The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  They listened carefully and wrote notes continually as Rosamund described in detail their arrival in France, the people they worked with and the operation they had undertaken at the Peugeot factory. She was congratulated on the effectiveness of her demolition capabilities, and told that her work made a great contribution to the war effort.

  The short, portly one allowed himself the satisfaction of explaining that the replacement press which the Germans had been transporting to the factory by barge had been sunk by the Resistance, not only further delaying the production of tanks, but also blocking the canal to other traffic. ‘So, you see, your work continues to be of use.’

  Rosamund nodded and smiled weakly. It all seemed so far away now. It had occupied her every thought for so long and now it was just history. She felt strangely deflated, even though the two men were endeavouring to convince her of the importance of her role.

  They asked about the Dubois family. Rosamund told them as much as she knew about Henri, Gaston, Madeleine and Paulette – the image of Paulette with Thierry’s arm around her as they bade her goodbye dwelling uncomfortably in her mind’s eye as she tried hard to avoid tainting her description of events with personal prejudices. She had not seen that coming, not at all, but did her best to gloss over the fact. It was of no concern to her interlocutors, surely. She was uncertain at this moment of just how much concern it was to herself.

  In a few moments of silence as they were recording her answers, she asked, ‘What is it about the mother – Madame Dubois? Is there something I don’t know?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ enquired the tall, thin inquisitor.

  ‘Because Paulette apologised for her mother’s actions as she saw us on to the plane.’

  The portly man glanced at the tall, thin man who looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, ‘What do you know about Hector … er, Eric Ridley?’

  ‘Our wireless operator?’

  The thin man nodded.

  ‘He managed to escape. The Gestapo arrived and he went upstairs in the house to get his papers, but also to disable the radio.’

  ‘The radio was in the house?’

  ‘Yes. Thierry had always told him that it was safer to hide the radio elsewhere, but I think Eric had had some trouble with it and had been working on it in his room. That’s why it was there. Usually it was kept at a distance to avoid linking it with us.’

  ‘Yet another instance of Ridley’s misjudgements …’ murmured the short, portly one.

  Rosamund regarded them both quizzically.

  The tall thin one volunteered the information, explaining about Eric Ridley’s role in Operation Catapult, and the fact that he had shared that confidence with Madeleine Dubois, whose brother had been among those killed at Mers-el-Kébir. He explained about Madame Dubois exacting her revenge, and why her daughter – thought to be a reliable contact – had found it necessary to apologise.

  ‘But how do you know all this?’

  ‘We have our sources, Colette – Miss Hanbury – that is our business.’

  ‘And do you have proof?’

  ‘Our sources are reliable,’ confirmed the tall, thin one.

  ‘I see.’

  Then he offered an olive branch. ‘It is a good thing that you are not partial to Scotch whisky, Miss Hanbury. Otherwise you, too, might have woken up late, and the radio would have been discovered and … heaven knows what else.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Rosamund absently. She wondered why they were asking her questions when they seemed to know the answers already. Then she asked, ‘Do you know what happened to Eric?’

  The two men exchanged another glance.

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  ‘Not good news, I am afraid,’ said the short one.

  The tall one cut in. ‘I am afraid he was captured at the railway station in Pontarlier.’

  Rosamund waited for further information. When none was forthcoming, she asked, ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘He was taken to Besançon – an internment centre. A concentration camp.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We are led to believe he was executed … by lethal injection.’

  Rosamund felt her stomach turn. One hand shot to her mouth. ‘Oh no. No, no, no …’ she gasped. ‘Not Eric … he was so …’

  ‘Careless, I’m afraid,’ said the tall one, not without compassion. ‘He was a good man, just …’

  ‘Too trusting,’ added his colleague.

  Rosamund felt her anger rising. ‘Is that a bad thing? Is it a mistake to trust people? Where are we if we don’t trust those around us, those we work with? Those who are meant to be on the same side? Like Harry Napier.’

  ‘Hawksmoor,’ said the tall, thin one.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your code name is Colette; Harry Napier’s is Hawksmoor. I think we can trust you with that information.’

  ‘But what is he? I mean, whose side is he on?’

  The short one was quick to answer. ‘He is on our side, Miss Hanbury, most decidedly. But sometimes we have to infiltrate the enemy camp, and for that we need very special operatives who have very particular skills. Not just languages – which Hawksmoor has – but also an ability to—’

  ‘Be two-faced?’ Rosamund could not prevent herself from blurting it out.

  ‘Be able to convince the enemy that they are of more use to them alive than dead.’

  Rosamund shook her head. ‘But isn’t he betraying you by working for them? Surely he gives them information …?’

  ‘He does, you see,’ added the tall, thin one. ‘We carefully monitor the situation and feed him the information we want passed on. We – or, rather, Hawksmoor – makes them think he is useful.’

  ‘So they trust him, and you trust him, but surely only one of you can be right?’

  ‘I quite understand your point of view, Miss Hanbury, but as you remember from your training, the only person one can really trust is oneself. It is as well to be suspicious, to some degree, of the motives of others, especially when your well-being – your life, even – is in their hands.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Rosamund bitterly. ‘I am beginning to realise that.’

  Chapter 32

  LONDON

  DECEMBER 1941

  ‘And Christmas morning bells say “Come!”

  Even to shining ones who dwell

  Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.’

  John Betjeman, ‘Christmas’, 1954

  For several minutes they could not speak, but stood clasped in each others’ arms on the doorstep. Aunt Venetia’s tears of joy trickled down Rosamund’s neck, as her own sobs wracked her body and she inhaled the long-forgotten perfume of her aunt – a fragrance that spoke of home and safety, even in war-torn London.

  Then there was Mrs Heffer to greet, whose huffing and puffing and apron wringing did little to mask her own emotions, and her brother Ned, whose eyes crinkled at the sides with pleasure. He did not make so bold as to hug his employer’s niece, but he did pat her gently on the shoulder and say it was good to have her back.

  Later, seated in the drawing room – whose creature comforts now seemed absurdly luxurious to Rosamund, who had become used to the rustic privations of occupied France – her aunt eyed her up and assessed the situation more comprehensively.

  ‘Well, for a start there is nothing of you. Look at you: thin as a rail. Haven’t they been feeding you?’

  Rosamund could not suppress a sardonic smile. ‘Well, no, actually. The occupying forces are not renowned for their culinary expertise and generosity – at least not to their prisoners.’

  Aunt Venetia shook her head. ‘Oh my goodness! You were taken prisoner. I don’t believe it.’

  Rosamund’s face took on a more serious expression. ‘No. I can’t believe it either.’

  ‘Is it really as dreadful as they say?’

  ‘Oh yes. And worse.’ Then she said, ‘Let’s not talk about it. Not now. Not ever, probably. It’s not something I want to rake over. And, anyway, there’s a lot
I can’t – mustn’t – tell you. I’ve probably said too much already, so please don’t breathe it to a soul.’

  ‘No. No, of course. I’m sorry to ask only … it’s just so wonderful to have you back, that’s all; the best possible Christmas present. You’ve been gone a long time and I’ve been so worried …’

  ‘I know. Three months is a long time in war. Especially in winter.’ She looked out of the window and across the square. The plane trees were devoid of leaves and a cold wind whipped the bare branches to and fro as if to confirm the inhospitality of the weather.

  ‘And Harry? Have you any word of him?’

  Rosamund turned back from the window and smiled weakly at her aunt.

  ‘Oh, I know. You’re not allowed to say.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Such a pity. I had high hopes for you two but …’

  ‘Shall we change the subject?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Dinner. Would that be a better conversational opportunity?’

  ‘Lovely. Though I’m not sure I could eat much; I’m rather out of practice.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have a day to recover your appetite. I’ve invited the ones you know best – Lord and Lady Belgate – for supper tomorrow night.’

  ‘Oh, and please not Sir Patrick Felpham! I don’t think I could bear to watch him troughing his way through a meal. I’d probably throw up.’

  ‘Rosamund! As it happens I have not invited the Felphams. I thought the Belgates would be company enough. Charles has been very helpful, you know; very concerned about your welfare.’

  ‘That’s kind.’

  Aunt Venetia put down her cup and saucer. ‘There are a lot of people who love you, you know. You may have lost a few along the way, but there are enough of us left who value your talents and your personality.’

  ‘Gosh! You sound like a judge in a talent contest.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, Rosamund. It’s time you learned to take a compliment gracefully.’

  Rosamund sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m also a bit out of practice when it comes to compliments.’

  Her aunt smiled indulgently. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll nurse you back to health. Only …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know I’m not allowed to ask, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you be going back?’

  Rosamund looked away. ‘I don’t know.’

  An uneasy silence prevailed until her aunt said, ‘Well, you’re here now; that’s the important thing. And I’m sure they are not going to need you between now and the New Year, so let’s just make sure we have the best Christmas ever, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, let’s. And would it be alright if I slipped out for a while this evening? To catch up with Diana Molyneux?’

  ‘Of course. You’re home now, Rosamund. I’m so glad you’re here, but I don’t want to make you a prisoner.’

  ‘Believe me, Auntie, this is nothing like a prison.’ Then, softly to herself, ‘And I should know …’

  The meeting had been hastily arranged over the phone. Diana had another engagement – a Christmas drink with colleagues – which she swiftly withdrew from having heard her friend was back in town, and they agreed on the small restaurant in Maiden Lane where they’d met before, though Diana warned Rosamund that the five-shilling meal was not what it used to be.

  Rosamund arrived there first and was shown to a white-damask-covered table in a booth beneath posters of the Moulin Rouge, which seemed faintly disrespectful at a time when France was merely a shadow of her former gay self.

  All around were diners hopeful of a more generous meal at the start of the festive season, though their aspirations were tempered by the single menu fastened to a board propped up on an easel which promised much in terms of elaborate script but delivered little in the way of roast turkey and figgy pudding, in lieu of which were substituted rabbit and carrot cake.

  Diana arrived ten minutes later and, glancing around the restaurant, failed to recognise her old friend until Rosamund said softly at her elbow, ‘I’m here’, at which Diana threw her arms around her and repeated the actions of Aunt Venetia. Rosamund was beginning to appreciate the fondness that an absence could bring about, especially when that absence involved a degree of risk.

  Slipping off her coat and throwing her handbag on to the bench seat opposite her friend, Diana launched into conversation without apparently drawing breath.

  Rosamund marvelled at her appearance. Diana’s face glowed underneath her lustrous dark hair and she wore a tight-fitting crimson dress – ‘I’ve found this darling little woman in South Molton Street. You really must meet her; very quick and hugely reasonable. And Billy likes what they do for me too.’

  ‘Billy?’

  ‘Billy Belgate. Oh, of course; you didn’t know. We’ve been going out for a while. I still can’t quite make up my mind about him but he’s very sweet. Short and sweet, I suppose.’ Diana simply bubbled with enthusiasm before pausing for breath and saying, ‘But I’m rattling on, Ros. It’s only because I’m so relieved to have you back, not because I can’t talk about anything but myself. Forgive me. It’s been so long!’

  Rosamund did her best to stifle a giggle, and then realised that it had been a long time since she had felt able to laugh.

  ‘Tell me! Tell me what happened,’ insisted Diana, and then, realising that she was making an unrealistic demand on her companion, ‘I mean, as much as you can.’

  Rosamund explained in the vaguest terms about having been part of an operation in occupied France, and having got back safely, which had not been the case with all of her compatriots.

  ‘God! We’re so lucky to have you back!’ Diana leaned across the table and squeezed Rosamund’s hand. ‘We must order. Are you happy with whatever they suggest?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve always liked rabbit. And carrot cake.’

  ‘And Harry?’ Diana asked. ‘Any news of him?’

  At this Rosamund’s eyes began to fill with tears, and she found herself unable to speak.

  ‘Oh God!’ said Diana. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been killed.’

  Rosamund shook her head and reached into her handbag for a lace-edged handkerchief, which smelled of Aunt Venetia’s perfume. It was nestled beside the letter Harry had written to her before she had left for France. She was not sure she wanted it now, but had not the heart to remove it and either destroy it or hide it away. To do that would be to pretend that nothing had ever happened between them, and that would be just too much to bear.

  Diana waited patiently for the explanation that she hoped would come.

  ‘He’s very much alive,’ confirmed Rosamund.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that!’ exclaimed Diana. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Oh, yes; I’ve seen him.’

  Diana sat wide-eyed, waiting for further elaboration.

  Rosamund added, ‘I can’t tell you much; you know that.’

  ‘Yes, but if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’

  ‘That’s just the point; I don’t know who I can trust any more.’

  ‘You can trust Harry, surely? When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  A white-aproned waiter came to the table to take their order. Diana blurted out quickly that they would be happy with the rabbit, along with two glasses of something alcoholic, which they were clearly going to need.

  ‘Beer, madam?’

  ‘Beer will be fine.’ Having dismissed the waiter as speedily as her good manners would allow, Diana leaned forward in her chair and confirmed, ‘You saw him yesterday?’

  Rosamund nodded and blew her nose before replacing the handkerchief in her bag and returning to the conversation. ‘Oh, Diana! I hardly know what to think any more.’

  ‘Now look! You and I both work in a business where the least said the better. It’s a business where we learn never to tell anybody anything. But now and again we have to let things out to somebody – in whatever vague terms we care to couch them – or we’d simpl
y eat away at ourselves and pop off.’

  The explanation was so very Diana-ish that Rosamund was forced to smile and ask, ‘How can you eat yourself away and pop off at the same time?’

  ‘Don’t nitpick. You know what I mean.’

  Rosamund took a deep breath. ‘What do you think of people who work for both sides?’

  Diana raised an eyebrow. ‘Double agents?’

  Rosamund nodded.

  ‘It all depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On which side has their loyalty.’

  ‘But how can you tell? I mean, how can you tell which side they would be on if … if …’

  ‘If push came to shove?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Diana leaned back in her chair as two glasses of foaming beer were put in front of them. Reading the situation, the waiter departed swiftly. ‘You would have to know the person well enough to trust that they were on the right side.’

  ‘The right side being the side you were on?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Of course.’ Diana raised her glass and waited for Rosamund to do the same, before saying, ‘You don’t know how relieved I am to have you back. I felt responsible for you in a funny kind of way.’

  Rosamund took a sip of the rich, bitter beer, which hit the back of her throat and instantly lifted her spirits. ‘Gosh! That’s good,’ she murmured.

  Diana continued. ‘Double agents aren’t all bad, you know. They are usually extremely clever – they have to be to survive – and some of them are also particularly brave.’

  ‘Brave? Cowardly more like, having all their options covered.’

  Diana shook her head emphatically. ‘No. Not necessarily.’

  ‘Go on then; convince me. How can a person possibly be brave if they work for both sides?’

  ‘They are brave if they are asked by the side they really believe in to infiltrate enemy territory and pass themselves off as disaffected in order to gain the confidence of the enemy, with the aim of passing back information to the side they are really on. That makes them far more patriotic and brave than someone who simply operates for one side. They put their life at risk; if the enemy ever discovers that they are not what they seem, they will face certain death, probably after a dreadful ordeal at the hands of their captors. The Germans don’t just pop you in a prison for the duration of the war, you know; they have means – ghastly means – of extracting the information they want.’