In the moments remaining before she left Sainte-Marie, Maisie began to consider her strategy for the conversation with Priscilla. Her hotheaded friend would no doubt want to rush to Sainte-Marie to see Pascale, which would not please Chantal Clement at all. In fact, Maisie thought that Chantal Clement’s gray eyes revealed the steely determination of a woman who was not scared by much, even the German army in her home. No, she must take care to control Priscilla, to ensure that Chantal was consulted and the situation discussed before Priscilla came within miles of the carriage sweep. But without a doubt, her friend should not be kept from her brother’s child any longer.
Maisie paced the room again, listening for the sound of a motor car door slamming, her name spoken at the front door, and Madame Thierry’s insistent call from the foot of the stair. What about Ralph Lawton? Peter’s journal had revealed interesting information about Lawton and the crashed De Havilland. It was the most intriguing part of her assignment thus far. It seemed that, in more ways than one, she was going in the right direction, her intuition at play with the hand of Fate, though at times she felt as if she were being moved through the past like a pawn in a game of chess.
THE DRIVER CAME at the allotted hour and, after bidding farewell to Madame Thierry and a drooling heavy-lidded Philippe, Maisie departed as quickly as possible for Reims. Her ticket purchased, she spent only a few minutes on the waiting platform before a piercing whistle heralded the commencement of the long journey to Biarritz: the arrival of the train that would take her to Paris and her connecting train. She found her compartment and took a seat by the window, the better to keep a keen eye on the platform. As the station guard blew his whistle and waved the flag, Maisie closed her eyes and leaned back. But it was a short-lived relief, for as the train began to move she heard the guard shout, the whistle blow again and a carriage door open and close. A late passenger had taken a chance and jumped aboard the moving train. It was without doubt a man traveling alone; a woman, Maisie thought, would not have taken so unseemly a risk. Two people would not have had the time to clamber aboard, but a solitary traveler determined to board would not have allowed a guard with a whistle to prevent him from taking a chance. Could it have been the Englishman? Or was it simply a young man who had not yet learned a sense of life’s fragility, a boy determined to visit his sweetheart or rushing to another city to find work. Maisie leaned back in her seat again, her hand clasped around the handle of the black leather document case that now held Peter Evernden’s journal. She closed her eyes. I must not let my fear diminish me.
MAISIE COULD SMELL the Atlantic Ocean in the distance even before her first vision of waves strung out in lines, wind-driven whitecaps reflecting both sun and cloud as they forged toward the shoreline of Biarritz. And as the locomotive finally reached the buffers, travel-weary men, women, and children surged forth onto the platform. Doors slammed back against the carriages as porters ran to and fro, back and forth, with trunks, suitcases, hat-boxes, and, in one case, a rather large hairy black dog sitting on top of a suitcase awkwardly balanced on a hand cart. Despite the flurry of activity and the fact that Priscilla anxiously awaited her arrival on the other side of the barrier, Maisie remained in her seat. She waited until there were fewer passengers on the platform and then took her brown leather suitcase down from the rack, gathered up her document case and handbag, and moved out into the corridor and to the door that opened out onto the platform. She looked both ways before alighting and then walked briskly to the place where Priscilla had stipulated that they should meet.
She continued to walk purposefully until she saw Priscilla in the distance. Relieved, she hoped her friend would not overdo her welcome, but Priscilla was her usual ebullient self, rushing toward Maisie, stopping only to drop her cigarette, which she stepped on and twisted into the ground before continuing. Maisie could not help but notice that her friend was as glamorous as ever.
Priscilla’s shoulder-length hair was brushed across her shoulders and topped with a cream beret. Wide ivory woolen trousers were complemented by a navy and cream hip-length cardigan with a just-below-the-waist belt. She wore a navy silk scarf around her neck and navy shoes on her narrow feet. Her slender wrists jangled with bracelets that Maisie could hear as Priscilla approached, taking off her dark glasses as she neared the weary traveler.
“Darling, whatever kept you? I’ve been waiting for ages, simply ages! And I have left Douglas with the toads—the nanny is still in love and has taken a day off to get up to heaven knows what with her latest garçon. Mind you, we did owe her a day off, I must say.” Priscilla barely stopped talking to take a breath, though she did turn to the porter who ran in her wake, to point to Maisie’s luggage. “Now then, how are you, Maisie?” She linked arms with her friend and strode out toward her motor car, which appeared to have been parked indiscriminately outside the station, with one wheel on the pavement and little room for other motors to pass.
“Oh, my goodness!”
“What’s the matter?” Priscilla turned to Maisie, and then to her motor car, a black Bugatti Royale with an eye-catching royal-blue swath of color on the bonnet. “Oh, don’t! It’s an impossibly large motor car and rather fanciful of me. Frankly, I might sell the thing and buy the new smaller version; it’s faster.” Priscilla pointed to the car, and the porter scurried away to stow Maisie’s luggage. “At least the thing starts in the morning!” Priscilla turned to Maisie again. “You know, I promised myself one thing in the war, when I was forcing my old ambulance across the mud, always wondering how many boys I would lose on the way—I promised myself that I would never crank a motor car again in my life. Then later, after the boys were born, I promised us all that, if ever they were injured or hurt, I would always have a decent motor car to get them to a doctor.” The porter opened the passenger and driver’s doors; Priscilla pressed a generous tip into his hand before starting the engine and nosing the Bugatti toward the road. “And is it a complete extravagance? Of course it is. And if I felt like it, I would buy another to keep the thing company.”
“You’ve made your point, Priscilla.”
Priscilla looked sideways at Maisie, then back at the road. “Well, I know you too well, Maisie. Any bit of perceived extravagance can send you into sackcloth and ashes again.”
They were silent for a moment, Maisie allowing the ocean air to fill her senses.
“You’re exhausted from your trip. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.” Keeping her left hand on the steering wheel, Priscilla flipped open a silver cigarette case with her right, took out a fresh cigarette, snapped the case shut, reached for a matching silver lighter, and lit the cigarette, which she drew on deeply. “I expect it’s because I’m so anxious to know whether you have news of Peter.”
Maisie smiled. From the moment she saw Priscilla running toward her at the station, her friend’s demeanor had revealed her fears, hopes, and expectations. She should keep her waiting no longer.
“It’s a bit more complex than we might have thought, Pris—”
“That’s strange.” Priscilla frowned, distracted for a moment.
“What?”
Priscilla turned her head to look behind, then swung back to face the road. “That’s the first time I have ever encountered another motor car while driving along this road. There are only a couple of houses up here: us, the Crowthers—expats; he was in Mesopotamia—and a Spanish family who’ve already left for the winter.”
Maisie looked behind to see a black motor car some way behind.
“Probably some lost tourist,” added Priscilla, shrugging. “Oh, well, he’ll find out as soon as he comes to the end of the road.”
“Pris, can you stop somewhere—you know, pull in behind some trees or something—around the next bend where he can’t see us?”
“What’s going on?”
“Priscilla….”
Priscilla didn’t notice the color drain from Maisie’s face, but she could not miss the sharp intensity of her voice and the use
of her full name. She accelerated the motor car, turned into a driveway, and pulled to a halt behind a tree. They sat in silence while the black motor car went past. They were close enough to see the driver and passenger, an older couple, the man with his hat pushed back as if in exasperation, the woman holding a map and frowning.
“Just as I thought, tourists.”
Maisie closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat.
Priscilla reached out and took her hand, and Maisie squeezed her hand in return.
She was silent for a moment, then turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go home, Pris. Let me have a nice long bath, a cup of tea, and a moment to relax. We have much to talk about.”
Priscilla started the Bugatti’s engine, which roared into life, and pulled out onto the road. “To hell with the tea, Maisie. I believe I need a gin and tonic!”
TWENTY-ONE
Though the journey had been long and grueling, Priscilla’s family gave Maisie no quarter. As soon as the Bugatti drew up outside the white hillside villa, the doors opened and three boys gamboled from the house toward the car. They had heard a great deal about their mother’s friend, and, despite the deep voice of their father in the distance cautioning them not to run, were clearly excited by the new arrival.
“Boys!” Priscilla’s voice was loud and clear and immediately caused her children to cease their rough-and-tumble welcome, which included pressing questions about what it was like to be an investigator. “Your Aunt Maisie has had a long journey and I am claiming her first! Now then, you can go into the house, wash hands and faces—and behind the ears, if you please, Tarquin Patrick Partridge—and then you can make yourselves useful. Tell cook that you’ll be setting the table this evening. Now!” Priscilla shook her head and smiled. Maisie noticed immediately that she addressed her sons by both their Christian and middle names, as if to keep alive the memory of the brother for whom each boy was named: Timothy Peter, Thomas Philip and Tarquin Patrick.
The boys began to walk slowly back into the villa. Then Timothy pinched Tarquin on the ear, a scuffle began, and they ran to the rear of the property, toward the kitchen, Maisie supposed. A tall man came down the steps toward the Bugatti, which was being unloaded by a manservant named Giles. Maisie immediately warmed to Douglas Partridge, whose smile was kindly and whose green eyes sparkled. He wore pale beige linen trousers, a white shirt with a burgundy cravat, and a Panama hat to shield his eyes from the sun. The left arm of his shirt had been tailored below the shoulder to accommodate his amputation, without obviously drawing attention to an empty sleeve. He used a cane with his right hand and walked with a slight limp. When he spoke, Maisie detected the wheeze of gas-damaged lungs.
“Maisie, at last. I have heard so much about you. Welcome to our home—though I do hope Priscilla warned you that with our three toads it’s more like a lunatic asylum at times!”
Douglas rested the cane against his thigh for a moment as he shook hands with Maisie, then took up the cane again and bent toward his wife, whom he kissed not on the cheek but on the lips. It was not a long kiss, but Maisie looked away. And as Priscilla laughed and gently held her hand to her husband’s face, Maisie felt, not for the first time, that events of the past two weeks were plunging her deeper into an ever-widening and lonely abyss.
Douglas excused himself, explaining that he had several telephone calls to make to Paris, while Priscilla turned to Maisie and put an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Come along, let me show you the gardens. We have a lovely view out toward the sea. Douglas will be in his study until supper; his latest book is due out in London in a month and he’s rather anxious about it. He’s also written a not-too-complimentary piece about the German elections for The Spectator.”
Priscilla led Maisie along a stone pathway flanked by olive trees and lavender bushes, the walls of the villa on her right ablaze with bougainvillea and passionflower. Steps led up to the broad white-washed terrace, and a more rustic stairway led down to landscaped gardens and a small, not very successful vineyard.
Maisie found it hard to believe that only yesterday she was stealing across a field in Sainte-Marie, her every move probably monitored by someone who might want her dead. And in this idyll, she must now speak of death with her dear friend. The way Priscilla opened and closed her hands with each step, the fact that her fingers shook as she pointed out landmarks below and—as she described the boys taking part in the olive harvest—pushed her wedding ring back and forth over the joint in her finger, all revealed the depth of her anxiety.
“Shall we sit down?” Maisie pushed her fringe back across her forehead, then shielded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, now low in the sky. The brightness was causing her temples to ache.
“We should get you some of these.” Priscilla pointed to the dark glasses protecting her eyes. “I have some spare pairs, you know.” Priscilla started toward the double-glass doors that led into the villa, but Maisie’s words called her back.
“Sit down, Pris. It’s time we talked about Peter. You cannot wait any longer, and I cannot hold what I have discovered. There are things you must know.”
“I…I….” Priscilla appeared paralyzed by the idea of impending news.
“Come along, my dear friend. Sit with me here.” Maisie smiled and patted the place alongside her on the wooden slatted bench, which was festooned with blue and gold cushions. “Then, when we have spoken, I really must have you show me to my room and I will take a good long bath while you speak with Douglas.”
Priscilla swallowed, her throat dry. “Can I just get a drink?”
Maisie sighed. “All right. But be quick.”
Priscilla rushed inside the villa, and Maisie closed her eyes. From her place on the veranda overlooking the town of Biarritz, the clink-clink of ice on glass was clearly audible through the open doors.
“Here you are. And it’s a strong one!” Priscilla handed a glass to Maisie and took a seat next to her.
Maisie held the glass in her left hand and slipped the fingers of her right through Priscilla’s.
“I will tell you what I know; then I will tell you what we will do. And before I begin, Pris, this is one time when I will not have you storming ahead without my say-so. Is that clear?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but I promise I will heed your word.” Priscilla took a large sip from her glass as Maisie set her untouched cocktail on a table alongside the bench and turned to face her friend.
“I have made some discoveries that may come as rather a shock. Peter did not die on the day or at the place where he was listed as missing. That was a deliberate subterfuge to protect him. My original investigation, the one that brought me to France, has surprisingly revealed that Peter was a British intelligence agent. He was operating in occupied territory in a small town outside Reims under an assumed name.” Maisie paused, allowing Priscilla time to assimilate the information.
“Oh, my darling, darling Peter.” Priscilla placed her glass on the table to the right of the bench and pressed her hand to her forehead, still holding Maisie’s hand tightly.
“I believe his job was to liaise with an important civilian who had been recruited to muster local support as well as to protect Peter. I believe his field of operation was extremely dangerous, though my knowledge of the service and his actual brief is limited.”
Priscilla pulled a linen handkerchief edged in blue silk from the pocket of her trousers and dabbed her eyes.
Maisie breathed deeply again, her shoulders aching as the weight of her discovered knowledge was moved but not lessened. “There’s more. He had to leave Sainte-Marie after a British aviator crash-landed his aircraft while en route to drop more messenger pigeons for Peter’s group to use. Peter attempted to save the man’s life but had to flee the town for fear his unmasking would reveal the web of activity locally.”
Priscilla shook her head. “Oh, my brave Peter—those brave people!”
“Yes, they were very brave. A year later, three of them were execu
ted.” Maisie paused again, gauging her friend’s demeanor and her capacity to assimilate the information revealed. She went on. “Those killed included Peter’s lover, a young woman named Suzanne Clement.”
“His lover?”
“Yes. Peter was in love.”
“Oh, God.” Priscilla began to cry, removing her dark glasses and pressing the handkerchief to her eyes, her tears now in full flow.
“Priscilla, there’s still more.”
“I don’t know if I can stand it.”
“Yes, you can. You can stand this.”
“What is it?” She turned to Maisie, the tears still running down her cheeks.
“Peter’s lover had a child, a daughter whom she named Pascale. She’s thirteen years old now and lives with her grandmother.”
Priscilla’s eyes opened wide, her tears abated. She released Maisie’s hand and stood up. “Oh, my God! Where is she?” She began to pace, almost hysterical. “I must go to her. I must see her. She is my family; she is all I have of him—”
“No, you must not. Not yet.” Maisie’s voice was soft but firm.
Priscilla sat down, reaching for her glass of gin and tonic, from which she took a hefty swig. Maisie continued, her voice quiet and modulated, so that Priscilla had to lean toward her to hear.