Free Those in Peril by Margaret Mayhew

without disturbing him. For his sake, she hoped that Mrs Lamprey would not decide to take a stroll in the garden, or, worse, sit out there on the bench and practise her French. At mealtimes she had taken to trotting out phrases, in an accent not unlike Mr Churchill’s. ‘ Il fait beau aujourd’hui, n’est-ce pas? Avez-vous dormé bien, monsieur? Est-ce que vous aimez la cuisine Anglaise? ’ He always replied very politely, in slow, clear French. Yes, it was a beautiful day. Yes, thank you, he had slept very well. And, yes, he liked English cooking very much. This last Barbara seriously doubted.
    She went into the house. Rear Admiral Foster was reading his Times in the sitting room but there was no sign of Mrs Lamprey who was probably up in her room, perhaps sampling a glass or two of green ginger wine before lunch. Monsieur Duval was safe for the moment. But what must he think about his country surrendering to the Germans? About all the terrible news of the past few days? He had listened impassively to Mr Churchill’s speech on the wireless in the sitting room . . . the Nazi regime, with almost all Europe writhing and starving under its cruel heel . . . We do not yet know what will happen in France . . . the Battle of France is over . . . He had given no hint of his feelings. And if he had left any family there, he had never spoken of them – not even when grilled archly by Mrs Lamprey. ‘ Êtes-vous marié, monsieur?’ ‘Oui et non, madame,’ he had replied enigmatically. Yes and no. And he had turned the conversation adroitly to other things. If the Navy had taken an interest in him on his arrival, it must have waned, as the lieutenant had not telephoned since. There had been a call for him from the bank in Dartmouth, but that was all.
    She was crossing the hall with a vase of fresh flowers to put in the sitting room when the doorbell rang.
    â€˜Mrs Hillyard?’ He was a tall, rather severe-looking Royal Navy officer. ‘I believe you have a Monsieur Duval staying with you. I wonder if I might have a word with him?’
    Had they come to arrest him? To make trouble for him of some kind? She stalled, instinctively. ‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’
    â€˜It’s quite important. I’m sure he won’t mind being interrupted.’
    There would be no prevarication with him, she could tell. She led him reluctantly out into the garden. ‘This gentleman would like to speak with you, Monsieur Duval.’
    The Frenchman turned from his easel, wiping a paintbrush on a piece of rag, and she saw his face light up. ‘ Enfin ,’ she heard him say. ‘At last.’
    At first sight, Alan Powell thought that the Frenchman would be a liability rather than an asset. He was too noticeable a figure. True, he was only of average height – not more than about five foot ten – middle-aged and rather overweight, but the features were strong, the face memorable, the voice deep and resonant, and the black hair, streaked with grey, was worn unusually long. And his clothes were anything but conventional – loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers, no tie, casual loafers. What was required, surely, was a man who could pass virtually unnoticed and unremarked. A pale negative of a man, not one nearly so positive. However, he let none of these misgivings show as he shook Duval’s hand and introduced himself. He addressed him in careful French, apologizing for any mistakes he might make.
    Louis Duval smiled. ‘You speak it well and it’s a great relief to me to be able to converse in my own language for a change. It’s tiring for me to find the right words in English. Lieutenant Commander, you said? Then you are from the Royal Navy. They promised that they would be in touch. I had almost given up hope.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to interrupt your work.’ He glanced at the easel and