British Bulldog (11 page)

Chapter 15

The past is a foreign country
.

W
hen Mirabelle woke it was still dark. She could smell the last of the cheeseboard she’d eaten in her room the evening before – an early dinner. The plate lay on the bedside cabinet. The dregs of a glass of red wine now smelled vinegarish and all that was left of the Camembert was a dry white crust. She fumbled for her watch and the light switch. It was only half past six. She had slept for ten hours. She had needed to. She hadn’t even dreamed as she lay under the creamy sheet with its thin over-blanket. The world had disappeared.

Getting up, she poured some water into the sink to wash her face and hands. The soap was homemade. The foam smelled of lavender. Drying her skin on the towel, she turned, cracked the shutter and switched off the electric light. Outside, the little courtyard looked cold but at least it was dry now. She lifted the blanket from the end of her bed and curled up in the chair by the window. Within a few minutes there was a low light in the sky as dawn broke over Paris in an icy roll of peaches and cream. The courtyard was planted with ivy that sneaked up the walls on all sides. There were three wooden tables with chairs placed on the east side where they would surely catch any afternoon sun. That was for a different time of year, when Paris was balmy in June and July before everyone abandoned the city in August because of the heat.

In the hallway she heard movement – a maid perhaps, or someone rising for an early breakfast. The floorboards in the
hallway creaked and then fell silent. Before she slept, Mirabelle had tried to piece the puzzle together. It had whirled round and round in her head, and she had realised that in all the details she had uncovered there were too many stories, too many different points of view. No one had turned out the way she had originally expected. Bradley had married his friend’s pregnant fiancée. The men may well have agreed on the plan when they parted in 1942. That alone was strange, but still, for Bradley to keep his word and rescue Lady Caroline was an act of kindness that would have been beyond many men. But two years later Caine had lashed out at him. What was he angry about? And where had he gone?

And then there was Jack. Mirabelle wanted most of all to find out about Jack’s dealings in Paris during the war. His secrets. The idea scared her. Christine Moreau had been so furious with him, so hurt and betrayed. What had Jack done to leave the poor woman so damaged all these years later? Mirabelle didn’t like to admit it, but it had occurred to her that in some ways she was just as damaged. With a different upbringing or in a different world might she have lashed out that evening in the Duggans’ comfortable Hove drawing room? Had Jack really intended to leave Mary and marry her, or had he only been leading her on? Did he plan to keep her as his mistress, and if so had he really loved her at all? Mirabelle knew she couldn’t have lied to Jack. She never had. If he had lied to her, or even simply misled her, what did that betoken?

With a shudder as if she was in pain, she tore her gaze away from the little garden and the brightening sky and fumbled in the half-light to pull on her clothes. She fixed her hair in the mirror – a simple chignon, the French way. Her mother would have liked that. It was only just after seven o’clock. Opening the door to the hallway she could smell coffee brewing. Downstairs in the dining room to the front of the building, she gratefully accepted a cup of strong coffee and a small basket of bread and butter with
a smear of dark jam – damson or blackcurrant, it was hard to tell. She ate without thinking, with one eye on the deserted early morning street, still thinking of matters that were long past.

When she judged that the local businesses would be opening their doors, she pulled on her coat and emerged from the hotel’s front door to wander along the pavement, passing the
boulangerie
where she had bought croissants when she arrived. The ghost of a breeze chilled the air. Mirabelle was almost out of leads. She had no friends here. Her next call was a long shot and the very last idea she had for turning up some information. She checked behind her to be sure that she wasn’t being followed, but the man in the homburg had apparently given up. On the corner, she bought a posy of snowdrops from a flower stall and popped three of the little flowers into her buttonhole. Then she continued in the direction of the Louvre – it was only slightly out of her way. Her grandmother had taken her to the grand old gallery regularly. The old lady understood that a child’s attention span was short and had never allowed more than half an hour inside, so it had remained a perpetual treat. She had selected paintings to show Mirabelle that she knew would appeal to a little girl: an angel, a group of fairies and a bright waterfall that split the light into a rainbow.

‘Shall we visit our favourites, my little plum?’ she cooed. ‘It is important to love art, Mirabelle. As you get older it becomes more important. You will see.’

Now, walking the Parisian pavements, it felt right, somehow, to be here. Perhaps that was what the old lady had meant. In a changing world the images framed in gilded wood stayed constant. It was a long time since Mirabelle had visited a gallery. During her London days she had sometimes taken herself to the National. Her favourite paintings in those days were seascapes. Jack liked winter pictures of snowy rooftops and blizzards. They had wandered through the galleries together, hand in hand. Afterwards they headed for Soho and
the privacy of an anonymous restaurant – somewhere away from the demands of Whitehall.

Almost at the Seine, Mirabelle passed through the grand colonnade and hovered at the gallery’s heavy iron gates. This building had been a palace once, she thought as she waited. But then, at one time, she had believed herself a princess. It had seemed that way before the world turned and turned again. She peered at the familiar courtyard. The French allowed space between their grand buildings while London piled hers up against each other in an unruly crush.

When the gates opened she was first inside, crossing the courtyard and entering the building ahead of a cluster of tourists. Passing the sculptures in the main hallway, she turned into the first gallery of Old Masters. Mirabelle sank onto one of the benches and stared at a gloomy portrait of an old man. None of the men who concerned her had had the privilege of growing old. Her friend Sandor had been the oldest. He had been the confessor of several senior Nazis stationed here in Paris and had smuggled out information through the Church’s own channels. Some of it had even made its way to Jack. No man was all right or all wrong, she thought. The grave eyes of the fellow in the painting confirmed it.

A female tourist came into the room, looked around and asked the attendant where the
Mona Lisa
was hung. The man gave the merest flicker of a glance to confirm that he had been asked this question incessantly for years on end. Then he gave succinct directions to the Salon Carré. Mirabelle wondered what Sandor might have done had he found himself in Paris faced with the conundrum she was trying to unravel. He had talked once about how putting yourself in danger was sometimes the only way. Espionage was a maze. You could never see what lay ahead, you just had to keep trying.

Outside the gallery, she crossed the rue de Rivoli once more and headed for the market at Les Halles. As she got closer she
could see the pavement was littered with cabbage leaves and eggshell. Everyone seemed to be carrying boxes or bags of butchered chickens, root vegetables and bottles of creamy milk. The market opened early and produce was delivered from the country well before dawn, but the traffic was slow in this part of town until midday. A gendarme wearing a cape over his uniform attempted to take charge at the crossroads. His white gloves seemed to glow in the low winter light.

Mirabelle turned away, crossed the main road and disappeared into the cluster of streets that made up the Marais. The last time she had been here many of the shop signs had been written in Hebrew. Today the signs were in French. She passed the Turkish Baths, trying to remember the way she had come on that previous visit, many years ago. In those days she had navigated Paris with her eyes at street level, calculating her route from shop to shop. Now she was drawn to look up to where the ramshackle roofscape met the ever-changing sky. Crossing the rue Rambuteau and turning onto the rue du Temple she hovered, seeking familiarity in the way the street curled to the left, reaching for a long distant memory. A minute or two along she recognised a door. It was painted thickly in black paint that was badly chipped but the old entranceway was still the same, unforgettable as it turned out. You never could tell what would stick. Mirabelle paused before ringing the bell. An old man, rather than the old woman she expected, peered out as the door opened. Mirabelle smiled at him.

‘Is there a dressmaker here? A woman who works from her apartment?’

‘Yes.’ He motioned her to step over the footplate and into the courtyard. ‘Her name is Catherine.’ He pointed to the stairwell. ‘On the second floor. Please, go up.’

Then, with a gruff nod, he retreated into his small office and closed the door. Mirabelle watched through the window as he lifted a coffee bowl to his lips and took a slurp, sitting down at a
rickety table and drawing a copy of
Le Monde
so close to his face that she realised he must be terribly short-sighted. It was still early enough for breakfast. She had risen too soon, perhaps. Beyond the shady entrance, the courtyard was pretty. Colourful geraniums were laid in a row. The plants were flowerless, but it wouldn’t be long until spring. Mirabelle entered the stairwell and climbed upwards. The hallway was familiar but she had thought the little studio was higher than the second floor. Nevertheless, she knocked at the door on the second landing. A smell of toasted baguette pervaded the hallway. When the door swung open a thin girl with huge eyes appeared. She could be no more than twenty-five years of age. A small brown terrier tried to push past her leg and she bent down to scold him so that a long curl of her dark hair flopped over her face.

‘I’m looking for a dressmaker who made me an outfit some years ago,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I think she worked on the floor at the top.’

‘I’m a dressmaker.’ The girl smiled, reaching down to grasp the dog’s collar and causing further disarray to her hair.

‘This woman was older. She was Jewish.’ Mirabelle realised that hadn’t come out quite right.

The girl put her head to one side and her hair fell back into place. ‘You might mean my aunt. She had a studio here a long time ago. Do you remember her name? Was it Rachel?’

Mirabelle couldn’t recall and that now seemed terribly rude. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘You must have liked the outfit she made,’ the girl commented. ‘But if it was my aunt then she’s not here. She died during the war. Would you like to come in? Is it a dress you’re looking for?’

Mirabelle crossed the threshold and the girl closed the door. The dog sniffed Mirabelle’s ankles and wagged its tail. Inside, the walls were painted ice blue and interrupted by two long windows. On some days, Mirabelle couldn’t help thinking, the sky must match the colour of the room and the windows
merge into the walls. There was a pot of coffee on the table and the room looked comfortable – three or four seats were covered in cushions and a jumbled row of photographs punctuated the mantel. As she walked further in, a little stove sent a wave of warmth across her knees.

‘I do need a dress, but really I had hoped to speak to your aunt. She made clothes for my mother, you see, many years ago, and I thought she might be able to help me find out something. There is a dressmaker on the rue du Jour who’s about my age, I suppose, and I thought your aunt might know her.’

‘Do you mean Christine?’

Mirabelle nodded. She noticed a door on the back wall that opened onto another room facing the street.

‘I know who she is.’ The girl crossed her arms. ‘Everyone knows her. What’s this about?’

‘I’m trying to find out what happened to someone who went missing during the war. I have to tell you that Mademoiselle Moreau was not,’ Mirabelle paused, picking her words carefully, ‘helpful.’

The girl laughed. ‘I shouldn’t think she was. Christine Moreau was a collaborator. There’s no love lost there. She mostly takes in finishing – handkerchiefs and scarves. She won’t make you a dress, or at least that’s not the kind of work she normally does. Most people don’t want to employ her, you see.’

‘Even now? I thought France was trying to forget what happened. I heard she worked for the British.’

The girl’s eyes burned as she shook her head, sending her curls rippling. ‘Christine thought people would forget. But some betrayals are impossible to forgive. Here especially. She buttered up both sides but she had a love affair with a German. That’s the sort of woman she is.’

‘She couldn’t have been alone in that.’

‘No,’ Catherine said sadly. ‘Some women will do anything for a glass of champagne and a safe bed. Well, it turned out
those beds were not so safe. Christine Moreau’s lover was SS. An officer. Von der Grün. He was an evil man. He had a nose for money. Any hiding place. We’ll never get it back, of course.’

‘We?’

‘My people, Miss Bevan. The Jews. And of course my family too. We weren’t rich but we had a few things. My uncle collected paintings – nothing priceless, but they should be ours. My aunt Rachel had some beautiful jewellery. Emerald earrings. People think you’re being greedy when you want those things back, but it’s not the money, not only that – it’s all that’s left of them, don’t you see?’

‘And you escaped?’

Catherine looked as if she might burst into tears. Her blue eyes clouded but she continued. ‘Not exactly. I was lucky. I was sent away. In Germany the Jews knew what the Nazis would do. There was at least a little time to try to get out. But in Poland, in France, in Holland – none of us knew they would come so quickly. They were here before there was time … I was visiting a cousin in Scotland when Paris fell. It was summer. I never came back – not till after the war was over.’