She put her arms around him and looked at him expectantly. It was almost as if she wanted him to kiss her. He thought of asking, then decided to be more decisive. He closed his eyes and leaned forward. Her lips were soft and warm. He could have stayed that way, motionless, enjoying the touch of her lips, for a long time, but she had other ideas. She broke contact, then kissed him again. She kissed his upper lip, then the lower, then his chin, then his lips again. Her mouth was busily playful, exploring. He had never kissed like this before. He opened his eyes and was startled to see that she was looking at him with bright merriment in her eyes.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“Do you really like me?”
“Of course I do, stupid.”
“I like you, too.”
“Good.”
He hesitated, then said, “As a matter of fact, I love you.”
“I know,” she said, and she kissed him again.
26
Walking through the center of Morlunde in the bright light of a summer morning, Hermia Mount was in more danger than she had been in Copenhagen. People in this small town knew her.
Two years ago, after she and Arne had become engaged, he had brought her to his parents’ home on Sande. She had been to church, watched a football match, visited Arne’s favorite bar, and gone shopping with Arne’s mother. It broke her heart to remember that happy time.
But the consequence was that plenty of local people would remember the Olufsen boy’s English fiancee, and there was a serious danger she would be recognized. If that happened, people would start talking, and before long the police would hear.
This morning she wore a hat and sunglasses, but still she felt perilously conspicuous. All the same, she had to take the risk.
She had spent the previous evening in the town center, hoping to run into Harald. Knowing how much he loved jazz, she had gone first to the Club Hot, but it was closed. She had not found him in any of the bars and cafes where young people gathered. It had been a wasted evening.
This morning she was going to his home.
She had thought of telephoning, but it was hazardous. If she gave her real name she risked being overheard and betrayed. If she gave a false name, or called anonymously, she might spook Harald and cause him to flee. She had to visit in person.
This would be even more risky. Morlunde was a town, but on the small island of Sande every resident knew all the others. She could only hope that islanders might take her for a holidaymaker, and not look too closely. She had no better option. The full moon was five days away.
She made her way to the harbor, carrying her small suitcase, and boarded the ferry. At the top of the gangway stood a German soldier and a Danish policeman. She showed her papers in the name of Agnes Ricks. The documents had already passed three inspections, but nevertheless she suffered a shiver of fear as she offered the forgeries to the two uniformed men.
The policeman studied her identity card. “You’re a long way from home, Miss Ricks.”
She had prepared her cover story. “I’m here for the funeral of a relative.” It was a good pretext for a long journey. She was not sure when Arne’s interment was scheduled, but there was nothing suspicious about a family member arriving a day or two early, especially given the hazards of wartime travel.
“That would be the Olufsen funeral.”
“Yes.” Hot tears came to her eyes. “I’m a second cousin, but my mother was very close to Lisbeth Olufsen.”
The policeman sensed her grief, despite the sunglasses, and he said gently, “My condolences.” He handed the papers back. “You’re in plenty of time.”
“Am I?” That suggested it was today. “I wasn’t sure, I couldn’t get through on the telephone to check.”
“I believe the service is at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
Hermia went forward and leaned on the rail. As the ferry chugged out of the harbor, she looked across the water to the flat, featureless island and recalled her first visit. She had been shocked to see the cold, unadorned rooms where Arne had grown up, and to meet his stern parents. It was a mystery how that solemn family had produced someone as much fun as Arne.
She was a somewhat severe person herself, or so her colleagues seemed to think. In that way she had played a role in Arne’s life similar to that of his mother. She had made him punctual, and discouraged him from getting drunk, while he had taught her to relax and have fun. She had once said to him, “There’s a time and place for spontaneity,” and he had laughed about it all day.
She had returned to Sande once more, for the Christmas festival. It had seemed more like Lent. For the Olufsens, Christmas was a religious event, not a bacchanal. Yet she had found the holiday enjoyable in its quiet way, doing crossword puzzles with Arne, getting to know Harald, eating Mrs. Olufsen’s plain food, and walking along the cold beach in a fur coat, hand in hand with her lover.
She had never imagined returning here for his funeral.
She longed to go to the service, but she knew it was impossible. Too many people would see her and recognize her. There might even be a police detective present, studying the faces. After all, if Hermia could figure out that Arne’s mission was being carried on by someone else, the police could make the same deduction.
In fact, she now realized, the funeral was going to delay her by some hours. She would have to wait until after the service before going to the house. Beforehand there would be neighbors in the kitchen preparing food, parishioners in the church arranging flowers, and an undertaker fussing about timings and pallbearers. It would be almost as bad as the service itself. But afterward, as soon as the mourners had had their tea and
It meant she would have to kill time now, but caution was everything. If she could get the film from Harald this evening she could catch the first train to Copenhagen in the morning, sail to Bornholm tomorrow night, cross to Sweden the following day, and be in London twelve hours later, with two days to go before the full moon. It was worth wasting a few hours.
She disembarked onto the quay at Sande and walked to the hotel. She could not go into the building, for fear she might encounter someone who remembered her, so she walked on to the beach. It was not really sunbathing weather-there was patchy cloud, and a cool breeze off the water-but the old-fashioned striped bathing huts had been wheeled out, and a few people were splashing in the waves or picnicking on the sand. Hermia was able to find a sheltered dip in the dunes and disappear into the holiday scene.
She waited there while the tide came in and a horse from the hotel pulled the wheeled bathing huts back up the beach. She had spent so much of the last two weeks sitting and waiting.
She had met Arne’s parents a third time, on their once-a-decade trip to Copenhagen. Arne had taken them all to the Tivoli Garden and had been his most debonair, amusing self, charming waitresses, making his mother laugh, even getting his dour father to reminisce about schooldays at Jansborg. A few weeks later the Nazis had come and Hermia had left the country, ignominiously she felt, in a closed train with a crowd of diplomats from countries hostile to Germany.
And now she was back, seeking out a deadly secret, risking her life and the lives of others.
She left her position at half past four. The parsonage was ten miles from the hotel, a brisk walk of two and a half hours, so she would arrive at seven. She felt sure all the guests would have left by then, and she would find Harald and his parents sitting quietly in the kitchen.
The beach was not deserted. Several times on her long walk she encountered people. She gave them a wide berth, letting them assume she was an unfriendly holidaymaker, and no one recognized her.
At last she saw the outlines of the low church and the parsonage. The thought that this had been Arne’s home struck her with sadness. There was no one in sight. As she came nearer, she saw the fresh grave in the little
