Robert’s father had been unconscious when Robert arrived back at the cottage. He had left a note promising to return, but without stipulating when. They’d contacted the local gendarmerie to alert them that Dugas would need some supervision. The policeman, who knew Robert well, asked why he’d taken so long to reach such an easy decision and assured him they would keep an eye on his old man for a few days. But even as the policeman had said this, there was a sense of shared knowledge that Robert was not likely to return … not in a hurry, anyway.
After their arrival in the beautiful town, Luc checked them in to a gite and took his charges straight out for a slap-up meal by the river.
‘You need feeding,’ he assured Robert.
They sat at the window of the restaurant and were able to see one of several great water wheels that had once been at the core of the town’s prosperity. The crystal waters of the Sorgue flowed past them in its shallow natural canals and Luc reminded himself not to allow any sense of comfort to blur the reality of what lay ahead.
‘So we’re going up to Saignon tomorrow?’ Jenny asked, chewing on her fish and brightly coloured ratatouille.
Luc schooled his features to reflect an entirely casual air. ‘No, I think we’ll stay here a day or two. I have some business to see to … you don’t mind, do you?’
‘What sort of business, Dad? This is meant to be a holiday.’
‘I’m here in the cradle of my industry, Jen. This is where the lavender came from. I have a couple of people I need to talk to – boring stuff. Equipment, contracts, orders, perhaps the chance to share a few ideas … that sort of thing.’ He didn’t look at her, kept eating as though the conversation was hardly worth having.
‘You’re right, that is boring,’ she said.
‘We could explore this town together, if you’d like?’ Robert offered his younger friend. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit it.’
‘Really? You don’t mind being left behind with me?’
‘Why would I mind? You’re the first person who’s made me feel like smiling in years. And you’re the only person who hasn’t looked away embarrassed when you first saw me.’
Luc held his breath. He knew he could trust Robert. He hoped Jenny would say yes.
‘We don’t need you, Dad,’ she said as flippantly as she could, but added a grin. ‘I will, of course, need you to leave money, though.’
‘Of course,’ he said, letting out his relief in a soft sigh. ‘Thanks, Robert. I appreciate it.’
‘It’s an honour,’ Robert added and Jenny looked chuffed.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Luc said. ‘I’ll be leaving early in the morning, and I’ll hope to be back in time to take you two out for dinner, but if I’m running late, carry on without me.’
‘Fine,’ Jenny said, including Robert in a conspiratorial glance. ‘We’ll go to that expensive bistro opposite the church.’
Luc excused himself briefly to use the restaurant phone. His heart began to pummel a powerful beat behind his chest as he waited.
‘Frédéric Segal,’ said the horribly familiar voice when the phone was answered.
‘Monsieur Segal. It’s Laurent Cousteau again.’ There was a pause and Luc admonished himself for nervously filling it. ‘Er … the journalist, monsieur, he added hopefully, finding it hard to imagine that von Schleigel had forgotten.
‘Yes, I remember. Where are you calling from?’
‘I promised I would call you the night before I arrived in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse,’ Luc said, hoping to deflect the man.
‘So where are you staying?’
Was his cover blown? He’d taken precautions. He tried again. ‘Some gîte I found. Maison de Marie or something. So tomorrow, Monsieur Segal – are we still walking up your hill?’
‘How are your knees?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Euphoric, even, he thought. ‘I will not be a burden.’
‘I would leave you if you were, Monsieur Cousteau,’ von Schleigel replied.
They both laughed. There was no warmth at all and Luc was sure he could picture the insincere smile of Horst von Schleigel.
‘Well, I plan to leave my café at seven sharp.’
‘Shall I meet you there?’
‘Where are you coming from?’ Segal asked but it was not lost on Luc that this was the same question he’d been asking since the beginning of their conversation.
‘I’m in Cavaillon this evening,’ he said evenly.
‘Cavaillon? Whatever for?’
‘I’m not keen on cities when I’m writing stories and Cavaillon was on the train line, plus it gives me an opportunity to write about one of the smaller towns of Provence.’
‘I see. I would have thought l’Isle sur la Sorgue would make more sense.’
Luc felt his insides clench; Max had warned him of the man’s propensity for suspicion. That’s what comes from being a war criminal on the run, von Schleigel, he thought viciously. ‘It’s too much like Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, though. And my editor wants to make sure I cover as much of the Luberon while I’m here.’
‘Cavaillon is a good dozen or so kilometres from here, Monsieur Cousteau. I presume you have a car?’
‘Actually, no,’ Luc lied, even though he’d rented one as soon as they’d arrived in l’Isle sur la Sorgue. ‘There are trains into l’Isle sur la Sorgue, buses into Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, passing motorists who will pick up a hitchhiker,’ he said. ‘I may even yet rent a car and drive in this evening and stay locally so I don’t risk any hold-ups.’
This seemed to satisfy von Schleigel.
‘We could meet at the base of the hill, monsieur. It’s easy to find – the road ends conveniently there.’
‘Very good.’ It suited Luc all the more to meet under the cover of darkness.
‘Seven a.m., then.’
‘I will not be late, Monsieur Segal. Au revoir,’ he said and didn’t wait to hear the response. He placed the receiver on the cradle and bit his lip in thought.
‘Everything okay, monsieur?’ the barman asked.
‘Yes, thank you. Put the call on my bill. It was local.’
The man shrugged. ‘Order a coffee. We’ll call it square.’
Luc nodded, returned to the table where Jenny had clearly been telling Robert about the loss of their family because her eyes looked watery. Their heads were close together and their age difference didn’t seem to matter.
‘So,’ he began, ‘I may have to leave earlier than planned.’
Robert waited.
‘Perhaps before you wake.’
‘Why?’ It was Jenny who predictably skewered him with the question.
‘I have to meet someone very early.’
‘In the dark?’
He smiled crookedly. ‘Yes, actually. We’re looking at some fields at sunrise. It’s the only time I can meet him.’
She shrugged. ‘Fine.’
And that was that. They ordered coffee, Luc talked about his time as a Maquisard during the war, Robert talked about his happy childhood with Marie and within a couple of hours Luc was tucking his daughter into bed and kissing her goodnight.
‘Jen, you are all right about being left for the day with Robert, aren’t you?’
She’d lifted a shoulder as she clambered into the small twin bed beside his. ‘He’s lovely. I’m setting myself the task of making him laugh out loud tomorrow.’
Luc felt a pang of remorse. ‘If anyone can, you can.’
‘I’d rather you were with us,’ she said softly. ‘But I know you have a lot of things on your mind. Are you worried about the farm?’
‘No. Tom will run it well,’ he said. ‘He’s taking his new role as supervisor very seriously.’
‘What can anyone here teach you about lavender growing, Dad?’ It was not an accusation.
‘Plenty.’ He hated the lie he was hiding behind. ‘The exchange of information is important. And if I’m going to get the Bonet fields in Saignon yielding again, it helps to reacquaint myself with the local conditi
ons, knowledge …’ He made a promise he would never lie to her again.
She nodded and yawned. ‘Are we going to Saignon after this?’
‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’ He kissed her cheek and turned off the light, moving quietly towards the door. ‘Hey, Jen?’
‘Mmm?’ she said, sounding sleepy.
‘I love you more than lavender.’
‘Love you more than Chanel, Dad,’ she yawned.
Luc smiled, closed the door and found Robert sitting on the edge of the bed in his room.
‘Everything all right?’
Robert’s eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve never slept in such fine linen,’ he said, touching the sheets reverently.
Luc’s guilt intensified for different reasons now. He should have come back much earlier than this. ‘I hope you’ll be comfy.’
‘I don’t know how to repay you,’ he said.
Luc looked at the livid scar on his young friend’s face, wondering what sort of future lay ahead for him. ‘Robert, I am the one who is in your debt. This is nothing. I believe your grandmother would approve of us being together again, though.’
‘I know she would,’ he said softly.
Luc took a step inside and leant against the wall. ‘Are you all right really about me leaving you with Jenny? Her mother would kill me.’
Robert’s expression turned urgent. ‘I will guard her with my life, Luc. She is … she is like sunshine in my world of winter.’
Luc smiled. Yes, the dreamy boy still lived strongly within the older man. ‘Robert, if you could do anything in the world for a living, what would it be?’
His companion shrugged. ‘Honest work. Farming.’
‘How about lavender?’
Robert looked up at him, puzzled.
‘Would you like to learn how to grow and keep lavender? How to run a whole farm of lavender? How to distil the oil and help me find buyers?’
‘To be you, do you mean?’
Luc nodded. He hadn’t really thought this through but even as he was saying it, it felt right. It seemed so obvious. ‘I can teach you; I’ll share everything I know.’
Robert blinked in bewilderment. ‘Become a lavender grower in Saignon?’
‘Why not? If I’m going to bring the Bonet fields back to their purple glory, I’m going to need someone I can trust who knows how to farm lavender and who takes a vested interest in the business. You can be my right-hand man in France. The lavender will always need a keeper and I won’t be around forever. Besides, you come from farming stock – you already have the fundamental knowledge.’ Robert looked stunned. ‘I accept.’
Luc’s spirits took flight. I did it, Marie, he cast out silently. I came back for him.
‘We’ll talk more when my business today is concluded. Don’t say anything to Jenny yet. This is between us, all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you for taking care of her. I’ll be gone when you both wake.’ He handed Robert some money. ‘Eat with it,’ he insisted, pinching his own biceps.
‘I will keep her safe,’ Robert promised again.
Last, Luc pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘Would you do me one other special favour, please?’ He held out the envelope. ‘Would you keep this for me?’
Robert stood and took it, glancing at it. ‘This is addressed to Jenny.’ He frowned, looking back at Luc.
He nodded. ‘Just hold it. Would you do that? Do not give it to her … unless …’ He didn’t finish.
‘Unless what?’
‘Don’t give it to her,’ Luc said. ‘Just keep it for me.’
‘Luc, I’m not five years old anymore. I know you’re not going to meet a lavender farmer in the early hours of the morning in winter. But I’ve figured that whatever it is, it’s private and important. But now I get the feeling it’s dangerous.’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he passed off as he handed over the letter. ‘It’s just a silly superstitious thing. Hold it for me.’
Robert nodded, frowning, then his eyes lit fiercely. ‘All right. But I will not give it to her ever, so you had better come back.’ He paused. ‘I hope he’s worth it to you.’
Their gazes locked; Luc was in shock and knew he wasn’t hiding it. How could Robert know?
‘Lisette wasn’t the only person you mumbled about during your fever,’ he muttered.
Nothing more needed to be said. Luc hugged him briefly. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’
He closed Robert’s door. What was he doing? Leaving his child, going off on this mad trip of revenge and what if something happened to him? It was possible he could be injured, lost – killed, even. Who would look after her then? How would Jenny survive with both parents gone? But he was in too deep now; there was too much history driving this and he was close enough to von Schleigel that an acid taste was already souring his mouth at the notion of meeting his nemesis again.
It’s the past – let it go!
He could hear Lisette’s voice in his head. She was never one for looking back; could never be accused of being overly sentimental. He was the romantic. He was the emotional one who made decisions from the heart.
The inner voice, his conscience, had the final word. Finish it! Let the Bonets rest in peace.
Luc pushed away from the wall that he’d slid down to sit against and contemplate his life. He felt numb, having sat there for so long without realising how time was ticking by him. He tiptoed back inside their room to see that his daughter was soundly asleep. He kissed her tenderly, watched her stir but not wake and then he picked up the few items he’d hidden in the wardrobe and tiptoed from the upstairs apartment and out into the crispy cold night, walking as quietly as he could over the cobbles to where he’d parked their rental car.
L’Isle sur la Sorgue looked deserted. Bars were closed and he shared the street only with a drunk who weaved a crooked path, murmuring softly to himself. It was near enough to silent in the town. He checked his watch – shocked to discover that it was nearing three a.m. He shivered, remembering a time in 1943 when the streets were deserted because of the Nazi curfew and bars stayed open only for Germans … and the French starved while petty bureaucrats like von Schleigel held monstrous power over tiny communities.
He grimaced and started the car, glad that it fired the first time, even though it was so cold. He would have to drive carefully along the unlit country roads, although Fontaine-de-Vaucluse was not that far. He checked he had everything he needed, refused to glance in the direction of where Jenny slept or acknowledge that he’d taken the precaution of writing her the letter that explained everything, told her to contact Max for an even fuller explanation and for help. He’d already put his estate in order, making a fresh will before he’d left Australia with everything he owned there and in France bequeathed to his daughter. She would never want for funds, especially as he’d set up formal legal enquiries to retrieve the Bonet monies from frozen bank accounts; lawyers were chasing them hard. His father had had plenty stashed in Switzerland, too, and Jacob had left his executors with details of how to begin procedures to access that. Finally, there was money buried in Saignon. Lots of it. His father had taken the precaution and Luc and his grandmother had not touched it, but he’d never forgotten its location. He’d provided clear details on that in his letter to Jenny, too. She would be a wealthy woman if the worst scenario occurred.
‘Forgive me, Jenny,’ Luc whispered as he eased the car away from the town, not gathering speed until its few twinkling lights had disappeared and he was on a black road, driving through the black night with only darkness on his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The man who called himself ‘Eric’ Segal stared at the black handset of his phone and pondered what he had heard as an old friend resurfaced. His sixth sense – or wit, as he liked to think of it – had been quietened over the last ten years. The ex-Gestapo officer had draped a brilliantly conceived new life about himself to the point where most days he believed in it wholly. The flashes o
f insecurity reared at the oddest moments and then his suspicions would be aroused, his powers of observation and even his fortitude tested.
The last time – the previous summer – had been when a young tourist had ordered his ice cream in German. And while his ebullient manner and voice had not betrayed him, his body had frozen momentarily as the ghost of Horst von Schleigel was allowed to re-enter his consciousness. A decade earlier, three clearly plain-clothed policeman had entered his café and asked for him. That day his insides had turned watery but his steely resolve had held firm. He’d frowned, smiled, asked the men how he could help; he’d even offered them coffee, but all the while he’d been waiting for their identification to be shown and their accusations to be aired. It turned out the purpose of their visit was not even vaguely in connection with him, or former Nazis, or even the war.
He could count on one hand those occasions that the cold fist of fear had punched into his belly the last two decades.
Now his internal alarms were screaming. Why?
Laurent Cousteau’s credentials checked out; von Schleigel had already taken the liberty of ringing the publishers of the magazine to assure himself that this freelance journalist was on their books. The lady who had answered his call had confirmed Cousteau’s employment as a special features writer and von Schleigel had felt his pulse slow with relief.
How many times had he choked back a helpless laugh at being trapped by his own secrecy? Hide out in the open, he had used as a mantra since he’d first leaked out of Poland with the rest of the retreating German army. But while most of his kind had fled west, destroying files, blowing up the crematoriums, taking Auschwitz inmates as collateral and relying on the SS to shoot the remaining emaciated and numbered prisoners, von Schleigel had made his way in the direction of France, knowing full well he would probably never make it but believing it might just save him. Using the same creed of hiding out in the open, he had wanted no further dangerous association with the Nazis and changed into civilian clothes before shooting a non-Jewish prisoner. He’d cut off the man’s arm and incinerated it, stolen his number, which he’d hurriedly tattooed onto his own forearm, and spent weeks holed up in the forest eating only what he could forage, so by the time the Soviets found him, wandering weakly and nearly demented with hunger while babbling in French, he was instantly assumed to be a prisoner from France, to where he was ultimately repatriated. He feigned memory loss, took care to move like an old man, to stutter and lose his train of thought; no one suspected he was anything but another prison-camp survivor returning to his homeland – France.
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