Bright Hair About the Bone by Barbara Cleverly Page A

know that.” There was quiet satisfaction in Custos’ reply. “We have made our arrangements. We will have the rostrum we need.”
    â€œNews spreads at the speed of an electric current around the world,” the Frenchman persevered. “We must be certain that it is
our
news,
our
message that is carried along by it. After two thousand years we have, at last, the means as well as the word. We would be at fault, I think, if we did not at least consider this.”
    â€œSo. You would argue that we have the soil—prepared and ready—the seed corn close at hand, the wind to distribute it?”
    â€œYes, indeed. And one factor only is lacking. I wonder if the time has come to give thought to
la semeuse
? The sower?” He hurried on, avoiding contact with the cynical eyes. “I have continued to make my monthly trawl through the society pages of the London press and this caught my attention. It’s dated the tenth of last month. It seems the wheels of bureaucracy turn even more slowly in England than they do in France. It has taken eight months but the upshot is extremely interesting to us, I believe.”
    He took a clipping from the file at his elbow and handed it over.
    The response was not immediate and came with unaccustomed indecision. “Very surprising. And very impressive. Yes, I see where you are leading. I’m wondering whether we could perhaps have anticipated this event? Were there indications? Suggestions that we failed to pick up?”
    The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders slightly but voiced no criticism. “And there’s something more you should know…rather strange. A mere detail, a triviality, but I thought it would amuse you to hear it. You will smile when I tell you the girl has changed her name expressly for this little expedition.”
    â€œChanged her name? Why would she do that?”
    â€œMy first thought was that she was sending a message—the first defiant blast on a trumpet, if you like—but common sense tells me it’s a mere stratagem. A stratagem embarrassing in its naïveté but reassuring in its amateurish intent. The girl is, of course, aware that her own surname is not unknown in these parts,” he gently reminded Custos. “She has replaced it with—rather unimaginatively, you will think—her mother’s maiden name. And she has selected as her Christian name: Stella.”
    He was gratified to see a sudden quiver of the steady hand as it raised the brandy glass.

CHAPTER 9
    S omething wrong, Stella?” Gunning asked.
    Without any instruction, he’d driven off the road out of Le Havre and parked the car on the entrance to a woodland track overlooking the Seine winding between rocky banks. She registered with a flash of amusement the fact that he’d remembered to change her name now that they were over the Channel.
    â€œTen hours at sea on a ferryboat? A day in the close company of a man who never speaks? An uncertain summer ahead of me? What could possibly be wrong?…Why are you grinning?”
    â€œForgive me. I was comparing your reaction with my own when I passed this way thirteen years ago. I could have complained about the twelve hours spent at sea on a troop ship, following on a month in the company of the sweating, swearing soldiery with an uncertain four years ahead of us. If it’s any help, I hand you the motto of ‘The Fighting Fifth,’ as we were called:
Quo fata vocant.
”
    â€œ
Wherever Fate calls.
Hmm…” Irritated by his condescension, she bit back a sharp reply. If the man was still abjectly following his wartime motto it might explain why he’d so readily taken up her challenge. Perhaps he’d seen her as his own personal Fate and had drifted after her in his rudderless way. “Sounds a bit passive to me. I like to engineer my own good fortune. Though I accept your reprimand.”
    â€œAnd I yours,” he replied