“Now, Monsieur Sainte, can you tell us how you met the prisoner?”
“Certainly. Whilst in England I maintained a close contact with an organisation call the Bureau de Lorraine, which exists to help Frenchmen in England. It was from them that I heard that Mademoiselle Lamartine was in England and was in need of work.”
“You knew her name?”
“Yes. All in the Basse Loire district had heard of Mademoiselle Lamartine’s misfortune.”
“You had not met her before?”
“No. I had met her previous employer, Père Chaise, at Langeais. I had been once or twice to his farm during the Occupation but on each occasion, Mademoiselle Lamartine was absent, on errands, I think, for the Maquis.”
“Were you yourself visiting Père Chaise’s farm on Resistance work?”
The witness paused for a moment before answering. Then he said, “It would be easy and creditable at this distance to say Yes but in fact it would not be true. I went to see Père Chaise on business. He was one of the persons who supplied me with food for my hotel. During the Occupation it was patriotic, you understand, to work on the black market.”
“You were not yourself a member of the Resistance.”
“That is a very difficult question to answer. Many, I have no doubt, who did as much or as little as I did would now claim to have been the most active members of the Resistance. I gave what help I could and I did anything I was asked to. I did not go out of my way, however, to incur danger. I certainly took no active part in sabotage or resistance.”
“I quite understand,” said Mr. Summers. The frankness of the answer seemed to please him a good deal more than it did Macrea, who was observed to be savaging several pages of his brief.
“Will you now direct your attention to the period between the time when the prisoner came to work in your hotel and the events of March fourteenth of this year. During that time – a space of between two and three years – did the prisoner make any effort to get in touch with Major Thoseby?”
“Yes, she did.”
“How often?”
“I cannot say. The occasions that naturally came to my attention were when she asked for a time off in order to visit the British War Office, as she did on several occasions. The Foreign Office, once, I think, and latterly the Société de Lorraine.”
“It would be correct then to say that during that period she made consistent and repeated efforts to see the deceased?”
“I cannot say that she wished to see him. I know only that she was anxious to discover his whereabouts.”
“Quite, quite. And it is very right to be accurate about it,” said Mr. Summers sounding nevertheless rather annoyed. “Now let us deal with the events of March fourteenth. Perhaps you had better tell us in your own words what happened.”
“Certainly. I was in my office at about half-past six when Major Thoseby telephoned.”
“How did the witness know it was Major Thoseby?” said Macrea.
“Well – I—”
“My learned friend means that you had at that time no means of knowing who was speaking,” said Mr. Summers smoothly. “No doubt it will satisfy him if you say ‘a person announcing himself as Major Thoseby’ telephoned to you.”
“Of course I knew it was Major Thoseby,” said Monsieur Sainte. “He himself said so. However, as you wish.”
“Did you gather when he would be arriving?”
“I understood that he might be there as early as half-past eight or as late as half-past ten, or even eleven. I said that the hotel remained open until eleven. He said he would certainly be there by that time.”
“What did you do next?”
“I sent for the prisoner and told her.”
“Yes. What were her reactions?”
“She was excited—naturally. She already knew he was coming. We had had a message a day or two before. I asked if she would be staying in to meet him when he arrived. I knew it was the night on which she usually went out.”
“And then—?”
“She said No. She would see him when she got back.”
“Were you surprised?”
“I think I was – a little.”
“And then?”
“The next thing was the arrival of Major Thoseby. I was in my office when he arrived. Camino showed him straight in.”
“You had a talk? By the way, what time was this?”
“Just before half-past eight. Yes – we had about ten minutes’ talk.”
“What were your impressions of Major Thoseby?”
“I was very glad to see him – we had a very friendly talk.”
“I didn’t quite mean that. I meant, did he strike you as nervous or excited about his visit – or just casual?”
“Major Thoseby was a very reserved man.”
“So we have been told. I will put this to you then. When you told him that the prisoner was not in to meet him did he seem surprised?”
“Yes. I thought he was surprised. Also, I thought, a little relieved.”
“Can you explain that in any way?”
“Well, yes. The explanation that I offered to myself was that he anticipated a difficult interview – perhaps a stormy one – perhaps even an emotional one – and considered that such would better be postponed.”
“Why did you think that a postponement would make it any better?”
“Well, it is difficult, for example, to be emotional after breakfast.”
“I see – you thought—”
“Is this witness being presented as an expert witness on psychology?” said Mr. Macrea.
“Certainly not.”
“Then are not all these answers rather in the nature of supposition—”
“I think I agree with Mr. Macrea,” said the judge. “I don’t think you should take these questions any further. The jury can draw their own deductions from the evidence without this witness’s interpretation of it.”
“If your lordship pleases. We will go on then to the later events of that evening. What was the next thing that happened?”
“Well – the next thing would be when I heard—no, I forgot. At about a quarter to ten Mrs. Roper came to see me.”
“You were in your office?”
“Yes – I spent the whole evening in my office. Mrs. Roper was only with me for about five minutes. She wished to discuss her account. About an hour later I heard, from upstairs, one very loud shout or scream. I listened for a moment. There might have been an innocent explanation for it. Then there were more screams, loud and repeated. I jumped up and ran out.”
“One moment, please,” said Mr. Summers. “I am anxious to fix this particular moment as accurately as possible.” He walked over to the plan which still stood in the well of the court. “Did you leave your room by the door into the passage?”
“No, I went straight out through the reception desk. It is a few seconds quicker that way.”
“Was there anyone in the reception desk?”
“No. Mademoiselle Lamartine was—”
“If you please, we will come to that in a moment. The reception desk was empty. What next?”
“I ran up the stairs.”
“Did you observe anyone else whilst you were doing this?”
“Yes. I saw the door to the kitchen open and Camino came running through. I also heard the swinging doors which lead to the street begin to turn. I remember thinking, ‘What a moment to have a visitor!’”
“Yes, and then?”
“I ran along the annex passage. The screams had stopped, but I had had the impression that they were coming from the end room. As I got there Mrs. Roper came out. She said something – I forget what it was. I pushed past her and saw Mademoiselle Lamartine. She was standing looking down at the floor. Major Thoseby was lying on the floor. He was half hidden by the door. His coat was open and the shirt and the top of his trousers were covered in blood. It did not seem to be flowing quickly. I put a hand on his heart, but I think that before I did this I knew he wa
s dead.” Most of the people in court – barristers, solicitors, law students, journalists – were by training accustomed to using their imaginations. As the witness finished speaking they could see a clear picture of the little, bare, upstairs bedroom at the back of the family hotel. The plain furniture, the yellow electric light, the worn carpet. Sprawled across the carpet the body of Major Thoseby, his shirt and trousers dark with blood – “the blood did not seem to be flowing quickly.” But a lot of blood would run out if the stomach and the liver and the heart bag were punctured. The shirt, where it hung out from the top of his trousers, would be sodden with blood. The top of the shirt very white in contrast. “I put a hand on his heart.” But it was too late. The heart had already ceased to beat. Major Thoseby, who had survived so many such imminent and urgent perils in Occupied France, had come to his end in a residential hotel near Euston.
“Now, Monsieur Sainte,” said Macrea.
[The first part of his cross-examination is omitted. It was directed, skillfully enough, to showing in a sympathetic light the actions and sufferings of the prisoner in France. It did not succeed in shedding any new light on her relationship with Major Thoseby.]
“Now. Monsieur Sainte. On the night of the murder Major Thoseby telephoned you at half-past six.”
“That is correct.”
“When did he tell you to expect him?”
“As I have said, it was not stated when he would arrive. It might be half-past seven – it might be eleven o’clock. He was at a conference at—”
“Yes. We have heard that. What time is the evening meal at your hotel?”
“At seven. Most people eat early nowadays.”
“Yes. When does it finish?”
“It is finished by eight.”
“Major Thoseby did not arrive until eight-thirty. Had you kept dinner for him?”
This very simple question appeared to confuse the witness. For the first time there was a perceptible pause before he replied.
“No, I did not keep dinner.”
“But you said he had dinner when he arrived—” Macrea turned back some pages of his notes.
“A hotelier usually has something in reserve for an unexpected guest. Something in the kitchen.”
“I see,” said Macrea easily. “I was just trying to find out exactly how unexpected he really was.”
“I do not understand that.”
“I will make myself plain,” said Macrea. “Will you tell us, once more – I haven’t yet quite got it straight – when did you first hear from Major Thoseby?”
“Two days before. On the twelfth, that would be, his letter arrived. By the evening post.”
“Have you still got that letter?”
“No. I think it has been destroyed.”
“Why?”
“I am not a lawyer. I do not keep copies of all the letters that are sent to me.”
“Would you not, as an hotel-keeper, preserve a letter of that sort?”
“If I had a secretary, no doubt all letters would be beautifully filed. I do my own work in the office. I have not time for such things. Letters get lost.”
“Very well. When did you hear from Major Thoseby next?”
“As he had promised in his letter, he telephoned me at about half-past six in the evening of the fourteenth.”
“I see. You have told us what he said. Then you sent for the prisoner.”
“Yes.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I cannot remember the exact words. She knew of the letter, of course. There was no need to say much. I may have said: ‘He is coming this evening,’ or something like that.”
“Did you mention any time?”
“I think I repeated what Major Thoseby had said to me. He might be there at any time between eight and eleven.”
“You are sure you said that?”
‘To that effect.”
“You did not say, ‘He cannot be here before eleven.”‘
“Certainly not.”
“I want you to be very careful over this.”
“I am quite certain that I did not say that he could not be here before eleven. It would not have been true. Why should I have said it?”
“Monsieur Sainte, you received a letter. That has been destroyed. You received a telephone message. Only you know what was said. The jury, if they are to judge the matter at all, have to judge by results.”
“Yes.”
“As a result of what you told her, Miss Lamartine left the hotel and did not come back until half-past ten.”
“That is so.”
“Is it not reasonable to suppose then – we know how anxious she was to meet Major Thoseby – I put it to you that it is a more reasonable explanation that you said something to her like: ‘He cannot be here before eleven.’“
“I am certain that I did not say that.”
“You agree that it would explain her actions in a logical way?”
“I do not think that you can ever explain the actions of a woman in a logical way.”
Chapter Sixteen
Le Mans is not on the Loire, but it is the junction for all traffic coming south to the Basse Loire district. Nap got out of the train there at six o’clock on a grey morning. As he stood on the platform, looking like a ruff-necked starling, his overcoat turned up round his ears and his hair on end, he considered future moves.
It was Saturday. Such results as he might achieve, to be of any use to Mademoiselle Lamartine, must be obtained in three – at the most four – days.
The difficulty was to know where to start.
He would have to visit Père Chaise’s farm near Langeais and get what information he could from the neighbours. Whilst he was there he thought he might have a word with one of Monsieur Sainte’s “references” who lived at the Ferme du Grand Puits, not far from Langeais. His contacts after that were mainly in and around Angers.
An examination of the indicateur showed that he could either go straight to Angers and make his way up river or take the branch line to Tours and work back.
The deciding factor was the time of the trains.
If he went straight to Angers he would have no time for breakfast, and breakfast, after his second consecutive night in a French railway carriage, was beginning to assume a considerable measure of importance.
“Breakfast it is, then,” said Nap.
On such small decisions do great issues hang.
He selected the Café du Colombier, a small cheerful eating house in the main street of Le Mans and ordered, with less difficulty than he would have experienced in England, an English breakfast of ham and eggs. Over a cup of indifferent coffee he started to read an early edition of the Courier de L’Ouest which he had found in the wicker rack beside the table.
It was more than two years since he had last set foot in France, and there were many things in the paper to surprise him. He read of a Gaulliste meeting at Saugny which had been broken up by Communists and had ended in a pitched battle. Allowing for a certain journalistic coloring in the report there was no escaping the ultimate, ugly fact that one man had been killed and fifteen seriously wounded. He read on the next page of the gang of currency smugglers who, apparently with the connivance of venial officials, had been running what amounted to a private airport for the cross-Channel carriage of dollar notes. The leader of the gang, who seemed to have boasted to the police after his capture, had stated that the profits of his group in one year’s operations had exceeded a billion of francs.
It was not these events in themselves which Nap found so surprising. It was a coincidence of names. In charge of the investigations into the currency smuggling, he noticed, was Monsieur Bren of the Paris Sûreté. One of the wounded in the Saugny meeting – reading between the lines Nap imagined he must have been a Gaulliste organizer who had been roughly handled by the police – was a Pierre Roccambo. Now he had known both men. Both had worked with him in the affairs of the Franche-Comté Maquis.
For the first time he ha
d a glimmering of an idea of the forces at work in France, forces which, did he know it, had already reached out and touched him at the extremities of their huge, opposed organisations.
Nap slept again in the train and woke at Tours. Here he found a branch-line train of toy-like wooden carriages which brought him, in due course, to Langeais.
After lunch a bus, terrifyingly driven, took him out to Pont Boutard. From there, as he saw from his map, he had a walk of two or three kilometres, southward again, into the Bois de Langeais.
When, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, he came in sight of the Père Chaise farm, Nap knew that the first part of his journey had been in vain. The farm was now unlived in. A house which boasts four walls and a roof rarely goes out of occupation in the over-farmed countryside of France but this was an exception. The fields had gone back to fallow. They were being grazed, and Nap followed the track past the farm until he could see the roof of the next building, another kilometre further on. Here he found the farmer – it was his cattle that he had seen on Père Chaise’s derelict fields – and a few words with him confirmed his first impression.
The Père Chaise farm had never been a lucky farm. The farmer produced a garbled account of the misfortunes of Père Chaise and his family during the war. The farmhouse had not been occupied since. Nap asked a few questions but it was evident that the farmer knew little more about it than Nap did himself. He knew the story of the English lieutenant. All the countryside knew it. He had been taken by the Germans and tortured to death. That was certain. All knew it.
Nap thanked him.
By the time he got back to Pont Boutard, the day was gone, and since there was no bus to take him to Langeais he spent the night, by invitation, at the corn chandler’s house. The corn chandler, who was also the district money-lender, was an agreeable scoundrel and talked far into the night of the German Occupation, of the Gestapo, of the Resistance and of the present state of France. He put at Nap’s disposal the marriage bed of his eldest daughter, a knobbed engine of brass and iron. Nap slept dreamlessly.
Early next morning he hired a bicycle from his host and set off for the Ferme du Grand Puits. It seemed, from the map, to be about eight kilometres away.
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