Redcap by Philip McCutchan Page B

moved away, she caught his sleeve. She said, “No, please, Esmonde. Just leave her. She’s working things out in her own way. It’s best she does that.” She wrinkled up her nose, shook her head in puzzlement. “There’s something brewing in her mind. I don’t know what. But she’ll come through this soon. She’s been brought up to expect her father’s death almost every day, remember. In a while, she’ll see this as a relief that that’s all over.”
    “I hope you’re right,” he murmured. He added abruptly, “Deb, I’m sorry, but I may not have much time—can you rustle me up something to eat, quickly?”
    She looked up. “Sure. What’s in the kitchen?”
    “Oh,” he said vaguely, “enough . . . I don’t know.”
    Her eyes narrowed in sudden anxiety. “You don’t care either, do you. You’re not really hungry, are you?”
    “No, but—”
    “But you’re obeying orders?”
    He gave her a quick glance and nodded. She sighed a little, got up, and put her hands on his shoulders. She’d gone rather pale, because she knew from Shaw’s expression that this was it once again. That leave . . . dear God, she thought in anguish, we were so dam happy it just couldn’t last. She said quietly, “I’ll get lunch.” She made herself smile as she moved away, looking back over her shoulder. “Don’t blame me if it’s not up to Fouquier’s standard. I’m not a bad cook, but I’ve just a rough idea what your store cupboard’s like, my pet!”
    She went along to the small, converted kitchen and delved about in the cupboards, miserably. Latymer could never leave Esmonde Shaw at home for long and this time—after last night—she had good reason to know the dangers of this assignment. It always was dangerous, of course, and she never did know when if ever she would be seeing Esmonde again —it was just the same every time he went away except that it got a bit worse as time went on. But one day—one day sometime, she told herself with determination—Esmonde Shaw wouldn’t belong to the Outfit any longer, and then they would get married and settle down and have lots of children in peace and security and contentment. One day— if God was kind in the meantime. The undercover game was a young man’s game, and Esmonde wouldn’t be young for ever. Sometimes, though, agents were never allowed to grow old. . . .
    She put those thoughts out of her mind.
    From the other side of the kitchen partition she heard water splashing into the bath. That reminded her that he would want that arm of his dressed again. She tapped on the hardboard, called: “Are you decent, darling?”
    His voice came muffled, preoccupied. “Not very. Why?”
    “I’m coming in. Put a towel on if you’re bashful.”
    There was an indistinct protest, but she took no notice. She went into the bathroom, tap-tapping along on high heels. The place was full of steam that swirled around Shaw’s thin, wiry body.
    As she started to deal with his arm, and stripped off the now blood-caked bandage which the Paris doctor had put on, she suddenly risked one of the harmless, almost wifely questions which were all she allowed herself unless Esmonde chose to confide in her, as sometimes he could—and did, for her own former Foreign Office experience made her opinion on things worth having. Her head bent intently, she asked:
    “Is it going to be for long?”
    He said tenderly, “My dear . . . I just don’t know.”
    She gave him a glance, but he didn’t say any more, and so she guessed that this was one of the things he couldn’t talk to her about. She said quietly, “I see. It’s like that, is it?”
    He nodded. She looked up at the strong, sensitive face and a rush of tears blinded her for a moment. She went on with her work, blinking back the tears. Then she asked, “Isn’t there anything I can do? Perhaps look after Judith?”
    He said, “I was going to ask you that, Deb. It’d take a load off the Old Man’s mind too, I think, though