Lord Parnell was waiting in the old car when Frances got off the train. Johnny was on the back seat, with the red setters, who each had a head out of a window.
‘Mummy’s home,’ he cried, as she walked round to sling her bag in the boot, and his grandfather replied, ‘Yes, my boy, she is. Now we’re in for ructions.’
Frances got in the front seat and, leaning over, gave Johnny a hug and a kiss before pecking her father on the cheek.
‘So good to see you, Fran, darling,’ said Lord Parnell. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice, which Frances picked up on immediately.
‘Hello, Pa,’ she said, as he put the car in gear and it rattled way from the station and down the lane. ‘Is there anything left in the house, or have you sold it all?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ he said, and looked in the driving mirror to Johnny. ‘Mummy is being silly, isn’t she?’ He glanced quickly at Frances. ‘What’s that scab on your lip? You look as if you’ve been in a fight.’
‘It’s bomb damage,’ she answered shortly. ‘Remember, there’s a war on. And as for being in a fight, well, I think that’s to come.’
‘Wait till we get home,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to upset the child, do we?’
Frances nodded and leant over to the back again. ‘Have you been a good boy?’ she asked.
‘I have been a best boy,’ he said eagerly. ‘Have you brought me a present? Grandpa said you would.’ His little face fell. ‘Maggie said those who expects don’t get.’
‘I think there might be a little something in my bag,’ Frances smiled. ‘But I’ll need lots of hugs and kisses first, when we get home.’
Her father turned the car into the drive and ahead she could see Parnell Hall, dim lights still showing in the downstairs rooms because it was too early for the blackout. She’d always loved the first sighting of her home, its red-brick exterior and the perfectly placed twelve-paned windows. When she was a girl and there was money, the house had glowed. It had been the place in the county, and her mother the perfect hostess. That had all gone years ago, and now her mother had gone too. God knows, I don’t want her back, thought Frances, but the house? It will come back, she thought fiercely. I’ll make it.
Lord Parnell drove round to the rear and parked beside the back offices. As she got out, Frances looked up. Scaffolding had been erected, and there was evidence of building work: stacked roof slates and beams lay about in the yard.
‘Where are the builders?’ she asked. ‘Have they finished for the day?’
‘They weren’t here today,’ her father said. ‘But I suppose they’ll come tomorrow. They have a lot on, you know.’
‘A lot on?’ Frances asked. ‘Doing what?’ Then a thought occurred to her. ‘Who are they? Fred Stone’s men, from the town?’
‘Come on inside.’ Her father opened the boot and took out Frances’s case. ‘The child is getting cold.’
Johnny was clinging on to his mother’s hand, jumping up and down and pushing the eager dogs away. ‘Naughty dogs,’ he shouted, and then in imitation of his grandfather, roared as loud as his little voice could manage, ‘Down, sirs.’
Amazingly, the setters obeyed him and bounded away past the stables and into the woodland beyond.
Lord John chuckled. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that boy’s got such a way with the dogs, and you should see him on Achilles – he’s fearless.’
‘Achilles?’
‘Ah yes’ – her father ducked his head as they went through into the kitchens – ‘you haven’t met him. It’s the pony. Fine little beast. Just the right size.’
Maggie came bustling through and beamed when she saw Frances. ‘Lady Fran,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. There’s been so much going on these last few weeks.’
Lord Parnell cleared his throat. ‘Never mind that now, Maggie. I think we could do with a cup of tea. Come on, Frances. We’ll go on up.’
Frances raised her eyebrows, and when her father had gone up the stairs to the hall, she whispered, ‘I’ll see you in a bit, Maggie. You can tell me what’s been going on.’
‘I will,’ the housekeeper said, shaking her head slowly. ‘There’s a lot to tell.’
It was later, after Frances had handed out the presents she’d brought home: a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Calvados for her father, a pretty piece of lace to trim her Sunday frock for Maggie, and for Johnny, a collection of pre-war toy cars that Guy had given her just before she left.
‘I played with them a lot,’ he said, giving her the box of rather battered vehicles. ‘But I think your son should have them now.’
Dear Guy, she thought, watching Johnny’s little face light up with joy when she put the box on the rug in front of the fire. I do hope I see him again.
‘Cars,’ the child shouted. ‘Grandpa, look!’
Her father grunted as he got down on his hands and knees beside the boy and helped to arrange the cars in a line. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he said.
‘Play, Grandpa, please,’ Johnny demanded.
‘Yes, son. Now, let’s put the biggest car at the front. Can you find which one that is?’
Frances watched them. Their friendship was wonderful to see and she never stopped being grateful to her father for accepting Johnny as his grandson. He was a decent man, but now, she had to find out exactly what he and Jerry Costigan had been up to.
She looked around the room, a perfectly square Georgian drawing room, with its dusty full-length damask curtains and the silk-covered sofa, so dreadfully torn on the arms but where the two setters lay, blissfully happy and snoring. All this was in danger of being lost.
‘Pa,’ she asked, ‘who’s doing the roof?’
‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘I wondered when you’d get on to that. I’m not sure of their names, but they came here with Mr Costigan. He found them.’
I might have known, she thought. ‘And how much have they done?’
‘You can see,’ her father blustered. ‘The scaffolding is up, and they brought in slates and beams. They just haven’t had time to be here in the last few days.’
‘Few days?’
He picked up a little tin Citroën and ran the wheels round with his fingers. ‘I suppose it’s about three weeks.’
‘My God,’ Frances cried. ‘Have you given him money?’
‘Not exactly. It’s a loan, as I said. I’m paying the interest. Don’t worry, darling. He’s a friend of yours, so everything will be alright.’
‘It won’t,’ said Frances sharply, her face twisted with anger. ‘First, Mr Costigan isn’t a friend of mine – I’ve met him briefly twice, but I do know all about him. He is a crook. He is a profiteer, a black-market dealer, a moneylender and loan shark, and he also buys and sells illegal booze. I have heard that he wants to buy a country estate and I think he has his eye on this one. He’s going to fleece you first, and then when you’re desperate, he’ll have it off you, lock, stock and barrel at a knock-down price.’
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. Eventually 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.’