The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(59)

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

—

Elise knocked, then entered. “I’ve got something for you—a surprise!”

“A proper Sunday roast?” Gus asked hopefully. “Beef and Yorkshire pudding? New peas? A good claret?”

“Alas, no. But I think you’ll be pleased anyway.” When she produced the brandy bottle, his eyes lit up. “Mother Superior thought it might help with the pain.”

“I won’t say no.”

She poured a fair amount into his teacup and handed it to him. It smelled of dried figs.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it. “But it doesn’t seem right unless you have some, too.”

“Well, then,” Elise said, pouring a tiny bit for herself into a water glass. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had alcohol. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

They clinked glasses. “Cheers,” Gus said, taking a large gulp. “Oh, that’s good.”

Elise sipped, feeling the brandy’s restorative warmth run down her throat.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I got here,” he said, after taking another swig.

“You don’t need to tell—”

“No, I want to. You told me a bit about yourself, after all. I was born in Catford—in Southeast London. After a rather less than stellar academic career, I left St. Dunstan’s College. When the war broke out, I joined the Royal Air Force.”

He took another huge gulp of brandy, and Elise poured him more. “After training, I was posted to Ninety-two Squadron, based at Croydon, as a flight commander flying Spitfires. I was coming back from a raid on Dortmund—the factories on the outskirts, not the city itself. It was what Fighter Command called the ‘Rhubarb raids.’ Supposed to force the Luftwaffe to maintain aircraft in the west, helping to relieve the pressure on Russia…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It was on the way home, over France. My Spit was hit in the engine. I was flying too low to bail out, so I shoved my canopy back and began looking for a field to crash-land. As you can see”—with a wry smile, he indicated his bandaged leg—“it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

“But how did you get here? To the convent?”

“The farmer who found me in his field didn’t know what to do, so he told his priest. The two of them brought me here, where Mère St. Antoine was kind enough to take me in and hide me. Although convalescing so close to the convent’s morgue has been…an interesting existentialist exercise. And how did you come to be here, mademoiselle?”

“I was—” Elise had never told all of her story aloud before. “I was a nurse in Berlin once upon a time.” Now was not the time. “I’m sorry, Gus—but I’d rather not speak of it.”

—

As Maggie waited on the train platform, her eyes went to a large poster with bold lettering:





10,000 FRANCS REWARD!


Following the decree establishing the death penalty for all those who hide English soldiers or aid them to escape, the German High Command announces it will pay 10,000 francs reward to any person providing names and addresses of those engaged in this criminal activity.



A German officer was staring at her. A captain, from his uniform. Using a technique she’d picked up in Beaulieu, she stared fixedly at his feet in their gleaming black boots, allowing a quizzical look to cross her face.

He stopped staring at her and followed her gaze. He shuffled his feet, looking at them from all angles, trying to determine what was wrong. Maggie kept staring; finally, he became so uncomfortable, he moved to another part of the platform.

Ha! she thought, pleased with her small victory.

The train pulled in with a whistle and a shriek of brakes. She was relieved to secure an empty car for herself, sitting next to the grimy window. The city faded, giving way to plowed fields. She could see old men in coveralls with hoes, cows, and the flashing green of crops. She pulled her coat around her, trying to ignore her wildly beating heart.

Finally, the train arrived in Chantilly. Maggie got off at the very last minute. The countryside felt a world away from the heart of Paris. From the posted map, she knew she still had a several-mile hike on a dirt road through a dense forest. Glad I changed my shoes, she thought as she followed the road, scrambling over stones and jumping across mud puddles, stopping once to catch her breath, leaning on an ancient oak.

When she finally reached the convent, it turned out to be a stone structure surmounted by a towering cross, encircled by a cluster of smaller buildings. Breathing hard, she made her way over worn paths, then climbed the steep stairs, hollowed by centuries of footsteps, and rang the bell.

The door of the Convent of Labarde creaked open. The nun facing her was very young, with freckles sprinkling her delicate face. She gave Maggie a wary look. “Yes, mademoiselle?”

“How do you do?” Maggie began. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. The entryway smelled of beeswax floor polish. What exactly do I say? Now that the moment had come, she realized how terrified she was of failing again. “I’m, well, I’m looking for someone.” She held out the photograph she’d taken from the Hess apartment. “Do you know this woman?”

The young nun took the picture. As she squinted at it, she blanched. “Come in, mademoiselle, and wait inside. I’ll get the Mother Superior. You can ask her.”