Time for Silence

“Lucinda,” he said. “Let us meet sometime. This will all be cleared up one day.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

I was glad when my father came home.

So thus we continued, and the mystery of Annabelinda’s death seemed as far from being solved as it ever had.

Sometimes I walked along Beconsdale Road to the Square. I walked past the gate where I had stood with Mr. Partington and waited for Annabelinda. I glanced at the house. It certainly looked eerie. The shrubs were more overgrown than they had been. The place looked desolate, a house where a murder had taken place—a brutal, unexplained murder of a beautiful young woman by a man with a maimed hand.

Then one day we had a visitor.

When I came into the drawing room I saw him sitting there. I could not believe it. I had not seen him since before the war.

Jean Pascal Bourdon rose as I entered and, advancing toward me, took both my hands in his.

“Lucinda! Why, you are a young lady now…and a beautiful one at that!” He drew me to him and kissed me on both cheeks.

“I have wondered about you,” I stammered. “How…how did you get here?”

“With some difficulty…as was to be expected in wartime. But here I am and it is good to see you. These are terrible times.”

I nodded in agreement.

“This is a great blow. My granddaughter…such a beautiful, vital girl…”

I thought immediately of the adroit way in which he had extricated Annabelinda from her trouble.

“Is the Princesse with you?” I asked.

“Oh, no…no. It was not easy to get here. I have come alone.”

“And she is well?”

“As well as anyone can be in these circumstances. It is not a thing we like…to have an enemy on our land.”

“I understand the situation is getting better.”

“Perhaps. But until we have driven the lot of them out of our country we shall not be content.”

“You came because you have heard of Annabelinda?”

“I heard…yes. It is one reason why I have come. I wish to see your father. It may be that what I have to tell him may be of some importance.”

“He will be here soon.”

“Then we shall talk.”

“What happened to Madame Rochère?”

“Madame Rochère! That great spirit! She stayed as long as she dared. She would have dared further, but she is no fool. Indeed, she is one of the shrewdest ladies I know. There came a time for leaving. She is with us near Bordeaux.”

“And how do you manage there?”

He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands in a despairing gesture. “It is not good. But our day will come.”

“And the school?”

“The school became the enemy’s headquarters, I believe.”

“Will it ever be a school again?”

“Indeed it will. But not in your time, chérie. By that time you will have left your school days long behind.”

When my father arrived, he was delighted to see Jean Pascal.

“I heard you were coming,” he said.

“Ah. The news travels.”

“You did not tell me,” I said. “I should have been so glad to hear it.”

“Thank you,” said Jean Pascal, with a little bow. He has not changed at all, I thought.

“You must dine with us,” said my father. “And we will talk later. Is that in order? Or would you prefer to talk first?”

“I think it would be delightful to sit at the dinner table in a civilized manner. We have had the enemy at our gates for so long. The peace of this place is too enticing for me to resist. Let us eat and chat of happier times than those which have recently befallen us.”

So we dined together—just the three of us. Jean Pascal talked of the life in France—the dangers, the uncertainties—and the difficulties of getting to England. It was all of immense interest, but I had the impression that both he and my father were biding time before they discussed the really important matters that were the reason for his visit.

As soon as the meal was over, my father said, “I think we should go to my study.”

Jean Pascal nodded, and my father looked at me and then questioningly at Jean Pascal.

Jean Pascal said, “I think it is necessary that Mademoiselle Lucinda share our talk. I think she already knows more than you realize.”

My father looked surprised and I was overcome with a feverish desire to know the real reason for Jean Pascal’s visit.

When we arrived at the study and entered it, my father locked the door.

“Yes,” said Jean Pascal. “This must be very secret.”

“I guess,” said my father, “that you are very deep in things over there?”

“Ah, mon cher, there is a great deal going on. Do not think we calmly accept them on our soil. We are working against them all the time. And with some success, I may tell you. It is because of our discoveries that I am now in England. There are certain people here who we are very anxious to bring to their deserts.”

He took a large envelope out of his pocket and from it took a picture, which he put on the table.

“Do you know this man?” he asked my father.

I gasped, for I was looking at a picture of Carl Zimmerman.

I said his name aloud.

“No, no,” said Jean Pascal. “This man is Heinrich von Durrenstein. He is one of the best and most experienced spies the Germans have.”