Miss Murray opened the door Wednesday afternoon and stood back as Max Molloy entered the great hall of Bellingham Hall. "Welcome, m'Lord," she said as her gaze took in the bag in Max's hand. "So, you've decided to stay with us after all?"
"Only until Friday," Max answered. "We'll have some marines here by then."
"Only Cook and myself know that the young master left with you, Lord Molloy," she told him. "And we live here in the house, so it's not had a chance to get down to the cottages."
"That's wise, Miss Murray," Max told her as he followed her to the living room.
"I'll fetch Miss Alice, sir." Her gaze returned to his bag. "And take your things up to your room."
"Lord Molloy! It's nice to see you again," Alice Adshead greeted him as she entered the living room. Behind her, Miss Murray pulled the doors closed. "How's Willi taking his visit?"
Molloy chuckled. "My boy has taken to him, Miss Alice, like William is some hero who can do no wrong."
"And Willi?" she asked as she sat. "Is he behaving himself?"
"Very much so." He sat across from her. "In fact, he's accepted the protector role with vigour."
"That's good then, my Lord," she nodded. "There will be another generation of Molloy and Petersholme working together then."
"Miss Murray mentioned that you've managed to keep his departure from the Hall quiet—"
"Very much so." She scrowled. "Not even the kitchen staff knows. Fortunately, young Mr. Jorsten has been quite willing to eat the boy's share of cottage pie."
"I suspect that lad's not eating right now that he doesn't have someone fixing dinner for him." Molloy felt his stomach lurch but managed to smile, he hoped, endearingly. He remembered Petersholme's many complaints about his aunt's cottage pie over the years. "Hopefully, my arrival will be an occasion for Bellingham Hall to celebrate."
"I had planned on roast chicken tonight," she said, "with potatoes, of course. I'll have Cook add another chicken."
"That will be fine," he said as he pushed himself from the chair. "There weren't any problems last night, were there?" he asked as he began to pace.
"Very quiet, actually."
"We've learnt that this Monsieur Reynaud Robbie's supposed to report to is tied up in Paris until Friday. Which, of course, means they won't be home until the weekend now."
"I thought Mr. Churchill told Robert that he would meet his man Monday and then could come home," Alice Adshead said.
"We suspect that Nazi sympathisers in one of Blum's coalition partners have managed to hold things up. And that's held Robbie's party in Deauville."
Alice studied Max Molloy closely. She said nothing but her eyes betrayed her concern.
"We think that they'll try something in the next two days—before the weekend."
"Is Robert protected there in France, my Lord?" she finally asked.
"He is. He's got two officers of the French army there with him as well as a number of Reynaud's farmhands." He frowned. "Before I left Easthampton-Mares this morning, I called Mr. Churchill. He's sent some of our people to the minister's place as well."
"Our people?"
"Royal Navy. Having come to know Mr. Churchill, I suspect MI5 will be sniffing around Monsieur Reynaud's château as well."
"So, Robert and Elizabeth are protected?" He nodded. "And Barry as well?"
Again, he nodded.
"I see. That leaves us here then."
"Like sitting ducks," Molloy hissed, expressing the emotions building in him since he'd left this house the day before. "At least, until we have Marines in place—Friday."
Alice nodded. "I had wondered about that."
She sat up straighter and her gaze held Molloy. "Well, we have you, Jorsten, and myself. And we have a veritable armoury here in the Hall. We'll handle them if they come in these next two days, my Lord."
"It might be wise to bring in your manager, Miss Alice."
"No. We won't disrupt the farm any more than we have to."
"But—"
"Lord Molloy, Robert's man will be available if we need reinforcements for any reason. So will the men of this farm; to a man, they're committed to their Lord. But they are committed because he ensures that they're employed and housed well enough for their needs—and because he makes very few demands on them, other than their employment.
"Petersholme must be seen as sufficient of itself, my Lord, in addition to being a considerate employer. That's the creed three generations of Baron Petersholme have held to; for reason, I might add—there is grave danger to the very social underpinnings of our way of life here, otherwise."
"You're a wise woman, Miss Alice," Molloy told her, giving voice to his admiration for her grasp of reality. "Those are the very traits that keep England's aristocrats credible in the twentieth century."
"And Petersholme will remain credible, my Lord."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Molloy looked askant at her and Alice sniffed. "That'll be Miss Murray with our tea."
"I have concerns, Lord Molloy," Dagold Jorsten said to the Englishman as they sat in the study with their coffees after dinner.
"They are?" Max asked.
"Firstly, I must ask—have you found out if the Gräfin von Kys survived the fire at Schloß Kys?"
"She survived. MI5 has her presently being attached to the Waffen-SS, carrying a rank comparable to lieutenant colonel."
"A Obersturmbannführerin," Jorsten groaned, nodding as he assimilated the information.
"What does that mean—exactly?"
Jorsten looked blankly at him.
"I mean, what exactly does her survival and transfer to the military arm of state security have to do with a possible attack on Bellingham Hall?"
"Not just Lord Petersholme's estate, but on his life as well," the young German answered.
"Oh?"
"She is insane, my Lord. She had my brother shot because he had not married her. She had a much better marriage—to Graf Janus. It was a marriage that elevated her and her unborn child to the highest levels of the old Prussian aristocracy. But she hated my brother and, when she was in a position to do, had him tried on a trumped up charge of rape in a People's Court. The night that Jani—Graf Janus—died, she said she'd watched him put before the firing squad."
Max shuddered. Jorsten's words had the ring of truth about them; they fleshed out the bare bones of the story that Petersholme had given him. He could not imagine a woman—no, he corrected himself, a creature—as demented as this Gisele von Kys appeared to be.
"She now has a position of authority, my Lord," Jorsten continued. "She can seek what she thinks of as revenge outside the borders of the German Reich."
"And she'd have spies watching Petersholme here?"
"They would be Sicherheitsdienst, not Waffen-SS. But it does not matter. She would know about them. Their reports would get back to her immediately. She would see to it."
"Why?"
"So she could watch Lord Petersholme. So she could find a way and a time to strike at him for preventing her from killing me and for almost killing her—and for taking the Graf's son."
"You think that his going to France offered an opportunity to get at you then?"
Jorsten shrugged. "She hates my family because my brother wouldn't marry her. Then, I was her husband's lover. And she wants Wilhelm—"
"Why? If she had your brother executed because she became pregnant with the child—?"
Jorsten chuckled. "She is insane, my Lord. On one hand, the kleiner Graf is the symbol of her loss of honour; on the other, he is the heir to von Kys and her connection to the new Germany. She wants him in Germany—to show him as a breeder would show a horse. He is her pride."
"So, you believe that there will be an attack here?"
"Of course there will be, Lord Molloy. I still live, and she believes that Willi is here. She probably sent Jani's Hauptscharführer to England …" A small smile split his thin lips. "Yes, she would send him. He knows us both and he is completely dedicated to the Party."
"Hauptscharführer?"
"Horst Müller. He was Graf von Kys'—" He paused, searching for the correct word in English. "Sergeant Major?" He looked to Molloy for confirmation. "The non-commissioned officer who ensures that everything runs smoothly in an operation?"
"That sounds right, Dagold. But why—or how—would he become involved?"
"He's Waffen-SS himself and you said that the Gräfin is now as well. She could have him assigned to her for this mission."
"Does he speak English?"
"No. But that wouldn't stop him. He's an old fighter, follows orders, and has no fear. He would be perfect to come after us, secluded as we are during the holiday."
Molloy pursed his lips. "Who would she send after Petersholme then? This man sounds like the perfect assassin."
"She would go herself, of course."
Molloy's eyes widened as he tried to imagine a woman shooting a man. "Why?"
"She is a proud woman, my Lord. Her pride is overwhelming. And she is not especially rational."
"I still don't see—"
"He prevented her from exacting her revenge on me, he shot her, and he took the kleiner Graf. Each of those actions would be a direct insult to her. She would demand to hold the gun that killed him. As a Waffen-SS Obersturmbannführerin, her demand would be honoured."
"Unfortunately, Petersholme won't be able to leave France until the weekend. We'll have Royal Marines to the farm by Friday—"
Jorsten smiled and pressed his fingers together over his lap. "And, until then, you are here to help protect us, yes?"
Molloy nodded.
"Are you a marksman with a pistol, my Lord?"
"A pistol? I thought that I'd take a shotgun to bed—"
"That's but one or two shots—and you would need to reload the firing chamber each time. A revolver carries six shots and you have only to pull the trigger; a machine pistol like my Luger has nine shots. You have a better chance at wounding your target with either—before he can wound you." He shrugged. "Or kill you."
Molloy nodded. "I'll take a pistol with me then."
"You and I will need to stand watch tonight, my Lord—and tomorrow night as well—until these English Marines are in place here."
The young German's suggestion sounded good and Molloy wished that he'd thought of it. He wasn't comfortable with this military sort of thinking and it probably showed far more than he'd have liked. He didn't like the images that quickly flooded his mind and, as quickly, disappeared. The whole household could so easily have been killed in their beds. "I'll take first watch," he said. "But I don't think that we should disturb Miss Alice with this detail."
"We'll also need to relocate our sleeping arrangements to one wing of the house," Jorsten said.
"Whatever for?" Molloy growled without thinking.
"Hauptscharführer Müller would like nothing better than to kill us one by one—without any of us ever awakening." He shrugged even as his gaze never left Molloy's face. "You, Fraü Alice, and myself should have adjoining apartments, my Lord—one's with locks on the doors. When the attack comes, the extra moment we can give ourselves can mean life or death for us."
"That sounds like a sound idea, Jorsten," Molloy told him. "But, we'll have to work this out with Miss Alice—all except the standing guard—you understand?"
* * *
"Drive your car behind the shed here," Rice told Crooksall as he left the bellows and started towards the man, pointing to the nearly overgrown dirt track that ran along the side of the building.
Moments later, James Crooksall stepped from the side of the shed carrying a bag. "You're dressed like a bloody undertaker, mate," Rice said as the other man reached him.
Crooksall stopped and met the smith gaze. "I am an undertaker, comrade. And I've just left my third funeral of the day. Is there someplace where I can change?"
Rice stepped quickly back, instinctively making a warding sign.
"Don't worry," Crooksall laughed mirthlessly. "I didn't bring the man on the white horse with me tonight—at least, not for us. He rides for this useless anachronism from England's medieval past and his friends."
"You mean his Lordship?" Rice asked carefully as he hadn't understood the other man's expression.
"If the other team has followed its orders, Lord Petersholme is already dead. Now, we just have to follow ours and execute this German criminal in addition to returning the child to his mother." As he spoke, he moved closer to the entrance of the shed and glanced inside. "May I change inside, comrade? I'll freeze my bollocks if I got out of this costume out here."
Rice led him through the shed and opened the door to the house. "In here. You can tell that kraut that it's time to go as well."
"He's inside?"
Rice snorted. "If somebody in the village did want a smithing job this close to Christmas, I didn't want him meeting up with this man Müller now did I?"
Crooksall sat across from the Hauptscharführer in the back of Rice's van as they left the village. From the front, they could hear the clop of the horse's hooves as they struck the cobblestone of the high street and Rice muttering nonsense to the animal.
"You'll need to tell that man to hide his wagon when we reach our destination," Müller said.
"Will he come with us then?"
The Hauptscharführer's look of scorn embarrassed Crooksall. "Someone must lead us to these cottages and point us to the one that is our destination, comrade," he said softly. "Your man Rice appears to be the only one of us able to do that."
Crooksall didn't risk making more of a fool of himself by answering. He nodded and hoped that the faint light from outside didn't show how red his face was. He was glad that the sun had already begun to set.
"He'll stay behind once we have our guide to the manor. He can stop any one who would follow us." Müller chuckled. "He is big but dumb—it's all that he's good for."
"The farmhand who's to lead us, he's a bit slow as well," Crooksall blurted. "Our rural people are, it seems."
"The clodhoppers are in every country, comrade, even in the Fatherland."
Crooksall nodded and relaxed slightly at the other man's agreement.
"Once we are inside the manor, can you find the sleeping quarters, comrade?" Müller asked.
"I've never set foot in Bellingham Hall, Hauptscharführer, but we performed a funeral service for a gentlewoman last year. The aristocracy here in England tend to duplicate each other's houses."
"So, you will be able to find both the boy and the criminal?"
"I think so."
"Good!" Müller leaned back against the side of the van. "Do we have any idea how many people we'll need to contend with?"
"Contend with?"
"How many people there will be inside the manor! Think, damn it! Your life and mine depends on it."
"His Lordship is out of the country—" Crooksall answered nervously. "My instructions said that he'd taken his ward and his American house guest with him."
"The Baron is dead by now."
Crooksall smiled. "And the others too?"
"The others with him are meaningless. They pose no threat to the new order."
"Here, there'll only be the old woman, the boy, and that criminal we have orders to execute."
"And the servants?"
"I don't know—but they'll be on the top floor. We should be in and out before they even know we're there."
"Would that it be so," Müller hissed. "But don't count on it."
Horst Müller looked towards the front of the van and sighed. "Have you arranged the escape route for the brat and me, comrade?" he asked finally.
Crooksall breathed a sigh of relief at the new direction of the conversation. Getting the damned German out of England had been something he could arrange for. "There will be a total of three motorcars, Hauptscharführer, between Coventry and the coast. Your drivers know the route and the rendezvous points. They only know that you are taking a rescued German child back to his mother."
"And not one of these men speak German, I assume?"
"No, Hauptscharführer. That would have been too much to arrange. As it is, each man knows the geography of his part of the route well. There won't be any problems getting you to the Channel."
"It makes no difference." Müller shrugged. "I do not have to have a person with whom I can have an intelligent conversation. I'll be in a U-boat with other Germans soon enough if these men simply follow their orders. And the Willi von Kys will safely be on his way back to his mother."
He looked back at the front of the van. "Please, comrade, remember to find out who is in this house from your farm boy. I do not like surprises, yes?" He reached into his coat pocket and clutched something.
Crooksall saw what it was as the German pulled out a dagger and recognised it as the service dagger of the Waffen-SS. In his mind, he could see the eagle on the hilt, its talons gripping a wreath containing a swastika inside it.
Müller said nothing, watching intently as he moved the cutting edge of the dagger across the skirt of his coat. He smiled, his teeth showing, in the near darkness.
Crooksall assumed that the Hauptscharführer had found the blade to be sharp enough. He closed his eyes and wished he was not afraid.
Crooksall felt the van slow and opened his eyes. He looked over at Müller, surprised that he had fallen asleep and even more surprised that he had.
At first glance, the German looked to be asleep, curled in on himself as he sat. Outside of the van, Rice began to apply the brakes. At the first squeal of wood meeting wood, Müller sat straight up, his dagger moving horizontally in front of his face. "It's all right, Hauptscharführer. We've got to where we're going is all."
Rice opened the door in the back of the van and they silently began to follow him through knee-high drifts of snow.
"It's bloody cold!" Crooksall grumbled to the other two as he trudged up yet another hill. "How much further?"
Before Crooksall knew it was happening, Müller had pulled his dagger from his pocket and had its blade at the Englishman's throat. "Shut up, little man!" he growled low. "This is a mission that demands all of the surprise we can have on our side. This whining only alerts anyone listening to our approach."
Crooksall stared down his nose at the part of the blade between his chin and the Hauptscharführer's gloved hand against the hilt. He glanced over to Rice who was watching impassively. He nodded and felt relief flood over him as the point of the dagger left his adam's apple.
Müller looked to Rice and whispered to Crooksall: "Tell him to lead on, comrade. We don't have all night."
* * *
Rice pushed open the door of the cottage and stepped inside. Crooksall and then Müller followed him. Neville looked sharply around from the sink at the sound of the door opening. His jaw opened in surprise at seeing the three men walk in. Clive stood up from the table and nodded to them.
"About time you got here," Clive said, speaking to Rice.
"I don't like this at all," Neville said as he moved alongside his friend.
Müller looked out at the night a last time and, seeing no one moving, shut the door. "This hovel is worst than I expected," he said to Crooksall as he crossed the room and came to a stop in front of the two farmhands. "And these dogs don't look smart enough to find a rabbit."
"These two lads are Clive and Neville, comrades," Rice said. "Clive here is going to lead you to the house."
Crooksall translated and Müller studied the blond youth closely. "If he can find his way to the toilet, we'll be lucky," he mumbled and swung back to face Crooksall. "Tell the smith that he is to kill the other one when we've gone. Wait until we're out the door and find an excuse to call him to you."
"Hauptscharführer?"
Müller shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Never leave a witness, comrade."
Crooksall nodded and turned away from the others to hide the blush that had his ears burning. He would never be as happy as when he had put the Hun on his way.
"Now," Müller continued, "give them some pretty talk to make them think that I've given you instructions on how to keep their heads out of a noose." His lips turned into a frown. "Then, we must be going. We're running out of time."
"This other one—he's to die too?"
"Of course, comrade. But at the manor, once we are inside. Give them your speech and let's get going."
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025