The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(46)

Today, Thérèse eyed Elise warily. “Yes, but Mademoiselle Eleanor is here now,” she whispered into her hand. “And what we’re talking about does not concern her. I shall ring you back when I can.”

As Thérèse swallowed her pills obediently, Mère St. Antoine found Elise. “When you’re finished, I’d like to speak with you, child. I’ll wait in the hall.”

“Yes, Mère.”

When Elise was finished and Thérèse had resumed her “telephone call,” Elise went to find the older woman, who stood waiting with a serious face in the stone passage. “Walk with me, child,” the Mother Superior said, leading the way out to the herb garden.

They trod the well-worn dirt paths between the sage and rosemary, passing a lichen-covered statue of Mary, her graceful palms extended in supplication. The sun had climbed higher and shone hotter, although the clouds were still heavy and the air thickly humid.

“You have been with us a few months now.”

“Yes, Mère.”

“We have kept your confidences and provided you with a new life.”

“Yes, Mère.” Elise felt fear at her throat. Was she in danger of being discovered? Would the nuns give her up to the authorities? Would she need to be on the run again?

But the Mother Superior continued, “You have proven yourself. We know your secrets. Now it’s time you knew some of ours.”

Elise was confused. “Mère St. Antoine?”

“We need your help.”

The clock in the church tower rang the hour. Not only had it not been reset to German time but its time didn’t actually correspond to standard measure. Instead, the white-faced clock moved its hands in ancient and mysterious ways—sometimes slower, sometimes faster—obeying its own abiding rhythm rather than the regulations of Berlin and Paris.

“Of course, anything I can do.”

They reached the small chapel at the edge of the convent’s land; next to it stood the morgue.

At the door, the Mother Superior knocked in a complicated pattern, then took a heavy iron ring from her pocket, chose a large key, and pushed it into the lock. She turned it, and the rusty hinges groaned. “Follow me.”

They went down a cool and damp stone corridor to another room with a lock. This time, the nun used a different key, a smaller one, and opened the door.

Inside was a narrow bed and, on it, a sleeping man. It had been so long since Elise had seen a man other than Father Allard, who gave them communion every Sunday, she gasped.

The man was young, in his twenties, with badly cut hair. A coarse, dark beard covered his face. He woke and scrambled to sit up. Terror flared in his eyes as they darted from the older woman to the younger.

“Shhh,” the Mother Superior soothed. “It is only I—and this young woman is Mademoiselle Eleanor. She can be trusted. She’s a trained nurse and I wish her to look at your wound.

“This is Royal Air Force Captain Augustine Preston,” Mère St. Antoine told Elise. “The captain was shot down not far from here by the Luftwaffe. A few townspeople, at great risk, brought him to us, and we’ve done our best to treat the injuries he sustained from the crash. But he’s not responding as we would like. It’s impossible for us to call a doctor—we don’t trust the one who attends the enfants, and so we implore you to do your best.”

The captain’s breathing calmed and he managed in English-accented French, “Thank you, Mère St. Antoine. How do you do, Mam’zelle Eleanor?”

Elise nodded, approaching the bed. “What is your affliction, Captain Preston?”

“Gus, please. Captain Preston is my father.” The Englishman pulled off the sheet, then rolled up his pajama trouser leg.

Gently, Elise removed the bandages around his calf and examined the wound underneath. She didn’t like what she saw. “It’s infected.” She put her hand to his forehead. He was hot with fever.

“We need medicine,” she told the Mother Superior. “Morphine for the pain.”

“Medication is in short supply these days, my child—morphine is impossible to find.”

“I—I can perhaps use some herbs from the garden. But, compared to real medicine…”

“I will leave him in your care.”

Elise looked to the Englishman and gave her most reassuring smile. “I’ll do my best.” This wasn’t the first time she had cared for a downed RAF pilot in hiding behind enemy lines; she had hidden and nursed one back to health in Berlin.

She walked out with the Mother Superior. When they were through the two doors and back on the path, the older woman looked to Elise. “Will he die?” she asked bluntly.

Elise chose her words carefully. She knew Mère St. Antoine had done her best. “Infection has set in his wound, and it isn’t easy to treat at this stage. He needs a specialist.”

“And that is impossible.”

“All I can tell you is what I told him—I will do my best.”

“Thank you.” Mère St. Antoine placed one wrinkled hand to her heart. “And I will pray.”

—

When people asked Diana Lynd what she was doing for the war effort, she invariably answered, “A boring little job on Baker Street.” Lynd was a statuesque woman with a quintessentially English sense of style. She was always dressed in impeccably tailored suits in shades of caramel, toffee, and cream, with a different brooch each day; today’s was a golden bird in a pearl-and-ruby cage. She wore soft suede court shoes, and her honey-colored hair was rolled up at the nape of her neck. She gave off the distinctive fragrance of Jicky perfume and cigarette smoke, and her accent was clipped, with cut-glass consonants.