In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  Last group dot-and-dashing out. A pause, then ‘AR’ – end of message. And immediately from Sevenoaks ‘QSL’ – I acknowledge receipt – and ‘K’ – Out. Rosie switched off, disconnected the key and the headset, extracted the crystal: it went into a little bag, in her pocket, could be ditched in an emergency. She called, ‘Finished, Jacques. Unclip, roll the lead up?’ Neither wasting time nor taking risks you didn’t have to take: it was done, the thing now was to clear out, quick. Quickly through the trees unstringing the aerial wire, whipping it around a card on her way back to the gazo. Slotting it and the power-lead into the case: then the case back under her seat. Jacques was already on board, with his pipe between his teeth and a hand on the gear lever, waiting for her to shut the door.

  She did so. ‘Thanks. Great help, Jacques.’

  ‘Easy as that, eh?’

  She smiled: ‘Nothing to it.’

  ‘When you know how, I suppose…’

  * * *

  ‘Think what you’ve told them will result in bombing?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Ball’s in their court, we wait and see.’

  ‘How long, wait?’

  ‘I’ll be listening out for a message tonight and every night this week. Normally, I’d keep to a schedule of three nights a week.’

  ‘Going out at night to do this?’

  She reassured him: ‘From my room in your auberge. Won’t be transmitting, don’t worry-just listening, between midnight and one a.m. The transceiver’s in two parts, one for transmitting and one receiving, and I’ll take just the receiver bit in with me.’

  ‘And the person sending it from England knows you’ll be getting it?’

  ‘Yes. They know I’ll be listening on that wavelength.’

  ‘So you might hear tonight?’

  ‘Might. More likely tomorrow, I’d guess.’

  She was lighting a cigarette. They were back on the road now, heading for les Clérimois. She explained, ‘It won’t be solely an SOE decision. Much higher level. SOE present the facts and the proposal, top brass say yea or nay.’

  ‘But you’ve recommended bombing.’

  ‘What I told you, that’s all. What you and Colette have told me.’

  Sucking hard on his pipe: then turning his head to spit out of the window. Pipe bubbling audibly… He glanced at her, licking his lips. ‘Listen. Another thing Colette and I were asking ourselves. If the bombers come – factory’s smashed, also some houses, although please God not many casualties… Well – if it’s a few weeks before the Boches are driven out – or even if it’s less – it’s not unlikely there’ll be reprisals—’

  ‘Not necessarily. An air raid, after all—’

  ‘– and certainly investigations. You say “not necessarily”, but won’t they guess someone here called for the bombers – sent out word what was being produced here?’

  She thought, If someone had lit a bonfire…

  Jacques added challengingly, ‘How would families have been warned to leave their houses, otherwise?’

  ‘By Maquisards, surely.’ Maquisards would have lit the bonfire too: they were the answer to all of this. She asked him, ‘Wouldn’t it be? Colette and I were talking about it, she said so. Maquisards knocking on all the doors. In fact she was thinking others might help as well – saying they’d been ordered to – but I’d guess it might be better if no villagers knew anything at all until it happened. Not even your doctor or the priest. All right, the Boches may stage some sort of offensive against the Maquis afterwards—’

  ‘My belief is they’ll be nosing around us too, Justine. And what I set out to ask you is this: after the bombing, what do you do? Vanish? Have an airplane pick you up?’

  ‘Frankly, I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘So think now. This young woman shows up just before the bombing – total stranger, allegedly a relation of Colette’s – so the Craillots say. Then we have the bombing and – pouf, she’s gone again. How do they look at these damn Craillots then?’

  ‘It’s a good point.’ She nodded. ‘The answer is that Justine Quérier’s come to live with her cousins – needing a roof over her head, all that – and she’ll stay as long as they’ll have her. Bombing or no bombing. Speaking of airplane pick-ups though – when you were helping Lambert, was there a particular field around here you used?’

  ‘Little way south – near a place called Villechétive. He called it “Parnasse”. They dropped some weapons instructors off there for Guichard, the last time.’

  * * *

  They were back in the auberge well before six. Colette was in the kitchen, Madame Brissac had gone home. There were no customers in the place at that stage, but some were to be expected, apparently. Colette asked Rosie if she’d like to have supper rather early, before things got busy; supper would be fried trout with boiled potatoes and haricots verts. Rosie said she’d eat a supper like that at any time. Six thirty, then: Colette would have it with her, in the kitchen. She’d already set tables in the dining-room, there was nothing Rosie could help with. All of which was fine, she’d have time after the meal to do her sewing and get a few hours’ sleep before midnight, when she had to set radio listening-watch. She took the receiver upstairs and put it for the time being in the trunk that had the wedding-dress in it, and on the spur of the moment she took the Beretta, with a dip in it but not cocked, and pushed it under her mattress – for no reason other than the thought that it was pointless to have a pistol at all if you couldn’t get at it quickly. Then she had a wash and went down to keep Colette company until supper was ready. There were some men in the bar by this time; Jacques of course was barman. Rosie asked Colette if there was an alarm-clock she could borrow: she explained what for, Colette having assumed that she was concerned about waking up in time for their early appointment at the manor with Monsieur Henri. Whom she’d seen passing on his bike, she said, but he hadn’t stopped as he’d half said he might.

  ‘Got your message away, eh?’

  ‘Yes. And learnt a certain amount from Jacques, along the way. About the village and so forth.’

  ‘He likes to gabble away, my husband.’

  ‘Well, I was glad of it. I’m getting a feel of the place – beginning to. Not least, Colette, from my guided tour this morning. I must say, the manor’s situation’s lovely.’

  ‘It’s a fine house, too. The old patron didn’t stint himself, I’ll say that. As you’ll see for yourself… Look, you’ll find an alarm-clock in Yvette’s room. Even with it, that girl’s bad enough at waking for school. Solange manages to drag herself out all right, but Yvette – my God… Hers is the first room on the left – nearest to the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks. This trout’s delicious…’

  ‘What we still have to do is check you in at the gendarmerie.’

  ‘I know. I will.’

  ‘Do you expect to have a decision on the bombing over your radio tonight?’

  ‘Doubt it. More likely tomorrow, or the night after that. By the way – Jacques mentioned that you were worried I might just vanish somehow, after a bombing attack if there is one, so then you’d be under suspicion for having harboured me. But I won’t, I promise. As long as you can put up with me, I’ll stay. All right?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. Picking a fish-bone off her tongue… Nodding then: ‘Perfectly all right.’

  * * *

  No great enthusiasm: Rosie had expected at least some, if that really had been worrying them.

  Not a good idea to go into the woods with Jacques?

  See about a bike, for future trips. Ask Colette tomorrow. Weight off her mind, maybe. Although it might be only her continuing anxiety over the bombing threat. Which was entirely understandable: a credit to her in fact that she was steeling herself to go along with it at all.

  She did her sewing, making a cyanide-pill slot in one corner of each of two handkerchiefs, and, putting a few stitches in the hems of the two blouses, including the one she’d worn today. Replacing the capsule then in the cle
an blouse. Do some laundering tomorrow, probably. The second capsule was still in the silver lipstick holder, in Léonie’s bag: she unscrewed the cap and tipped it out, fitted it into the slot in one of the handkerchiefs. It would be secure enough, she thought; the capsules were made of hardened gelatine, not glass, wouldn’t break without being bitten quite hard. She got into her pyjamas – old blue ones Marilyn had brought – then went along to clean her teeth and brought the radio from the boxroom, put it under the foot of the bed. She’d already set Yvette’s alarm for a few minutes to twelve. She switched off the light, opened the curtains and pushed the window up. Draw the curtains again at transmission time; she’d need a light for it. It was a clear night, very still, starry sky, moon not risen yet. Much warmer than last night. Despite which she put Thérèse’s all-purpose jacket handy on the foot of the bed. It was about nine now, would be cooler by midnight and she’d need the window still at least a crack open, with the aerial-wire hanging out – in a loop, otherwise it wouldn’t clear the ground.

  Clock under the bedclothes, so as not to wake the Craillots. She slid into bed. Escape, now – concentrate on Ben. Who at this moment might be thinking about her? Lovingly, please God, happy in the knowledge she was alive. Lightly fingering the scar above her left breast, that bullet’s exit wound: acknowledging to herself that how he reacted to his first sight of it was going to be fairly crucial. She didn’t think the other scars would matter much, any more than the ones on her knees had, but this one might.

  Please God though, wouldn’t. Ben still being Ben?

  * * *

  Over ‘coffee’ in the kitchen just after six-thirty she told Colette no, nothing had come in from London. She hadn’t expected anything, had only listened out because her instructions via Marilyn had stipulated that she should. Although Marilyn had said there was intense concern at high levels over the V2 threat, there’d be other considerations too – the progress of the Allied armies, for one thing. If American spearhead units might be probing into this area within days rather than weeks, for instance; and if there was such close liaison with the Free French now, maybe they’d have a say in what was or was not bombed. Talking with Colette – who looked as if she hadn’t slept much – Rosie speculated that if there was such chaos on the roads – hundreds of heavy trucks being abandoned, et cetera – straffing from the air might stop anything much getting through to Germany: they might settle for that, leave this place alone… She’d checked the time: ‘Ought we to be starting?’

  ‘Oh, no rush. It’s ten minutes’ walk at most.’ Colette covered a yawn. ‘Although you’re right, he won’t want us to be late.’

  ‘Reminds me.’ Rosie put her mug down: the stuff was too hot to gulp yet. ‘Talking about walking – I was going to ask you whether there’s a bike I could borrow – I don’t mean now, but next time I have to go somewhere to transmit. Rather than be a burden on Jacques, is there one I could use?’

  ‘Mine, if you want. Or Yvette’s, while she’s away. But what about the radio?’

  ‘I’ve had that and a suitcase on bikes – dozens of times, with a carrier on the back and a basket in front. The transceiver’s in what looks like a small suitcase – I’ve passed through road-blocks often, never had to open it.’

  ‘If you had, you wouldn’t be here now?’

  She admitted, ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Better let Jacques take you. Quicker – safer.’

  ‘If he really doesn’t mind – and if you aren’t left with too much on your hands here—’

  ‘If either of us minded, we’d tell you… Listen, you could use Yvette’s bike now, we’d save some time.’

  * * *

  She’d wobbled a bit, starting off, but then was back in the way of it, no problem. Following Colette – past the butcher and boulangerie, which were on the same side of the road as the auberge, and with the manor’s wooded grounds behind a high wall on their left. Then the imposing gateway: stone pillars, iron gates standing open and the wall continuing westward. Colette dropped back, was beside her for a moment: ‘I’ll do the talking. There’ll be a sentry inside but they all know me.’

  Nothing coming: no traffic at all, nothing audible except the rattling of the bikes, tyres scrunching on the dirt edging to the road and then on gravel as Colette swung across and turned in, Rosie following. An elaborate ‘M’ for Marchéval was carved into each pillar, she noticed: seeing the guard-hut then, a black-painted shed with a helmeted Boche soldier in its open doorway. Colette shrieked, ‘Visiting Monsieur Marchéval, he’s expecting us!’

  Presumably he understood French. Staring at Rosie, now. She smiled politely, kept pedalling, glanced back and saw him still goofing – hadn’t said a word, or moved. The drive curved left, then right, then straightened, with a narrow view of the house ahead: pale stone, Colette had said it came from some local quarry. Rhododendrons and other shrubs edged the drive, trees towering behind them. Colette looked back, flapping her right arm: ‘Round that way…’ The view ahead widened: there was an oblong of grass – orchard-length, not lawn – with a flagpole set in concrete in the middle, the sand-coloured drive encircling it and extending right and left around both wings of the house. No flag on the pole. A small truck and she thought three cars were parked down there on the left, the side they were not going, and beyond the grass patch and the flagpole a soldier with a slung Schmeisser was patrolling the area in front of the main entrance – a wide flight of steps under a pillared stone canopy. There were several deep-set windows each side of that, and a couple more in each of the protruding wings. Above were towers and chimneys – a lot of chimneys, and rectangular towers, although in her view from the south yesterday she’d seen round ones with conical tops – as well as the chimneys, some of which were massive. Round towers on the south-facing frontage, square ones on this north side: and the central part of the house had a steeply ridged slate roof with dormer-type windows in it. It looked better from the south, she thought, less pretentious. But it was more château than manoir. Pedalling in Colette’s tracks, thinking what a pompous ass grandfather Marchéval must have been. That soldier had halted, was facing this way, watching them, but they weren’t going anywhere near him. Henri Marchéval’s entrance evidently being at the side, front door strictly for the Master Race; while the drive swept on around the protrusion of this west wing into a stable-yard the size of a couple of tennis courts, cobbled, the stables themselves a substantial, mostly two-storied L-shaped building bracketing it on that side and at the end. The dreaded Briards lived ‘above the stables’, she remembered Colette saying.

  Colette was dismounting, gliding up close to a porch sheltering the side-door. Rosie followed suit, propping her bike there too. Colette at the door by then with a hand up on the iron-ring knocker, looking round at her: then two thuds, on the solid oak – and immediately a man’s voice calling from inside: ‘Is that you, Colette?’

  ‘Yes, patron!’

  Sound of a bolt being pulled back: door opening inwards. It was still a few minutes short of seven, but he’d either been waiting at the door or maybe seen them from a window, hurried down to it… Framed in the opening doorway then: less old-looking than Rosie had expected. Less tall than his son, too – about five-eight, five-nine. Hair thin but still dark except around the edges, large brown eyes with dark pouches under them, sallow complexion. Eyes flickering to Rosie, back to Colette.

  ‘Come in. Come in. This must be—’

  ‘Justine Quérier, patron. Justine – Monsieur Henri Marchéval.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Mam’selle.’

  ‘For me too, M’sieur.’

  ‘You’re a cousin—’

  ‘Distant – by marriage. My brother—’

  ‘We can talk better sitting down. This way…’

  If you’d had to name it you might have called it a back-staircase hall, into which the door opened. A big room with a dining-table in it, stairs slanting up the opposite wall from right to left. Two doors in the left-hand wall: Monsieu
r Henri was guiding them towards the further one, which stood open. Wooden-soled shoes loud on the plank flooring. There was a door near the foot of the stairs too, leading she guessed into the main part of the house – verboten area, no doubt.

  ‘My petit salon. Servants inhabited this wing, before. Come in. This particular room was I believe the majordome’s private den. Pokey little hole – but there you are, beggars can’t be choosers. Sit down, please.’

  Colette said, ‘It’s not such a bad room, patron. And the day can’t be far off when the entire house will be yours again. Can’t happen too soon, huh?’

  ‘In there –’ pointing, to the room next door – ‘it’s even pokier. As Colette knows, I use it as an office.’ Rosie sat down, on a sofa; Colette did too, on the other end of it. Monsieur Henri, on the point of sitting facing them, hesitated… ‘Colette – speaking of the office – I wonder if I might have a word with you, in there?’

  ‘All right—’

  ‘Nothing to do with your interest in coming to work here, Mam’selle Quérier. Only a rather private and urgent matter I’ve been anxious to discuss with my old friend here.’

  ‘Perfectly all right.’

  ‘But in regard to that proposal – frankly, I have to admit that at this juncture it might be a little difficult. There’s a Madame Briard and her husband who both work here—’

  ‘Colette told me. What gave me the idea, in fact.’