Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Monsieur Masseron, it’s very urgent that we get back to England as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course . . . I understand.’

  ‘I said before that we had thought of going south and over the border to Spain, but I realize now that it would take far too long. We must find a quicker way.’

  ‘All very well, my friend. But how do you suggest? By plane would be the fastest but that’s impossible.’

  ‘By boat. From here. Could you arrange it? A fishing boat that we could take to England.’

  ‘My God! I can’t work miracles. The fishing boats belong to people; they make their living from them. And then there would be all the papers and permits necessary. The Germans are very strict now. They make searches all the time.’

  Powell said carefully, ‘About your son . . . We’d take him with us, of course. Look after him in England, until the end of the war. Just as you wished. As a matter of fact, my sister has a son very near his age. I’m sure she’d help.’

  There was a pause. ‘It would take time to arrange.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Several days. A week perhaps. Even if I can find a boat, there would be no fuel. It’s too scarce. You would have to sail. And how could you do that? Impossible.’

  Smythson was grinning all over his face. ‘We’re in the Royal Navy, sir. We know how to sail.’

  There was a single bed in the attic – a narrow, iron affair obviously intended for a maidservant. Madame Masseron had grudgingly provided some threadbare blankets and two thin pillows which she threw at Smythson who caught them deftly. Earlier, however, she had provided a memorable supper of onion soup, crabs stuffed with herbs, Normandy cheese, apple crêpes. Masseron had produced several bottles of cold white wine, followed by one of Armagnac. The mayoral household was clearly not suffering too badly from the shortages.

  Powell had hauled Smythson, who was in a state of collapse, up the stairs and onto the iron bed and made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor with one of the pillows and a blanket. Duval’s newspaper, in its rolled-up state, was tucked under his arm like a child’s favourite bedtime toy. A look at one of the tracings concealed between the pages had instantly told him why the Frenchman had been so keen to return to England. He had shown Smythson but decided not to take Masseron into his confidence. The less he knew, the better. And it still remained to be seen whether he would be able to arrange a boat. The papers, it seemed, were not a problem, but a boat was another matter. It would have to be a boat large enough and seaworthy enough to make the journey safely.

  It was all very well for them to choose to risk their lives if they wanted to, the mayor had told them over the cognac, but he had to consider the life of his only son. The voyage would be very dangerous – not only because of the Germans with their patrols and inspections, their planes, their E-boats, not to mention their U-boats – but also because the coast of Brittany was treacherous even for the most experienced local sailors. The seas rounding the Pointe du Raz were a veritable cauldron, did they realize that? With an engine it was bad enough, but under sail they would be at the mercy of wind and tide.

  Powell had reassured him. He was familiar with the coastline and well aware of the dangers. So was the lieutenant. They would keep well away from the Pointe du Raz, steering a westerly course that would take them clear of it and of the Ile de Sein and the islands off Brest. In which case, Masseron had pointed out, they would be outside the fishing limit and a target for any Germans who spotted them. Either way, it would be very dangerous. The more the mayor thought of it, the less he liked the whole idea. Far better if they reverted to their original plan to get out through Spain.

  And then the boy, Luc, had come back, breezing cheerily into the room. He was tall for his age, with his father’s thick curly hair and his big build. It was long after curfew time and Masseron had been angry. Where had he been? What had he been up to this time? The boy had shrugged. He and some friends had met and hung around. Doing what? Nothing much. Just a trick or two to annoy the Boche. A little sugar in a fuel tank; a truck tyre let down; a few rude words written on a poster. The mayor had turned to Powell despairingly.

  ‘You see how it is? One day the Germans will lose their patience. Or he’ll do something really stupid.’

  He had said gravely, ‘Then the sooner we leave, the better.’

  Luc, it turned out, was all in favour. The little tricks played on the Boche were not enough to satisfy him. What he really wanted to do was join the Free French navy and fight them properly, like a man. He was already an excellent sailor, he told Powell proudly. He had sailed his own dinghy since he was seven and been out many times with the fishing boats. He would be happy to crew for monsieur on the voyage to England.

  And so the matter was settled. The necessary papers and permits would be obtained as fast as possible. And, somehow, a boat would be found.

  He lay on a truckle bed in the corner of the cell, smoking his last cigarette. At least, he assumed that it would be his last since he had none left and at daylight he was to be taken out into the prison yard and that would be the end of it. So he had been informed. He was not afraid, but he had regrets – the chief one being that now he would never know the great happiness of a life with Barbara. After all, it was not to be. She would find someone else in time, of course – or someone else would find her. That was only natural, and he wished it for her. But he was deeply sad at his own loss.

  Another regret was that he had not been able to get the tracings back to England. He had been careless again, just as he’d been with the restaurant bill. He had ignored the threat of Mademoiselle Citron. He should have shut his eyes and slept with her, and he might not be where he was now. And he should have hidden the suitcase and transmitter in the boiler and not taken them up to the studio – except that to have done so could have endangered Alphonse. The old newspaper would never be noticed. The tracings would stay in their hiding place until the boiler was mended and they were burned. Nobody but he knew they were there. He had failed.

  Even so, he had achieved something for France. His little network was still in place, still unknown to the Gestapo but known to the people in England. It could be used and it could spread across northern France. And other similar networks would be set up – he had no doubt about that. Thousands of pairs of eyes watching the Germans. French resistance would surely grow and grow as time went by. Every town and village would have its eyes, observing and informing. The Boche would not have it all their own way.

  The cigarette was almost finished. Another one would have been good. A drink, too. A glass of fine cognac. Two glasses, even. If the good Major Winter could have visited, he would have certainly brought him some. In England, in similar circumstances, he would probably have been offered a cup of tea. He smiled at the thought. And later, they would have asked him so politely if he’d mind stepping outside to the prison yard. The cigarette was burning his fingers now and he took another final, long, slow drag, letting the tobacco smoke reach deep into his lungs before he leaned over and stubbed it out on the stone floor.

  They had taken away his watch and so he was not sure of the time, but there was a faint and perceptible change of light at the cell window above him and he knew that dawn could not be far away. He lay, watching the light increasing little by little. A while longer, and he heard heavy footsteps approaching and the harsh scrape of the door bolts being drawn back.

  The Isabelle was a yawl, not a fishing boat. She had been built in the Thirties for pleasure sailing until her owner, an industrialist who had named her after his wife, had grown bored with both the boat and the wife. The French Navy had bought her and used her for a while as a training ship for coastal pilots. Later, she had been sold again and used for tunny fishing – being built on similar lines to the local tunny boats. The spacious mess deck had been converted, ignominiously, into a fish hold. She had an auxiliary motor but it was unreliable and not very powerful, and, in any case, there was no fuel available. Masser
on related all this to Powell, well pleased with his find. The tunny boats were allowed outside the limit to work in the Bay of Biscay, which provided the excuse they needed. It was early in the season but not unreasonably so. At the moment the Isabelle was lying at anchor some way downstream – another convenience. Her present owner had, apparently, had the misfortune to fall foul of the port authorities over certain irregularities and his permit had been cancelled. Wouldn’t he object to his boat being appropriated? Object? Nobody would ask him. He wouldn’t know about it until it was too late.

  The papers were ready and they discussed the plan in detail. They would leave the house in time to walk down the river to the yawl and set sail by six o’clock. In that way they would have the tide in their favour and be able to join up with the other fishing boats in order to arrive in their company at Port-Manech, the German inspection point at the river mouth.

  ‘They usually board every other boat,’ Masseron told them. ‘Your papers are all in order and so there should be nothing to worry about, though, of course, one never knows with the Boche. Sometimes they just like to throw their weight around.’

  Powell reckoned that the crossing would take roughly three days – if they managed a steady five knots or so and kept out of trouble. He was well aware of the dangers so feared by the mayor. He was also aware of a sense of elation such as he had not felt for years.

  Madame Masseron, who had thawed slightly over the days of waiting, produced bread, cheese, cold meat and the mayor added several bottles of wine. Powell and Smythson turned away tactfully as they said goodbye to their son.

  Masseron gripped his hand. ‘You’ll look after him for us?’

  ‘You have my word on it.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend. We’ll meet again after the war.’

  His elation increased at the sight of the Isabelle. She still had the graceful lines from her pleasure-sailing days and had kept her two masts – the tall main and much smaller mizzen abaft the stern. And her sails, like those of the other Breton tunny boats, were made up of different colours. She was a boat to lift the heart of any sailor.

  They tacked downstream, joining a dozen or so fishing boats from Pont-Aven and other small ports, all heading towards the checkpoint at Port-Manech where they formed a line, moving up one by one for inspection. If they search us, there is nothing to find, Powell thought. An old French newspaper, days out of date and stuffed casually in a locker together with Madame Masseron’s provisions, would surely be of no interest whatever. Even so, he held his breath as the Isabelle came alongside the jetty. There must have been fifteen or more German officials there, and a party of them went aboard the boat ahead, clumping noisily round the deck, making a thorough search. When it came to their turn, Smythson, at the wheel as pre-arranged, was the one to show their papers. He even made a joke as he did so and the German even laughed before he waved them on. The boy, Luc, with all the cheek of youth, actually waved back.

  He took over the helm from Smythson once they had left the port behind and set the yawl on a north-westerly course. The wind was Force 4 – ideal for getting a move on – and the bows cut cleanly through the water, the multicoloured sails overhead a glorious sight. When he had the chance, he asked Smythson what he had said to the German.

  Smythson grinned. ‘I told him we were English spies disguised as French fishermen. He thought it was a hell of a good joke.’

  The Isabelle sailed on steadily, bearing away from France on her course for England. Powell flung back his head and laughed.

  Seventeen

  ‘Just a very small portion, Mrs Hillyard, if you don’t mind. I do have to be careful.’

  Barbara served her the usual amount of lemon curd tart and passed on to the rear admiral and Miss Tindall, who murmured their appreciation and thanks.

  Mrs Lamprey lifted her spoon and fork. ‘Still no news of Monsieur Duval, Mrs Hillyard?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid there isn’t.’

  ‘You’d think he would have been in touch. He’s usually so considerate. Quite strange.’

  ‘I expect he’s been very busy in London.’

  ‘I suppose so. There seem to be an awful lot of French over here now. There was a group of them on the ferry yesterday – French sailors in those funny pompom hats they wear. I had a word with one of them but I don’t think he understood what I was saying. I don’t know why because I spoke very clearly. Monsieur Duval never has the slightest difficulty.’

  ‘Perhaps he came from a country region of France and was used to a different way of speaking,’ Miss Tindall suggested tactfully.

  ‘Yes, that must have been the reason. It’s amazing how badly people speak – simply swallow their words. That’s where speech training is such a help. Actors are taught to project their voices so that they can be heard in the last row of the gallery – without shouting, of course. It’s quite an art, you know. I particularly remember how beautifully Sybil Thorndike always enunciated her words.’

  Barbara escaped to the kitchen. She had finished washing up the first-course dishes when the doorbell rang. She took off her apron and went to answer it.

  ‘Mrs Hillyard? I’m Lieutenant Reeves. We’ve never actually met – only spoken on the telephone.’

  He looked very much like he had always sounded: spruce, brisk, keen-eyed, and with a handshake that made her wince. ‘I’m afraid all my rooms are taken, Lieutenant – if that’s what you’ve come about.’

  ‘Actually, I came to let you know that Monsieur Duval won’t be needing his any more.’

  She went quite still. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He won’t be returning here.’ He smiled at her. ‘It was jolly good of you to take him on at such short notice. Much appreciated. I came to get his things, as a matter of fact. Take them off your hands so you can let the room – if you’d be good enough to show me where it is. It shouldn’t take a tick.’

  ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Just a change of plan. You know how it is when there’s a war on.’

  ‘Lieutenant Reeves, as it happens, I know exactly how it is when there’s a war on. I lost my only brother recently. So, would you please tell me what has happened to Monsieur Duval?’

  He had stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t give you any details, Mrs Hillyard.’

  ‘You see, I know the kind of activity he was involved in. I found out quite by accident. He never told me and we never talked about it, but I discussed the matter with Lieutenant Commander Powell. Perhaps you’re aware of that?’

  ‘Really?’ He wasn’t, she could see.

  ‘It’s very important to me. Very important. You understand? Is Louis Duval dead?’

  He was silent. After a moment, he said quietly, ‘Perhaps you could show me the room now, Mrs Hillyard. I’ll do the rest.’

  She led the way up the stairs and along the corridor. He was quick and thorough, taking the battered suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and laying it on the bed, undoing the two leather straps, snapping open the metal clasps, opening drawers one after the other, reaching into the wardrobe. She realized that it was something he had done before: clearing personal effects, or whatever they called it. This was what someone else would have done with Freddie’s things. Gone to his lodgings and gathered it all up to go in the suitcase that had been sent to her. She had gone through it numbly: the clothes, the books, the photos in their frames . . . all that was left of him.

  She watched the lieutenant deal with a jacket expertly – sleeves aligned precisely side by side, then the whole flipped over in half so that it fitted neatly into the case – the familiar loose black linen jacket, rather creased as always and faintly exuding the aroma of French cigarettes and France. When he had finished with the drawers and the wardrobe, the lieutenant inspected the canvases propped against the wall, the tin of oil paints, the jar of brushes and the sketchbook lying on top of the chest of drawers. He glanced rapidly at each page of the book, flicking them over in succession. �
�Perhaps you’d like to keep these? Shall I leave them?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He snapped the suitcase clasps shut – click, click – buckled the leather straps and hauled if off the bed. She could remember Louis holding it when he had first arrived, looking like a tramp. The lieutenant nodded to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hillyard. I’ll find my own way out.’

  When he had gone, she picked up the sketchbook and turned the pages, looking through the sketches that Louis had made – the house, the garden, the hillside, the estuary, the harbour, the boats, Fifi curled up asleep, Esme holding Tom kitten on her lap, and herself sitting on the wall. He had written her name beneath it and underlined it. She could hear his voice saying it the French way: Bar-bar-a.

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Commander Chilcot will see you immediately, Lieutenant Commander.’

  A different woman admitted him to the house in London, but she was cut from the same cloth. No smile, no expression in either face or speech. Harry, however, had plenty of expression in both.

  ‘What the bloody hell have you been up to, Alan? What sort of damn-fool game have you and Smythson been playing, getting yourselves marooned over there?’

  ‘It was no game, Harry.’

  ‘I should bloody well think it wasn’t. You’re damn lucky to have got back at all – God knows how. I want to hear the full story.’

  He told him most of it. Harry listened, shaking his head periodically. ‘Madness, Alan! Sheer lunacy! Lord knows how the Germans didn’t spot you. Smythson might have got away with it but you certainly wouldn’t. You said yourself that the mayor knew at once that you were English. You took the most frightful risk going to Pont-Aven and hanging about like that.’

  ‘I thought it was important to find out what had happened to Duval.’

  ‘I could have told you. He was executed not long after he was arrested. Shot. The Free French passed on information that one of their people brought back.’