Free Those in Peril by Margaret Mayhew Page B

lives. I pay her money every month through a bank and I visit sometimes, that is all.’
    â€˜But nonetheless you told her you were coming to England. Why?’
    â€˜I thought she should come too. The Germans were almost in Paris. I thought she should get out before they arrived. She refused. She has a business there – a boutique selling bags and scarves, that sort of thing. It does quite well and she’s not afraid of the Germans. She thinks they’ll be good customers. She’s probably right. Also, she doesn’t care for England.’
    â€˜And you do?’
    â€˜I spent a year here once. I like many things about it.’
    â€˜But you prefer France?’
    A very Gallic shrug. ‘Of course. It’s my country. France is in bad trouble and I want to do what I can to help her. That’s why I came here. As I told Lieutenant Reeves.’
    One couldn’t fault him for that, Alan thought. His own love for his country was deep, immutable, unalterable. He’d die for England without a second’s hesitation, if it was required – had very nearly done so once. ‘But you didn’t say exactly how you want to help.’
    â€˜Because I don’t know. I’m too old to fight as a soldier. I rather hoped you might be able to think of something else.’
    He gave himself a few moments to consider the next step, watching a bird with a speckled breast pecking about by some shrubs. A song thrush. He could remember seeing them in the gardens of the Royal Navy convalescent home, smashing open snail shells on stones. Leaving the debris scattered. Messy eaters. ‘Does your wife know that you’re in England – for certain? Have you written to her? Communicated with her?’
    â€˜No. Not at all.’
    â€˜So, for all she knows, you’re still in France? You changed your mind, after all?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s possible.’
    â€˜Would she believe that of you?’
    â€˜That I changed my mind – decided to stay? Yes, I think so. She would think it sensible. Practical. I’m seldom so, but it’s possible.’
    â€˜And Mademoiselle Citron, and everyone else that you are acquainted with in Pont-Aven – as far as they know, you have never left France? You went south to see if things were better there, that’s all?’
    â€˜That’s so. The manager of my bank changed a few francs into sterling but he, too, believed I was going south for the time being.’
    â€˜Do you have other family? Parents alive, sisters or brothers?’
    â€˜I have a sister who lives in Tours but I haven’t seen her for years. She is married to a town hall official and he doesn’t approve of my way of life.’
    â€˜What exactly is your way of life, Monsieur Duval?’
    Another shrug. ‘I’m an artist. I drink too much and smoke too much. I get up late. I go to bed late. I paint. What else is there to say?’
    Powell coughed. ‘Do you have a mistress?’
    He was given a dry look. ‘Like all self-respecting Frenchmen are believed to have by the English? No. Not in the terms you mean. Naturally, from time to time I sleep with women – one who has sat for me, perhaps, or one I have come across by chance who pleases me.’
    â€˜But there is no-one who would expect to know your whereabouts . . . and everything that concerns you? Demand to know it?’
    â€˜No-one. I much prefer it that way.’
    Powell thought for a moment. Harry had already pointed out the advantage of Duval’s age and background, and he saw now that there was another advantage too. He lived as he liked, did what he wanted, went where he pleased, answered to none. There was nobody – not even his wife – who had any claim on him, other than the maintenance paid monthly by a bank. Add to that the fact that he knew the area so well and that he went everywhere with his easel and paints, and it began to make sense.