Time for Silence

“All neatly arranged, no doubt. Elsa wanted to get to England. It would not have been very easy for her. But there you were, in the company of a high-ranking officer of the British army. They knew who you were, Lucinda.” Jean Pascal turned to my father. “Your work, mon cher, has not gone unnoticed. To get into your house was Elsa’s project. And how well she managed it.”

“With our foolish help.”

“Oh, come! You must not say that. You were in ignorance. How could you have been otherwise? You have contributed to my knowledge, as I now have to yours, and we can help each other in tracking down these people and putting them where they belong.”

I was looking at the picture, remembering it all, seeing him walking across the dining room, joining us at our table after his “sister’s” dramatic exit. All lies! How could we have been so easily deluded?

“The man Mrs. Kelloway saw had a beard,” I said.

“It is not difficult to grow a beard,” commented Jean Pascal.

I was thinking of the scene at the table. I saw the man sitting there. There was something wrong with his hands. He had lost part of his little finger. I could hear his words, “I was playing with fireworks.”

It was all beginning to fit. Jean Pascal might not have discovered the entire truth, but he was somewhere near it.

“That young man,” I said. “There was something about his hands.”

“It is a distinguishing feature which has helped us considerably.”

“It was quick of Mrs. Kelloway to notice,” said my father. “It was a vital clue…and seized upon.”

“It is strange how a little carelessness can bring disaster, after all the careful planning that went into it,” Jean Pascal said.

“Yes,” said my father. “He dropped the house agent’s brochure, which he had carefully obtained to increase his credibility, and in picking it up, showed his hand to the housekeeper…and so he was identified.”

“Do you think he was the murderer?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly. He is known as a killer. He would have broken a window, got into the house and been waiting there when my poor Annabelinda arrived. He would have let her in and chatted about the house for a moment. She had seen him before, it is true, on that journey through France, but his beard would have been sufficient to disguise him for that brief period.”

“I can’t bear to think of her walking into that house,” I said.

“Poor child. She was little more. I shall not rest until she is avenged. Now…no sign must be given of anything we have talked of. I shall have the woman watched, and in time she will lead us to the others. She is only a small fish. It is von Durrenstein whom we want. We are well on the track. She will be watched night and day, and before long there will be results. It is of the greatest importance that they shall not be aware that we know who they are. You must not betray, by a look or an inflection of your voice, that anything is different.”

“I hate to think of her looking after Edward,” I said.

“Have no fear. She will look after the child. There is nothing to be gained by not doing so. It might be that she is genuinely fond of him.”

“He certainly is of her.”

“There you are. Looking after the child is all in her line of duty. How much her feelings are involved we do not know, but the boy is no threat to what she would consider her real work, therefore she will care for him. Every movement she makes will be watched, and I doubt not that before long we shall have this group where we want them.”

“The police will be eager to arrest the man who killed Annabelinda.”

“It may well be that he is wanted in other connections. We shall see. But rest assured, they will pay for their sins.”

We went on talking, going over everything we had discussed. It was late when we retired to bed—but not to sleep. I could only go over everything that had been said that night with a feeling of incredulity. But the more I pondered about it, the more it seemed to me that there was much truth there among the conjectures.

The days that followed were tense. I did not see Jean Pascal during that time. I fancied he thought it wiser to keep away. I tried not to show any difference in my attitude toward Andrée, as Jean Pascal had warned me emphatically about this. It was not easy. Andrée had become a different person in my eyes. I could not help marveling at Edward’s love for her, but he had known her almost all his life. It was hard for me to accept the fact that indirectly she could have had a hand in his mother’s murder.

What a web of intrigue we had stumbled into, and largely because of Annabelinda’s lighthearted dalliance with a man who was spying for his country.

I knew that we could not go on as though everything were normal. Something had to happen soon.

It did. One day Andrée went out alone and did not come back.