‘They tried to extinguish our light!’ His voice was so powerful that some of the children, hitherto not that interested in the goings-on, started to whimper. The crowd took a collective breath in as he snatched another candle from the second boy. ‘They tried to break our spirit!’ Once more, the candle was dashed against the old stone wall of the church. The priest surveyed the faces of the crowd now and said, in more hushed tones, ‘They stole our True Cross.’
Fen looked around and saw that she was no longer the only person with a dampness to their eyes. This local priest had the oratory skill of Churchill, or Herr Hitler himself, and the crowd, with hands fluttering, tracing the sign of the cross, was putty in his hands.
He continued, ‘But they could never steal what is most important to us as Frenchmen and women. They could not steal our faith!’
An eruption of ‘Amen’ and more fluttering came at once from the crowd, as much an exhalation of released tension as anything.
The priest raised his hands, bringing them all to silence, and continued. ‘And, thanks to the ingenuity of our best men and the good townsfolk here in Morey-Fontaine, even with their despicable Weinführer, they did not steal our wine!’
The crowd burst into applause and cheers, and Fen noticed how the priest had gone from wearing a look appropriate to his fire-and-brimstone sermon to one of complete joviality.
He left the dais with the altar boys, who seemed not at all surprised that they no longer carried candles, and indicated to the crowd that they should disperse. ‘The good ladies have been cooking and carrying, go feast, go feast!’ he shouted into the mass of people, who cheered and started to move towards the back of the town square, where trestle tables held plates of pies, pâté and cheeses and flagons of what must have been wine and water.
‘Well, that was quite a show, good old Marchand.’ James was smirking, like a man who was in on a joke that no one else understood.
‘You mean it was all choreographed? The candle flinging and whatnot?’
‘Yes, got to keep the crowd happy.’
Fen looked up at James’s face and saw what she thought was pride. Could he have been in cahoots with this priest during the war? He seemed pretty chuffed with the whole spectacle.
‘James, tell me, what or who is a Weinführer?’
James looked down at Fen and thought for a second before replying. ‘The chap the Germans put in charge of stealing all the local wine.’
‘Stealing?’
‘Spoils of war.’
‘Gosh.’ Fen was amazed that such a position had been properly created and titled.
‘They had them in Champagne and Bordeaux too, I think. Possibly the Loire. A way of siphoning the best of France back to the German high command.’
‘But that’s terrible, it’s just stealing.’ Fen suddenly felt very protective of the local wine, having spent a day toiling in the vineyard.
‘Our chap, Heinrich Spatz, wasn’t as bad as some. He tried to requisition the château apparently, although the Bernards saw him off. Negotiated that he stay in Hubert’s family place the other side of the town so they could keep the cellars hidden at the big house.’
‘Like the people they spoke of last night who hid the entrance to their cellar behind a kitchen dresser?’
‘Sort of, yes.’
Fen shook her head in disbelief. ‘There’s so much I had no idea was happening out here. How did the Bernards manage to defy the Weinführer?’
James paused before he spoke. ‘From what I hear, once they’d convinced Hubert that he couldn’t just throttle him, Sophie volunteered to do the liaising. Feminine wiles and all that. Then they did the usuals.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, when I arrived it was all about rebottling the vin de table, disguised as Nuit St Georges just for him. And siphoning off the confiscated wine from the barrels at the station before they were shipped out.’ James chuckled to himself at the memory. ‘Nasty business though, nasty business.’ And then the steel was back in his eyes and he left Fen’s side and blended back into the crowd of locals, who were all pouring themselves drinks from the flagons and bottles on the tables.
‘How… interesting,’ Fen said to herself, noting that, apart from her failure to ask James anything about Arthur or if he knew him, he certainly was a mine of information and she congratulated herself for finally getting more than a few words out of him, even if they weren’t on the topic she was so desperate to find out about.
‘Come, sit down, sit down.’ Clément Bernard beckoned Fen over to his spot on the bench seat alongside one of the trestles that seemed to be defying the post-war austerity around them and was groaning with food.
‘It helps that the town’s fête coincides with the harvest,’ Sophie explained, as Fen obviously looked jaw-dropped at the spread. ‘It’s mostly peasant food, but there’s enough to go round. Come and join us.’
‘Thank you,’ Fen hoped her thanks conveyed more than her gratitude for the meal; she was grateful too for being so included by the family. That dastardly Hubert obviously hadn’t mentioned anything to them about their little showdown earlier.
‘They tell me you came to write about our church?’ Clément was engaging Fen in conversation and she felt obligated to answer him, albeit still with a lie.
‘Yes, although I’m not a proper journalist, just a hobby writer. I heard you had some lovely brass inscriptions around here.’ Fen didn’t enjoy lying through her teeth, but needs must.
‘Not in this church, I’m afraid,’ the voice was a new one and Fen found that the charismatic orator of a priest himself was now sitting next to her on the bench.
Up close, Fen saw that he was older than she had first thought, the lines sitting lightly, but definitely, on his brow. He was less tanned than the other villagers, and his frame was more slight than most of the men who worked in the vineyards and fields. He had dark, almost black hair, noticeable now his biretta was removed.
Once introductions had been made, he continued, ‘We are less known for our brasses and more for our bravery in these parts.’
‘I’m sure everyone did their bit.’ Fen wasn’t about to doubt the priest, especially after his bravado on the dais a few moments ago.
‘But, round here, we had many, many brave men – and women. Speaking of whom, where’s James? He hasn’t gone back to England yet, has he?’
Fen followed the conversation across the trestle as Clément shook his head, his mouth full of baguette and cheese.
‘He and the other Englishmen, the Baker Street Irregulars, they were marvellous. Astonishing bravery!’
Fen’s ears perked up at this latest revelation. Who were the Baker Street Irregulars? Her curiosity got the better of her.
‘I’m sorry, Father, I don’t mean to interrupt, but there were Londoners here? In the war?’
‘Londoners, Dubliners, Scots, Northerners, Southerners…’
‘But Baker Street…?’
Clément swallowed and washed it down with a sip of wine. ‘You’re confusing her, Father.’ He turned to Fen. ‘I don’t know how much you know, but your countrymen, and women, were sent over here in secret. Dropped in the middle of the night to help our Resistance network. They worked with us, sabotaging ammunition stores, communications, derailing trains, that sort of thing. I’m surprised a fluent speaker like yourself was never asked to join them.’
Fen was speechless. Her brain was working overtime. ‘So Captain Lancaster wasn’t an infantryman then? Who decided to stay here after it was all over?’
‘No.’ Clément laughed and Father Marchand continued the story instead.
Fen listened as she looked over to where James was sitting with some men, a few faces she recognised from the vineyards today, and, to his credit, blending in like a true native.
‘James was sent from Baker Street, the London headquarters, with a couple of others.’
‘Who?’ Fen interjected so quickly she sounded like an interrogator.
Lucki
ly, Father Marchand carried on with an explanation. ‘There was that marvellous Italian girl, wasn’t there?’
‘She wasn’t Italian, you fool, she was English!’
‘But her hair was so dark.’
‘A man of the cloth taking notice of a lady’s hair?’
Fen was a little taken aback at how forward Clément was with the priest – Mrs B certainly wouldn’t have spoken to Reverend Smallpiece like that – but she let the two men bicker as she processed the information. If Clément was to be believed, and why shouldn’t he be, a secret network of Allied operatives had been dropped into the area. But was Arthur one of them? Realisation flashed across Fen’s mind. Of course he must have been a secret agent. He was fluent in French, like her, his German had been more than passable too, thanks to his time in Berlin in the 1920s, and he was so clever with puzzles, plus his training had struck her as somewhat odd.
The War Office requisitioning country houses for accommodation was one thing, but now she thought about it, he never spoke of a certain regiment or barracks, only ‘the chaps back at the digs’. What had that secretary at the War Office said? He was listed as being part of the Air Ministry. A ministry that might deal specifically with parachuting agents into enemy territory!
‘Was there another Englishman with them?’ Fen blurted it out, not caring any more if her cover of being a mere church enthusiast was blown. These two old men looked like they were the sort to be able to keep a secret in any case.
‘Yes, young lady, there was.’ Father Marchand turned his attention to her properly now. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
At that moment the band started playing ‘La Marseillaise’ and Clément ushered the others around the trestle to their feet, hands clasped to their chests, singing the national anthem with true Gallic passion. As soon as the closing bars were finished, the musicians started on a folk tune and the benches around them emptied as townsfolk took to the middle of the square and started dancing.
Father Marchand’s question still hung in the air between them and all Fen could do was give a nod before she felt a hand at her elbow and James was beside her, encouraging her to dance with him.
‘Thought I should save you from the old double act over there,’ he said as he escorted her deep into the mass of dancers, who were waltzing, oddly enough, to a tune that Fen thought sounded more like a barn dance reel. James’s offer of a dance had surprised her to say the least, and though this was no chaotic Lindy Hop she was slightly reluctant to join the throng. This might be an opportune moment to quiz James on what he knows however, she thought and let him lead her into the pack and set the pace of their moves.
‘They were telling me about secret agents,’ she said, and felt the muscles in his arms tense as she said it.
‘Fanciful talk of old soldiers.’ James tried to laugh it off, but Fen shook her head.
‘I lost someone in the war.’ She decided some truth was needed if she were to gain James’s trust. ‘A very special someone. And we were crossword fans, you see, so he always said to me, if you can’t work out your ten across, then try and get your six and seven down. And I think I’ve just got my six down.’
James gave her that look again, then quietly said, ‘I lost someone special too. We all did.’
‘But we don’t all track them down to the village they laid clues for in their last letter home.’
‘Did he now? Setter was a bit of a rebel then.’
‘Setter? You mean Arthur, you know him?’
James was silent for a long time and if Fen hadn’t been so firmly held in his arms and in the middle of a crowd of dancers, she’d have shaken him for an answer. The suspense was killing her. Suddenly, James broke free from their coupling and disappeared through the dancers, leaving Fen to apologise to revellers as they waltzed into her. She dodged her way out of the melee but had lost sight of James completely.
‘How bloody rude. Again!’ Fen sighed and placed her hands on her hips. She had been tantalisingly close to finding out about Arthur. She knew James must have known him. Setter. As code names went, it wasn’t a bad one for a crossword enthusiast. Though she thought he might have chosen Star-crossed…
Left on her own, Fen glanced around to try and find a friendly face to talk to. The Place de L’Église itself was alight with candles and buzzing electric bulbs, and the light bounced off the glistening red faces of the dancing townsfolk. Fen spied Estelle in the mix with Pascal, and Hubert was dancing with a short, fat woman in a polka-dot dress. Fen didn’t fancy heading back into the fray without a partner so wandered off to one of the tables and sat on a bench, looking around her.
She caught sight of the priest, Father Marchand, still in his purple dress robes, as he exited the church, leaving the door slightly ajar. He didn’t come straight back to the festivities but scurried along the edge of the square until he stopped outside a decent-looking house, where he unlocked the door and slipped inside. Fen’s eye was then caught by a swish of fabric and she was a little surprised to see Sophie Bernard leave the church a few moments after Marchand. She was adjusting her collar and patting down the front of her dress, but unlike Marchand she headed straight back to the centre of the square and deep into the dancers. She had a smile for every local person she knew, a hand on their shoulder and a kiss hello to many.
Fen was intrigued watching Sophie do her ‘lady of the manor’ act. Had she just had a tryst with the priest in the church? The thought was scandalous, especially if she could turn her hand to greeting the townsfolk so quickly afterwards. Fen made a mental note to work out what she thought about it later, as right now her mind was still turning over as to why James had suddenly left her in the lurch. He hadn’t reappeared yet, so Fen decided she may as well eat something. She sat back down at one of the trestles and had just helped herself to a chunk of bread and some very runny cheese – a real treat when such a thing hadn’t been seen in England since before the war – when Estelle, flushed from dancing, plonked herself down next to her.
‘Pascal is a demon!’
‘Not sure you should say that at a saints’ day festival!’ Fen teased Estelle, who gave a shrill, excitable laugh.
‘Aiieee, they are the angels of death and we have seen so much death, they do not scare me!’ Estelle raised a clenched fist up at the church tower, then stopped laughing. She shook her head. ‘Can you imagine what life has been like for us?’
Fen took note of her sudden change of tone and knew now wasn’t the time to list her wartime hardships and losses too. She let Estelle continue.
‘You feel like you are a prisoner, not just in your own home, but in your own mind.’ She tapped her finger to her temple to illustrate, getting a few baguette crumbs in her hair as she did so. ‘You cannot walk around without being questioned, “What are you doing? Who are you seeing? Where are you going?” Eventually you start to question your own thoughts! “What can I say? Who can I trust?” It was hell.’
‘I’m so sorry, Estelle, I don’t think any of us in England really—’
‘Bof, why should you care? Would I care if the war wasn’t on my patch? I don’t know.’ Estelle bit into her cheese-covered bread and paused for a moment before continuing. ‘And for the Bernards, losing the sons was terrible, terrible. Clément is doing his best to hide it all, but it’s not the same here now.’
‘I’ve been hearing about the Weinführer.’ Fen was still aghast that a genuine role had been created within the German army to steal wine. ‘And that the Bernards were in danger of losing the château completely.’
‘Ha! Spatz!’ Estelle spat on the floor. ‘Well, if necessity is the father of invention than Spatz is the father of our inventive ways of hiding our wine.’ Estelle laughed and picked at her teeth for a while, seemingly deep in thought. Fen followed her gaze over to where the young children were playing under the candlelit plane trees. Estelle then turned back to look at Fen. ‘All’s fair in love and war, is that not your English Shakespeare?’
‘Yes,’ Fen
thought for a moment. ‘Speaking of love, how long have you and Pascal been courting?’
‘Forever it seems.’ Estelle huffed. ‘We found, what you might call a “mutual interest” in each other during the occupation,’ she smirked. ‘He was injured in the last war, he’s a great deal older than me, you know – he is over forty.’ She paused to make the point. ‘So he was unable to join the army, but that saved him, you know.’
‘And he’s the pharmacist here?’
‘Yes, nosy parker.’ There was a pause, then. ‘Tch, this is no good. I will have to talk to that dratted Marchand.’
‘The priest?’
‘Yes, yes, the priest. Fat lot of good he is, though, refusing to marry us. You know,’ Estelle was getting into her stride, ‘he said he didn’t believe that Pascal and I were marrying for the right reasons, can you believe it? The cheek of it! How is a celibate man to know what my reasons are!’
Fen wondered to herself, Not so celibate perhaps, but said nothing, instead mustering some sort of feeling for the Frenchwoman. ‘So you are to be married, congratulations, Estelle!’
‘Save your congratulations,’ she practically snorted back. ‘Until I have the ring on my finger. If Marchand doesn’t get round to it soon, I will have his guts for garters!’
Fen felt awkward. She’d liked the charismatic priest when she’d met him earlier in the evening and it struck her as odd that he should refuse to marry two perfectly legitimate people, especially after so much suffering had gone on during the war. It posed the obvious question, to Fen’s mind at least, of what he knew about them as a couple that Estelle wasn’t letting on?
‘Come on, ladies, join us!’ Fen’s thoughts were interrupted by Sophie, who pulled them both into the dancing. It was more of a Russian-style affair now, with rings of dancers skipping in ever-decreasing circles, the central couple spinning about, the dancers around them seeming to pulsate in and out like the beat of a giant heart.
A Dangerous Goodbye: An absolutely gripping historical mystery (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 1) Page 8