The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Rosamund washed, dressed and descended the narrow staircase to the kitchen. She was the first to do so and, after starting the fire in the stove with dry kindling and logs, set the kettle on the hob and patiently waited for it to boil. It would, she knew, take quite some time. Perhaps they should not wait, but just set off as quickly as possible. Where to? That much information Thierry had not yet imparted. Their main task accomplished, the trio must now make good their escape, before the net closed around them. Oh, why did the other two not wake? Thierry had explained the night before that they must leave under cover of darkness, and it was now almost light. Perhaps he and Eric had drunk more Scotch whisky than was good for them. They had offered her a glass but she had declined, in spite of the fact that the Dubois family had insisted that they should celebrate their achievement. Paulette had brought round the bottle – there was seldom any to be found in France – and left it on the table with a note. Thierry had smiled and said it would be churlish to refuse. She looked at her watch. It was half past seven.

  Rosamund tapped her fingers impatiently on the pine table. She could leave it no longer. She must wake them. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of their bedroom. No answer. She called, ‘Thierry! Marcel!’

  Still no answer. She opened the door and saw both men fast asleep in their respective beds. She walked over to where Thierry lay and shook him. Still he did not wake, and his breathing was slow and deep. She shook him again and again until eventually he was roused from his deep slumber. ‘What? What is it?’ he murmured.

  ‘We need to be away. It’s light already.’

  ‘Mmm?’ He looked befuddled.

  Rosamund walked over to Eric’s bed and shook him. He, too, took some moments to come round. ‘Where am I?’ he asked, in English.

  Rosamund admonished him for this slip, and through a thick cloud of confusion, he asked in French, ‘What happened?’

  Thierry was now holding his head and frowning. ‘Christ! What was in that Scotch? I only had a couple of small glasses.’

  Rosamund’s eyes widened. ‘Can you see me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I can see you,’ said Thierry, clearly irritated at the question, but also at his own inability to fire on all cylinders.

  ‘How many fingers?’

  ‘Too many,’ he muttered. Then: ‘Bloody hell! They put something in the Scotch.’

  ‘Who did?’ asked Eric.

  ‘Whoever left it.’

  ‘Paulette left it,’ said Rosamund. ‘Oh, my God!’

  She rushed across to the window and drew back the calico of the curtains to take a better look at the dawning day. It was then that she saw the small gathering of men in the corner of the field. Farm workers came and went on a daily basis, but they seldom stood in groups like this one unless they were being charged with some collective task. Somehow that did not seem to be the case here. Something told Rosamund that all was not as it should be.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she murmured.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Thierry.

  ‘Come and look – if you can see straight.’

  Rosamund pointed to the group of men, perhaps fifty yards away. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Thierry peered through the window. ‘Just farm workers, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He looked again, and then his body tensed. ‘No. Not just farm workers. There are three soldiers in the middle of them. Gestapo.’

  ‘Something up?’ asked Eric as he stumbled out of bed.

  ‘Is your transmitter safe?’

  ‘Stowed in the eaves. It should be.’

  ‘Nothing we can do then. Except …’ Thierry turned to Rosamund. ‘Put your coat on. At least we can get you out of here.’

  Thierry threw on some clothes as Eric endeavoured to do the same, then he ran downstairs, motioning Rosamund to follow him.

  ‘Take the shopping basket and make as if you are going down to the boulangerie. You should be able to keep them at a safe distance as you pass.’ He turned to Eric who was rubbing his eyes in an attempt to focus more clearly.

  ‘Eric? You can go out a couple of minutes after Rosamund has left. Come on, man! Walk alongside the field under cover of the hedge. Keep your eyes open – if that’s not impossible – watch their movements at a distance and come back here in an hour if the coast is clear. It may be nothing, but it is much better if we split up.’

  Rosamund took down her coat from the back of the kitchen door. Her heart was beating rapidly. ‘When shall I come back?’

  But she did not hear the answer. It was masked by a hammering on the door.

  ‘Aufmachen! Aufmachen!’

  Thierry glanced at both his companions. There was no way out. Without saying any more, he opened the door. Three members of the Gestapo were blocking the way. Two were carrying pistols and a third a machine gun.

  ‘Gentlemen, good morning! What can we do for you?’

  Chapter 25

  FESCHES-LE-CHTEL

  NOVEMBER 1941

  ‘They rose in dark and evil days.’

  John Kells Ingram, ‘The Memory of the Dead’, 1843

  ‘Ihre Papiere bitte.’

  ‘Papers, yes, of course,’ replied Thierry in French. ‘Christiane, Marcel, your papers for the gentlemen, please.’

  Rosamund caught a glimpse of the three implacable faces over Thierry’s shoulder. Their uniforms bore the insignia of the Schutzstaffel. A shiver went down Rosamund’s spine, though she fought hard to look unperturbed. All three of them stepped back to retrieve their papers, and as they did so, the three uniformed men walked forward into the small kitchen. They did not take off their hats, steely grey with shining peaks, above which shone the sinister motif of the Waffen SS – a silver skull, surmounted by a spread eagle, its talons grasping the all-too-familiar swastika. It was the first time Rosamund had seen it up close.

  She glanced at Thierry and Eric as they climbed the stairs, but none of them spoke. They parted at the top and walked into their separate rooms. Rosamund had already packed her bag, which sat at the foot of her bed. She fished into the pocket inside it and pulled out her identity card and papers, then she turned towards the door and began to descend the stairs ahead of Thierry whose belongings were not yet packed, thanks to the unexpected effects of the previous night’s whisky. Who could have been responsible for its contamination, for that was obviously the case? The Dubois family, or some outside agency? She thanked God that she herself had declined to join them. At least she had managed to keep a clear head; she would certainly need it now.

  She handed her papers to the member of the trio who seemed to be the most senior. He was tall and gaunt with piercing pale blue eyes that transmitted a coldness she had rarely experienced before. His insignia showed him to be an Obersturmführer; the other two were of more junior rank – Untersturmführers, if she had remembered correctly from her training. The senior officer stowed his pistol in his holster, all the while fixing her with that icy gaze, while the other two retained their weapons and looked around them suspiciously as if expecting an attack from some hidden force. It never came.

  ‘Christiane de Rossignol?’

  Rosamund nodded.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Dijon.’

  ‘Your occupation?’

  ‘Bookkeeper.’

  The officer smiled, but it was a cold smile that did nothing to dispel the chill that pervaded the room. ‘You were at the factory in Sochaux the night of the explosion?’

  Rosamund’s heart pounded, but she did not let her anxiety show. ‘Yes. I left just before it happened.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Lucky.’

  The officer shot her a cynical smile. Rosamund was reminded of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood – an image that was swiftly dispelled when she reminded herself that this was far from a fairy tale.

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘I was asked to go over some figures. In the accounts. There was a discrepa
ncy in the costings for maintenance of certain pieces of equipment. I was asked to check and see where the mistakes had been made.’

  ‘And were you able to find them?’ The face was expressionless; the voice shot through with sarcasm.

  ‘Yes. It was a simple oversight; nothing very complicated.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  Rosamund felt cornered. Why had she taken on the guise of a bookkeeper? She, to whom figures might as well be a foreign language. In measured tones, she heard herself say, ‘The contra account column had been confused with the bought-in ledger. The two had been transposed, and if you knew where to look, it was easy to see how the two could have been confused.’

  There was a long pause, in which the world – or this small part of it – appeared to stand still.

  The Gestapo officer broke the silence. ‘And then you left?’

  ‘Yes. I was checked in and checked out. You will discover that from the records at the factory checkpoint.’

  The officer’s stare became, if anything, even more menacing. ‘It is because of the records at the factory checkpoint that we are here, Mademoiselle de Rossignol.’ He rolled his tongue around the name with unnecessary relish, then closed the identity card and folded up Rosamund’s papers, but he did not hand them back. The two junior officers stood by, mute and unmoving as the interrogation progressed.

  Where was Thierry? thought Rosamund. What was taking him so long?

  ‘How long have you been in Fesches-le-Châtel?’

  ‘We all came here a few weeks ago,’ said Thierry, interrupting. He was downstairs now, his papers in his hand.

  The officer’s expression remained impassive, but there was a renewed note of irritation in his voice as he remarked, ‘I was asking the young lady. And you are?’

  ‘Thierry Foustier.’

  ‘Your papers, please.’

  Thierry handed them over.

  The officer unfolded and scrutinised them, saying, without looking up, ‘There are three of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Thierry. ‘Marcel will be down in a moment.’

  ‘All living in the same house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We have been put up here while we work for the Peugeots. Christiane is an accountant, Marcel and I work for the insurance company.’

  ‘So you are here to assess the damage done to the factory?’

  ‘We came here before that,’ explained Thierry calmly. ‘To look at the machinery and make evaluations. We are a small part of a much larger team.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. I think that is the first honest reply you have given me.’ The senior officer turned to his two subordinates. ‘Search the house. Leave no … how do they say in English?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Ah, yes: “Leave no stone unturned” …’

  Thierry and Rosamund remained silent and gazed ahead blankly, determined to give nothing away.

  ‘And where is your friend? The third member of the party. Marcel, you say his name is?’

  ‘Yes. He’ll be down in a minute,’ confirmed Thierry. ‘I’m sure he’s looking for his papers. You caught us by surprise.’

  ‘I am sure we did. But then, that was the intention.’

  The two Untersturmführers, still armed, split up – one pushing past them towards the small sitting room, the other mounting the twisting staircase in the direction of Eric. It was only moments later that the uncomfortable silence was shattered by the sound of breaking glass, followed by a deafening crash as an unidentifiable object sailed past the window behind them. It was followed by Eric Ridley, who landed safely and then rapidly took off across the fields.

  The officer who had clearly found nothing of interest in the small sitting room, ran back into the kitchen. The senior officer, no longer impassive, motioned him to run in the direction of the commotion as his SS colleague – clearly unwilling to follow Eric’s example and exit via the upstairs window – came running down the stairs shouting, ‘Funksender! Gebrochen!’ and shaking the machine gun which had jammed and consequently saved Eric’s life.

  Thierry glanced sideways at Rosamund, but neither of them moved.

  The senior officer, now in possession of incontrovertible proof that all was not as it purported to be in the house of the three newcomers to Fesches-le-Châtel, flashed Rosamund a brief smile. ‘Does your friend always leave the house in such an unorthodox fashion?’

  Still the two captives said not a word. It was clear that Eric, aware that his wireless transmitter was hardly likely to remain undiscovered, had followed the instructions given at Wanborough Manor and done his best to render it useless before endeavouring to make an escape himself. If his compatriots were to be arrested, then he was the only one with any chance of escaping with whatever information he had been unable to transmit.

  Thierry and Rosamund stood motionless under the watchful eye of the senior officer, who now had his pistol trained on them. Outside the cottage they heard shouts, followed by rapid gunfire. The machine-gun carrying officer had clearly managed to un-jam his weapon and open fire on the retreating form of Eric.

  Silence followed, during which the three figures in the kitchen were as still as if they had been turned to stone. At length the kitchen door burst open and the junior officer reappeared. The senior officer regarded him questioningly. The subordinate shook his head. ‘Ich konnte ihn nicht fangen.’

  Rosamund and Thierry looked at each other once more. This time Thierry smiled. As he did so, the junior officer slammed the butt of his weapon into his ribs. Thierry crumpled to the floor and Rosamund instinctively bent down to help him. Not that she remembered doing so. The butt of the machine gun was brought into service once more – this time on the back of Rosamund’s head. The rest was blackness.

  Chapter 26

  LONDON

  NOVEMBER 1941

  ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

  But in battalions.’

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601

  Having no children of her own, and with her only sibling institutionalised, Doris Kilgarth invested in her female operatives rather more emotional weight than she knew in her heart to be advisable.

  When the news came through that Rosamund – along with the Frenchman Thierry Foustier – had been apprehended by the Gestapo, her heart sank. It was not simply that she dreaded informing Charles Belgate of the situation, but that she felt personally responsible for the young woman’s safety. She had lost too many operatives over the past year, and losing this one wounded her deeply. She saw in Rosamund Hanbury something of herself as a young woman. The very thought might leave the likes of Lord Belgate incredulous, for there was little physical similarity between the two women, but Doris recognised in Rosamund a steely determination and a swiftness of apprehension that she herself had possessed in those early days in the service.

  Granted, the freshness of approach and the youthful zeal had diminished somewhat over the years, but the determination to succeed had never faltered. If Rosamund Hanbury were to lose her life … well, it was not something Doris wished to contemplate right now, even though such a possibility constituted a real and present danger.

  Rather than confront Charles Belgate in person, she had taken what she knew to be the coward’s way out, and had the decoded Top Secret memo delivered to him that morning. It was brief and to the point:

  EYES ONLY

  Patrice and Colette arrested

  Hector at liberty or killed

  No further information

  She wondered how long it would take between the dispatch of the memo and the summons to his office. The answer was seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds.

  At first he did not speak. Doris had become accustomed to the sight of her superior’s back as he surveyed the various restorative activities in Baker Street below. Today she had longer than usual to take in the exquisite cut of the pinstriped Savile Row suit, the polished brogues and the crisp white shirt collar that sat exactly ha
lf an inch above the suit and half an inch below the thinning grey hair that steadfastly remained on the head of this government mandarin.

  When, eventually, he did turn round, she saw that his face was drained of what little colour it usually possessed. In all her years in the service, she had never seen Charles Belgate display any high emotion other than indignation at another’s procrastination, or irritation at some slap-dash piece of work.

  He cleared his throat and asked evenly, ‘Any further news?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Bloody awful business.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And after such a good job at the factory.’

  ‘Yes.’ Doris Kilgarth felt that the less she said the better, but knew that she would not escape without some form of inquisition.

  ‘The information is reliable, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. It was the last message that Marcel – that’s Eric Ridley – managed to transmit before the other two were apprehended.’

  ‘And he is at liberty or killed. Which?’

  ‘Impossible to say. He sent the message and then would have destroyed his wireless transmitter and endeavoured to make his escape. Whether or not he succeeded, we don’t yet know. He wanted to inform us that at least he was making an attempt to extricate himself from the situation.’

  ‘That’s a tactful way of putting it,’ muttered the peer, only half to himself.

  ‘All we can do is wait.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I think I should warn you, sir, that it might be a long time before we get any news, if, indeed, we get any news at all.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Kilgarth; I know how it works,’ he said.

  There was a complicit silence between them, then Doris asked, ‘Do you ever wonder how we manage to carry on doing this, sir?’