Free The Madagaskar Plan by Guy Saville Page A

into the room. She was wearing an emerald dress, her face fresh with foundation, the white-and-blond curls of her hair tied tight.
    “Poor Pebble is getting too old to be woken in the middle of the night. So am I.”
    Somehow she was never as stately or attractive as the image Burton kept in his mind. “I need your help,” he said.
    “Couldn’t it have waited till morning?”
    Burton parted his jacket, showing her the blood-soaked material beneath.
    Without another word his aunt escorted him to the kitchen, where Pebble had put a kettle on to boil.
    “I was going to make tea.”
    “That won’t be necessary, dear. Check that Burton’s room is made up, then get back to bed.”
    Burton was told to sit at the table. He peeled off his jacket and shirt, revealing the stump of his wrist. Above it, the forearm was burnt and disfigured where he had been branded in Kongo. Another scar from his failed mission.
    “Good God, Burton!” His aunt tapped her breastbone. “What happened?”
    “I need you to look at my shoulder first.”
    She reached for a tea cloth and dabbed the wound. “You’ll live,” she said. “But it’s deep. You should see a doctor.”
    “No doctors.”
    “It needs stitching.”
    “Can you do it?”
    Whereas Burton’s mother had gone to Africa to save souls, her sister, always the more practical, wanted to save bodies. During the Great War she had volunteered as a nurse.
    “Watch the kettle,” she replied, heading for the door. “And find more tea towels.”
    She returned with iodine, liniments, a needle and thread, a spare shirt; she wore an apron over her dress. After cleaning the gash, his aunt took the needle and bent low. Burton felt her breath warm his neck. He shifted forward.
    “It’s been a long time since I had to do this,” she said. “It won’t be the prettiest of things.”
    Burton glanced at his stump and wondered what Maddie would have made of it. They’d once seen a legless beggar on the street, a veteran of Dunkirk, and she’d been horrified. “Doesn’t matter.”
    The needle pierced his skin.
    “So are you going to tell me?”
    “There’s nothing to say.”
    “I haven’t heard from you since the summer. Then you turn up in the middle of the night like this.” She tugged the thread. “I think you owe me an explanation.”
    Burton jigged his foot: blood was trickling down his back. “When did you last see Madeleine?”
    “You mean Madeleine Cranley? Not in months, the poor dear. I didn’t think you knew each other.”
    “What happened to her?”
    “There have been all sorts of rumors, silly talk mostly. But what’s it got to do with you?”
    “Tell me.”
    She was taken aback by his intensity. “Madeleine is very ill. Had some kind of breakdown. I heard she’d been sent to an institution—though it’s been hushed up because of her husband.”
    “What about him?”
    His aunt paused to dab the wound. “He came to their house for Christmas with his little girl—”
    “Alice.”
    “They hardly stirred. After the New Year they returned to London and haven’t been back.”
    “Did you see him?”
    “Only once, at the Vieux-Moines’ and their Boxing Day drinks.”
    “How was he?”
    “He’d had a glass too many but seemed in good spirits. I’m sure it was for show. Do you know him, too? Charming man; he’ll do his best for Madeleine.”
    “She’s dead.” Traveling from the farm, he had warded off the thought; now he was sickened by how easily he spoke it. “Cranley had her killed.”
    The needle stuck.
    “Burton! How can you say such a wicked thing?”
    “It’s true.” He hesitated before continuing, glad that his head was dipped toward the table. “Madeleine and I were having an affair. She was going to leave him—that’s why I borrowed the money to buy the farm. He found out about us: sent me to Africa, I don’t know what he did with Maddie … except she’s dead.”
    “I don’t believe it,” his aunt spluttered. “He works for