The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Her father sat up, his eyes blazing exactly like his daughter’s. ‘That can’t possibly be true. You’re exaggerating, surely.’

  ‘No.’ Frances shook her head. ‘It’s all true, every word, and I refuse to let you destroy Hugo’s inheritance.’

  They glared at each other, but John Parnell knew he’d lost and dropped his head. ‘I’m in deep, my dear,’ he confessed, ‘and I don’t know what to do. It’s breaking my heart.’

  His pathetic confession made her fury melt away and she realised that he was a frightened man. Years of juggling a diminishing income had almost broken him, and added to that had been her own ‘disgrace’ and then Hugo’s incarceration. Her mother leaving, which should have been in many ways a relief, seemed to have been the last straw. He was exposed and open to predators.

  ‘Alright, Pa,’ Frances said with a sigh. ‘I’m here now. I’ll think of something.’

  Rather than being depressed, she was invigorated by solving the problems of the estate, and the next day, she drove to the town to speak to Fred Stone, the builder. She told him some of the events, only saying that her father had been persuaded to call in builders from somewhere else and that they’d let him down. ‘I would be grateful if you could come and look as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘We will pay, of course.’

  All the way home, she prayed that her share of the money they’d found in Captain Fortescue’s suitcase would be enough.

  Going in through the kitchen, she found Maggie plucking a brace of pheasants. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you back, m’lady,’ she said. ‘There were times when I thought you wouldn’t have a home to come to. That blasted man, walked around here as though he owned the place. And them builders? They’ve never built anything in their lives.’ She put the birds on the table and, taking a bit of string from her apron pocket, tied them up securely, ready for the oven. Frances, who had poured boiling water into the teapot and put two kitchen cups on the table, sat down opposite Maggie.

  ‘I know that my father has sold the Meissen,’ she said, ‘and got into some dodgy deal over the roof, but I think he’s holding something back. Have you any idea what it can be?’

  Maggie got up to singe the last of the feathers from the birds over the open flame of the gas cooker and then came back to sit down. ‘It’s not the paintings,’ she said. ‘I’ve looked there every day, because I know that Mr Costigan is interested in them, and the Waterford and Royal Worcester are safe in the plate room.’ She frowned, sipping at the tea that Frances had poured, then looked up. ‘Jethro Western said he saw his lordship walking the grounds with Mr Costigan. They were pointing to Sparrow Wood and all along towards the river. You don’t suppose he’s sold some land?’

  ‘If he has,’ Frances said furiously, her recent compassion for her father curdling in her stomach. ‘I’ll bloody well kill him.’

  At the same time that Frances was threatening to kill her father, Catherine was walking into the Savoy Grill. The maître d’ welcomed her with an excited smile. ‘Madame Fletcher,’ he said, taking her coat. ‘Such a long time since you were here. It must be over a year.’

  ‘Two, I think, monsieur, but it’s so kind of you to remember me.’

  ‘Who could ever forget that beautiful voice? Now, may I show you to a table?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she smiled, looking round the packed restaurant. ‘I’m joining someone … Oh, here he is.’

  Robert, looking extraordinarily smart, had come to meet her. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and, taking her hand, led her, followed by the maître d’, to the table he’d reserved. ‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ he said, when they sat down.

  ‘What, with this black eye?’ she laughed.

  ‘I would say yellow now, rather than black.’ He looked up to the maître d’, who was hovering. ‘Miss Fletcher was blown up in France last week,’ he said. ‘At the front.’

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ he exclaimed, and then bowing, said, ‘In that case, champagne perhaps? On the house, of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Robert, and after the man had gone, repeated, ‘You really are lovely.’

  ‘It’s because I’m not wearing uniform,’ she smiled, taking off her calf-leather gloves. ‘Actually, I feel quite naked without it.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Robert whispered. ‘I might lose control.’

  She put her hand across the table so that it was touching his. ‘When can we be together again?’

  ‘I don’t know. Soon, though.’

  The champagne arrived and was poured with an extravagant flourish. Other guests looked on, rather enviously, Catherine thought, and she was embarrassed. An officer at a nearby table got up and came over. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Miss Fletcher, I saw you sing in France a few weeks ago. I must tell you how much your show was appreciated. It was a real boost.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Catherine smiled. ‘That is so very kind of you.’

  He left then, going back to his companion, while Robert lifted his glass and drained it. ‘Is this how my life is to be from now on?’ he grinned. ‘Champagne and adoring fans following us around.’

  ‘I hope not.’ Catherine gave an embarrassed shake of her head, and then she said, ‘Robert, you said you had something to tell me. What is it?’

  ‘Should we order first?’ His smile had disappeared.

  ‘No. Tell me. Is it about Christopher?’

  ‘Yes, it is, but not conclusive news, I’m afraid. We’ve confirmed that he was captured by the Gestapo, as I told you months ago. He was taken to the prison in Amiens where they held many Resistance fighters and Allied agents.’ He looked down at the stiff white tablecloth. He was drawing lines on it with his fork. ‘The prison was bombed.’

  ‘Bombed?’ Catherine whispered. ‘By the Germans?’

  ‘No.’ Robert shook his head. ‘We bombed it. It was a special task, precision bombing, to make a breach in the wall so that the prisoners could escape. Many did.’

  ‘Christopher?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Over a hundred prisoners were killed, and many more injured. We have lists of names of the dead and injured and of the escapees, many of whom were recaptured, but your husband’s name is not on any of them.’

  ‘Maybe he was in a different prison.’

  ‘No, he was there. Some men who were there confirmed it. We think he may be buried under the rubble.’

  Catherine opened her handbag and took out a lace-edged handkerchief. I’m going to cry, she thought, here in the Savoy Grill, in front of everyone. Why did he decide to meet me here to tell me? That was cruel. But the tears didn’t come, and instead she stared at him with narrowed, angry eyes.

  Robert grabbed her hand. ‘Listen to me, Catherine. Whatever happened to your husband happened quickly. Other prisoners endured weeks of torture and he was only there for a couple of days. There was a chance that he and others could escape, and that was why we tried. He was one of the unlucky ones.’

  She didn’t know what to say. Was Robert trying to explain to her in the kindest way that death had been Christopher’s best option? That was too horrible to contemplate and she sat in silence, her stomach churning, while all around her people laughed and clinked glasses and forgot that there was a war on.

  When the waiter came, she ordered a fillet of fish, knowing that when it was served, she probably wouldn’t be able to eat it. Too many dreadful images were piling into her brain and she needed time to understand them.

  Robert ordered the fish too, and while they waited, he looked at her. She was wearing a dark blue woollen dress that had jet beading on the collar, and a small black pillbox hat. Unlike the other women diners, her hair was not rolled and arranged in the current fashion but was left to hang, shoulder length, in soft waves. She looked entirely natural and entirely French, and when she finally spoke, he once again heard the slight accent that had become so dear to him.

  ‘I’m no further on, am I?’ she said. ‘My husband is still missing in action.’


  ‘If he was alive,’ Robert said gently, ‘I’m sure we would have heard.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, when the fish arrived, two small fillets with a tablespoon of sauce, ‘I still have so many questions. First, why were you so keen to get me to France? It was as if I was bait for something.’ As the words dropped out of her mouth, she realised that it was exactly that. He’d wanted to see if anyone contacted her. Christopher, perhaps? Her hand went to her mouth as the fish refused to go down and she thought she was going to choke.

  She swallowed and then pushed her plate away. ‘You believed that Christopher was a traitor,’ she whispered. ‘That he was the one giving the Germans information.’ Robert opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. ‘Please, Robert, don’t lie to me. I’ve told you before, I’m not a fool.’

  ‘I won’t lie,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit some of us wondered. He was always about when operations were blown, but he was never caught. We sent him to your grandparents’ farm to see what would happen. We had someone in place to rescue them if he betrayed them. Sadly, the person we had in place was Gautier, whom we trusted entirely. He did help us and was never implicated in any of the arrests. Always somewhere else.’ He looked in his empty glass. ‘But then we began to think more widely. He might not have been on the scene, but he had contacts with all of them. Even Guy de Montjoy never suspected him and he was there, in the thick of it. It was later for him. After you showed him that letter.’

  ‘Which you and Larry Best wrote, didn’t you?’

  Robert blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine. We were certain that you’d go after Father Gautier and I encouraged de Montjoy to go with you. I know you thought it was his idea, but I have to think three steps ahead always. Anyway, you flushed him out. You were brave, a perfect agent.’

  Catherine frowned. Robert had tricked her, laid trails for her to follow without telling her the truth. Was this what life in the intelligence service was like?

  She sighed. ‘Gautier allowed my grandfather to be shot. Why not my grandmother?’

  Robert shook his head slowly. ‘Who knows? Could be that his original beliefs surfaced and he tried to preserve life, but he was scared and kept her drugged. He is from Alsace, you know, on the eastern border. His father died when he was a boy and he was brought up by his mother, who is very religious. He was a good priest, well liked by his parishioners, but something happened to turn him. We don’t know what.’

  Catherine thought of him dying in Della’s arms and begging her forgiveness. She shuddered at the memory and Robert reached over and put a comforting hand over hers.

  They were drinking coffee when Robert asked, ‘Did you find Captain Fortescue?’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Oh yes, and we divided the money we found underneath his pillow.’

  ‘I hoped you would,’ Robert said. ‘I left him especially for you to find after we arrested Baxter. He’ll go to prison for a long time.’

  ‘Poor Beau,’ Catherine said. ‘He was so glad to get the photographs. He cried, you know.’

  ‘The photographs?’ Robert looked amazed. ‘Good God, we’ve been looking everywhere for them. Where did you find them?’

  ‘Some spy you are,’ Catherine laughed. ‘They were inside the doll, along with this.’ She took the notebook out of her bag. ‘I don’t know if it’s any use to you.’

  Robert took it from her hands and flicked through the pages. He looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure what this is,’ he said. ‘I think it’s a record of all the money he received from his various criminal activities. Very useful for his prosecution.’ He looked at her over his coffee cup. ‘He took your letters from my briefcase, you know. Looking for something to blackmail you or me with, maybe. We gave him free range with Beau because Beau was on our watch list. He was so desperately compromised that we were afraid he might be tempted to sell military secrets. I deliberately left my briefcase where he could get hold of it, but it was that bastard Baxter who did the deed. Beau was in the clear.’

  ‘I called Larry Best ruthless,’ Catherine said slowly. ‘You all are, I think. How could you suspect Beau? He was at school with you.’

  ‘But that’s the nature of my job,’ Robert shrugged. ‘Everyone is suspect.’

  ‘Even me?’

  He didn’t answer, so she said, frowning, ‘And what about Davey Jones? I’m sure he suspected Baxter was up to no good. He told Frances that evening after the show that he wanted to speak to Beau.’

  ‘I know.’ Robert curled his hand into a fist. ‘He was one of ours, sent in to investigate possible links between Baxter and Beau and the selling of secrets. We think Baxter killed him, but he denies it and we have no proof.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Catherine sighed. ‘What a tangled web. How will I possibly explain this to the girls?’

  ‘Do you have to tell them?’ asked Robert glumly.

  ‘Of course. It can’t be top secret, otherwise you wouldn’t have told me, and they were part of it. They deserve to know.’

  ‘My role in it all doesn’t come out so well. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Of course’ – he looked round, before bending forward and gently kissing her on the mouth – ‘my excuse is that I was terribly distracted by a Mata Hari.’

  ‘Idiot,’ she laughed, and looked at her watch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I have to go. I promised Maman I’d go to the delicatessen in Soho and buy garlic and olive oil. Grandmère is already grumbling about the English food, and it’s the only place I know that sells them. Then I’m popping in to see Della.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Better, I think. Certainly her language has returned to its most colourful. Dr Tim has wangled some leave and is coming home tomorrow.’

  They strolled out of the Savoy and stood on the pavement while people hurried up the Strand, walking quickly, as Londoners always do. It was a cold afternoon, but Catherine felt warm and a little dizzy from the champagne.

  ‘We might have to wait a long time,’ Robert said, ‘but I don’t ever want to parted from you. Will you marry me, Catherine?’

  A siren started to wail in the distance and Robert took her arm and pulled her to the shelter of the building. ‘These bloody rockets,’ he swore. ‘When will they ever be stopped?’

  She stood close to him. ‘I do love you,’ she whispered, ‘and if things were different, I’d marry you tomorrow. But they are as they are. I’m still a married woman. And you’re a married man. Until we’re free, I can’t say yes. And seeing you all the time makes it worse.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I don’t want to let you go,’ he said. ‘You’re part of me.’

  ‘I know,’ she smiled, and kissed him goodbye.

  As she walked through Soho, past the door from which Della threw a shoe at Jerry Costigan, Catherine thought of what Robert had told her about Chris. Oh God, she wondered, was he frightened? Did he think of her at the end, or was it quick? Dear Lord, I pray it was quick.

  Della was sitting up in bed with her plastered leg in a frame. The tubes had gone from her chest, and although she grimaced with pain when she moved, she was nearly back to her old self.

  ‘D’you like this bedjacket?’ she asked, looking down at the bright pink velvet creation complete with a collar of downy feathers. ‘Ma bought it in. It’s nice, isn’t it, but the bloody feathers keep getting up my nose.’ She giggled, and then gave a painful cough. ‘Oh Christ, unless I keep absolutely still, my bloody chest is agony.’

  ‘Who’s paying for this room?’ asked Catherine, looking at the vases of flowers and the pile of magazines on the bed table.

  ‘It’s Ma, I suppose,’ Della sighed. ‘She’s flush these days. And before you ask, yes, it’s got to be the moonshine business.’

  ‘What about Jerry Costigan?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s him? The room, the flowers, everything.’ Catherine leant forward. ‘Tell me, what’s the connection? We know there’s something.’

  Her friend was silent, scowling. Eventu
ally she looked up. ‘Tim will be here this evening. I had a telegram. He’s got leave.’

  ‘I know – you told me yesterday.’ Catherine sighed. Della had her secrets and was keeping them.

  A nurse popped her head round the door. ‘I need to attend to Miss Stafford,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind waiting outside.’

  ‘It’s alright – I have to go, anyway.’ Catherine leant down and gave Della a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll come in tomorrow.’

  Della grabbed her hand and whispered, ‘I will tell you, darling, but let me tell Tim first. He has to know.’

  Chapter 26

  It was snowing as Frances drove the tractor into the back yard. Fred Stone and his boys were packing up for the day, having been working on the roof since early morning. All week they’d turned up faithfully at eight and stayed until five. Maggie had kept them supplied with mugs of tea, and she and Frances had marvelled at how quickly and efficiently they’d gone about their business. Lord Parnell went out regularly to watch their progress but refused to be drawn into a discussion of who the other builders were.

  ‘Them cowboys brung the wrong beams,’ grumbled Fred. ‘They ain’t weathered – you just have to look at them.’

  ‘Something you’d know better than I,’ Lord Parnell had conceded, and Fred chewed on his pipe and answered, ‘I do that, m’lord. And them buggers have stripped away a lot of the lead, and where is it I’d like to know?’ He looked around the yard, where snow was beginning to cover the building materials. ‘Because it ain’t bloody here.’

  As she’d driven up the lane, with bales of hay bouncing along on the trailer behind her, Frances noticed a shiny car turning into the drive up to the house. It wasn’t a car she recognised; nobody in the village possessed anything like that, or anyone from the estates around. They were all as strapped or nearly as strapped for cash as her father was. With a sinking heart she realised who it had to be, and after parking the tractor, she went in through the kitchen. Johnny was at the kitchen table with his crayons and a colouring book, and gave her his usual welcoming grin, but Maggie had a face like thunder.