The French Affair, page 15
She didn’t admit that she’d resorted to the black market, buying from one of Eva’s old friends who kept a small farm outside the town, and who for the right price, could always lay his hands on a little meat and dairy. It wasn’t for feeding herself that she did this, it was for Mason. She only hoped he appreciated the trouble she’d gone to.
He winced as he took a breath to speak. ‘I can’t stand mutton. I’ll bring us a couple of steaks next time. You can get anything if you throw enough money around.’
Iris felt sick when she thought of where his money came from, how countless soldiers had died because of the secrets he’d betrayed to the enemy, all to secure lucrative contracts for the German armaments company he had a stake in.
He must have sensed the change in the atmosphere, because he opened one eye. ‘What is it? You’re not ill as well, are you? I thought it must have been something I’d eaten in that blasted hotel, but if you’re feeling it too, then it must be a virus we picked up somewhere.’
Iris placed her hand on her forehead, pretending to test her temperature. ‘Now I think of it, I have been a little under the weather. Maybe there’s something in the air.’ If she appeared to be ill too, he wouldn’t suspect that his symptoms were of her making.
After he’d closed his eyes again, she lit the fire and placed a blanket over him, determined to make him sweat, double-checking the shutters to make sure not a chink of light could get in. Once he was settled, she studied his breathing. Would it take more than this to finish him off? She’d guessed the dose, not knowing how much would do the job, or how the cooking would affect the properties of the ingredients, or even if he’d detect them. If this wasn’t enough to kill him, she’d have to learn how the poisons behaved through trial and error.
When she was sure he was asleep, she slipped her hand under the blanket to retrieve his tobacco pouch from his pocket, and crept downstairs to the cellar with it, quickly adding dried brugmansia leaves, crumbling them to a similar size and shape as his usual blend of tobacco. He was so practised at filling his pipe, he barely paid attention as he did it, allowing his fingers to feel their way as he transferred it, pinch by pinch from pouch to bowl before tamping it down. Unless he gave it more than a cursory glance, he was unlikely to spot the rogue leaves among the strands and curls of those he was accustomed to.
The brugmansia leaves wouldn’t kill him, but the hallucinations it induced would be enough to confuse him, and the more debilitated he became, the easier it would be to finish him off.
Back upstairs, she returned the tobacco pouch to his pocket. The soft pressure of her hands on his body must have disturbed him, because he opened his eyes. Startled by his sudden attention, she jumped back, the guilt of her interference written all over her face.
‘Sorry, Mason. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was repositioning the blanket to make you more comfortable.’
It was a second or two before he realised where he was. He threw off the blanket and sat up, patting his pockets, as if to check everything was still where it should be. Iris prayed that she’d slipped the tobacco pouch back into the right place, that he wouldn’t notice if it was positioned incorrectly.
‘Are you ready for the mutton? Or perhaps you’d like another mint tisane?’
He shook his head, and then grabbed it with both hands, as if instantly regretting the movement. ‘I’d better go back to the hotel and see if I can sleep off this blasted headache.’
She acquiesced, noting how the effects of what she’d fed him lingered, sorry the mutton would be wasted, disappointed that she hadn’t managed to kill him with it. It would keep for a day or two on the coldest shelf in the pantry. Perhaps there’d be another chance to feed it to him before then, that was if she could convince him to eat what he considered inferior meat. If she was to finish him off before he guessed what she was up to, she’d have to make sure he ate everything she offered him.
Chapter 26
The Grey Mouse was sitting at a table outside the café again, her drink untouched as she watched people come and go in the square. Iris had planned to stop off for breakfast, but this woman in her German uniform, with the questioning eyes that seemed to track everyone’s movements, had put her off. Instead, she walked past, hoping to remain unnoticed, rummaging in her handbag to demonstrate her distraction, but these days it wasn’t so easy to appear invisible.
‘Iris. May I call you that?’
The Grey Mouse was looking up at her and smiling. ‘My name is Frieda. I introduced myself to you recently. I was a friend of Eva’s.’
No one occupying a country by force could ever be considered a friend. Before Iris could think of a civil response, Adele appeared from inside the café, saving Iris from having to make conversation with someone who stood for everything she despised.
‘Iris, there you are. Would you take a look at Georges for me?’
‘Of course.’
She nodded to the Grey Mouse, forcing herself to be polite. It wasn’t wise to snub the enemy, however great the temptation. ‘Please excuse me.’
Everyone was sitting outside in the sunshine and the café was empty, but for Georges, who was sleeping in his crib beside the counter. Iris leaned over him, envious of his peace.
‘What is it?’
Adele rubbed her hands nervously down her apron, her eyes shifting to the spot outside the café where the German soldier who shot the pigeon had stopped to light a cigarette, taking more time over it than was necessary.
‘Is he bothering you?’
Adele shook her head a little too vehemently, her eyes shifting to the Grey Mouse. ‘No. It’s that woman. She comes to the café at the same time every morning and stays for an hour, sometimes two, lingering over her breakfast and trying to make conversation. Every time I look up, she’s watching me.’
‘Perhaps she has no friends.’
‘If she thinks I’m going to be her friend, she can forget it.’
The Grey Mouse had been in the café the day they discussed the discovery of Schiller’s body. If she was as alert as she always seemed, she must have heard everything that was said. If she suspected the café was a meeting place for the Resistance, it would explain why she kept coming back. She had too much curiosity to be anything other than a spy.
Adele’s attention had returned to Georges, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she stared at his sleeping form. Iris hadn’t forgotten how she’d blamed Eva for being burdened with him.
‘I was going through some of Eva’s notebooks and found a reference to some herbs she’d given you when you discovered you were carrying Georges.’
She didn’t have to be any more direct for Adele to understand she was referring to the abortifacients she’d requested to end her pregnancy.
‘She supplied them because I begged her to. She advised me not to take them, even as she handed them to me, and I didn’t. She was right. For all the shame I felt at finding myself carrying Schiller’s child, he was my child too, and when it came to it, I couldn’t face the prospect of losing him.
‘When I told you I blamed Eva for the fact that I have Georges, I didn’t mean it. I slept with Schiller out of my own free will. I shouldn’t have spoken ill of her.’ She forced a smile which spoke more of her bravery that it did of her contentment. ‘What would you like to drink?’
Adele was taking Iris’s order when Solange came into the café. Her eyes lit up when she saw Solange was carrying a dress.
‘Did you manage to repair it?’
Solange held the dress up to the light, pointing to the invisible stitching at the waist. ‘I had to cut back the fabric where the tear had frayed. If you look closely, you can see it.’
Adele smoothed the dress against her body, trying to get an impression of the fit. ‘I’ll go upstairs and try it on. Keep an eye on Georges for me.’
Solange wandered over to the crib where Georges was still sleeping, unmoved by his mother’s burst of excitement. She glanced at Iris, as if she had something to say, but didn’t know how to say it.
It was Iris who finally broke the silence. ‘Did you make that dress for Adele?’
‘No. She caught it on something and tore it, so I offered to repair it. There wasn’t much fabric to spare. I hope it still fits.’ Her eyes drifted back to Georges. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know Christophe. We both know he’s troubled, but underneath, he’s kind and decent, and only wants to be loved. How can I make him understand that I want to be the woman to do that?’
‘Have you tried telling him?’
‘He runs away like a scared rabbit whenever I go near him.’
‘Don’t take it personally. I think he does that with everyone.’
‘He doesn’t believe he’s worthy of being loved, but he’s wrong. How do I prove it to him?’
Adele returned before Iris had time to consider the question, twirling around the café in her dress, the repair invisible unless you knew to look for it.
‘It fits even better than it did before. Solange, you’re a genius. The couture houses in Paris don’t know what they’re missing.’
Solange inspected the reconfigured seam, making sure it sat smoothly on Adele’s waist, but her mind was still on the previous conversation.
‘Tell me, Iris. How did you make Jack love you?’
If Iris knew the secret of winning love, she’d have used it to win Jack back. Lost for an answer, she remembered what Eva had written about Christophe in her notebooks next to the recipe for his tisane.
‘Try kindness and a listening ear. That’s what he needs more than anything.’
The conversation was interrupted by a commotion in the square. Iris dashed outside, to where a crowd had quickly gathered. Through the gaps of vying elbows and shoulders, she spotted two women on their knees, their faces buried in their hands. Paul was among the crowd, his face blank with shock. Iris worked her way towards him, touching his arm to get his attention.
‘What’s happened?’
‘The camp in the woods where the maquis have been hiding out was discovered by the Germans. They set fire to it last night. The flames tore through their makeshift shelters as they slept. The ones who tried to get away were shot. No one survived.’
It was the camp where Jack was hiding. He couldn’t be dead. It couldn’t be true. It had to be a mistake.
‘Are you sure?’
‘The smoke carried as far as the vineyard. I saw it from my bedroom window when I opened the shutters first thing this morning. I thought it was a wildfire in the hills. There’s been such little rain, the earth is parched up there. It wouldn’t have taken much for it to set alight. I was on my way to help put it out when I was stopped by a group of German soldiers. They laughed in my face as they told me what had happened.’
Jack couldn’t have been killed. She wasn’t prepared to let him go. His name was on her lips, but she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing he was here, alive or dead.
She needed air and space. She moved away from the crowd. No one must see how distressed she was. She had to find out what had happened to Jack. Someone must know. Someone must be able to tell her. Knowing if he was dead or alive was all that mattered.
‘Iris, are you all right?’
She hadn’t realised Paul had followed her until she felt the weight of his arm around her shoulders. She tried to shake him off, but his grip only grew tighter.
‘You’ve had a shock. Let me take you home.’
‘How many?’
Paul frowned at her question. ‘How many what?’
‘How many died? Do we know their names?’
He squeezed her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh, as if such pain could relieve the shock.
‘It’s too soon to say. It’ll be a while before they recover the bodies, that’s if the Germans don’t remove them first. I wouldn’t put it past them to deny people the right to bury their dead.’
The sound of leather boots ringing on the cobbles announced the arrival of the German soldiers, shouting insults and laughing, as the people in the square clung to one another, supporting friends and neighbours in their grief. One or two at least had the decency to look shame-faced as they waved their guns to disperse the crowd, turning a blind eye to the old man who risked his life by calling them murderers. His grandson had disappeared six months ago after being summoned to join a forced labour camp in Germany. It didn’t take much to guess he’d joined the maquis as a resistance fighter.
Paul pulled Iris closer, constraining her in his grip. ‘I’ll take you home. You don’t need to see this.’
It was easier to let him lead her back to the house than to fight him. She needed all her strength for Jack. How long would it be before she had news of him? Before she was forced to resign herself to his fate?
Chapter 27
Hour upon hour, Iris paced the house, keeping one eye on the square. If there was news, this was where it would be posted. And yet there was no news. The town remained as silent as the grave. Everyone was already in mourning for those who’d been murdered. They didn’t need to know their names to feel their loss. The victims had been warriors, fighting for the freedom of France, and that was all anyone needed to know.
But how about Jack? He’d been living with the maquis clandestinely. The men he lived alongside might not have known his real name. If he’d died, she might never hear of it. Instead, she’d be forced to rely on the slow-growing certainty of it, until one day, she’d have no choice but to accept he was gone. But today was not that day. She wouldn’t give up on him. Not now, not ever.
Iris hadn’t slept when Mason appeared just before lunchtime the following day. She greeted him at the door, pretending to be pleased to see him, bracing herself for another encounter, when all she really wanted to do was cry for Jack.
The effects of the poisoned cake seemed to have worn off, and so she offered him the slow-cooked mutton she’d previously made. It was past its best, but it would hardly make any difference, given the dried larkspur and foxglove leaves she’d added to the recipe.
‘I ate most of it last night, but I set some aside for you, because I knew you’d want to try it. Did I tell you it was one of Eva’s special recipes and not one she shared widely?’
He gave a slight twitch, his eyes moving backwards and forwards, as if he were scanning the pages of a book somewhere in the distance.
‘Did you see that?’
She traced the line of his eyes. ‘What?’
‘The bat. The huge green bat, flapping its wings as if it were drowning.’
‘Are you sure?’
There were no bats at this time of the day, green or otherwise. He must have been smoking the tobacco she’d laced with brugmansia leaves. They were well known to cause hallucinations.
‘It couldn’t have escaped.’ His eyes darted around the sitting room, scanning the rug and the backs of the chairs. ‘It must have landed somewhere. Don’t let it near you. It might bite.’
‘I’ll warm up the mutton. It won’t take long. Come through to the kitchen.’
He didn’t appear to be listening as his eyes tracked nothing in the air. ‘There it is. Can’t you see it?’
‘It’s probably a trick of the light. Come and eat the mutton.’
He grabbed the top of her arm where the last set of bruises, round and dark as damsons, had only now begun to fade.
‘I said, can you see it?’
‘Whatever it was, it must have gone. Now, will you eat the food or not?’
She made her voice high-pitched, trying to sound cheerful, as if her world hadn’t collapsed around her. ‘The flavours will have infused deep into the meat by now. It should taste better than ever.’
He insisted on her opening the window before he entered the kitchen. Despite his confused state, he was still conscious of the risk of gas poisoning.
By the time she served the food, he was finally seated at the table. He looked up at her, his eyes still wild and flitting, like the wings of the imagined green bat itself.
‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘I ate my share last night. I saved this especially for you.’
She trusted he wouldn’t check in the pantry, where the rest of the dish remained untouched. Nothing on earth would make her eat her own poison.
The mutton gave way like warm butter under the pressure of Mason’s knife. He shovelled it into his mouth, his fork piled high with the meat, glistening with the extra honey she’d dribbled over as a last-minute glaze before serving.
‘I’m no fan of mutton, but I can taste the merit in this.’
Once he’d cleared his plate, he slumped in the chair, sated. His eyes had begun to lose their wild, unfocused look and would remain that way until he lit his pipe again. She’d need to have her wits about her if she was to top up his tobacco pouch without him noticing.
He pushed his fingernail between his front teeth, digging out a string of mutton that had lodged itself there. ‘You heard about the attack on the camp of those resistance fighters.’
It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and she refused to be led into giving an opinion on it. ‘I didn’t offer you any wine with your mutton. Would you like some?’
He placed his hand on his forehead, as if remembering the headache he’d recently suffered, and she wondered if the last traces of it still remained, whether he was hiding the effects of the slow poisoning, or whether they weren’t bothering him that much. She had to tread carefully, to make sure he didn’t connect feeling ill with the food she was giving him.
‘Not now.’ He sat up a little straighter and she realised he was finally getting round to the real purpose of his visit.
‘One of the junior officers told me you were in the square when the news came through about the attack on the maquis camp. He broke up the ensuing scuffle.’
It wasn’t a scuffle. People had gathered to comfort the two women who’d lost their men in the attack. Iris bit back everything she was tempted to say. She’d learn more by listening than by correcting him.
