Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

Élise shook her head. “Not as far as I know,” she said, “but then I came back here straight after the invasion. I knew Raymond would look for me here.” She paused for a moment. “I know that the resistance was quite keen to ‘interview’ her, perhaps one of their leaders?” She had a twinkle in her eyes as she spoke.

“Wolf?” he said.

She nodded. “He went back to his parish in Wisques about the same time I left. It would be worth a try?”

They were joined by Raymond and chatted as they finished off the wine before Kelly took his leave of Raymond and a tearful Élise to set off on the first leg of his tortuous journey to Wisques. Raymond had asked him to stay the night, but Kelly was keen to get started. He liked Raymond, he seemed a kind and generous soul, but he still marvelled at the change in Élise. He thought he would always picture her carrying a 9 mm pistol with a stiletto stuffed into her waistband, dressed in black with her face covered in soot. That was his Élise. The matron with the two children, busily tidying the house and weeding the garden, that was Raymond’s Élise.

Kelly made two further visits before making his way north. The first to Marie. Kelly found a broken woman; the war had treated her badly. Marie was one of the victims. The flat was poorly furnished and dark. Her one treasure appeared to be a photo of Andre in a highly polished silver frame that took pride of place on her mantle sill.

Marie herself was a wreck, clearly suffering badly from her nerves, and chain smoking. At the sight of Kelly, she had burst into tears, pouring out her heart to him. It seemed to Kelly that she blamed herself for everything bad that had ever happened in France, but particularly for the death of Andre. No amount of reassurance from Kelly would comfort her and she was inconsolable.

Feeling thoroughly depressed, Kelly made his way in a battered old Citroen taxi along barely passable roads to the farmhouse of Claude’s parents. Marie had blamed herself, but perhaps these people would blame him.

When he reached the farm, the first person he met gave him a start. At first, he thought it was Claude, but he quickly realised the man was too young and therefore had to be a sibling. Kelly felt he needed to make his introduction directly to the parents first and avoided giving his name to the young man.

Kelly’s worries about his reception couldn’t have been more misplaced. He was received as an honoured guest, a friend of the family. There were tears of course, but so much joy at the memory of their son and the stories told by one of his closest companions.

Kelly departed the following morning with mixed feelings. He had perhaps made one very unhappy friend even more distressed, but he had brought happiness and fond memories to the family of another friend. Time now to leave it all behind, perhaps to return one day?

Probably not.

As he was thrown around in an aging bus, he consoled himself that at least this time he was able to travel on public transport, however bad it was, and could sleep in a hotel bed each night. No more sleeping under the stars, no more huddling in a draughty barn, his mind filled with a mixture of fear and excitement. No more snatched moments of passion with a beautiful girl. No more wondering if he would still be alive at this time tomorrow …

Pity!

The house adjoining the church seemed bigger than he remembered. It was old and paint was beginning to peel from the window frames. The walls, in need of a whitewash, were, in places, overgrown with ivy.

He knocked on the wooden door and it opened slightly, clearly unlocked and off the latch. He hesitated, waiting for someone to answer his knock, and then pushed the door open and stepped inside. The contrast surprised him. If the outside was shabby, the inside was immaculate, albeit spartan. The room was empty, so Kelly walked to the rear door, also ajar and called out, “Padre!”

Receiving no reply, he went through into a kitchen area. Through the window he could see Rahn sitting slumped, apparently asleep, in a wicker chair alongside an occasional table upon which rested a half full bottle of wine and a nearly empty glass.

Kelly opened the glass door leading to the patio area, but before he could take a step through it the ‘sleeping’ priest called out, “You’ll need to get yourself a glass, Mr Kelly!” Then with a bound Rahn was out of his chair and across the patio embracing his friend.

“How did you know it was me, you old fox?” asked Kelly.

“Wolf!” corrected Rahn. “I am an old Wolf that always sleeps with one ear raised and one eye open.” He chuckled. “Apart from which, you are the only person in the world who calls me ‘Padre’.”

Having retrieved a glass, a chair and a fresh bottle of Medoc, Kelly moved out onto the patio with Rahn. He decided to get straight to the point.

“Padre, do you remember the incident when we ‘eliminated’ the German fifth columnist in Berques?”

“Of course, how can one forget?”

“You remember the woman?”

“Ah! The woman, what a beauty.” Kelly looked at the priest askance, raising his eyebrows. Rahn looked apologetic and shrugged. “Yes, I remember her.”

“Padre, have you any idea what happened to her after the war? Did the resistance find her?” Kelly couldn’t avoid the trace of apprehension in his voice.

“They certainly looked for her, but there was no trace. One rumour has it that she escaped to England, which seems somewhat unlikely.” Kelly slumped back in his chair looking disconsolate. The priest allowed him to wrestle with his thoughts before breaking in, “Are you going to tell me why you want to find her?”

Kelly was aware of the sensitivity of this matter;