Free Old Sins by Penny Vincenzi Page B

it, and was proud of it, it gave him a footing of immense respectability and responsibility in the neighbourhood and since the death of his wife it was literally all he had. He lived in permanent dread of his landlord realizing the asset he had and selling his premises over his head.
    Six months after launching his company, Julian had still not managed to break into any of the big or even even medium-sized chemist chains; he knew that not only would it make allthe difference to his cash flow as well as his order books, it would give him a stature in the industry that so far he lacked.
    One night over dinner he met a man called Paul Learmount, who was building up a nice line of business in outer London, buying run-down shops at cheap prices and converting them into cut-price chemist shops; he was looking for another in Bill Gibson’s area, did Julian know of any? Julian said he did, that he happened to know a place that exactly fitted Paul’s description, and moreover he could put him in touch with the landlord. Four weeks later, Bill Gibson was served notice on his premises, a brash young manager arrived to refurbish the shop, and Julian got a huge order from Learmount’s central buying office.
    He took Bill Gibson out to lunch, commiserated with him over his bad luck and insisted on giving him a cheque for fifty pounds to keep him going ‘until you find your feet again. I’ll never forget what I owe you, after all, Bill.’ To his dying day, Bill Gibson spoke glowingly of Mr Morell and the way he never forgot to send him a card at Christmas time.
    Within another three months demand was exceeding supply to an almost worrying extent; Julian failed to meet a couple of orders, nearly lost a crucial account, and realized he had to double both his manufacturing staff and his sales force.
    This meant hiring two people: a salesman, to cover the half of the country he couldn’t efficiently reach himself, and a second pharmacist. His original pharmacist, a laconic Scotsman called Jim Macdougall, worked tirelessly, twice round the clock if necessary, performing the extremely repetitive task of filling up to five hundred bottles of linctus a day without complaint on the most primitive equipment imaginable, as well as working in his spare time on Morell Pharmaceuticals’ second product, an indigestion tablet.
    The assistant Julian presented him with was a pretty young war widow called Susan Johns.
    Corporal Brian Johns had been parachuted into the woods near Lyons late one night while Julian had still been living at the chateau. He had been involved in the pick-up and was responsible for arranging Johns’ transport to a nearby farm, and his liaison with another agent. Johns was only twenty,nearly two years younger than Julian, married with two little girls, and a brilliant radio operator; he was bringing forged papers from London with him for French agents.
    Julian was looking forward to his arrival; he had been feeling particularly lonely and homesick, his work had grown increasingly tedious and futile-seeming, and the thought of some English company was very pleasant.
    He waited where Johns was to come down; it was a horribly bright night, but the drop had been postponed three times, and the need for the forged papers was desperate. Fortunately a bombing raid just south of Lyons had distracted the patrolling Germans for most of the night; Corporal Johns reached the ground unobserved by anyone except Julian. That was, however, the last of his good fortune. He landed awkwardly and fell heavily on some rocks; Julian heard him swear, then groan, and then nothing. He had broken both his legs; he was, for a while, mercifully unconscious. He came to in agony to see Julian bending over him.
    ‘Johns?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Sorry, but I have to do this. Is your aunt still alive?’
    ‘She is, and has moved down to Nantes,’ said Johns, answering the coded question, and promptly passed out again.
    Julian managed to get him to the farm. It