The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Easy to say …’ countered Rosamund.

  ‘You will get used to it. The important thing is not to engage them in conversation unless you have to. Your French is so good that you will not stand out in that way to the Germans, who have lousy French anyway. But it is the locals who cannot always be trusted. Try to … blend in.’

  ‘My friend was French. The one who was killed. Well, her father was, and we spoke French all the time when I was young.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Paulette smiled. ‘It will make a change to have another female around the place. But be careful. It is dangerous. Everyone is suspicious. It is difficult to know who to trust.’ She got up from the bed. ‘I must go and prepare supper.’

  ‘There’s no need. I can do that,’ offered Rosamund, aware that her own culinary skills were basic, to say the least.

  ‘Tonight I will do it. You can take over tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course.’ She hesitated; then said, ‘And Paulette …’

  The girl turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you. It’s all a bit scary. I’m glad you’re here.’

  Paulette nodded. ‘Me too.’

  She closed the door behind her, and Rosamund sat on the bed. For the first time since her journey had begun she was gripped by raw fear; fear that she could almost taste. In spite of the presence of Thierry and Eric, she felt totally alone. Alone and in a foreign country where not all the natives were friendly, and where those who were not natives would be only too happy to torture and to kill her.

  More than anything, I wanted to cry that night. To sob my heart out – for what I had lost, for what had been taken away from me, and for what I had committed myself to. Suddenly it all seemed so huge; the mountain I had to climb so insuperable. What could have possessed me, in a fit of misplaced bravado, to imagine that I was up to the task? I was just like Paulette. I should have stayed in my own country, as she had done – not that she had any option but to do so. At least at home I would have been among my own people. Here I was among strangers. How well did I even know Thierry and Eric? We had been thrown together by circumstances just a few weeks previously; hardly long enough to form a comfortable and trusting alliance, let alone some sort of bond. And yet I knew that I had no alternative but to trust them, for both of them had my life in their hands, just as I had theirs in mine. I think that is what galvanised me and prevented me from becoming a gibbering wreck. Paulette seemed to be so capable; she had learned to live with the fact that her own country had been invaded and occupied. Surely my own lot was not as unenviable as hers? I steeled myself to believe that I had a real responsibility to my own country, to help prevent an invasion from happening – or at least to keep the enemy at bay – in whatever small way I could. And at least I had the knowledge that Aunt Venetia, Mrs Heffer and Diana Molyneux were doing their own bit back home and would, God willing, be there when I returned. If I returned.

  That first evening I thought so much about Harry. I wondered where he was and what he was doing. I conjured up images of us meeting, and working together here, behind enemy lines, even though I realised that such a scenario was little more than wishful thinking. I had no idea where he was, and did not even know the country in which he was operating. But I also knew in my heart that I must be realistic and get used to the fact that I might never see him again. When that thought first crossed my mind, I felt unspeakably disloyal. Heartless even. But I would not be telling the truth if I denied that I tried to put him from my mind; to be realistic and to treat our brief liaison as something brought on by war, and which was unlikely to survive the hostilities for countless reasons.

  Then there was Thierry – handsome, dashing and, I suspected, completely unscrupulous where women were concerned. I noticed, too, that occasionally his hand would brush against mine when we were poring over a map, and he would ease me out of the way when he wanted to get to a door – placing his hands on my shoulders and moving me to one side. In those early days of knowing him I told myself that all this was par for the course for a Frenchman, and that I should not read anything into it. But at the same time I was aware of a certain frisson when such contact occurred. It unnerved me slightly, and I did my best to treat my thoughts as fanciful. Thierry was, after all, a French Count, sophisticated in spite of his apparently carefree approach to most things in life. I found him to be a sea of contradictions: one moment he was flashing a smile and a wink at Paulette, or brushing my cheek with the back of his hand on the pretext of removing a smut that had emanated from the smoky stove, the next he was the serious organiser of our small cell, explaining the intricacies of the local geography or the strategy we would employ to achieve our aims.

  For those first few days in our house on the edge of the town, we did nothing more than venture out on foot, looking as though we were intent on our business as additional members of the local workforce brought in to help at the factory, all the while getting to grips with the lie of the land – the local shops, their proprietors, their opening hours, what they stocked and what they did not – so that we would not put ourselves in the position of appearing to be outsiders.

  Yes, we were new to the town, but then so were others who had been brought in to add to the workforce in the nearby factories, not least the one that had originally produced cars for Peugeot.

  After a few days, Henri stowed us in the back of the lorry and drove us past the Peugeot buildings, which now comprised the German tank factory. Quite suddenly our mission to sabotage the German war effort became very real.

  Chapter 18

  LONDON

  NOVEMBER 1941

  ‘Trust not him with your secrets, who, when left alone in the room, turns over your papers.’

  Johann Caspar Lavater, Aphorisms on Man, 1788

  ‘You assured me that this cell was secure. I specifically asked you to choose an operation that would avoid placing her in a situation that was high risk.’ Charles Belgate was the nearest he became to being angry. He was sitting behind a large mahogany partners’ desk in his fifth-floor office in Baker Street. Outside, the view over London was obscured by thick fog. It was early evening.

  ‘It was secure.’ Doris Kilgarth stood on the other side of the desk, facing him. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she was doing her best to avoid wringing them – the better to give the impression of being in control, when events would suggest otherwise.

  Lord Belgate picked up a buff file and waved it in front of her. ‘But according to this missive, nothing could be further from the truth.’

  Still he did not invite her to sit in the vacant chair set at an angle in front of his desk. It was a scenario which she knew indicated his supreme displeasure. Charles Belgate was a stickler for good manners. When a woman entered the room he stood up. He would not sit down until she did. On this occasion, not only was Doris kept standing, but His Lordship had remained seated as she entered. It did not bode well. But then, neither did the situation unfolding across the Channel.

  ‘If I can’t rely on you, Kilgarth, then who can I rely on?’

  Lord Belgate dropped the file on the desk in front of her and finally – and impatiently – motioned her to sit. She did so, at the same time picking up the file and, once seated, examining the cover. EYES ONLY read the customary directive. Underneath it was written, in red italic script, ‘The Scarlet Nightingale’. Doris’s eyebrows rose, and she looked enquiringly at her interlocutor. She did not say ‘The name’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it? A bit “Boy’s Own Paper”?’, but her expression made it clear she thought as much.

  Charles Belgate waved his hand, the better to make light of the inscription. ‘It is a personal thing. Her nom de guerre is Christiane …’

  ‘… de Rossignol. The Nightingale; I know.’

  He continued, ‘… and she always writes in red ink. It seemed … apt.’

  Doris looked down and opened the front cover, then sat quietly, her expression betraying no emoti
on, as she read the closely typed sheet of paper within. It did not take her long to assimilate its contents. With slow deliberation she closed the file, leaned forward and placed it back on the desk with more than usual gentleness and care. ‘This is all new.’

  ‘It might be new, but it’s reliable.’

  ‘So it would appear.’ Doris spoke slowly and purposefully, looking more nun-like than ever surrounded by the wimple of white hair. ‘When did it come to light?’

  ‘In the last twenty-four hours. There’s been nothing concrete up to now, nothing that we could be certain of – just the usual blips every now and then, usually put down to carelessness … or good luck on the part of Gerry, or of our French comrades who would buckle rather than fight.’

  ‘But now?’

  Charles Belgate stood up and turned to look out of the window. ‘It seems that someone is on to them. The … misfortunes, you might call them … have been happening more and more frequently.’ He turned back to face her. ‘I want this stopped and I want Rosamund Hanbury, Ridley and Foustier—’

  ‘You mean Colette, Hector and Patrice?’

  There was a note of impatience in his voice now: ‘Whatever code names you want to call them, Miss Kilgarth, I want them pulled out. Now.’

  ‘But they’ve only just got there.’

  ‘And they are in great danger.’

  Doris was surprised. ‘All our operatives are in danger. That’s the nature of the job. We can’t make an exception for this one.’

  ‘Miss Kilgarth!’ The tone was unmistakable and uncompromising.

  ‘Look, sir, give me a few hours to make some enquiries. We’ll try to get in touch with them. They’ve been quiet since their first message. But, even if we want to extract them, Lysanders are at a premium – MI6 are refusing to budge in terms of their requirements. Between the two of us, we’re making unrealistic demands on the RAF. They simply don’t have the capability.’

  She paused, but read the look of earnest desperation on the face of her superior. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure we could get them out quickly even if we tried. The only saving grace is that they are not far from the Swiss border, but if push does come to shove, then crossing that won’t be easy. It might even be more difficult.’

  Lord Belgate returned to his desk and slumped down in his chair. ‘I should never have encouraged her. “Never mix business with pleasure” – that’s always been my motto. Why the hell did I make an exception this time? I should never have got involved, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘As far as anybody is concerned, sir, you’re not involved. Patrick Felpham is the one officially associated with this work, not you. As far as everyone here is concerned you’re just …’

  ‘Go on – say it: “A harmless old duffer who used to be a part of the service and who has now been put out to grass.” Except that I haven’t, have I? They’ve called me back in to “do my bit”, though there are times when I really wish they hadn’t. What do they think I do in this office?’

  ‘They realise you are a good man to have around. A wise counsellor. A man of experience that shouldn’t be wasted. But nobody will blame you when things go wrong.’

  ‘That’s of little consolation. I’m less concerned with my own reputation and standing than with the safety of someone … I’ve become rather fond of.’

  Doris regarded him with a look that spoke volumes.

  He responded swiftly. ‘I know, Miss Kilgarth; I know. Unprofessional I might be, but I do feel a particular responsibility for … this operative. That’s all.’

  ‘And Lady Venetia?’

  ‘And Lady Venetia, yes. Not that she will know anything about it. But I shall know …’

  Doris offered an olive branch. ‘You’ve been doing this a long time, sir …’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘Don’t reproach yourself for caring. We all care, even if we’re not allowed to show it. All human lives matter, but we would not be true to ourselves if we did not admit that some matter more personally than others.’

  Lord Belgate leaned forward on his desk. ‘Do they matter to you, Miss Kilgarth?’ he asked wearily. ‘Really?’

  She fixed him with her gimlet eyes. ‘Oh yes. They matter. More than you know. I feel a great responsibility towards “my girls”. That’s how I think of them, you know. I have no family to speak of – a brother in a sanatorium, but he doesn’t really know me. I have no children …’ she paused and looked out of the window, then said softly, ‘apart from the ones I send overseas to do our bidding. And so many of them never come back. I’ve lost more children in this war than anyone I know …’

  A silence hung in the air. A silence heavy with sadness. It was broken after some moments by Lord Belgate: ‘So you’ll do your best, Doris?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Oh yes. I’ll do my best, sir. I always do. But if I’m honest, I really don’t hold out much hope that I can succeed. Our only consolation is that as yet no lives have been lost.’

  ‘So far. But you and I both know that it’s only a matter of time. When they’ve got all the information they think they can get, then our cells become expendable.’

  ‘Such a waste,’ murmured Doris, half to herself.

  ‘Well, at least make sure they are on their guard. Let them know that the scenario is not as secure as we thought, that someone is probably on to them. He – or she – might not yet know precisely who they are, but it can only be a matter of time.’

  Chapter 19

  FESCHES-LE-CHTEL

  NOVEMBER 1941

  ‘The bright face of danger.’

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Across the Plains, 1892

  It had been a week since their arrival and Thierry, Rosamund and Eric were beginning to get the measure of the small town in which they had been billeted. For the most part, everyone went about their business in a quiet fashion, but there was, beneath the surface, an undercurrent of discontent which would occasionally manifest itself in the form of a brawl in a bar when some local youth found the status quo too much to bear or when an old-time resident had had too much to drink and found their bravado expanding as their circumspection shrank. These outbursts were usually stopped by other locals who would bundle out the offending parties, rather than waiting for the army of occupation to do the same with more severe consequences.

  Rosamund encountered her first group of German soldiers within a few days of their arrival at the house in Fesches-le-Châtel.

  I can remember the very first time I found myself confronted by the enemy. Thankfully I did not have to speak. Thierry had sent me on an errand – a simple one, to buy a loaf of bread. We used these ‘errands’ as a way of working out where the Germans gathered, where their depots were, that sort of thing, so that we could plan routes that, for the best part, would avoid encountering them.

  I was coming out of the local boulangerie, heading across the road and walking the half mile back to the safe house, when I turned a corner and almost walked straight into a group of four soldiers, leaning on the wall and smoking. It was as if I had walked into the lion’s den. For the briefest of moments I froze but, I hope, not long enough for them to think anything of it. One of them stood to attention and saluted – but not out of respect. Then they all laughed and one of them said, ‘Good morning, fraulein; how are your buns?’ in very bad French. I smiled and shook my head, attempting to make light of it, and I kept on walking, sure that they would stop me or follow me or … I knew not what. But they just laughed and let me carry on. I have never been so relieved to get back ‘home’ and shut the door. I wanted to cry, but I stopped myself. I realised that if such an innocent encounter was to unnerve me, then there was little hope of my being of any use to anyone in what was to follow.

  I made a cup of strong coffee, sat down at the kitchen table (Thierry and Eric were in the barn talking to Henri) and swore to myself that from now on I would toughen up. When I look back on it, I can still feel a frisson of fear. You must remember that up until that moment, ‘the Germans�
�� had taken on almost mythical qualities. They represented all that was evil in the world. No one who stayed at home would ever encounter them, except on newsreels where they were kept at a safe distance, where their malevolence was at arm’s length, safety through celluloid. We felt the consequences of their actions in the Blitz, but we did not meet them face to face.

  What surprised me, I realised, was that they were just ordinary people, like us. Not creatures with three heads. That normality made them, in my eyes, all the more frightening.

  I remember the encounter particularly, because it occurred on the day of the bad news. The news which very nearly caused us to pull the whole operation.

  Rosamund came upon Thierry, Eric and Henri when she entered the barn at the side of the house to tell them she had prepared lunch. They looked especially grave.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

  Henri looked across at Thierry.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said, and they followed him into the kitchen.

  ‘We have two problems,’ he said, as he sawed off a slice of the crusty loaf and cut himself a chunk of goat’s cheese.

  ‘Only two?’ asked Eric, attempting to make light of it. Thierry shot him a critical glance. Eric was, since their arrival on French soil, a man of few words who now undertook most of his communion with the world in a series of dots and dashes.

  Rosamund waited. Henri kept his eyes on his plate of bread and cheese, as yet resisting the temptation to eat.

  ‘Two major problems. The first is that we have to convince the owner of the Peugeot factory – Robert Peugeot – that it is in his interests, and the interests of his employees, to let us destroy one of his presses.’