where she would join the undoubtedly long line of customers waiting for their weekly ration. Her contact would wave from across the street and she would join them.
‘Half an hour,’ Bob had said. If she went there now she would need to wait twenty-five minutes, which so early in the day might actually take her into the butcher’s shop, where she would be expected to have ration cards and identity papers as well as being registered there. Best to wait here, and in addition she was fiercely hungry, and the next meal might be another long vegetable cart–journey away.
She glanced at the proprietor, an elderly woman with unlikely red hair and a cleavage as wrinkled as two cabbage leaves, who nodded towards an empty tab
le, obviously used to seeing a woman of the streets using the telephone, for after all, there was a war on, and one must eat and contact clients somehow.
Sophie sat and was glad of it. The pattens were as uncomfortable to walk in as the high heels. She tried not to imagine Violette being questioned, tortured perhaps, to tell all that she knew of ‘Countess Shillings’. There was no reason why the Gestapo in France would have any records of the Countess of Shillings, though there would presumably be more available in Berlin. But as a prominent member of Paris society with access to important homes, Violette must have been investigated on her own account.
I should not have gone to her, she thought, should never have considered it. Yet Violette had always seemed so indestructible. She had not realised the vulnerability till yesterday.
The proprietor brought strong black chicory coffee without comment, and fresh bread to dunk in it, adulterated by who knew what grains and possibly sawdust too, waited for her payment, then brought change, just as a black car slid past, slowly enough for its passengers to peer into café windows. It slowed even more at the café. Sophie looked straight at it, smiling, eyebrows raised, as if hopeful it might be a client, then looked back to her coffee. The car moved on.
They were still looking for her.
She nibbled the bread quickly, then sipped the coffee. It was reasonable for the Gestapo to assume she was still nearby. They could easily have searched any road traffic in such a quiet area. The Ritz or some other hotel would have been harder to police, but the Germans had taken over all the grand hotels in Paris; nor could Sophie have discreetly entertained there.
What now? If she moved into the full light of the footpath she would be recognised. Her contact knew it was an emergency. They would wait. So should she. In a couple of hours the road and pavement would be more crowded. She could even ask the proprietor to find her a bicycle taxi — she’d be less visible inside its cabin — in return for a large tip. Paris taxis had carried reinforcements to the Battle of the Marne in the Great War. They could carry an allied agent in this one.
An hour later she bought more coffee. This time the bread was accompanied by an almost transparent slice of sausage, possibly made from horse, pigeon or even rat. It seemed this was one of the days when French cafés were allowed to serve meat. Sophie ate it and was grateful. Another hour, and the black car had passed twice. Another coffee, the bread covered with a faint spread of stewed berries pretending to be jam.
Lunchtime approached. The café grew more crowded.
‘Soup, madame?’ the proprietor asked. She shrugged. ‘It is onion. Always onion.’
‘Merci, madame. You are very kind.’
‘The Boche have not yet worked out how to ration kindness.’
The soup was thick with the not-quite bread, and hot and good. Sophie paid once more. A workman in dusty overalls asked if he might be permitted to share her table. Sophie smiled a flirtatious acceptance, glad when he did not meet her eyes. He was only after sustenance, it seemed. He ordered soup and ate it quickly, sopped in bread.
The streets were now as crowded as they were likely to be. Sophie gestured to the proprietor. ‘Madame, a taxi, if you would be so kind?’ She held out francs.
The proprietor looked startled at their number, but pushed them into her décolletage. A few minutes later she returned. ‘Your taxi is here, madame.’
‘You have been most kind, madame.’ Sophie stood, then found an iron hand around her wrist.
‘I think not, Lady Shillings.’ The workman smiled at her.
The index and middle fingers of Sophie’s right hand plunged towards his eyes, missed, but left two scratches bleeding with the profusion of all scalp wounds. He reared back, startled.
She ran again.
They must have recognised her this morning, had been waiting to see if they could arrest her contact too. Thank goodness she had not gone to the butcher’s shop. Those on the pavement stood back as she ran, the man in overalls pounding after her. She stopped, so suddenly he almost ran into her, punched him hard straight on the nose, then kicked high and hard with the wooden patten, and heard him grunt as he doubled over in pain.
She ran again, desperately hoping the contact might have come to look for her, that a hand might discreetly say, ‘In here, madame,’ and draw her to safety, or at least temporary obscurity. She hoped the proprietor had taken her handbag and could make good use of its contents and that the jewels would not enrich the Gestapo. She hoped that George might suddenly descend onto the broad street in his Lancaster and carry her away. She simply hoped . . .
People stood back in front of her now, staring. If only she could run to England . . .
She glanced across the street, hoping for an alley she could duck into, a place to hide, a fire escape to climb, and saw the car, the same black car, blocking the bicycle traffic as it slowly kept pace with her. And suddenly there was a man in front of her, suited, but his task obvious as he barred her way.
She feinted left, ducked right and under his arm, then met the black car as it surged onto the pavement. Women screamed. A dark-suited arm circled her neck. She ducked, but he grabbed her hair and held it fast. If only she had kept her hair pieces . . .
A man emerged from the car. Sophie recognised him from the day before. But this time he grabbed both her arms and quickly and efficiently handcuffed them. His companion released her hair, then grabbed her right arm and the other her left.
She did not struggle now. Why bother, when escape was impossible? Instead she walked to the car as sedately as possible in handcuffs, pattens and two men on either arm.
‘Well caught,’ she told them in German, smiling. The captor on her right shrugged, pushing her head down and her waist too as he shoved her into the back of the car. He fastened the handcuffs onto the doorhandle, then sat on one side of her, the other agent on the left.
Houdini might have escaped, though possibly not in pattens and after so long without sleep.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked, still speaking in German, with carefully pleasant curiosity. Had the café proprietor called the police, or, surely not, the gardener . . .
At first she assumed he was not going to answer. Then he, too, smiled, with genuine enjoyment. ‘We had alerted the telephone exchange, Lady Shillings. You would either have a refuge with a sympathiser nearby, or need to make a phone call.’
She should have waited until midday to call, or at least till office hours, when there would have been many calls to sift through.
She had been in France for a fortnight and operating on her own for just a little over twenty-four hours and had already failed completely.
Her training meant she knew what came next. Questioning, including torture, imprisonment and hard labour if she was lucky, for as long as her body survived it, but more likely a firing squad as an English spy, unless, perhaps, the local Gestapo believed her important enough to be used for a prisoner exchange.
Would she be that lucky? What exactly did they know of her? Just her name — or their version of it. Unless Dolphie or a German agent in England had entered her details into Gestapo records — and those records were available in Paris — her captors would not know the Countess of Shillings’s connections included the gratitude of the House of Windsor, Lily’s network across Europe and America, plus the extent of the Higgs fortune and her knowledge of world food resources and merchant shipping.
It might not occur to the Gestapo here that one mere countess, a failed agent, was worth any exchange at all. If she told them, she would also be giving the enemy information they might use in many ways, including blackmail of those who valued her.
Interrogation, torture, death. The only uncertainty was the timetable, not the ending.
Chapter 22
I have never directly asked any of my young women to venture into danger. Others did that afterwards, as I knew they would, and I encouraged my students at Shillings to do right, no matter what the personal costs. It is my responsibility, and
always will be, for everything that happened to them after that.
Miss Lily, in a letter written in 1943
The car turned down an avenue of trees, bare branches supplicating the sky. Shillings in winter, she thought. She wanted to shut her eyes, to remember apple wood in the fireplace, the scent of crumpets. But if there was any remote chance of escape in the time to come she must know exactly where she was. The dark-suited men looked amused as she gazed out the window.
A set of iron gates, a second, then a third, all locked. The car stopped. The building beyond, tall, grim and stained by age, could only be a prison.
‘I would say “Auf Wiedersehen”,’ the man on her right said lightly, unfastening the handcuffs, ‘but I doubt we will meet again, Lady Shillings.’
She wondered again who her betrayer was — not the exchange operator this morning, but whoever had notified the Gestapo yesterday.
The thought crept back: Violette. The perfume of roses and civet stronger than the lilies’ perfume as Violette kissed her cheek.
She thrust the memory away as a man in a Gestapo uniform opened the door, pushing her head down as he pulled her out by the shoulder, with the negligent ease of a man who did this a hundred times a day. Another man in uniform seized her other arm and her handbag, then they marched her across the cobbles of a yard, as she stumbled slightly on the unfamiliar pattens. She heard the car behind her vanish back up the driveway.
She glanced at her captors: in their sixties, she thought, both with bellies that Daniel would describe as goodly shelves above the toolbox. She was suddenly desperately glad that Daniel did not know she was here, must never be told, nor Rose nor Danny either, about the degradation and pain of what would happen next. James would make sure the details were kept from those who loved her. But James would know, and Nigel. They might already know she had been taken. Please, she thought, let Jones and Greenie return to Shillings soon. Nigel should not be alone.
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 17
