The House at Mermaid's Cove(84)

I pulled on the corduroy trousers and the baggy shirt. The identity card I’d carried on the first trip to France was in the pocket of the trousers. I was Jean-Luc Piquemal, fisherman, from Saint-Brieuc, a few miles to the south of Lannion. Tucked inside the identity card was a note, handwritten in French:

Dear friend,

I heard this morning that you are coming home. There are no words to describe what that news meant to me. Thanks to you, my precious package arrived, the contents of which were received with immense gratitude, and are already being put to good use. I wish you a safe journey.

Miranda

I smiled as I read it. She had chosen the words carefully, not compromising my identity, nor giving any clue to what she and I had done. It simply sounded like the message of one close friend to another. I pictured her going into the SOE office in London, unfolding the map of the Atlantic Wall in front of eager, astonished faces. What a prize that was. I hoped that now they would give Miranda a rest—make sure she got the medical treatment she needed.

I tucked the note back in my pocket, then tied a bandanna around my head. There was no mirror in the tiny space belowdecks, so I couldn’t check whether I’d made a decent job of concealing my hair. I shrugged as I tucked in a stray tuft, telling myself it didn’t much matter, because soon I would be away from here, free from all the pretense, free to be my new self.

When I got up on deck the light was fading. The boats on either side of us had already gone. Jack called to me in French from the wheelhouse. “I’m going to get her started. Will you cast off? Just jump back on before she starts to move.”

As I headed for the gangplank I glanced at George, who was sitting in the stern, playing a harmonica. The haunting melody reminded me of Irish folk songs I’d learned at school. His face was in shadow. From this distance it was impossible to tell that he was blind. I thought of how heroic he’d been, setting out alone to find me at the convent.

The gangplank wobbled as I stepped onto it. I was going to have to be careful getting back aboard after I’d untied the ropes—otherwise I’d end up in the river. I went to the first of the two mooring posts and bent over it.

“Arrêtez!” The voice loomed out of the twilight. Twisting my head, I saw a thickset man in uniform coming toward me, a gun holster silhouetted against his body. “Quel est votre nom?” His French was heavily accented, his tone brusque.

“Je m’appelle Jean-Luc Piquemal,” I mumbled, praying that the pitch of my voice wouldn’t give me away.

“Montrez-moi votre carte d’identité.” Show me your identity card.

He shone a flashlight onto the fake document. Then he barked out more questions: the name of the boat and what we were doing in Lannion. I kept my voice as low as I could. Inside I was trembling, terrified that he’d see through my disguise. I wondered if he’d been watching when I boarded the boat—seen a nun get on but not get off.

“This boat is not registered. Stay there!” He stepped onto the gangplank, then boarded the boat. It creaked with his weight. My heart lurched as I remembered my convent clothes, lying in the galley. What if he went down there? I craned my neck, desperate to alert Jack. But he was in the wheelhouse. He wouldn’t see anything. And with the noise of the engine, he wouldn’t hear a thing.

I could see the top of George’s head at the other end of the boat. I saw it jerk backward, as if he’d been shoved. The German was shouting at him. I heard the words stupid and pig barked out in French. He was trying to interrogate George in the same way he’d done to me, but of course, George couldn’t reply—if he opened his mouth, he would give away that he couldn’t speak the language.

Panic rose like bile in my chest. I heard a crash and a yell. I couldn’t stand the thought of George, blind and defenseless, at the mercy of a man wielding a gun. I leapt onto the gangplank with no idea what to do other than to put myself between them. But as I reached the top, I saw that Jack was already there. He’d grappled the German from behind, one hand over his mouth and the other on his right arm, pinning it to his side. The gun had dropped onto the deck. I ran over and grabbed it. But as I looked up, I saw Jack stagger backward. He landed with a sickening thud on the deck. The German lurched at me, yanking my arm to get the gun. I don’t remember my finger finding the trigger, don’t remember squeezing it; all I can recall is the crack as it went off, like a branch giving way in a storm. And the weight of his body as he collapsed onto me.





Chapter 26

I lay on the deck, unable to move. I could smell the blood oozing from his body. I called to George to help me—in such a state of shock that I forgot to speak in French. George pulled the German off me, then helped me to sit up.

“Are you all right, Miss Alice?”

“Y . . . yes, I think so.” I rubbed my arm where it had been pinned to the deck. “Is he . . . ?”

“No, miss—’e’s still breathing.”

“Oh . . . thank God . . . I . . . but what about . . .” I went to move but my legs buckled under me. I couldn’t see Jack. I thought he’d fallen a few feet from where I was lying. Then I caught sight of something moving. Jack’s hand, feeling his head. He was across the deck, on the starboard side. Before I could call out to him, he was on his feet.

“Oh, darling . . .” He was beside me, cradling me in his arms. “Are you hurt?”