Return to the Field

by Return to the Field (retail) (epub)

  Peucat muttered as he braked, drawing in close to a mounting-block, ‘The seigneur himself. We’ve kept him waiting.’ Rosie saw the count coming over to them: he’d been talking to an even taller character – who’d touched his cap and turned away up a spur of driveway that circled the far side of the house.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you, Peucat?’

  It was the passenger door he was opening, though. A big man: and strikingly good-looking, she thought. A face with humour as well as strength in it.

  ‘Mam’selle Tanguy. Enchanted. My sympathy too – I know this old dare-devil, it’s like travelling in a hearse, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was a very pleasant drive, Count.’ Her smile included the house as well as its owner. ‘Even more pleasant to arrive. Much better late than never.’

  ‘In any case you’re welcome. Come along in.’

  ‘If we are late, it’s my fault. I persuaded the doctor to stop while I sent off a signal. Guy Lannuzel’s requisition.’

  ‘Ah. Quick work. And I’ve got Jean-Paul Jaillon coming after lunch, you should get another – requisition, if that’s the word for it… Peucat – haven’t I done you a good turn?’

  The reference was to Rosie. Peucat looked at her too.

  ‘As a matter of fact – yes, you have. She’s delightful – as well as – what’s the word… Purposeful?’

  ‘What the doctor ordered, one might say.’ Ushering her into a stone-flagged hall. ‘I can see you’ve put new life in the old dog already. And you’ve been here only – what, two days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not finding it too bad, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all. The doctor’s most hospitable. And I have made quite a good start. Some way to go yet, of course.’

  ‘I’d be glad to hear something of your plans. To discuss joint plans, in fact, fairly soon… More immediate stuff we should try to get out of the way before Jaillon rolls up. Anyway I’ll take you up to meet my wife first.’ Another glance back. ‘She’s not good, Peucat. Really not at all. I brought her the stuff you wanted for her, and those white pills – ones she had before – do seem to help, but the new ones I haven’t given her yet. I don’t know the dosage, you see.’

  ‘I’ll attend to it. Don’t worry.’

  Sara de Seyssons was on a sofa in a boudoir adjoining her bedroom. Dark-haired, no grey in it, pale skin touched with rouge. A rather shapeless figure: dumpy, heavy-limbed in an exquisite, lace-trimmed negligée. A nice smile: round, brown eyes smiling too as Rosie crossed the room towards her – aware of her own shabbiness, in contrastingly elegant surroundings, and determinedly putting that out of mind as the chatter started.

  She hadn’t been downstairs, the countess told her, since the summer. She lived in this suite of rooms, here in the middle of the house, and her personal maid slept in a bedroom adjoining hers.

  ‘So I’m well looked after. But I’m a fair weather woman, nowadays. I need warmth, the sunshine. Like a butterfly – that’s a joke, eh, heaven knows what size wings I’d need! And what I’d do without Doctor Peucat – well, it’s unimaginable… How nice to have you visit me. I know only a very little of what you’re here for – enough not to make any demands on you in the way of nursing, eh?’

  ‘Anything I can do – errands, or—’

  ‘How kind you are. Sit down, please. I’d love to hear all about you – everything. One’s so shut out of things, so – isolated… May we have a few minutes to ourselves, Jules? I could see Doctor Peucat later on?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’ He checked the time. ‘Then we must lunch, before Jaillon comes. Peucat can give you his full attention then – you won’t want to be in on our deliberations with Jaillon, doctor, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He patted the countess’s hand. ‘I’ll be up to see you later.’

  Alone with Rosie, the countess wanted to hear all she could of the war’s progress from the Allies’ point of view, and then, to a large extent mixed with it, about Rosie herself. She couldn’t talk about her work, so it became entirely personal – her childhood in France, her father having been a lawyer with a practice in Monte Carlo – and her husband Johnny being shot down and killed in 1941. Ben of course came into it from there on.

  ‘Would you believe, I never met an Australian?’

  ‘Well – you’d like this one…’

  ‘I’m sure I would! My dear – when the Boches have been sent packing, will you bring him here to see me?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you, I’d love to.’

  ‘He’ll think it’s a dreadful bore. But if he could stand it—’

  ‘He’d love it. So would I.’

  ‘Tell him you’re bringing him to see the horses. He mightn’t object to that so much. And Jules loves to show them off… Will you be married by then, perhaps?’

  She hesitated. Then nodded. ‘Perhaps. Yes, I hope so. Once the war’s over – and if he’s still keen—’

  ‘But of course he will be!’

  Faith in another woman’s man. An idyll, the romantic certainty she might once have had for herself?

  It might have been an arranged marriage, of course. In fact with a father who took horsewhips to men who made advances to his daughters – recalling Peucat’s story – that didn’t seem unlikely.

  She thought, on her way down to lunch, that she might bring Ben here en route to visit Dr Peucat, then go on down to Pont Aven to have a riotous reunion with Lise and Noally.

  Her daydreams. Antidotes to nightmares…

  * * *

  An elderly manservant served lunch, which consisted of braised venison followed by cheese. There was wine too, a local one out of a cask in the cellar and brought up in a carafe; it was delicious, but needing a clear head she drank only one glass. The butler withdrew when the cheese was on the table, and Count Jules changed the subject from horses and agriculture to paradrops and ‘Mincemeat’.

  ‘There’s one thing I have to ask for, Count – in connection with “Mincemeat”…’

  ‘“Mincemeat”…’ Peucat looked surprised. ‘None of my business, I’m sure, but—’

  ‘You’re right, it is none of your business.’ Back to Rosie: ‘Go on?’

  ‘It’s a question of money. Our informer – “Micky” – d’you know—’

  ‘I know of the existence of an informer, that’s all.’

  ‘His code-name’s “Micky”. I met him yesterday, and I’ve had to promise him fifty thousand francs. The agent who recruited him – not one of my own people – well, he’s messed things up, rather, and Micky started off by telling me he didn’t want anything to do with us. And of course we’d be sunk without him.’

  ‘So this is a bribe.’

  ‘You could call it that. I used other persuasion too, but that’s part of it. Anyway – they told me in London you’d be financing all this. So although I’m afraid it’s rather a large amount, all in one go—’

  ‘I have that much in the safe. You can take it with you. You’ll tell them in London?’

  ‘In my signal this evening. But on the finance side generally—’

  ‘Living and working expenses? Yes – as agreed. I’ll settle with the doctor here myself, and keep accounts, give you a figure from time to time… But tell me – this “Micky” of yours – can we be sure he’ll play straight with us now?’

  ‘I believe so.’ She nodded. ‘Dealing directly with me, not through the agent I mentioned.’

  ‘And did you discuss “Mincemeat” with Lannuzel?’

  ‘Yes. He was surprised and not too keen, to start with, but he’s now enthusiastic. He hadn’t realized what an important target it was. He’s working out ways and means.’

  ‘He’s a very good man. A friend of mine was his commanding officer at one stage, and thought highly of him.’

  Peucat put in, ‘His sister Brigitte has her head screwed on pretty well, too.’

  ‘I must get him up here soon, anyway. That’s a useful occupation he has, you know – eggs, poultry, day-o
ld chicks, it takes him all over the place… Suzanne – apart from the money, is there anything else you need, that I might help with?’

  ‘Only one thing right away. Whether I should raise this with you or with Jaillon I’m not sure – the question of whether any of the Maquis groups would like to have weaponry instructors dropped to them. Lannuzel said no – he has trained men there already, he told me.’

  ‘I’ll look into it.’ The count nodded. ‘But ask Jaillon too.’

  * * *

  He was showing her round the stables, when Jaillon arrived. Rosie had paused to fondle the velvet nose of the count’s favourite brood mare; he told her, ‘She’s won a good few races, this one, in her time. Her sire came from Ireland – and my God, wasn’t he something!’

  ‘Germans buy your horses, I think the doctor said?’

  ‘Some. But most buyers are French.’

  ‘Still some who are rich enough, are there?’

  ‘Fortunately, there are indeed.’

  ‘Collaborators?’

  ‘A number – yes.’

  ‘Come here, do they?’

  ‘Well, they have to. I’ve had a Boche field-marshal here quite recently – and certain politicians – at least one of whom please God will hang, one day. Yes – you name it…’

  ‘Gestapo?’

  ‘They don’t advertise. That’s to say they come dressed as civilians. But – yes, on occasion. And whatever they are, one knows that in many cases the money’s stolen.’ He looked back at her, at her face pressed against the mare’s glossy neck. ‘I’m sorry. I give straight answers to straight questions. It disturbs you – doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘Well.’ He’d turned away, to light a cigar. ‘To allow oneself many scruples these days is a luxury one can hardly afford… Oh, at last – here’s Jaillon.’ He put his hand on her arm for a moment: ‘The most important thing, Suzanne, is to remain free. And alive, of course. Behind bars, or dead, what use is one?’

  Jaillon was brought to them by an extremely tall, thin man – the one Count Jules had been talking with when she and Peucat had arrived, she realized. His name was Vannier, and he was the gamekeeper. He’d been mentioned during lunch; as an active Résistant – as were all the estate workers, apparently, right down to stable-boys – and that he had a special value in that gamekeepers were licensed to be out and about at night, in curfew hours. With that and an intimate knowledge of every square metre of the surrounding countryside, he was the perfect link-man with all the Maquis for miles around. He didn’t stay, having delivered Jaillon, but obviously knew who Rosie was – or what she was here for. He shook her hand very firmly: ‘Great pleasure, Mam’selle.’

  ‘For me too.’

  Then Jaillon: ‘Name’s Jean-Paul, Mam’selle. Folks sometimes call me JPJ.’

  Of average height, bald, built like a bull. A long time ago – the count had told her this too at lunch – he’d been an NCO in the Foreign Legion; and she knew that he was now an agricultural merchant and road-haulier, based at Guerlesquin which was about fifteen kilometres northeast of Scrignac. Rosie told him, ‘We’ll need a better name for you than that. A code-name – to use in radio messages especially.’

  ‘Call me what you like.’ A wink at Count Jules. ‘I’ll have been called it before, if it’s rude enough!’

  ‘Pluto?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a nice one.’ He hung his tongue out, panted like a hound. Rosie had thought of it because she already had a Micky Mouse. Jaillon dropped the comedy act: ‘But getting down to business now, Mam’selle—?’

  ‘Zoé.’

  ‘Zoé. Code-name? Right, then… Zoé – M’sieur le Comte gave me to understand you’d organize a parachutage here within a matter of days – is that the case?’

  ‘Yes. If you can give me your list.’

  ‘Got it here. It’s a long one, I must warn you. Been a long time without. Also—’

  ‘Recruits flocking in, I suppose.’

  ‘Say that again. It’s a small army up there now. Makes for some problems, incidentally.’ Glancing at the count: ‘One or two I’d like to have your advice on, sir.’

  ‘All right.’

  Rosie cut in again: ‘D’you have a location for this drop, and the Michelin coordinates?’

  ‘All here.’ Delving in an inner pocket. ‘All here…’

  * * *

  In late afternoon she and Peucat drove back to Berrien, where instead of turning south he continued westward, through steeply undulating countryside towards one of the villages he’d mentioned earlier – a place called Kerberou. Halfway to it, though, they stopped so that she could get her second signal away to London; she’d encoded it before they’d started out.

  Returning to the gazo, having given Baker Street Jaillon’s shopping-list, the map coordinates and the message personnel – ‘A darkening sky presages rain’ – plus a request to transfer money to Count Jules’ London bank account – she remembered Lannuzel’s comment, ‘Often wondered who thought up that gibberish’…

  A more imaginative piece of gibberish locked in her memory was Le chapeau de Napoleon, est-il toujours à Perros-Guirrec? It would be broadcast at some time after the Allied landings, and would constitute an order to Résistants all over Brittany to come out fighting.

  She wondered whether she’d still be here, by then. It was highly unlikely there’d be any invasion on the Brittany coast; so even given quick success elsewhere nothing much would change immediately. Except for stepping-up sabotage of railways, roads and communications, to at least hinder the passage of reinforcements to wherever battles were in progress. That would be the basis of plans to be worked out shortly with Count Jules and Lannuzel and no doubt others too.

  ‘All right, Suzanne?’

  ‘Fine. London’s got plenty to be getting on with.’

  She slung the valise over into the back as she got in beside him. It had le Guen’s cash in it as well as the transceiver. And in her mind, further thoughts about the Boche radio-detection effort: that they’d now have intercepted a second signal from the same new pianist, on as near as damnit the same bearing. Wires would be humming, alerting security forces probably all over Brittany.

  Or if they’d achieved a cross-bearing – they’d only have needed one detector van somewhere within say ten or twelve kilometres, getting a second bearing to intersect the long-range one – the danger would be a lot closer.

  ‘Cigarette, doctor?’

  ‘Just knocked out a pipe, thanks.’

  She lit a Gaullois: with another unwelcome thought forcing its way in. ‘Hector’ – if he’d told them either voluntarily or under duress that a girl agent code-named ‘Zoe’ had been due to land at the Soucelles field and to travel as far as Rennes – if he’d known that code-name – and a new pianist had now started work somewhere west of Rennes… If they’d got even a rough fix on this second transmission – plus recognition of the pianist’s fist, and possibly a photograph…

  No reason to think he would have been given her codename.

  Exhaling a gush of smoke. She asked Peucat, ‘How did you find your patient?’

  ‘Sara de Seyssons…’He sighed, gestured helplessly. ‘No appreciable change. More’s the pity.’

  ‘Is she as unhappy as she has every right to be?’

  He set the gazo rolling.

  ‘I can’t answer that. All I can say is she’s a woman who suffers a great deal of pain. I’d say her mind is fully occupied with her hopes of getting over it, getting to lead a normal life again. Getting about again. Suzanne, please forget that I ever mentioned that other matter.’

  ‘All right. But was she ever – pretty, or attractive?’

  ‘You mean you’d have expected him to have married a great beauty.’

  ‘Well – nice as she is – and I do mean that—’

  ‘Yes. What should I say… First of all – as you’ll have heard before – beauty is in the beholder’s eye. But also – she’s a woman of integrity, cour
age, undoubtedly a certain charm—’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘—and great wealth. An establishment like that one doesn’t run on smoke, you know.’

  ‘So he – Count Jules—’

  ‘He’s a product of his own age and background. And, she loves him. Listen – at Kerberou we’ll turn south. It’ll bring us down to Loqueffret – remember we came through there?’

  * * *

  Quinoualch, then Kerberou: left there, for Brennilis, Kerflaconnier, Loqueffret… Peucat drove in silence, Rosie relaxing, taking stock…

  She had met all the main players now, and achieved her initial aims. In two days, for Pete’s sake: it really wasn’t bad. The two drops were laid on – subject to confirmation and dates from Baker Street – some degree of rapport established with Lannuzel, Count Jules and Jaillon, Lannuzel at work getting his team organized for the Trevarez operation, and le Guen set to pass the news out when he saw or heard it.

  This evening, she’d wash her hair. Get a few other chores out of the way too maybe. Then of course set listening-watch in the attic at midnight. If Baker Street were really on the ball, they might even come up with some delivery dates.

  Chapter 8

  François le Guen woke sluggishly with Marie-Claude’s voice urgent in his ears: ‘Papa, wake up! At the front, front door – Germans, shouting and banging—’

  ‘What?’

  He’d been in a very deep sleep: having spent a couple of hours not sleeping, tossing and turning… Blinking at his daughter as she switched his bedside lamp on: ‘What’s time?’