We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [125]
They thanked her and shared the meal in equal portions, although Lizzie gave half of hers to the others.
Monsieur came and stood in the doorway smoking a clay pipe with something dark and pungent in it. It might have been half tobacco, but it smelled as if it were at least half dung.
“So what are you doing away from the fighting, then?” His English was thickly accented, but he had some confidence in the language. “Isn’t over yet, you know. Still some men out there being killed.”
They had expected this, and were prepared.
“Taking information back to London,” Matthew replied. “It’s urgent, and secret. Can’t trust it to letters.”
“All six of you?” Monsieur clearly did not believe them. He looked at Mason. “You’re not a soldier. Why not? You look fit enough. Flat feet, have you? Shortsighted? Know what I tell people who are shortsighted? Get closer to the enemy. You’ll see him all right when he’s a bayonet length away.”
Madame mumbled something unintelligible at him.
He ignored her and glared at Mason, waiting for an answer.
“War correspondent,” Mason said truthfully. “Miss Reavley is an ambulance driver and Mrs. Blaine is a nurse. Major Reavley is an intelligence officer.” He indicated Schenckendorff. “And Major Sherman is also. He’s been behind the lines and, as you can see, been injured.”
Monsieur was mollified, but not happy. He looked at Schenckendorff doubtfully. “What’s any use behind the lines now?” he asked. “Kill them, I say. Same as they killed us.”
Everyone stiffened. Joseph drew in his breath sharply, afraid of what Schenckendorff would answer. He loathed what the Belgian was saying, but perhaps—if this had been his land and his people—he might have felt much the same.
Monsieur was waiting, a challenge in his eyes.
“Exactly,” Judith said, swallowing her mouthful of food with a gulp. “We are not so different from them.”
Monsieur’s face flushed hot red. “Speak for yourself, woman! We are nothing like them. They are animals, pigs! They steal and they rape and they kill.”
Lizzie’s spoon slid out of her hand, spilling gravy on the table.
Joseph searched frantically for something to say or do to cover it. Nothing came to his mind but fury.
Judith looked at the man. “Yes, of course. I only see the enemy who have been wounded. I forget: The ones who are able to be are violent. We are not like that. We don’t steal, we don’t hurt women, and we don’t kill the unarmed.”
Mason bent his head to conceal his expression.
Madame glared at Schenckendorff, challenging him to argue.
The silence grew.
“The hunger for revenge is natural,” he responded uncomfortably at last. “Especially after so many years of being helpless.”
Monsieur glared at him. “We’re not helpless! Where do you come from? You have a funny accent. You don’t sound English at all.”
Joseph’s throat tightened. He dared not look at Matthew. He reached under the shelter of the tabletop and took Lizzie’s hand, and felt her fingers grasp his.
“I’m not,” Schenckendorff said calmly. “I’m Scots. From the Western Isles. We spoke Gaelic when I was young.”
Joseph prayed silently that no one in the room had the faintest idea what Gaelic sounded like. Actually, he had none himself.
Monsieur seemed satisfied. “Really? Western Isles, eh? Rains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Schenckendorff went on, turning to the woman. “You can make the most ordinary ingredients taste good. That is an art.”
“There’s no more,” she said ungraciously, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks and she very nearly smiled at him.
Joseph slept well. It was the first time he’d had a real bed in more than half a year, since he had been at home on his last leave in the spring. He was woken violently by a banging on the door. Even before he could sit up, it burst open and a large Belgian policeman stood just inside the room, a German pistol in his hand, pointing it at Joseph.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Slowly. Don’t touch your uniform!”
“I can’t get up without my clothes,” Joseph pointed out. “Who are