Chasing Ghosts by Madalyn Morgan (best fantasy books to read .txt) 📕

I shall tell you about the other Lucien Puel. What is more, we cannot have you fainting again, can we?’

Claire felt her cheeks colour. Her mouth was dry. She took a drink of water and felt better for it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Thomas to make sure he agreed.

‘We should both like that, sir,’ Thomas said.

Lucien Puel acknowledged their acceptance with a nod. He motioned to the fire and offered Claire his arm. Getting to her feet, she accepted the old man’s help and he guided her to a large comfortable looking sofa. When she was seated, he sat in the armchair on the left of the fire, Thomas sat next to Claire and Doctor D’Aramitz took the armchair on the right.

‘There are things you wish to know about a woman in the Resistance?’ Doctor Puel said, ‘and there are things I wish to know about the man in Canada who has my name.’ Claire’s eyes widened. Did she hear what the old man said correctly? Did he know Simone?

‘But first--’ He stopped speaking when a plump, rosy-faced middle-aged woman who Claire assumed was the housekeeper and a teenage girl, probably the housekeeper’s daughter, entered the room carrying trays with coffee, sandwiches and cakes, which they placed on a long table in front of Claire and Thomas.

When the housekeeper and the girl had left, Doctor D’Aramitz poured coffee for them all and handed round the sandwiches. Claire’s stomach was a tangle of nervous knots, but she was ravenous and took two sandwiches. They ate in silence. When Dr D’Aramitz had finished eating he refilled their coffee cups.

‘So, where to begin?’ Lucien Puel said, when he had finished. ‘Perhaps I should start by telling you that it was my other grandson, also Lucien Puel, who found your husband after he had been shot. And it was Lucien, with two young men from the village, who carried him to this house.’

Claire’s eyes brimmed with tears. She rubbed them quickly with the back of her hand. ‘Forgive me, Doctor Puel, I am confused. You said there was not another man with your name.’

‘And there is not.’

Claire frowned suspiciously. The old doctor was not making sense. He put up his hand. ‘Bear with me, Madame, and I will explain.’ He took a shaky breath. ‘I was blessed with two wonderful grandchildren.’ He looked at Doctor D’Aramitz with watery eyes.

‘Grandfather, you don’t have to--’

‘Oh, but I do, Matthieu.’

Claire sat back on the sofa and listened to what the old doctor had to say. ‘By the time your husband was brought to me he had lost a great deal of blood from gunshot wounds to his legs. I operated and took out two bullets. I did all I could, but I had no way of telling whether it was enough to save your husband’s leg, or, more importantly, his life. We had no blood you see, and-- Well, you know your husband survived.’

Claire leaned forward, tears falling onto her cheeks, and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

A wan smile brushed the old man’s face. Closing his eyes, he nodded. ‘Eventually, Lucien returned to his education and the Resistance arranged for your husband to be taken to Paris.’ Turning to his grandson, he said, ‘I think we could all do with a brandy, Matthieu. Would you?’

Dr D’Aramitz jumped up, fetched a decanter and four glasses from a side cabinet, and poured each of them a generous measure. Fortified by the drink, the old doctor continued. ‘When the war ended, the prison you visited yesterday was one of the first the Allies liberated. Our small village being so close to the camp was a dangerous place to be at that time. I had told Matthieu and his cousin Lucien not to return to St. Emile, but Lucien… He was young and high-spirited - and he disobeyed me.

‘He wrote to his mother saying he was coming home. He said he was excited that he had become a doctor, like his grandfather.’ Looking into the mid-distance with sad eyes, the old doctor lifted his glass and drained it. ‘On the day he was due to come home, the Allies liberated the camp and somehow Heinrich Beckman, the camp’s doctor, escaped.

‘When Lucien hadn’t arrived by suppertime my neighbours and I went out to look for him.’ The old man took a large handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘He was lying in the road, naked but for his vest and pants. He had been beaten so badly he was hardly recognisable. I took off my coat and covered him, and he smiled at me. He smiled at me!’ the old man roared.

Matthieu jumped up, but his grandfather put up his hand and he sat down. ‘I knelt on the road beside him and cradled him in my arms. “I am a doctor, grandfather,” he said. “I am Doctor Lucien Puel.” I told him I was proud of him but he should save his strength. He gave me a knowing smile and whispered something. I didn’t hear what he said, so I leaned in close, my face next to his, his lips touching my cheek. “Gestapo-- Doctor.” They were the last words my grandson said.

‘We carried him home and laid his broken body on his bed.’ The old doctor picked up his glass. ‘Would you, Mathieu?’ When his grandson had replenished his drink, he carried on. ‘There were no papers on him; no identity papers, travel permit, nor the doctor’s certificate that he was so proud of. How could there be?

‘The next day members of the local Resistance cell searched the woods. They found a half-burned Gestapo uniform and the identity papers of Doctor Heinrich Beckman!’ With tears in his eyes, the old doctor looked at Claire. ‘And that I am sure is how your doctor in Canada got his name, Madame.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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