An Unwilling Spy Page 10
She’d never thought of herself as a risk-taker but clearly, what with the smuggling and the bread test, she had form.
‘You chose me for this especially?’ She found it hard to believe that he could be so forward thinking.
‘Not exactly,’ Peregrine admitted. ‘I had another task in mind for you in France but the arrival of this letter has forced me to act differently and much sooner than I’d like.’
‘Does the letter mention where Skylark’s been operating, sir?’ Finch’s hands were clenched at his side.
‘No, but I believe he is somewhere in the north. Apparently he’s been captured which is a great pity as he almost certainly has information on Napoleon’s invasion plans for England.’
‘How do we find him then?’ she said. ‘He could be anywhere.’
Peregrine consulted the paper in his hand. ‘One thing we do have in our favor is that Swan, our agent in Audinghen on the French coast, has found out that Xavier Laroche, a diplomat who works in the Ministry of External Relations, is holding a ball at his house in Saint-Omer.
Swan says Laroche’s job is to weed out British spies and I’m hoping he’s got some information on Skylark. I propose to get you both into the ball to find out anything you can.’
‘When is it?’ Finch asked. His face showed a level of concern that made the butterflies in her stomach soar.
‘The date that Swan’s given is in four night’s time. So you can understand the urgency.’ Peregrine glanced at them both. ‘Furthermore you need a good cover story. Finch, you will be a diplomat from Switzerland and to minimize suspicion, Adeline you’ll go as his wife.’
She inhaled as a queer frisson of … something … went through her at the word ‘wife’. Heavens, what would Finch think of this?
She peeked at him but as usual his face showed no indication of whether he found the plan to his liking or not. Unaccountably, that irked her. Did he always have to be so distant? It would be hard to play his wife if he did not unbend a little.
‘You will travel as Sophie and Charles Michaud,’ continued Peregrine. ‘Swan writes that he has managed to get your names put on Laroche’s guest list and he’ll give you other instructions when you meet him at the church in Audinghen. He’ll be dressed as a priest and will procure a coach to take you to Saint-Omer. Both of you must spend this afternoon studying the maps we have of the area as he’s expecting you tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow?’ she gasped. It was too soon.
‘If we had received this letter earlier we would have had more time to plan. As it is, Mallard is busy forging diplomatic documents and Gannet is seeing to your clothing and provisions. You’ll leave at ten o’clock tonight. Six agents will row you across. Heron is in charge and knows the landing area and you should be there before dawn. Any questions?’
‘What do we do at Laroche’s house?’ she asked him. ‘What are we looking for?’
Peregrine’s eyes hardened and her heart fluttered in her chest. ‘You’re to find anything to help you track down Skylark. Papers, strange messages, anything that will pinpoint his whereabouts. You must find him. It’s crucial we know what Bonaparte means to do, and remember Adeline, you need to succeed to win your pardon.’
She hadn’t forgotten but dear heavens, he’d set her an impossible task.
Chapter Ten
The rowboat slid quietly through the water just off the French coast. In the hours before dawn and with the wind barely ruffling the sea, the four rowers pulled closer to the dark shape of land.
At first the terrain seemed a featureless blur of undulating hills. It wasn’t until they approached the shallows that the shoreline became distinct. Rocky cliffs reared above their heads and grass covered dunes stretched for miles along the coast.
‘Where do we land?’ She sat forward, her eyes straining into the gloom.
Heron flicked his head to the right where a pile of rocks reached out into the water. ‘There’s a hidden cove behind that outcrop.’
Gentle waves broke over the rock shelf in sweeps of foamy white. The place reminded her of the reef back home and a tingle of anticipation threaded its way down her body. She was about to land on French soil for the first time.
The rowers changed direction and with Heron’s quietly worded instructions they came around the rocks and brought the boat up onto a pebbled beach.
Finch, who’d been sitting in the stern, jumped out and she followed, landing on the rocky shore with a quiet crunch. Both of them had small rolled bundles strapped on their backs. Consisting of a woolen blanket, spare clothes, candles, food and flints, it was all they could carry and still manage to move freely. They also had a knife and flintlock pistol tucked into a leather belt around their waists, although she seriously doubted she could ever use the gun.
‘Good luck,’ Heron said quietly. ‘Send a message via Swan and we’ll return to pick you up.’
‘Will do,’ Finch said.
Mallard, who had rowed tirelessly all night, called softly out of the darkness. ‘Godspeed. I’ll make a hot stew when you both come back.’
She shivered and wondered if she would ever taste it before slipping away behind Finch to climb the cliffs to Audinghen.
The cliffs rose steeply but there was a track of sorts that hugged the slope. They pushed on, not speaking to save their breath.
Once she looked back to check on the rowboat. At first she had difficulty in locating it but then, far out in the English Channel, a tiny speck showed black against the faint light of dawn. ‘Safe travels,’ she whispered, feeling oddly bereft of the agents she’d come to admire.
She continued climbing the track, coming up behind Finch who had gone on ahead. He crouched next to a large rock that jutted out from the cliff, below the lip of the grassy hill. Beyond him rolled the green hills of western France.
He seemed carved from the cliff face and didn’t turn at her arrival. She frowned, uneasy that he’d forged on ahead without her. They were supposed to be in this together.
She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Are you unhappy to accompany me?’
He whipped around and clapped his hand over her mouth. Startled she looked up, panicked at the censure she saw in his dark eyes. His calloused fingers lay against her lips and even at this hour, in this place, she wanted to lick them and taste his skin.
Warmth seeped through her body and only when his breathing had calmed and he’d looked into her eyes with a question, did he slowly remove his hand.
‘Français, oui?’ he said with a surprisingly perfect French accent.
His softly breathed words, the roll of his ‘r’s, did strange things to her insides and she wished she hadn’t been so unconsciously stupid. She’d forgotten the first basic task. Perhaps he had every right to wish her back in England. She dropped her head, unable to look him in the eye.
After a moment, in which only the waves upon the shore broke the silence, he continued, ‘Have you ever seen a raindrop fall down a window pane?’
She sniffed and in French this time said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you will know it travels faster when it joins another drop.’
He turned back to watch the fields, quiet and still, his eyes scanning the lay of the land.
She pondered his words and wriggled closer. ‘You want to help me? But why?’
For a long time she did not think he would answer.
‘I fight on behalf of those who cannot,’ he said at last.
A painful lump lodged in her throat. He thought her too innocent and unprepared. A liability who had no hope of finding the missing agent. ‘You mean me, don’t you?’
‘You and others.’
He crawled up over the cliff top and held out his hand. ‘Skylark saved me from an ambush on my first mission. I owe him a lot.’ He glanced around, his eyes darting here and there. ‘Come, we must not linger.’
So he thought her incompetent. He hadn’t said so, not in as many words, but the inference was there. Maybe she wasn’t as skil
led as she ought to be but that didn’t make her entirely useless.
She ignored his outstretched hand and clambered up, pulling on some grasses to give her purchase on the slope. ‘Can you see the church?’ She huffed out a breath and tried not to notice his pointed look.
‘See the bell tower over there?’ He pointed to her left.
Half-hidden by trees, the church nestled into a low-rising hill. It appeared to be made of stone and a graveyard flanked it on both sides, protected from the coastal winds by a windbreak of shrubs. The road leading to it looked deserted and in the cool morning air, not even a bird circled overhead.
‘We’re not going to walk down the road, are we?’ There didn’t seem to be any people about at this hour but a farmer could be up early milking his cows.
‘No. We’ll follow the ridge and approach the church from behind the bushes,’ Finch decided. ‘There’s not a lot of cover and we must reach the cemetery without being seen.’ He hefted his bundle and cocked his eye at her. ‘Ready?’
She was as ready as she’d ever be. ‘I’m right behind you,’ she said just to show she wasn’t daunted by his assessment of her.
Finch regarded her with a whisker of a smile then slipped along the ridge of the cliff and into the gorse, like a brown owl gliding through the night.
For some time, they traversed the hill, always keeping to the scrub where possible. She tried to copy Finch’s stealth-like approach and didn’t think she’d done too badly until she stepped on a stick and broke it.
‘Quiet,’ whispered Finch who materialized at her side. ‘There’s someone there.’
Her gaze darted towards the church. It was much closer now and a weak light wavered through the arched windows. ‘Is it Swan?’
Finch stroked his beard. ‘I’m not sure. It’s unlike him to let the light show.’
Her heart did a double rapid beat at this. If the person wasn’t Swan then — she swallowed and shakily pulled out the knife at her waist.
Finch skirted a fallen log then slipped along a line of trees, his footsteps light upon the earth. Soon they came upon the cemetery from the rear. Headstones stood to attention across the yard and long grasses grew between them, sewn with wildflowers as though God had anointed each one.
The coach that Swan was supposed to provide wasn’t out the front and the light they had seen earlier had disappeared.
Finch beckoned her to follow him and she crept forward, seeking shelter behind the grave markers. They stopped and listened. Apart from the sea breaking on the shore below the churchyard and a slight breeze in her face, nothing disturbed the silence.
‘I think whoever was here has gone,’ Finch whispered, pointing to the half-open door. His eyes traveled over the church. An empty deserted air clung to its stone walls and slate roof. ‘Let’s check.’
They crept closer and she’d almost reached the western wall when Finch stopped her with his hand. Her breath kicked up into her throat and she shot him a glance. She hadn’t heard a thing and she’d been fully alert.
He nodded to the right and breathed into her ear. ‘Under the tree.’
An old chestnut tree stood in the corner of the graveyard. It overhung the boundary fence and created deep shadows underneath. In the gloom lay a figure. ‘Follow me,’ Finch breathed. ‘And stay close.’
Not inclined to do anything else, she tightened her fingers around her knife and slunk over to the figure. She didn’t need to look too hard to see the man had died. Lying face down, his priest’s cassock smelled of fresh blood. More disturbing were his hands. They’d been tied behind his back with twine and his thumbs had been removed.
Nausea bubbled up in her throat and she gagged. ‘Swan?’
Finch nodded, his face tight. ‘The national guard must have been watching his movements.’
Finch patted down Swan’s robe and checked his shoes. There were no instructions to be found. Worse, without the coach they didn’t have any means of getting to their destination. Sweat ran down her back, making her bodice stick to her skin.
She stepped away and tripped over a stick, sprawling on all fours, her hands out in front of her. Her knife fell from her fingers and dug into the grass.
‘Will you be quiet?’ Finch hissed. ‘Whoever was here might come back.’
She sat up and rubbed her palms. ‘Understood.’
At his pained expression, she added, ‘I will be quieter than a mouse.’
‘A mouse does not speak.’
It could be the stress of the situation but she thought that a little harsh. She’d been doing her best.
Finch pursed his lips and glanced around the lonely yard. ‘We must find our own way to Saint-Omer.’
‘Will we make the ball in time?’ she whispered, forgetting she was supposed to be silent.
‘We must.’ His voice sounded bitter. ‘Or Swan will have died for nothing.’
They left the churchyard, keeping to the shrubs where possible and crossed the fields, heading east. The dawn light rose quickly and spilled across the sky. Features that had appeared dark took on color and shape.
Something in the next field caught her eye. ‘Look. There’s a horse.’
Finch grunted and without a word they turned in that direction. They climbed through a gap in a wooden fence and walked over to it. The mare looked old and feeble. Behind the animal stood a hay shed, an air of abandonment permeating every rotten timber plank.
Her eyes scanned the horse’s ribs and bony legs. ‘Poor thing. She doesn’t look like she could do a day’s work.’
‘The army must have agreed with you since they haven’t taken her.’ Finch glanced at the sky. ‘It’s getting light. We must find somewhere to rest for the day. Let’s look in the hay shed.’
He padded up to the opening and peered around an old wooden post. He stood still for a moment then waved her forward, motioning for her to be quiet. She sidled up next to him and stopped, her heart pounding.
A faint noise came from the rear, near some bales of hay that had toppled to the side. It didn’t sound like an animal and Finch must have thought so too because he pulled out his knife and held his finger to his lips. She nodded and they crept towards the bales.
A muffled cough broke the silence and Finch pounced on the nearest bale. A young boy’s voice rose in protest and he thrashed around, pushing the hay aside. ‘Get off me!’
Finch pinned the boy in the chest with his knee. The little ruffian looked to be no more than ten or eleven years old, his face drawn and dirty and full of fear.
‘Who are you?’ Finch demanded, his knife held to the boy’s face. ‘Why are you here?’
The boy’s brown eyes widened and he shrank back from the knife, his little shoulders hunched in distress.
‘Finch, lower your knife,’ she said. ‘He’s only a boy.’
‘They can be spies too.’ He glared at the ruffian. ‘Are you in the pay of the militia?’
The boy shook his mud-colored hair and his eyes filled with tears. ‘No, no … sir.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘The farmhouse yonder.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I was collecting firewood when I saw soldiers enter our house. I hid in the trees until they left. Two were carrying sacks of flour and one had our last pig. After they’d gone I went home. There’d been a fight and papa and mama were … they were —’
He wept quietly. Adeline knelt down and pulled the boy into her arms. His little body shook and he clung to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. A sour musty smell rose from his hair and her heart went out to him. He was too young to have seen what he had seen.
Finch stowed his knife and with a grimace went to the door and scanned the fields they’d just traversed. He stood in the shadows for some time, his figure as still as the timber upright next to him.
The boy’s tears gave way to intermittent coughs and hiccups.
Finch re-joined them, his face grave. ‘How long ago did this happen?’
‘You’ve been here five days?’ She stared at him aghast.
The boy nodded and coughed. ‘I didn’t want to go home in case the soldiers came back.’
He sniveled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dirty jacket. No wonder he’d caught a cold in this dank place.
‘You poor boy.’ He reminded her of Daniel when he’d been that age, although the boy looked much, much thinner. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I had a turnip I found in the back stall.’
‘That’s all in five days?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m used to being hungry.’
The agonizing ache of going without food was still fresh in her mind. She shrugged off her bundle and pulled out an oatcake that Mallard had cooked especially for her. ‘Here, have this but eat it slowly. I don’t want you being sick.’
The boy looked unsure for a moment then stretched out his thin hand for the oatcake. He bit into it and the delight on his face made her smile.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Eugene.’ The boy spoke with his mouth full.
Finch crouched down in front of him. ‘Tell me, Eugene, which way did the soldiers go? It’s important.’
Eugene pointed with his hand but inside the shed the direction had no meaning.
Finch hazarded a guess. ‘Towards the town?’
Eugene swallowed another piece of oatcake and nodded. ‘There were five of them. They were … laughing.’
Her heart seized at the catch in his voice. ‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ she said gently. ‘We can stay with you today but tonight we must leave. Is there someone else you could go to? Your grandparents? Friends?’
‘I don’t know.’ His face crumbled. ‘My grandparents died last year of typhoid and I haven’t seen any friends.’ His body trembled and he coughed again as he finished up his oatcake.
Going into the town where the soldiers might be stationed would be too traumatic for him and in all likelihood his friends’ families could be dead too. He’d been left an orphan in a country ravaged by war and his chance of survival looked slim at best.