The next witness, Madame Rossi, went through much the same routine. Then the court adjourned for the weekend.
I couldn’t take any more. I stood up and pushed my way outside. All that spite. Why, goddamnit? Why were they all against her? As I wandered aimlessly around the city, I was feeling terrible. My legs were stiff and aching, I had a splitting headache. I was plagued with the worst hay fever I could ever remember, and my stomach felt as if a lump of lead were stuck there. All classic signs of tension, I knew. My fear had become a palpable pain in the gut.
After walking for an hour I found I was repeating the same phrase monotonously without even realizing it: ‘God help her, God help her.’ As night fell, I decided to walk back to the court and try to bribe my way into Sybilia’s cell again.
Chapter 83
Having tried unsuccessfully to see Sybilia again, I went back to my room and spent a frustrating evening going through my research into her background. I felt I knew her intimately. From her family and colleagues I had pieced together most of her past life. I understood what motivated her, I admired her, I loved her, but for the life of me I didn’t have any idea what had possessed her to shoot Xavier Rocca.
Yet I was sure that this was not the action of a woman temporarily deranged, as Quinel was pleading for want of a better defence. After fiddling around with my notes for a while, I packed them away. I was getting nowhere.
At midnight there was a loud knock on my door. Father Andrews stood outside, looking tired and dusty.
‘I could do with a drink,’ he said as he carried in a heavy suitcase and dumped it on the floor. ‘I’ve been wrestling with my conscience, not knowing what to do.’
He sat on the edge of the chair, looking uncomfortable.
‘As you surely know, the secrets of the confessional are sacrosanct, and I can never reveal them. But I can at least give you these papers, left in my care by Captain Robin Moore just before, the Battle of Corsica began. I swore not to hand them to anyone except him, but he never returned for them. Realizing that Sybilia’s life and liberty are at stake, I thought… I hope to God they help Sybilia in her hour of need.’
He wouldn’t stay long, and I didn’t try to keep him. I couldn’t wait to open the suitcase.
Inside were copies of reports detailing the day-to-day activities of Captain Moore while he was in Corsica. I didn’t know how much use they would be, but they did at least give me the name of his immediate superior in the war, Major Ronald Hartman. Perhaps he could supply some of the missing pieces.
It took me the best part of the weekend to locate the major, who was farming in the Scottish Highlands. I’d told him I was researching wartime intelligence, reasoning that I’d feel my way from then on.
I knocked on the front door of the beautiful stone farmhouse on Sunday evening. Hartman’s wife, Pamela, insisted that I stay for dinner. Hartman and I settled into a large room with a high-beamed roof and chintzy sort of furniture scattered among mohair rugs and stone pottery.
Ronald Hartman was still trim and athletic. His white hair was crew cut. His grey eyes were stern, and I gathered that he was still very wrapped up in the last war.
When I asked him about wartime intelligence and his own particular outfit, he scowled. ‘Can’t talk about that without another drink,’ he said, marching to the cabinet.
Pamela frowned.
‘Pamela doesn’t like me to talk about it… raises my blood pressure,’ he said. ‘My outfit was disbanded not long after it was created. Caused me a great deal of embarrassment. Most of the chaps we had dropped were my friends.’
After some prompting he told me about the pirate forces on the fringes of the many rival and warring intelligence services that mushroomed in World War II. Hartman was a founding member of the Special Air Service (SAS), by far the most celebrated of the array of ‘private armies’ that emerged during World War II. ‘Between you and me, it’s a bloody miracle any of us survived. When I think of the cock-ups we made, and the wrangling. Nowadays you remember heroism and forget the spite,’ he said. ‘There were so many groups in competition… hating the sight of each other, overlapping, guarding their secrets jealously… The British were the worst, I have to admit it.’ He laughed heartily.
Most wartime underground intelligence activity was controlled by the Baker Street-based Special Operations Executive (SOE), which ran French-and British-dropped agents in France. They were both disliked and distrusted by the British M16, which rivalled the SOE men. By far the most bitter rivalry, however, was between the SOE and General de Gaulle. The general claimed the right to control all agents and Resistance operations on French soil. To his bitter resentment, he was only allowed to drop his agents through British intelligence.
To add to this confusion, there were the Americans and their Office of Strategic Studies, run by General Donovan. He was infuriated by the reluctance of the British to see his American agents dropped into occupied France, and he had several head-on collisions with the British up to June 1944.
To get back at the British, the disgruntled Free French and the Americans got together on a few projects. The British weren’t too keen on this alliance, and it was abandoned soon afterward when an Anglo-American intelligence force was created.
I wanted to know more — but Hartman was getting reluctant to talk further. Eventually I came to the point artd admitted I was only interested in Corsican resistance.
He looked astonished. ‘Well, apart from the locals, Corsican Resistance happened to be a one-man band. We — that is, the French-American alliance — dropped him in, and then we were disbanded.’
‘So where did that leave this one man you mentioned.’
He glowered at his drink. ‘In the soup. Naturally! Fighting his own one-man war, and he was damn good at it.’
‘Your talking about Captain Robin Moore, I assume?’
He was taken by surprise. Then he grinned. ‘Lieutenant — not captain. He was a naval man. He was given the honorary title of captain purely for the Corsican drop. You see, he needed all the authority he could muster.’
Navy! Well, that figured. I realized why all my searches through military archives had drawn a blank. When he saw that I really only wanted to talk about Moore, he looked disappointed for a moment. Then he said, ‘You’re asking about a first-rate chap. Friend of mine, as a matter of fact, before he was killed. Missing in action — presumed dead, June 1944. Let’s have another drink. I’m going to need it. I don’t know about you.’
Pamela called us to dinner. It took all my persuasion through cocktails, dinner, and coffee to convince them that Hartman had a duty to testify at the trial. I left with a feeling of trepidation. Now Sybilia would learn that Robin was dead.
Chapter 84
It was the seventh day of the trial. I had returned to Ajaccio and spent the previous evening with Quinel. As I ran a gauntlet of photographers to gain access to the courtroom, I was remembering our conversation.
Quinel told me that the prosecution had called a string of villagers who testified that Sybilia and I had been seen together frequently in various domestic scenes, quite apart from her involvement in my dig. Sybilia’s new clothes and possessions, they argued, showed that I was paying for her services, and consequently the family honour was once again being questioned.
The prosecution has made a strong case,’ Quinel said. ‘But our turn is still to come. You’re our only chance, Dr Walters.’ He pointed toward Robin Moore’s bulky reports. ‘I spent most of the night going through these. It will help a great deal.’
As I took my place in the front row of the court, there was a loud hum of interest. Everyone stared my way. The babble of conversation ceased abruptly when the two doors at the side of the raised dais opened. We stood as the judges came in. Then the prisoner was led in.
Sybilia’s face was deathly pale, her eyes sunken with deep shadows underneath. Now that there was so little flesh on her face, her bone structure was more pronounced. She looked even lovelier, but
dead. A beautiful but lifeless statue, cold as marble.
I shivered and looked away.
Quinel stood up and faced the judges. ‘If it pleases you, Mr President, I shall open the defence case for Sybilia Rocca by calling my first witness, Major Ronald Hartman, now a farmer in the Scottish Highlands. Previously, Major Hartman was Captain Robin Moore’s immediate superior officer. He tells me that Captain Moore was posted missing in 1944. I have only just been given access to Captain Moore’s reports, which describe the actions of both himself and Sybilia Rocca during the war.’
There was a sharp cry, but not from the dock. It was Ursuline who had burst into tears. Jules put his arm around her. I glanced swiftly at Sybilia. There was no change in her expression.
The prosecutor jumped to his feet. ‘Mr President, I protest! What possible relevance can this evidence hold? After all, the man disappeared more than seventeen years ago. It can have no bearing on the crime.’
The president shook his head. ‘We must overrule your objection. The prosecution has been at great pains to describe to the court the character and reputation of the prisoner. The defence must have the same opportunity.’ He turned to Quinel. ‘Please continue.’
Quinel bowed slightly and waited as Major Hartman was led to the witness stand. He seemed strangely out of place in his World War II uniform, with all the medals for campaigns and bravery. His appearance and his British demeanor obviously impressed the court.
Tell the court your name, please.’
‘Major Ronald Hartman.’
‘And you are now a farmer in Scotland.’
That is correct.’
‘You must be a very busy man.’
Hartman nodded.
‘Why did you agree to fly over and testify at this court?’ ‘Friendship, perhaps, or a debt that was never fully repaid.'
‘A debt? Could you explain more fully to the court."Certainly. In that file, if you have time to go through it, you will find enough evidence to convince you that Sybilia Rocca should have received France’s highest award for bravery for her war work. That she was not awarded, or recognized publicly, is a matter of politics. Moore recommended the award, I sat on the file.’
'Would you explain the reason for your actions to the court?’
‘Certainly. I’m glad of the chance to do that.’
Major Hartman spent over an hour explaining the background to the Corsican operation and why the authorities had decided to play down the American-French intelligence liaison. In answer to Quinel’s prompting, Hartman described Sybilia’s precise duties in the war — of her bravery in returning to her post in Bastia in spite of the danger, and her heroism in not divulging information to the enemy, although she was subjected to the cruellest torture; how she returned to her duty as communications officer during the Battle of Corsica, though crippled and mentally scarred.
‘Scars she will carry for life, according to Moore’s report,’ Major Hartman said briskly in a matter-of-fact tone, which made his testimony all the more horrifying.
Quinel picked up one of the files and faced the judges. ‘Mr President, I beg the clemency of the court. There are various files here. One of them contains Robin Moore’s daily report sheets during the period he was operating in Corsica. Although they have only just come into my possession, I can see that here lie the answers to many of the accusations which have been levelled at Sybilia Rocca by the testimony of various witnesses. I would therefore request permission of the court to recall several witnesses whom I previously declined to question.’
‘Permission granted.’
‘Major Hartman, would you kindly return to your seat but remain available for later questioning.’ Quinel cleared his throat. ‘Mr President, gentlemen of the court, we would like to recall Antoine Romanetti.’
The shepherd looked tired and even a bit scared. It was hard to believe he was the same man who had charmed the Taitans with his singing in the cafe. He looked older and rougher, his hair stuck out like straw. With his overlong arms and his brutish jaw, he looked like a lout.
When the oath was read he looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet and twisted his hands while he gazed at his boots. He whispered an assent unwillingly.
‘Tell the court your name, please.’
‘Antoine Romanetti.’
‘And your occupation.’
‘Shepherd.’
‘What were you doing in the war?’
‘I joined the Resistance — naturally.’
‘Do you understand that I am going to ask you questions which will make you unpopular in Taita?’
‘I have always been unpopular in Taita,’ he said truculently.
‘Why is that?’
‘I’ve always been free: a free talker, a free thinker! They don’t like that in Taita. It’s Xavier Rocca’s stronghold.’ He looked up and then straightened himself as if a new thought struck him. ‘At least, it was. Now he’s dead.’
‘Exactly.’ Quinel looked sceptical. ‘But you haven’t been a free talker about everything, have you? There’s something you’ve kept secret. Why was that, Romanetti? Were you afraid?’
i don’t understand.’ From Romanetti’s manner it was clear that he was lying. He dropped his eyes, hesitated, and then shuffled his feet again.
‘I want you to think back to that terrible day in April 1943, when Michel was captured,’ Quinel pressed on relentlessly. ‘You were the only person who spoke to Michel before he raced down to the bridge at Poggio where he was taken by the Germans. Why did he go?’
Romanetti took out a grimy handkerchief to wipe his forehead. ‘He wanted to warn Angelo.’
‘Why Angelo? Why not his leader, Captain Moore, or Barnard, or the others who were killed there that evening?"Well, it was Angelo he… the two of them…’ His mouth trembled. ‘He loved Angelo instead of his wife, and the two of them made no secret of it.’
‘I see,’ Quinel commented dryly.
I glanced toward Maria, but she was staring stonily straight ahead.
‘Did everyone know about this unnatural affair?’
‘Oh, yes. They were always off in the woods together. They even held hands in public. Xavier Rocca didn’t say much, but we knew it was only a matter of time…’
‘Yes, a matter of time before what?’ Quinel asked sharply.
‘Well, I don’t exactly know.’
There was a long, pregnant silence, but Quinel decided not to pursue this point. Instead he said, ‘What did Michel say to you that evening?’
‘He said that he was suspicious of his father.’
‘Explain to the court, Monsieur Romanetti — what exactly was going on that day?’
Romanetti looked resigned, as if he'd been waiting a long time for this question. He licked his lips, and wiped his forehead again. When he began, his voice was cracked. ‘Sybilia had reported that there was a convoy of arms coming along the Poggio road, en route to Saint Florent. Later she found out it was a trap. Instead of arms, the trucks would contain crack troops with orders to annihilate the Resistance. She contacted headquarters and gave the message to Xavier Rocca. Rocca kept the news to himself. He wanted to see his two bete noires polished off in one neat operation, I suppose. At least that’s what Michel and I suspected.’
‘Just a minute,’ Quinel cut in sharply. ‘What are you talking about? Who were Rocca’s “bete noires”, as you call them?’
‘Captain Moore and Angelo Serra.’
‘Yes, that figures. Carry on, please.’
‘Rocca didn’t want Michel to be killed, so he invented the story of the parachute drop scheduled for that night and the secondary convoy that was to go to Cap Corse. Of course, that was to get Michel, himself, and his friends out of the way. Only Michel became suspicious.’
‘Why do you think that was?’ Quinel asked dryly.
As if anxious to get it over with now, Romanetti spoke faster, the words tumbling out. ‘Well, Rocca was too eager to take orders from Moore. He usually set up one hell of
an argument. Secondly, we hadn’t had a drop for some months. It seemed an odd coincidence — or so Michel thought. Besides, the weather was foggy.’
‘Go on,’ Quinel said softly.
‘Michel was angry. I remember that clearly. Normally he didn’t talk much, but he wanted me to take his place and go into the mountains — just in case the plane came.’
‘And did it?’
‘No, of course not. There wasn’t a plane. It was Rocca’s fabrication.’
‘So Rocca, not Moore, was mainly responsible for his son’s capture.’
‘Without a doubt he was responsible, but he spread the word that Captain Moore had wanted Michel out of the way. I knew better. I tell you, I never felt safe in Taita after that. I used to watch my back.’
‘And why do you think Sybiiia never told anyone?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve often wondered about that. I suppose it was to protect the family honour.’
‘Did you ever speak about this to anyone, other than Michel Rocca?’
‘After the ambush, Captain Robin Moore questioned me several times, and I told him all I knew. Moore said we must keep quiet about it. He said it was important not to damage Xavier Rocca, because he was the leader of most of the Resistance. Moore told me he would record the matter in his reports, but that no one in Corsica would ever find out.’
There was much more, but none of it was of any great importance after this disclosure. Romanetti looked exhausted as he stepped down from the witness stand.
The court was recessed for lunch.
Chapter 85
Major Hartman was recalled to the witness stand immediately after lunch. To a packed and emotional court, he told the story of Captain Moore, abandoned temporarily by his Allied commanders, fighting a lone battle to prevent the Corsicans from fighting each other, organizing raids for supplies, and keeping morale high, with Sybilia warning him of the pitfalls of clan loyalties.
‘So would it be true to say that Captain Moore made a few enemies during this period?’
The Corsican Woman Page 42