Voices on the Wind (36 page)

A strange ally for Antoinette, this woman who hated him so much. But hated the ruthless betrayal of her own side more. He sat down. The exchange began.

‘How are you feeling?' from the lawyer.

‘Quite well. I sleep a lot. I read the Bible.' A change of expression from the woman. Suspicious, contemptuous. He said, ‘I'm not converted. It's all they allow me. To me it's still Jewish fairy tales.'

‘Madame Alfurd has some more questions she would like to ask you.'

He gave her a twisted smile, sly and cynical. ‘I'll do my best to answer. How are you, Cecilie? You look well today. What do you want to know?'

Kate could feel her heart beating faster and faster. The room was airless and smelt of prisons. The old man opposite watched her with the half-smile on his face and the vivid blue eyes probing into hers.

So beautiful, Antoinette Vigier had said, he loved flowers. A house wasn't a home without them. ‘Tell me the truth,' Kate said at last. ‘Do you regret anything you did?'

The head came up in pride. ‘I regret nothing. I did my duty for my country. I would do the same again.'

She thought of Michaelson and looked down at her hands, imitating him. ‘Why didn't you add Heil Hitler,' she said.

The voice was gently mocking. ‘Because you've said it for me.'

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She pushed back the chair, which scraped across the bare floor. ‘That's all I wanted to know. At least you're honest. I shan't be seeing you again before your trial. Goodbye, Standartenführer.' He saw her hand stretch out to him across the table, and he was surprised. It was an unexpected victory for him. He clasped it. Her grip was firm and he winced. She turned away, speaking to the lawyer over her shoulder. ‘I'm going outside. I'll wait in the car if you want to talk to him.'

The sunshine was bright and hot; she wanted to run but she was breathless and trembling. She walked away down the street. The car park was in the opposite direction. The hand that had shaken his was tightly clenched as if in protest. When she hailed a taxi cruising past, it was still a fist. She got inside and sank back against the seat. She felt dizzy and weak. The driver had to ask her twice before she answered.

‘Nice airport.' She put her head back and closed her eyes.

In the mirror the driver saw his passenger sitting with her eyes shut and her lips moving. Maybe she was praying. The world was full of nutters, he decided, and thought about the very big fare he was going to charge for going all the way to Nice. He didn't see the slow tears that rolled down her face, and the names were soundless. ‘Lisette,' she whispered last of all, ‘I didn't know you, but it's for you too. Now you can all rest in peace.'

At the airport she was taken into a private lounge. He was waiting for her. He still held himself well, she thought. He led her to a sofa. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, I'm all right.'

‘Do you want anything? You look shocked.'

‘Here, this belongs to you.'

He had a box ready, and he took the ring and shut it away quickly. ‘Did you manage it? Are you sure?'

‘I'm not sure,' Kate answered. ‘But you'll know soon enough if I didn't. I'd like some coffee if that's possible.'

He hesitated, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I'll order some. You just relax. It's all over now. You'll be home in a few hours. I've arranged for a car to meet you at Gatwick and take you to Amdale.'

She turned her head and said wearily, ‘I'd like to detour and pick up my dog, if that's not too much trouble.'

‘No trouble at all,' Robert Michaelson said gently.

It was reported on the inside column of the fifth page of
The Times
, as part of Foreign News. Christian Eilenburg, the wartime ‘Butcher of Marseilles', had died in his sleep in prison. It was a brief item, and it almost escaped Colonel Reed's notice. As soon as he read it, the telephone began to ring. ‘Mental telepathy, old chap,' he said to Wroxham on the other end. ‘I was just going to ring you. Thank God for that!'

‘Yes, it's saved a lot of trouble,' Wroxham agreed. ‘There's not much Mrs Alfurd can do about it now.'

There was a billboard up outside the cottage. For Sale, in bright red letters. Dorothy winced when she saw it, parked the car, and with a sigh opened the gate and went to the front door. Her mother opened it. ‘Hello, Dorothy – you're looking very well. I've just made some tea.'

They sat together in the neat little sitting room. There was an air of impermanence about the place, Dorothy noticed. Pictures and ornaments were missing. There could have been suitcases in the hall. She nerved herself to bring up the subject once more. ‘Mother, about this move to France, are you quite sure you know what you're doing?'

‘Yes, quite sure,' Katharine Alfurd said. ‘Contracts were signed for this place this afternoon, so there's nothing to keep me here any longer.'

‘I don't know how you can just walk away from your home like this,' her daughter protested. ‘You and Daddy lived here all your married life. Peter and I and the boys aren't that far away, and you've got friends and neighbours all round … what are you going to do living on your own in a village in the South of France … it's so expensive!'

‘Not really,' her mother explained. ‘One can live very simply – I've got a marvellous price for the cottage and there's no need to worry about money. It's a sweet little place, and you and the boys can come out and stay with me.' She smiled, and it was genuinely affectionate. ‘I mean that, darling. I'd love to take the boys round the coast and show them some of the lovely fishing villages. We could have such fun!'

‘Peter thinks it's crazy,' Dorothy said again.

‘He'll get used to the idea,' Katharine Alfurd said. ‘I'm lonely here, Dorothy. It's got too many memories of your father and I was getting a bit odd, talking to myself round the place. Making a clean break is what I need, if I'm going to have any kind of life now that he's dead. I won't be sorry to see the back of Amdale. Polly will love living in Valbonne. It's full of rabbit holes!' She laughed with pleasure at the idea. ‘More tea?'

‘No, thank you.' Her daughter glanced at her watch. Nearly an hour and a half and she ought to be getting home soon. I wish she wouldn't do this, she thought. It makes me feel so guilty, as if I've failed to look after her properly. But what else could I do? She's so independent.… Maybe in a way it'll be a relief, not having to come over and phone up all the time.… I shouldn't think like that. I really shouldn't.…

Katharine said, ‘Now that the sale is definite, I want you to have the furniture.'

Dorothy went red. ‘Oh, I couldn't – all your things.…'

‘I don't want them,' she said. ‘They wouldn't look right in my little house. I'm going to have a lot of fun finding the right pieces down there. Queen Anne would look ridiculous. I want you to take everything and what you don't want, sell and use the money. That would make me really happy. Darling, look at the time! Shouldn't you be getting back before Peter comes home?'

‘Oh Lord, yes, I suppose so.' Dorothy picked up her bag, looked round, bit her lip and said, ‘Mum, it was staying with that friend of yours that brought all this on, wasn't it? You've never been the same since.'

‘No,' Katharine said gently, ‘I think that's right. I seemed to get my life into perspective. All of a sudden the dead were buried and I was free.' She saw the confusion on her daughter's face and put her arm round her. ‘Only a figure of speech. Come on, off you go. Give Peter my love, and lots of love to the boys. I've got a lot to do in the next week or so, but we'll keep in touch. Bye, darling.' She kissed her, and it wasn't a token any more. She came to the door, caught up the little terrier, and waved her daughter out of sight. Together they went through and out into the garden at the back. Soon the ordered beds and the neat lawn would be exchanged for a rocky hillside garden, heavy with the scent of pines and wild thyme. The mild English climate would be a memory, the scorching Mediterranean sun a loved companion through most of the year.

She held the little dog in her arms and watched the sun set red behind the English oak trees. ‘He didn't die for three days,' she said. ‘It could have been natural causes after all. I'll never know and it doesn't matter. All that matters is I'll never hear voices on the wind again. And you and I, Polly, are going to start a new life.'

She turned back to the cottage and went inside. Soon afterwards the sun went down.

About the Author

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas, a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book,
The Occupying Power
, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel,
The Tamarind Seed
, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony's books have been translated into nineteen languages. She lives in Essex, England.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1985 by Anthony Enterprises, Ltd.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2425-9

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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