The Sea Garden by Deborah Lawrenson

arranged for me to come over to look at the garden. But then he went off to Paris, and Mme de Fayols informed me that she was the one who’d found out about my work and chosen our firm, yet she has done nothing but undermine me since I arrived. It has all been very strange—and to what purpose?”
    â€œShe has a certain reputation.”
    â€œI am very glad to hear that.”
    â€œShe is crazy.”
    Ellie laughed, and the tension in her shoulders began to release. “Certifiably . . . or was that just a figure of speech?”
    He did not reply.
    As the trees grew more densely, a brown weave of needles on the path deadened the sound of their footsteps.
    â€œSo the memorial garden at the Domaine de Fayols will have to wait to be restored,” he said.
    â€œI’m sure they’ll find someone else.”
    â€œI hope so. It’s important to preserve it. It’s special, the way it brings together the land, the sea, and the sky—and the lighthouse.”
    â€œI agree. The view of the lighthouse is integral to the garden.”
    â€œYou are very perceptive.”
    â€œI went into the little museum there. I thought perhaps there might be a connection to the Domaine, but if there is, it’s not mentioned.”
    â€œDid you see the record book and gloves that belonged to the lighthouse keeper who remained on the island under the Germans during the war?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHenri Rousset refused to join the evacuation, and the occupiers needed him. He was permitted to stay to operate the lighthouse as normal. A very brave man.”
    â€œI saw the large photograph and the flag,” she said. “I guessed it must have been something like that.” She shivered involuntarily as it came back to her: the feeling as she stood on the cliff looking up to the beacon that she was on the verge of making some important connection.
    Gabriel was quiet for so long that she wondered whether he was going to respond. They climbed farther, following signs for the Fort de l’Alycastre, defenceless now, gnawed back to bare stone by birds and wind. Tufts of sea grass stole up the squat stone walls like a raiding party.
    â€œRousset put his life at risk to safeguard the lives of thousands of Allied men,” he said. “Before the Allies landed at Saint-Tropez on the fifteenth of August, 1944, these three Golden Islands had to be neutralized. At the crucial moment, just before the amphibious assault, he disabled the lighthouse beam to confuse the German night defences. Meanwhile, another beam was set up farther along the coast to imitate the Porquerolles lighthouse.”
    â€œHow did he know what he had to do?”
    â€œA resistance agent managed to get out here to tell him. It was risky, but it had to be done. Allied intelligence agents in Marseille wanted to blow up the lighthouse, but bombing it from a plane would have condemned Rousset, a good man who had stayed on the island watching the Germans and waiting for his chance to act, to certain death—and risked the destruction of nearby properties.”
    â€œThe Domaine de Fayols,” said Ellie. “I’m beginning to understand. But how did the resistance get someone out to an occupied island, in an area that must have been heavily defended?”
    â€œA light aircraft, flying at night.”
    â€œThat must have been extremely dangerous.”
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œSo the plan worked?”
    â€œUp to a point. The objective was achieved. But Rousset was beaten senseless, had his head kicked in by the Germans when they realised they had been tricked. He never properly recovered, nor was able to remember exactly what had happened.”
    They had stopped walking. Below was a beach of pebbles where three small boats rocked in the shallows. Even with one hand shading her eyes, Ellie could only see in patches of light and dark.
    â€œBut there was someone else who had stayed on the