The Germans would see to that.
Two points arose from this: the first was that the passenger traffic was much less important to the authorities than the goods traffic. The makeup of the trains demonstrated it. There were twice as many goods trucks and carriages for the transport of horses and cattle, as there were passenger coaches.
A second point stemmed from it.
Any train which did not fit the pattern must be regarded with suspicion. He had evidence now of two such irregularities. The night service recorded by Gérard Gentilhomme, and the mysterious evening train, noted by his wife, and confirmed by Michel Mont.
In both cases the movement was from east to west.
On one occasion Mont had actually managed to see the mysterious six o’clock train. He had been working in one of the fields by the line as it went past.
‘Speeding,’ he had said, ‘but not too fast for me to observe one thing: all the carriage windows on the side I was looking at were shuttered, or covered in some way. Unusual, you will agree.’
Thoughts about this had passed through Luke’s mind when he was on his way back to the railway. Having time in hand he had sat down in the lee of a haystack. At this point the sun had combined with his early rising and his busy morning to induce sleep, from which he had only woken just in time to trot to the station and catch the two o’clock train to Hirson.
This was an important junction with lines running north to Brussels and south to Reims. It had been difficult to find a farm, but essential to do so if the line was to be properly covered.
His first choice, near Sainte-Nichole, he had been forced to reject, since it lay north of the railway and to use it would be treading on the toes of the White Lady. Instead, he had fallen back on a small, rather untidy farmhouse off the Vervins road.
The farmer, Antoine Truffaut, was friendly enough, but gave the impression of being too volatile to make a successful conspirator. His moods alternated between sunny optimism and damp grey pessimism.
On this occasion, although he produced an account of his observations which confirmed those of Gentilhomme and Mont, he was clearly a worried man.
He said to Luke, ‘I must advise you to be very careful. Recently the Germans have installed a number of watchers of their own.’
‘What are they supposed to watch?’
‘Their duty, one assumes, is to spot the train-spotters and eliminate them.’
The thought of being eliminated did not seem to trouble Truffaut unduly. Like the other established watchers he had constructed a hidden approach route from his farm to the railway. Luke, who had inspected all such routes, considered that his was one of the most perfect. It had been constructed two years before, and was now so overgrown that a man could use it without exposing any part of himself until he peered up, through an almost impenetrable tangle of thorn and grass, at the track above his head. At one point, where it crossed the D33, it actually descended into a tunnel.
Yes. Truffaut was safe enough. Unless someone denounced him. It was to avoid this ever-present possibility that the watchers had been urged to talk to no one about their work.
Truffaut said, ‘Indeed, we have often been told not to have anything to do with your other watchers. It was sound advice. But it makes me all the more uneasy about what has happened at Dolevant.’
This was a hamlet south-east of Charleville-Mézières, and it was, on this occasion, Luke’s fourth and final port of call.
‘Tell me about it,’ he said.
‘It was a family matter, you understand. I hesitate to speak ill of any of the persons involved. Hugo Héricault was a second cousin of mine. What you call a cousin once removed, yes?’
‘I’ve never been quite clear myself about second cousins,’ Luke admitted. ‘But I note that you say “he was”. I saw him some two months ago when I visited that part of the line last. Are you telling me that something has happened to him?’
‘Poor Hugo. Yes. He died of a thundering apoplexy some weeks ago. That was just after your last visit. Speak no ill of the dead, but I fear that much of the thunder was self-induced. Hugo was a formidable drinker.’
He had looked healthy enough, thought Luke. But with red-faced men with high blood pressure you never could tell.
He said, sympathetically, ‘He was a good man.’
‘An excellent man. I only wish I could say the same truthfully of the one who inherited his farm. Again, a second cousin.’
Luke was well aware of the unexpected results which flowed from the complex and irrefrangible French laws of inheritance.
Where land was concerned, it was not possible for a testator to will it away to a stranger. It had to pass to his legal heir or heirs. These could be traced backwards for several generations if necessary and the result could be that the property came into the hands of an extremely distant relative, of whom no one had heard, or, even worse, it might prove necessary to divide it among half-a-dozen persons of equal entitlement. It was this that had split up many of the fine vineyards of the Médoc into uncommercial sub-estates.
In this case, the rules of inheritance had produced François Delavigne, a man from the Midi. The question that was worrying Luke was whether, along with the farm, he had inherited the duties of line watching.
It appeared now that he had. And the dangers which sprang from such an irregular proceeding were only too apparent.
On all previous occasions, a watcher had been briefed only after enquiries as to his character and an estimate of his abilities. Luke’s early choices had proved successful, and had been carefully isolated from any contact with each other.
Moreover, when he left the train, even if it meant a detour of some kilometres into the countryside, he took the greatest care that his approach to the selected farm was unobserved. The last thing he wanted was that any link should be established between the commercial traveller on the train and farms in the countryside. Up to date he had been, as far as he knew, successful.
Gérard Gentilhomme was a loner, and had no evident connection with any of his neighbours. Michel Mont, though more sociable, was an experienced operator who knew how to guard his tongue. Also, as carefully as he had organised his own approach to the railway, so had he laid down Luke’s route to his farm. His instructions were precise, and Luke was happy to follow them.
Certain houses were to be avoided. Tittle-tattlers and tale-bearers. The open fields to the west of the farm could be under observation from the ridge behind, and should also be avoided. There was a useful line of trees and bushes which masked the final approach.
All this care, and now fate had stepped in to make available to the Germans a possible weak link in the chain.
It was not that he suspected Delavigne of actual treachery, he had no reason to do so, but if, being inexperienced, he made careless mistakes, the Germans would soon extract from him, by their own brutal methods, his connection with Truffaut.
One link established, might more follow?
A simple method of avoiding such a catastrophe would be for him not to visit the fourth watching post at all. To cut it out of the system. To leave it in the cold. If no one visited Delavigne to collect and pay him for his reports he would soon give up what must seem a profitless task.
Or would he take offence, and reveal the whole thing to the Germans out of spite?
One consideration stopped Luke from indulging in immediate surgery: it was that he had a guilty conscience about old Hugo Héricault. He had been such a willing collaborator, so keen to help in the struggle against the hated invaders. And Luke was conscious that he had not only neglected him, but had let him die without a word of praise for his efforts.
There had been a tactical reason for this neglect. The east-west line was of real importance only as far as Hirson. Here the branch line from the north could bring down to it troop trains from the Cologne–Aachen–Namur line. From it trains could go south to the many established concentration areas behind Verdun. How much Papa Joffre would have given for a watcher on that line!<
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In contrast to these exciting possibilities, the line beyond Hirson became of less and less importance as it ran south-east into the wild country of the Ardennes.
In the last two months, therefore, his visits had been confined to the watches on the spur lines. Unfortunately, their reports had been sketchy and inconclusive. It was true that the normal traffic on those lines was heavy and irregular. It was possible that troop trains had, in fact, passed, moving from north to south. But the reports so far received lacked detail, and in no instance did they reflect the result of night watching. No Gérard Gentilhommes here! Might it be necessary to recruit different and keener observers?
If that proved necessary, could he not make use of a final visit to the Dolevant post, to thank, pay and sign off its incumbent?
Luke was full of these thoughts and speculations as the train trundled on its way, past the marshalling yards of Charleville-Mézières and out into the wilder country beyond.
This was the longest leg of his journey, but Luke did not regret it, since every kilometre brought him that much closer to the destination he had planned when working out his escape route.
At Longuyon he left the train, along with a number of men who were acting as nervous chaperones to a couple of high-spirited mares. Luke, who was fond of horses, would much have liked to lend a hand in the contest which raged up and down the platform, but was forced to reject the impulse, which would have drawn unwanted attention to his presence. When he reached the exit he had not even to show his ticket, since the collector, who had grabbed and was clinging on desperately to the bridle of one of the mares, had no attention to spare for him. All the better, thought Luke, as he slipped away, using the minor road that ran alongside the track avoiding the town altogether. The farm he was making for lay to the east of Dolevant, and could be approached, after a detour, through woodland from the south-east.
In the short time since its previous owner died, the place had deteriorated. Hugo Héricault might have been getting on in years, and over-addicted to the bottle, but he had still been active enough to keep his garden in the trim that the French approved, with mown grass and weeded flower beds, and the sort of neatly arranged potager that a careful householder cherished.
Now, encouraged by an unseasonably warm autumn and winter, weeds were springing up everywhere.
Meeting Delavigne for the first time he understood why he would not have inspired immediate confidence among his new neighbours. He had the sagging white face of a man who took little exercise except with a knife and fork. There were deep pouches under his eyes, and his mouth had descended into a look of permanent discontent.
However, he greeted Luke cordially enough, ushered him into the front parlour and, as soon as he had got him seated, offered him a generous glass of the local pineau. This was very welcome to Luke after his hard day of travelling, walking and talking, and he found his opinion of Delavigne improving slightly.
The household, Luke gathered, consisted of him, his wife and a man who did odd jobs round the place. Luke could hear Madame Delavigne in the kitchen at the other end of the passage, scolding her assistant in waspish tones. Might part of his host’s settled discontent be attributed to being married to a shrew?
The records which he produced were almost entirely lacking in the sort of detail that his other three watchers had supplied. The regular two-hour service was there, but no mention of the mysterious evening train. Why had it been left out?
He said, ‘You saw no train pass at about half past five or six o’clock in the evening?’
‘There were no trains other than the ones I have noted down.’
‘But I imagine you would have been watching the line at this time.’
‘I watch it through all the hours of daylight as I work in the fields.’
‘Surely,’ said Luke with a smile, ‘you would have returned to the house for your meals.’
‘Yes. I couldn’t ask my wife to serve me in the field. But I only came back to the house when I knew that no trains were due.’
This did not seem to Luke to be an entirely logical piece of reasoning, but he could see no object in pursuing it. Instead he said, ‘You speak of maintaining observation from the field. Do you not, then, use the excellent observation post established by your predecessor?’
‘You mean, do I crawl down the hole and along the runway he scratched out? I answer that by saying that I am neither a rat nor a rabbit.’
This was unfair to old Héricault who had constructed an excellent line of approach. It started from an inconspicuous trapdoor in the floor of his garden house and continued in a trench of comfortable depth, of which the lips were masked by a thick shield of undergrowth. It emerged at the other end at the foot of the railway embankment. This, although it blocked the view in front, gave good observation to the left of the approach or departure of trains. The station was a short distance to the right, near enough for an observer, after ascending the embankment cautiously, to see what was going on.
So why had Delavigne made no use of it?
There were two possible answers: either he had undertaken his duties unwillingly, and carried them out in the most perfunctory way, confining his reports to what he could deduce from a study of the timetable. Or they might be the honest result of a careful daily watch from his fields, since, as Luke realised, the omission of the six o’clock train could be accounted for easily enough. It might not pass his way at all. In fact, if it was a troop train, it was more likely that it came down to Hirson from its northern spur-line before switching west to Lille or south to Verdun.
So that might, or might not, be the explanation. It was at moments like these that Luke felt the lack of someone to discuss the matter with. He would have given a lot to have had Joe Narrabone at his side.
Joe had been his friend at the village school, though their reputations had differed widely, it being generally accepted that Luke was the best and Joe the worst boy in the place. He had joined the Metropolitan Police with him and they had worked together until Joe had lost a leg as the result of an anarchist explosion. This had meant his departure from the police, who were swathed in red tape and worried about the insurance and pension results of maintaining a cripple on their books. This had not troubled the Intelligence Corps at all. They were perfectly willing to accept a recruit with one leg. Indeed, Sir Mansfield Cumming, who headed the Secret Service, had continued with conspicuous success after losing a foot in one of the accidents brought about by the enthusiastic and unskilful driving of Intelligence Service recruits.
If he could have had Joe by his side he would not have felt so oppressed by the house and its inmates. His instinct, if not his reason, told him that there was something badly wrong about it. His host was extending himself to be friendly, but was clearly on edge. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen, and uneasy about the prospect.
If Luke had been more experienced he might have realised how thin was the ice on which he was treading.
It was at this moment that he heard the voice of Madame Delavigne raised in muted anger; a curious sound, as though she wished to shout, but had been ordered by her husband not to make any undue noise.
What could her assistant have done to upset her? Smashed a treasured serving dish perhaps? Whatever it was he was receiving the lash of her tongue, quieter now, but even more vicious. Oddly enough, this seemed to be worrying her husband, too. He got to his feet and moved towards the door, as though he would like to go along to the kitchen and interfere.
Something prompted Luke to get up and follow him.
By the time he got there, Delavigne had the door half open and was standing in front of it in such a way that it would have been impossible for Luke to pass him. However, being the taller man, he had a view over his shoulder.
Whilst he watched, the kitchen door at the far end of the passage swung open and a man scuttled out. As he came closer, a slant of light from the passage window brought his face fully into view.
Recognit
ion was immediate, and mutual.
Lance-Corporal Terence Mungeam of the Sixth Royal East Anglian Regiment.
The shock sent a surge of adrenaline through Luke’s whole system. It cleared his head. Made him faster and more dangerous.
Only employ this particular blow, the instructor had told them, if you mean to kill. Swing one of your hands, held quite rigid, and aim it at the base of the throat.
Delavigne had managed to get the door shut, but to do so he had to turn half round. The edge of Luke’s hand hit him full in the centre of the throat and Luke heard the crack as the sound box fractured. Then Delavigne was lying crumpled on the floor beside him.
A clatter of feet in the passage signalled a clear message. Mungeam had recognised him and was running for help. The slamming of the front door added a full stop to the message.
Luke ignored the huddled and motionless heap on the floor beside him and stepped across to the window, which opened inwards and gave him access to the back garden.
He felt curiously calm, and knew exactly what he had to do.
He moved across the unkempt lawn, making as little noise as possible. His immediate concern was madame, in the kitchen, but he could hear the comfortable sound of pans clashing. Having ousted her unwanted assistant she was getting on with the important business of preparing the evening meal.
On his knees, in the garden house, beside the concealed trapdoor, Luke was counting his chances.
Everything depended on whether Delavigne had shown this hidden approach route to the railway, of which he had been so scornful, to his wife or to Mungeam. To his wife, probably not: to Mungeam, possibly, though there was no real reason he should have done so. The odds, he reckoned, were slightly in his favour.
There was another thing in his favour also: unlike the burrows of Gentilhomme, Mont and Truffaut, this one had been constructed with some consideration for the infirmity of an ageing man, which meant that if Luke used it carefully he could get through without damaging or dirtying his clothes—
Very important that. So take it slowly.
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