by Peter May
The opening of the door startled him, and he looked up guiltily to see the young proprietor standing in the doorway looking at him curiously. ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asked.
Enzo searched for a plausible excuse. ‘Lifted the wrong key,’ he said, laughing at his own stupidity. ‘Only just realised it wasn’t my room.’
He saw the proprietor’s eyes drop to the leaflets in his hand.
‘I was trying to find a trifold on a gîte at Padirac that I was looking at earlier.’ He paused. ‘Do you put the same tourist information in every room?’
‘Each room gets exactly the same maps and leaflets. Why?’
Enzo shrugged and held the leaflets out towards him. ‘The trifold on the Padirac gîte doesn’t seem to be here.’
The proprietor frowned.
Anny called that he should let himself in when he knocked at the kitchen door. She was sitting in her accustomed rocking chair by the cheminée. The house felt warm, and he expected that she had stoked the fire early and been waiting for him.
‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘My apologies, madame. I had to go to the gendarmerie for a meeting with Capitaine Arnaud.’
‘Hah!’ Her exclamation was laden with derision. ‘And is he any further forward with his investigation?’
Enzo shook his head. ‘It would seem not. Can I make you a tea or a coffee before we start?’
‘No, thank you.’ She waved him towards his armchair. ‘Have you heard the news?’
He looked up, filled with curiosity as he dropped into his seat. ‘What news?’
‘The government announced last night that they are going to reintroduce a national lockdown. Apparently Covid infections are increasing exponentially again.’
This was a shock to Enzo. He had not been following events in recent days. ‘When?’
‘From midnight tonight. Though it won’t affect me. I have nowhere to go.’
But Enzo knew that if restrictions mirrored those imposed the previous spring he would not be permitted to travel any further than a kilometre from his home. Consulting on this murder enquiry was unpaid and would not qualify as work. So he would not be exempt from the travel ban. Which meant that if he could not conclude his investigation by midnight, he would be forced to retire from it without resolution. And he had no confidence that Arnaud would be able to bring it to a conclusion without his help.
No pressure, then, he thought.
‘Circumstances beyond our control, Monsieur Macleod. But in any event, I am anxious to finish this now. The telling of my story has aroused some unhappy memories. Having a murder committed in my house has been very upsetting. And I’ve indulged you thus far. But I would really like to put the whole thing behind me.’
‘Of course. Again, my apologies.’ Enzo looked at her expectantly. ‘I’m ready when you are, madame.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Georgette’s first year in her new home fell into a pleasant, if uneventful, routine. And for much of it, the war seemed a million miles away.
She was pleased with her house. An L-shaped stone dwelling that sat above a large cellar. A farmhouse kitchen, a bedroom, a large salon with an enormous cheminée, all on the one level. The attic was, as yet, undeveloped. It sat next to a small park in the middle of the village of Carennac, and a terrace at the side of the house gave directly on to the park itself.
The owner of the house had died intestate, and the estate was in the temporary stewardship of the mairie, and so volunteered as accommodation for Georgette.
She was less pleased with the cycle to and from the Château de Montal. Although the route followed the meandering path of the River Dordogne through the silt flats of the flood plain, it took nearly fifty minutes. In spring and autumn it was an easy and pleasant commute, but in the searing heat of summer she would arrive at either end of her journey dripping with perspiration. And in the winter, temperatures could dip as low as minus ten or fifteen, and the road was often obscured by a freezing fog that followed the path of the river, and therefore the road.
Early on, she had taken the decision to set up a canvas camp bed in the Grande Salle du Rez-de-chaussée, the largest room on the ground floor of the château, where the greatest number of the most important crated works were stacked, including the Mona Lisa. Although René Huygue still insisted on keeping La Joconde in his quarters in the Chambre de Nine on the first floor, Georgette wrested her from his grasp each night to sleep with her in the grande salle, also known as the salle des gardes, among the crates. This vaulted chamber with its flagstone floor, and intricately carved stone cheminée was cool and conducive to sleep in the summer, but like an icebox in the winter, even when a fire had been set in the hearth. And Georgette would often cycle home in the morning with leaden legs to catch some much-needed sleep and garner a little warmth from her bed during the hours of daylight.
Food seemed more plentiful in this part of south-west France, and the curators and all the guards at the château ate well. Duck and goose, lamb and limousin beef, and wonderful salads with cheese and gésiers, liberally sprinkled with walnuts from the trees that grew everywhere here. Neither was there any shortage of fruit. And there were several local red wines, a little unsophisticated but still quaffable.
It was easy to forget that the world was at war, and the outcome as yet far from certain. In all this time they had barely seen a single German soldier, and Georgette made frequent outings on her bike to explore a countryside rich in forest and fruit, tobacco and wheat, cliffs rising sheer from rivers and streams that in eons past had carved their way through a landscape of solid rock. There was a regular market in the nearby town of Saint-Céré. She often went shopping for essential food and clothing in the medieval Place Mercadial, where merchants traded in the shadow of the Tours Saint-Laurent, an ancient fortification on a hilltop that dominated the town and the countryside for miles around.
She was unconcerned that she had neither seen nor heard anything of Lange in all this time. Although she missed him, his absence meant that there was no imminent threat from Karlheinz Wolff. Of Wolff himself, she had seen nothing since that day at Bétaille. Both men had receded into a past that seemed much darker and more distant now, viewed from this privileged vantage point in the southern sun.
But by the spring of 1944, these months of comparative idyll were drawing to a close. Rumours of an imminent Allied invasion of Europe were circulating in the villages and marketplaces. The war was going badly for the Germans following defeat in North Africa the previous year, and there was bloody stalemate on the Eastern Front with Russia. The French Resistance, now collectively known as the Maquis, were more and more active in the area. Acts of sabotage on bridges and railway lines provoked savage reprisals from the Germans, and the mood of everyone at Montal had become febrile and tense.
It was one hot night towards the end of May that year that Georgette found herself in the salle des gardes unable to sleep. She lay awake on the unyielding canvas of her camp bed staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Moonlight flooded in through the windows that she had left unshuttered, laying its shadows among the silent crates. Outside, the screech of cicadas and the croaking of a thousand frogs filled the night air, a deafening cacophony in the sultry still of the small hours.
Finally she got up and slipped on her shoes to pad through the adjoining Salle Robert de Balsac, weaving her way among the stacks of crated paintings to the narrow door that led to the north turret. There they had established a small kitchen to prepare food for the staff. If she couldn’t sleep, then she might as well have a coffee. She placed the kettle on a tiny gas ring and wandered off through the salon to gaze through one of the windows on to the courtyard. Moonlight shimmered on the crushed white castine gravel. The château formed a right-angle on two sides of the square. The north-east side was bordered by a line of trees and a couple of stone benches, beyond which lay the châtea
u garden, given over now to growing vegetables. Between the trees on the south-east side, a gate opened on to a drive that turned around the slope of the hill, past outbuildings that provided accommodation for the guards, and down towards a road leading to the village of Saint-Jean-Lespinasse. Georgette could see the silhouette of one of the guards sitting on the wall by the gate, his cigarette glowing red in the dark.
It was only then that she became aware of the voices that seemed to drift in from the stairwell at the far end of the salon. The château’s main staircase was a broad sweep of well-worn stone that climbed through the levels of the building at the angle between the two wings. But here, at the end of the north wing, a narrow flight of wooden servants’ stairs rose all the way up to the attic. The voices were coming from one of the upper levels. Hushed male voices. By the light of the moon that fell in through every window slit, Georgette tiptoed slowly up the stairs, cringing at every creak.
On the next landing the voices were louder, amplified by stone walls and tiled floors. She slipped through shadows cast by artworks stacked ceiling high in the Chambre Régence and the Grand Salon d’honneur, to emerge into the first-floor hallway at the top of the staircase. A door led off into the Chambre Fenaille and the tower at the north-west corner. Flickering candlelight sent long shadows dancing through the open door to meet her. She recognised René Huygue’s voice, and sneaked a peek into the one-time bedroom of what had probably been a lesser family member. A group of half a dozen men were grouped conspiratorially around a candle placed on the floor among the crates. They were being addressed by Huygue, but other voices raised themselves in disagreement, only to be shooshed sharply and told to keep the level down. These were rough-looking countrymen in boots and overalls, paysan jackets and cloth caps, but among them Georgette saw a face she recognised. Jean-Luc Percet, one of the château guards. A man in his forties, with a shock of unruly black hair shot through with wiry silver. A wit about the place. Always smiling, laughing, and cracking jokes.
She drew back into the hallway in case they saw her, and pressing her back against the wall, tried to follow the argument. It seemed they were discussing the blowing up of a railway junction near the town of Gramat, a few kilometres south of Montal. Georgette listened, heart pounding so loudly she was sure they would hear it echoing along the stone passages of the old château. The disagreement concerned the when, as well as the precise location. The Germans were using the line to send troops and munitions north, and the destruction of a junction south of the town would cause considerable disruption to their traffic. But it was well guarded and would be a risky venture.
Finally, agreement appeared to be reached, and Georgette prepared to retrace her footsteps quickly to hide herself among the crates in the Chambre Régence. But no one was leaving. She summoned her courage to satisfy her curiosity and stole another glance into the Chambre Fenaille. The men were all clustered around an open door at the entrance to the north-west turret, a door Georgette knew had always been kept locked. Huygue stood in its lit entrance, handing out rifles and pistols, and rucksacks of what she could only imagine must be explosives.
She caught her breath and wheeled away. Huygue was keeping arms in the château and supplying the Maquis! It was madness. If the Germans chose to make an unannounced visit to inspect the premises, they would all be sent off to the labour camps. And God only knew what would become of
the art they had tried so hard to protect from the ravages
of war.
It was sunlight now that lay dazzling arcs of light on the stone flags of the Château de Montal, and Georgette’s voice that rose in pitch to echo among its vaults. She strode after Huygue through the Salle Robert de Balsac. ‘You’re an idiot!’ she shouted at him.
He strode on, regardless, past the rows of crates.
‘You’re a member of the Maquis, aren’t you?’
At which he stopped abruptly and turned on her, his voice reduced to a hiss. ‘Do not repeat that, ever! Do you hear me? To anyone.’
‘But you are, and you are putting everything we’ve all worked for here at risk.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘I doubt that very much. You’re letting your heart rule your head. It’s insanity to keep weapons in the château.’
He lowered his head to breathe into her face. ‘Keep your voice down!’ And he glanced left and right, afraid that they might be overheard. ‘Your problem, George, is that you’ve got your priorities all wrong. What exactly is more important to you, eh? Art or freedom?’
‘Both,’ she said emphatically. ‘You can’t sacrifice one for the other and expect either to be worth a damn.’
He gasped his frustration, and marched off into the salle des gardes, heels clicking with irritation on the flagstones.
Three days later, word reached them that the Maquis had blown up the main railway line south of Gramat, and Georgette held her breath for retaliation. To her relief, none came. At least, not in the immediate vicinity. But it was less than a week afterwards that René Huygue came to her in a state, his tone very different from the last time they had spoken.
She had just arrived on her bicycle from Carennac. He took her by the arm and led her upstairs and into the Chambre de Nine, closing the door behind them. It had rained the night before, and the cloud cover was low, blanketing the area in a gloomy crepuscular light. Huygue’s office and living quarters were obscured by shadow, and his face seemed very pale in the poor light. She heard a tremor in his voice which was little more than a whisper. ‘I just got word from Paris. The Germans are sending a detachment of troops to search the château. It’s part of a clampdown on all the depots of the Louvre. Apparently they have permission from the high command to open any crate they want.’
Georgette was horrified. ‘What are they looking for?’
Huygue blanched, and couldn’t quite bring his eyes to meet hers. ‘Weapons. But it’s just any excuse to confiscate the art.’
Georgette closed her eyes, and a thousand abusive epithets flitted through her mind. But she stopped herself from giving voice to them. It would serve no purpose. She forced herself to try to think straight. ‘Are the weapons still in the château?’
He nodded.
‘Then we’ve got to get them out of here. When are the Germans coming?’
‘We think sometime tomorrow morning.’
‘Jesus! Where are we going to put them?’
Huygue braced himself. ‘In the cellar of your house in Carennac.’
The rain of the previous day had cleared, and a blue sky was punctuated by soft white clouds rolling across the hilltops that ringed the river valley. They would soon evaporate in the heat. Sunshine lay in late spring swathes across a landscape in full leaf, blossom shed and fruit forming in the orchards that grew across the flood plain. The air was warm after a fresh start, and heating up towards midday, with the promise of a hot early summer afternoon to come.
But the tranquillity of the morning was soon disturbed by the roar of two Panzer V tanks that stationed themselves at the foot of the hill and left their engines idling. A canvas-covered troop carrier brought a detachment of crack SS soldiers up the road to the château where they jumped down and fanned out to cover the courtyard and the front entrance.
The commanding officer drove his lightweight Kübelwagen through the gate and into the courtyard. It had a round-bladed spade clamped to the wheel arch, and a spare wheel bolted to the slope of the bonnet. The canvas roof was folded down over the rear of the vehicle. SS-Standartenführer Harald Schneider swung himself out and over the door without opening it, and cast a deep shadow in the castine. He wore dusty baggy breeks tucked into brown leather boots, and a short, double-breasted reed-green jacket with a leather holster belted around the waist. His field-grey shirt was open at the neck, and an SS Panzer field cap the same colour as his jacket was pulled down over straw-coloured hair that grew abundantly ben
eath it. He could not have been much older than Georgette, but he had world-weary eyes which had witnessed too much, and disillusion seemed solidly settled on his square shoulders.
The entire staff of the castle, including the guards, were assembled in the heat of the sun to greet him. Somewhere around twenty people in all. Georgette was nervous, in spite of the fact that she and Huygue and Jean-Luc Percet had loaded a farm vehicle with all the weapons from the north-west tower at two o’clock that morning, and driven them the fourteen kilometres to Carennac to hide them in the cellar beneath her house.
Schneider surveyed them with an indifference that suggested that he would much rather be somewhere else. Half a dozen of his men assembled behind him, rifles held at the ready. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ His French was perfect.
Huygue stepped forward. ‘I am.’
‘Your name.’
‘Huygue. René Huygue.’
‘Well, René Huygue. We are here to take a look at exactly what it is you have in this château.’ He paused. ‘And we have information that one of your guards is a leader of the local Maquis.’ He drew a small, leather-bound notebook from a trouser pocket to consult. ‘A man called Jean-Luc Percet.’
Georgette saw Huygue’s face pale, and her eyes flickered towards Jean-Luc standing at the back of the crowd. Huygue said, ‘He isn’t here.’
‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough when we check everyone’s papers.’ He turned towards the group of guards and curators. ‘In the meantime, you can all lie face down in the courtyard where we can keep an eye on you.’
As Schneider turned away towards his men, Huygue caught his arm to catch his attention, and the German wheeled round, eyes blazing.
‘Don’t touch me!’
Huygue took a step back, but maintained an external calm that Georgette was sure did not reflect how he felt inside. He said, ‘With the greatest of respect, sir, there is a sign out front provided to us by your own Kunstschutz, which forbids army personnel from entering the premises.’