Blue Madonna (17 page)

Christine wept, tears dropping like raindrops. She'd bitten her lip to keep from crying out—or in despair, perhaps—and a trickle of blood ran down her chin.

We crouched behind the wall, unable to move or think about what to do next. Running away seemed cowardly, remaining foolish. We knew what had happened, we knew who'd done it. We'd borne witness. And it all seemed so useless. I gripped my pistol, aching to take vengeance, knowing that I'd be nothing but another corpse in seconds.

I laid my hand on Christine's shoulder. She shook it off.

The
Milice
came in from the perimeter, their job done. No more laughing, no bottles in sight.

The SS mounted their trucks and halftracks quickly and efficiently. Dispassionately. Like the job they'd come to do. The column roared out of town, scattering the
miliciens
who milled about near their trucks as if they were playing
boules
in a village square.

By unspoken accord, we slumped down, resting against the cold stone wall, waiting for the complicit French to leave the murdered French. The fire sparked and crackled behind us, casting an orange glow against the leafy branches above us. I was empty, my mind numb but my body craving revenge, action, the feel of a man's throat in my grip.

The
Milice
trucks finally drove away, leaving the village to the dead.

“Let's go,” I said, my voice still a whisper. I helped Christine to stand, and turned to look one last time at the fiery church.

A ghost walked toward us. A child, wisps of smoke curling from her clothes. The girl who was thrown from the window.

“Mon enfant!”
Christine cried, and vaulted over the wall. She ran to the child, who burst into tears. I tore at her garments, certain she must have been badly burned.

She wasn't. The thick woman's coat she wore had taken the brunt of the flames. She gripped Christine and wailed, sobbing and choking on her words. We scurried out of the graveyard, away from the church, hurrying down the road and away from Coudray, the village and the memory of it.

We carried the child for miles, but the memory only burned deeper into my brain with each step.

Chapter Twenty

Her mother had
told her to lie still when she hit the ground. And that she'd be right behind her. Instead, she'd distracted the soldiers with her curses, taking bullets as her child lay unnoticed on the ground.

Her name was Emeline. She was five years old.

She wanted her
maman
.

I slept in a toolshed outside the hospital. Christine brought Emeline in with her and spun a story about finding her lost in the woods. The nurses accepted it, but by morning, a jittery doctor began to ask questions about where Emeline had come from. The story of the massacre had spread, whether by other survivors, bragging
Hitlerjugend
, or drunken
Milice
, it was impossible to say. But my money was on the militia. A guy with a guilty conscience couldn't stop flapping his gums to justify himself. Either way, we had to get her out before the doctor lost his nerve and reported her.

So that was how Emeline came to return with us to the château. I was hidden behind the backseat again. Emeline was wrapped in a blanket in the back, and I listened to her snuffling tears as we drove slowly through the forest.

I unfolded myself
from the backseat as Juliet was holding Emeline, who seemed half asleep or too afraid to let anyone know she was awake. “Who is this?” Juliet whispered.

“Have you heard about Coudray?” I asked.

“Yes. I thought as much. What are we going to do with her?” Juliet said.

“I must leave,” Christine said. “I am already late for the library, and I don't wish for any questions. Care for her, please. I am sure Count Vasseur will take her in.”

“But what if the count doesn't agree?” Juliet asked.

“He must. He has many hiding places, doesn't he?” Christine leaned in to whisper to Emeline, stroking her hair and murmuring gently in French. I couldn't make out a word, but I got the gist.
Be a good girl, be brave. I'll be back soon.
Emeline nodded, her face burrowed against Juliet's breast.

“Did you see Murat?” Juliet asked.

“Yes, Murat was there, and the weapons were delivered,” I said, not wanting to lie to Juliet or reveal the secret of Murat. “After we left the
Maquis
, we witnessed the SS attack on the village, with the assistance of the
Milice
.”

“We must find the Germans who did this,” Christine said, adding wood to her firebox. “They were with the Twelfth SS Panzer Division. I want the officer who ordered this massacre, and as many of his men as we can kill.”

“What about the
Milice
?” I asked.

“We know exactly where they are. They set up their headquarters in Dreux at the synagogue on rue Vernouillet, since the Jews had no further need of it, according to Pierre Rivet, their leader. He shall not be making bad jokes much longer.
Au revoir
.”

With that declaration, Christine drove off for another day at the library.

“We'll talk to the count, Billy. He'll want a firsthand report,” Juliet said as she carried Emeline down the basement steps.

“What about the radio? Please tell me it's fixed.”

“Yes, finally, late last night. I was in the midst of coding a message when you arrived.”

“Good news,” I said. But the news I really wanted to hear was that Count Vasseur would willingly take in little Emeline and hide her from those who wished to leave no witness to their crimes.

It suddenly occurred to me that Christine and I were witnesses, too, and that the
Milice
in particular would want to eliminate anyone who could testify as to their complicity. Unless the Germans threw the invasion back into the Channel, sooner or later they'd be retreating to the Reich, tails between their legs. But the homegrown French fascists would have nowhere to go. There'd be hell to pay for their collaboration, and wholesale murder meant the hangman for sure. Unless they blamed it all on the
Hitlerjugend
, and there was no one alive to claim otherwise.

We surfaced in a pantry off the kitchen, the narrow door disguised behind shelves of canned goods. Her eyes squeezed shut, Emeline whimpered in Juliet's arms. Madame Agard greeted us, her apron dusty with flour, and her eyes wide at the sight of the child. She swooped up the girl and sat her at the wooden table, in the chair closest to the warm stove. In seconds, a bowl of milk appeared along with a hunk of crusty bread. Madame Agard took Emeline's small hands in hers and wiped away soot and dirt with a wet cloth. She cleaned Emeline's face, pressing the cloth to her eyes. Emeline rewarded her with the slightest of smiles as she scrubbed.

“Maman?”
Emeline whispered, finally opening her eyes. Madame Agard spoke softly, telling her lies as she dipped the stale bread into the milk and fed her pieces, coaxing her to eat. I fell into a chair myself, fatigue overtaking me. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head on my arm and fall asleep in this warm kitchen and forget what I'd seen.

“It's not exactly coffee, but it's warm,” Juliet said, handing me a cup of something steaming and dark brown. Or maybe yellow, it was hard to tell. “Toasted barley mixed with chicory. I've gotten used to it, God help me.”

Madame Agard moved to the counter to cut a slice of bread for me, and Emeline reacted with a quivering lip and arms outstretched. Juliet took over with my bread, and the cook went back to Emeline, whispering kindnesses as she fed her.

“Dunk it in your drink,” Juliet said. “It's quite stale. Bread rations are pitiful, and flour hard to come by. Madame Agard experiments with potato, rice, and maize, whatever she can use to substitute.”

It helped to soak it in the coffee, which was how I preferred to think of this concoction. The grey bread was improved, if only in color and texture. Whatever the ingredients, the food and drink helped wake me up. As we got up to find the count, Juliet gave Emeline a hug, crumbs of milk-soaked bread sticking to her shoulder. Then Emeline put out her arms in my direction, the smell of smoke still clinging to her hair, and I hugged her.

From the moment it had happened, I'd wanted to get back at the men who had committed this atrocity, but now I wanted it in the deepest, darkest part of my heart. Poor Emeline would smell that smoky scent for the rest of her life, always at the edge of memory, the sight of flames and fire more terrifying than they had any right to be as the years passed. I couldn't do much about that, but revenge,
that
was within my grasp.

I followed Juliet, intent on more short-term needs. Get the count to care for Emeline, then send a radio message out, and finally get Switch Blake alone to show him the picture and convince him Cousin Donald was safe and sound.

We walked along a wide corridor, the faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, the ceiling cracked and water-damaged. Empty rooms on either side, except for a toppled chair or a three-legged table on its back.

“This wing is not used,” Juliet said. “It's safer to go this way. There are hidden entrances to the tunnels in these rooms; we can leave and return without any of the staff taking notice.”
“They don't know what's going on here?”

“None other than Vincent and Madame Agard know exactly what we do. I'm sure some have their suspicions, but it is best if they're not aware. They are all loyal to the count, loyal enough to look the other way when necessary.”

At the end of the corridor we came to the foyer at the main entrance. Here it was gleaming marble and polished brass, a sharp contrast to the decay we'd walked through. Juliet beckoned me along and led me through the foyer and into a grand hall with a giant fireplace I could have stood in.

Portraits were hung along one wall, the nearest looking like a younger version of Count Vasseur. As we walked, the clothes became more old-fashioned, until we were back in the time of Napoleon, the men in high-necked military uniforms, the women in gauzy dresses and high hairdos. The frames were thick with dust, the carpet on the floor threadbare. The windows were grimy, letting in barely enough light to see by. Two doors on the opposite wall were ajar, and I stopped to listen for footsteps.

“Is it safe? Won't we run into one of the servants?” I asked.

“No,” Juliet said. “They're too afraid.”

“Of what? The White Ghost?”

“No, of him,” she answered, pointing to the largest portrait in the room, hung over the massive fireplace.

A dark-haired man stood in front of a curtain of scarlet brocade decorated with fleurs-de-lis, his gleaming armor breastplate a bright silver, his red plumed helmet at his side. His royal-blue doublet was embroidered in gold, and his right hand rested on the hilt of a shining sword. His eyes were narrow, glancing sideways as if aware of a nearby danger. They were startlingly blue, and they seemed to follow me as I moved.

“Everyone says the eyes move,” Juliet whispered. “It frightens the servants.” I could see why. The effect was spooky.

“The first Count Vasseur,” a frail voice said from a stairway to our left, an ornate, wide, curved staircase, where I imagined at one time the ladies of the château made their entrance to fancy balls and dinners in the great hall. But today, only a stooped, elderly man leaned on the balcony to watch us. “Frédérick-Charles Maronneau, a true visionary. Come,” he beckoned, and opened a set of double doors.

We followed him into the library. Tall windows let in the morning light, dust motes floating over shelves of leather-bound volumes. Count Vasseur sat behind an oaken desk and gestured for us to sit in two armchairs facing each other. Behind him a series of intricately carved wood panels, showing woodland scenes and animals of the forest, filled the wall. A chess set sat on a small table near the window. Between the two windows, a solitary painting was hung, obviously special given its placement. The face of a young woman, surrounded by a veil of vivid royal blue, her eyes cast downward in a melancholy gaze, dominated the room. It was small, but powerful. I thought of the mother in the church, a Madonna for our own terrible times.

“You are Sergeant Boyle,” the count said as I forced my eyes away from the painting. His English was precise, each word clipped and exact, with only the slightest lilt of a French accent. “Forgive me for not greeting you previously. Welcome to the Château Vasseur. I was most saddened by the death of Lieutenant Armstrong. He and I spent many pleasant hours in this room.”

“It was a murder, sir.
Le meurtre
.”

“Yes, murder. But by whom? Do you have any idea?”

“No, sir, but I will do my best to uncover who did it. I was a police detective before the war, so it won't be my first investigation.”

“Whatever I can do, please call upon me. Or Vincent; he has my complete trust.”

“Something terrible has happened, Count Vasseur,” Juliet said, wringing her hands.

“Ah, Coudray, is it? All the servants are talking about it. You understand, Sergeant Boyle, the maids and gardeners live in Dreux for the most part. They bring news and gossip every day. Today it is the killings at Coudray. Is it as terrible as they say?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. Even more terrible, I'd guess. Everyone, men, women, children. Shot or burned alive in the church.”

“Mon Dieu
,
”
he said, his head bowed.

“Not quite everyone,” Juliet said. “A small child escaped. The sergeant and Christine Latour brought her here.”

“Here? What does
Mademoiselle Latour wish us to do?”

“Hide her. Care for her,” Juliet said. “It was the SS and the
Milice
. The
Boche
will probably be on their way to Normandy soon, but the
Milice
remain. They will want to silence any witness.”

“I think of my son every day and hope he survives the labor camps by acts of kindness from those in a position to help. So I cannot fail to help this child who is so in need of kindness. Where is she?”

“In the kitchen with Madame Agard,” Juliet said.

“Then she is in good hands for now. What of the wireless?”

“It has been repaired. I am coding a message now,” Juliet said.

“There is much to ask for. Has London contacted you?”

“We have not gone on air yet,” Juliet said. “Major Zeller undoubtedly has his
OKW Funkabwehr
units operating around the clock. We cannot afford to transmit for long.”

The count nodded his agreement. The
OKW Funkabwehr
was the German Radio Security Service, dedicated to pinpointing transmissions in occupied nations. It was very good at what it did. “Yes, he seems fixated on tracking down a band of terrorists in Dreux,” he said.

“Do you think he has any suspicions?” I asked.

“Of us, no, not at all,” Count Vasseur said. “He even apologized the other day for the loss of electricity. He gave me an hour's warning.”

“The Germans routinely cut power, district by district,” Juliet explained, “while listening for wireless transmissions. That way, when a transmission is cut off, they know the general area to search. Which is why we often go into the woods and operate with batteries.”

A knock sounded at the door. Vincent stuck his head in and announced,
“Les Allemands arrivent.”

“Germans,” Juliet said, rushing to the window. A staff car and a truck rolled down the gravel drive and came to a stop outside the front door. “Zeller.”

“He may conduct a search,” the count said. “As he did the other day. Come, hide quickly.”

Vincent pressed a section of wood paneling behind the count's desk. There was a faint click, and the panel shifted back. He then slid it sideways, gesturing for me to step inside. It was a small chamber with a bench. As Juliet and I entered, the count instructed Vincent to hurry to the kitchen and warn Madame Agard to hide the child.