The Eden Inheritance Page 12

  When he judged they had covered a safe distance he pulled from his pocket a handkerchief that Georges had lent him especially for the purpose; a small square of white cotton belonging to his sister, Yves’ wife. He drew alongside Kathryn.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame, I think you dropped this,’ he said in French.

  She turned quickly and he saw the surprise in her eyes – brown, with golden flecks around the iris.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He knew what she was going to say and interrupted her in a low voice, though he was as confident as he could be that there was no one within hearing distance.

  ‘Je suis anglais. Your brother Edwin sent me. I must speak to you.’

  He saw the blank look of shock on her face and was afraid that she might do or say something that would draw attention to the fact that he was not what he seemed. Then, to his relief, she took the handkerchief from him.

  ‘Thank you – how kind. I didn’t realise …’

  ‘I can’t talk now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘You often go out alone for walks, don’t you? I’ll see you tomorrow at the crossroads on the hill just outside Savigny. Three o’clock. And for God’s sake don’t tell anyone. Not your husband, not anyone. All right?’

  She hesitated for just a moment. Then: ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But what if it’s pouring with rain?’

  ‘The first fine day then.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good.’ He glanced around; no one was within earshot, no one was miring the slightest notice of them, but all the same he touched his forehead in a gesture of subservience. Then he quickened his pace and walked along the street.

  Next morning the wind had blown the rain clouds away. When she drew the curtains and saw the sky, higher and brighter than it had been for days, Kathryn felt her heart sink and she realised that she had actually been hoping it would be raining and she would not have to make a decision about whether or not to take the walk and keep her appointment with the Englishman who had contrived to speak to her in Angoulême.

  That he was English she had no doubt – in spite of all appearances to the contrary. But she couldn’t understand who he was or what he wanted with her, and she couldn’t think what he could have to do with Edwin. She had not seen her brother since the beginning of the war and had heard nothing either. Was it possible that he was in France and wanted to see her? But if so, why hadn’t he contacted her himself? Why send a messenge by way of a British national dressed up as a French peasant? Try as she might to find another explanation Kathryn couldn’t help thinking that only one fitted the bill. Edwin was mixed up with the Resistance and the man who had way laid her was too.

  When he had left her so abruptly she had been tempted to wonder if she had dreamed the whole thing, but the square of coarse white cotton, so different from her own lace-edged lawn handkerchiefs, was all the proof she needed that she had not. Riding home in Maurice Angelot’s creaking van she had been grateful for once for the farmer’s relentless chatter. He always regaled her with tales of his day in the market, what he had sold and to whom he had sold it, all gritted out around the home-rolled cigarette that dangled between his weather-dried lips. Luckily for her he did not expect any reply – he thought her typically standoffish English, never realising that he drove her mad with his repetitive anecdotes – and the habit, formed over weeks and months, had given her the chance to try to organise her whirling thoughts. But it had made no difference.

  What did he want with her? she asked herself for the hundredth time, and again the inescapable answer which whispered inside her head sent a chill of fear through her tense body. If he was an agent – and she was certain he must be – then he was going to ask her to help him in some way. And Kathryn was not at all sure she was brave enough – or foolhardy enough – to do it.

  You are wrong! she told herself. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to seek assistance from the wife and daughter-in-law of known collaborators! But the assurance could not satisfy her for long.

  Supposing he did ask for her help? What the hell would she do? Resisting in any way was a terribly dangerous business – assisting a British agent even more so. And she had Guy to think about. She couldn’t do anything to place him in danger … no, be honest, it wasn’t just the thought of the risk to Guy that was making her stomach churn with fear, but the terrible prospect of what would happen to her if she were found out. The Nazis were no respecters of women. They had special ways of dealing with them, she had heard … She trembled, stricken with dread, yet at the same time despising herself for hesitating for even for a moment at the chance of doing something to undermine the hated Boche.

  You are a hypocrite, Kathryn de Savigny, she told herself, looking at the sky and willing the storm clouds to gather so that the decision as to whether or not to keep the appointment would be taken from her. All this time you have been blaming Charles and his family for collaborating, accusing them of cowardice, and in reality you are every bit as bad!

  The realisation shamed her, but there was no escaping the fact that she was in no position to do anything to help. It was far too dangerous. If he asked, she would have to tell him that.

  At two-thirty the sky was still ominously clear and Kathryn knew that if she was to keep the appointment she could delay no longer.

  She checked that Guy was sleeping. Although he was almost four years old he still needed an afternoon nap – because of the energy he used up, she supposed. Then she changed into a tweed skirt and walking shoes and went in search of Bridget, who was, since the war had begun, one of only three servants at the château which had once employed more than twenty.

  ‘I am going out,’ she said. ‘Listen for Guy when he wakes up, please.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he like to go with you?’ Bridget was cheeky where the older servants never were. ‘The fresh air would do him good.’

  Kathryn resisted the urge to argue with her.

  ‘Just do as I say, Bridget, please.’

  She fetched her coat and hat, her stomach churning with nervousness.

  Don’t let him be there! she prayed as she walked down the drive, bordered on both sides by winter-brown parkland. If he’s not there that will be the end of it. But at least I’ll be able to live with myself, knowing I did what was asked of me.

  The chill wind cut through her coat and Kathryn shivered. Telling herself she was doing what had been asked of her was cold comfort indeed.

  At two-thirty Paul Sullivan was cycling up the hill towards the crossroads outside Savigny. He had intended allowing himself a full hour to hide himself and his bicycle in one of the thickets overlooking the whole valley to make as certain as he could that there were no traps waiting to be sprung on him; he didn’t yet know whether Kathryn de Savigny was to be trusted and if she had told anyone of their planned meeting there might be a patrol of German or Vichy police waiting to pounce. But it had taken him longer than he had anticipated to cycle the twenty kilometres; the road was undulating, and even in his present peak fitness he had been unable to maintain the speed he needed. There was, in any case, the danger that the Germans, if they did know about him, would time their arrival for exactly three o’clock, but it was a risk he had to take and on balance he was inclined to trust Kathryn. Her swift reaction when he had approached her the previous afternoon had impressed him and his instinct was that she would not knowingly betray him. Generally speaking Paul trusted his intuition. It rarely let him down – more often it was the reasoned judgement that did that.

  Paul dismounted, pushing his bicycle up the last, and steepest, part of the hill and looking for a way to get into the thicket that breasted it. He found a track and gateway but discounted them – too soft and muddy after the recent rain. His bicycle would leave telltale tyre marks and the mud would cake on his shoes, clear evidence for anyone who cared to look that he had not remained on the roads where he should have been. A little further on was a gap in the hedge and Paul settled for that, lifting his bicycle through and then manhan
dling it into hiding.

  From this vantage point the whole of the valley with its little winding roads was spread out beneath him and he knew he had chosen well – the safest possible place for a meeting as risky as this one. To his left, along the ridge, he could see the towers of the château rising above the trees, beneath him the fields fell away to the village – the collection of grey-stone houses and the church, its spire pointing up towards the thicker grey of the sky. Everything was quiet, everything appeared as normal as it could be – no enemy patrols, as yet at any rate. He leaned against the bole of a tree, lighting a cigarette and constantly scanning the vista for any sign of danger.

  Just before three o’clock he saw her approaching along the road from the direction of the château and realised that until that moment he had not been certain whether or not she would come. She was wearing a trench coat and a soft felt hat that covered her hair, her head was bent and she was walking purposefully. He remained under cover, watching her, more alert than ever. At the crossroads she stopped, looked around uncertainly. He let her wait for a full five minutes. Once he thought he heard the sound of a car and stiffened, peering down the valley. But it was only a farm truck; it chugged away and all was quiet again. He saw her look at her watch and wondered how long she would be prepared to wait. The timing of the meeting was a gamble, as was the decision whether or not to take his bicycle with him when he broke cover. On balance he decided to leave it where it was. If a patrol did come there was no way he could outrun it on a road, bicycle or no bicycle, and at least hidden in the thicket it did not attract attention.

  Paul saw her glance at her watch again and then look around. He was close enough to be able to see her perplexed expression. She was pretty, he thought, in a typically English way that bordered on the beautiful. She also looked classy. She moved from one side of the crossroads to the other, clearly uncertain what to do, then turned as if to go back the way she had come. Paul checked the valley once more, and decided it was time to take the chance and pray she had kept the meeting to herself. He left the cover of the thicket and climbed back through the gap in the hedge.

  ‘Good afternoon, Madame de Savigny,’ he said.

  Kathryn swung round, taken by surprise.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming. You said three o’clock.’

  He smiled briefly, apologetically.

  ‘Precautions. I couldn’t be sure you’d be alone.’

  ‘Oh! Surely you didn’t think I’d …’

  ‘I had to be certain. This is a dangerous game we’re playing.’

  ‘What is all this about?’ she asked fiercely. ‘You said something about Edwin.’

  Paul Sullivan glanced up and down the road. It was making him nervous standing in the open. He touched her elbow.

  ‘Let’s go into the woods. We’re too conspicuous here.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to attack you,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I didn’t think for one moment that you were. I was worried about snagging my coat.’

  ‘Ah, your coat.’ He said it sarcastically, thinking that he had been right first time – she was just a spoiled little rich girl with nothing more important than her expensive wardrobe on her mind.

  She shot him a glance.

  ‘If I go home with twigs caught up in it I shall have some questions to answer,’ she said curtly, and he knew she had read his thoughts. So – she might be spoiled, she was certainly one of the privileged classes, but she was not stupid. But then, he had already known that.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure there aren’t any telltale signs,’ he said. ‘But I really would rather be out of sight of the road.’

  ‘All right,’ She followed him through the hedge back into the thicket, her shoes squelching in the leaf mould. ‘Who are you?’

  He turned to face her.

  ‘I must ask you a question first. How do you feel about the German occupation?’ He saw the guarded look come into her eyes, and said in English: ‘ I must know which side you are on.’

  Her mouth tightened a shade.

  ‘Which side do you think I’m on? Not those Nazi butchers, for sure.’

  ‘You’d like to see them driven out of France?’

  ‘I’d like to see them exterminated. Does that answer your question?’

  He smiled briefly.

  ‘I think so. The next question is, would you be willing to help do it?’

  Though she had been expecting something of the sort, his words still shocked her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. I’m here to try to organise local resistance and also an escape line for British airmen, I need to recruit people I can trust. Your name was suggested to my head of department by your brother.’

  ‘Edwin. Is he involved in this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paul lied.

  ‘I’ll bet he is! Where is he? Are you sure you don’t know?’ Kathryn was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of longing. She and Edwin had been close once, in spite of their day-to-day squabbles, and she missed him.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know,’ Paul said. The eagerness in her face had given her an air of vulnerability that was at odds with the poise and sophistication of her outward appearance and made him regret, for a moment, that he could not help her. Then he thrust his sentiment away. Emotions of that sort had no place in the job he had to do. ‘ Look, I haven’t time to beat about the bush. Will you help me?’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘That’s a very hasty refusal.’

  ‘I’ve had all night to think about it. I more or less guessed what was coming after you spoke to me in Angoulême yesterday. I’m not a fool. And I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t. My husband’s family are collaborators. I’m not proud of it, but it’s a fact. General von Rheinhardt, who is in charge of the district, visits the château socially – my father-in-law invites him to dinner sometimes and he reciprocates by loaning us his official car if we need to make a journey – petrol is in terribly short supply, you know. I think von Rheinhardt actually likes coming to the château – he’s certainly a frequent visitor, anyway, so it would be far too dangerous for me to be involved in any subversive activity.’

  ‘I see the risks, of course. I also see that having the General at such close quarters could be a wonderful cover. He wouldn’t expect anything to be going on right under his nose.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t be able to deceive my husband and the rest of the family. We live as a very close unit. They wouldn’t agree to any sort of resistance, I know. They take the view that it is safest for everyone to keep their heads down and pretend friendship, at least. And they certainly wouldn’t allow Allied airmen shelter under their roof. It would be far too great a risk. The penalties for such a thing are very extreme.’

  ‘Certainly the château as a safe house was more than even I dared hoped for. Well, I’m sorry I dragged you out here for nothing, Madame.’ He hesitated. ‘ You wouldn’t know, I suppose, of anyone in the locality who might be more sympathetic to the cause?’

  ‘I would have said the whole neighbourhood is more or less completely united in wanting to avoid trouble.’

  ‘Following the example of your husband’s family, no doubt.’ He should not have said it, he knew, but he found the jibe irresistible all the same, and experienced a sense of satisfaction when he saw the quick colour flood her cheeks.

  ‘That’s unfair,’ she said. ‘You haven’t had to live with these bastards breathing down your neck, threatening your safety and the lives of your children. If it was your son who might be torn away from you in the middle of the night, perhaps you would understand how they feel – how I feel.’

  The blackness was there inside his head.

  ‘Perhaps I understand more than you think,’ he said harshly. ‘But if you won’t help, you won’t. I can’t force you to �
�� I wouldn’t want to. Resistance demands very special qualitites, not the least total commitment to the cause. Anything less is a recipe for disaster.’ He turned, easing his bicycle out of the undergrowth where he had hidden it. ‘I take it I can at least count on your discretion about this meeting?’

  ‘Yes, of course! What do you think I am?’

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you are a woman who could be a great help to the Allies if you put your mind to it. I think you are clever and resourceful and possibly all kinds of other things as well. But if you have no will to resist then there really is no point pursuing it.’

  He turned, looking down the valley again. All was quiet. Well, at least he had been right to trust her. She hadn’t betrayed him.

  ‘Goodbye, Madame de Savigny.’

  ‘Wait!’ He was on the point of lifting the bicycle through the hedge when that one word stopped, him. He looked round. Kathryn was standing, one hand jamming her felt hat down on to her head, the other stretched out towards him in a gesture that was half imperious, half pleading. ‘Don’t go for a minute, please!’

  He said nothing, just looked at her, and after a moment she said: ‘What is it you would want me to do?’

  He set the bicycle down again.

  ‘At the moment, nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘At this stage I simply need to know who I can count on for help.’

  ‘And later?’

  ‘People first. As I already said I hoped you might be able to give me the names of anyone sympathetic to the cause – anyone already resisting in some way perhaps. We need men who can move about without arousing suspicion – railwaymen, for instance, with their ‘‘love bird” passes and a sound knowledge of goods movements, policemen, priests – anyone with a legitimate reason for being out and about after curfew or in out-of-the-way places. We need safe houses, for agents as well as escaping Allied airmen. We need a whole network, eventually building to an undercover army. I need a register of people brave enough to allow their premises to be used for transmitting radio messages to London. My ‘‘pianist’’, when he arrives, will have to keep on the move – too many transmissions from any one place can be traced by the detector vans. It may be someone with a loft, it may be a farmer prepared to turn a blind eye to what goes on in his barn after dark. I also need the advice of someone with a detailed knowledge of the locality and the terrain – I thought you might be able to help me there.’