Alice Adshead couldn't sleep. She'd tried to find a comfortable position for what seemed like hours. She'd fluffed her pillows twice and even got up and smoothed out the creases in the lower sheet once. Nothing had helped. She was still wide awake.
She assumed that her insomnia was because she wasn't in her own bed. That, and this nasty business of secret agents planning to attack Bellingham Hall.
Max and Dagold had prevailed upon her to move out of the apartment on the ground floor that had been her home for twenty years and take up temporary residence in the guest apartments of the first floor. She now lay immediately above the kitchen in the second room off the landing. Only Willi's room separated her from the landing itself.
At least, young Willi was safe, with the old Earl in Easthampton-Mares. But that poor Jorsten lad wasn't; and, she guessed, neither Molloy nor she were either.
She'd always thought being so far from Coventry, from any place large, had been ideal. It had shielded the farm, and the core of Petersholme itself, from the waves of turmoil that began crashing over England with the new century. Now, however, she realised that the Hall's very seclusion worked against its owners. They were open to anything that the Hun chose to throw at them. Wide open. And too far away for the city to be any help before it was too late. They were now—isolated. She decided that was the proper word to explain their situation.
Her hand slipped over the side of the mattress to the floor to find the loaded shotgun she'd put there when she went to bed. Her teeth clamped tight as she frowned. Just let one of those Huns try something at the Hall.
The Hall was defended, though. She had the two men—and herself. They were enough.
There was always room for one more head in the trophy room. She'd do it too—mount it herself—if one of those barbarians dared to threaten her home and guests. The idea of something like that happening was so un-English that it was preposterous. Only, both Molloy and young Jorsten seemed seriously convinced that it would happen.
She wished that Robert were here. He would be able to represent Petersholme properly in this mess. Her nephew seemed to know instinctively what to do at times such as these.
She gritted her teeth at the exterior kitchen door protesting being opened and wondered irritably why servants on their own couldn't think to oil hinges. She assumed the men were bringing in wood for the stove and attempted to clear her brain of everything so that she could somehow slip off to sleep.
She relaxed and permitted her mind to wander. She could feel her body releasing the tension that had held her since Lord Molloy arrived, sleep beginning to touch her.
A stair groaned, sounding as if it were right beside her bed.
Alice sat up with a start and pulled her alarm clock to her. She swallowed hard as her fingers found the clock's hands and told her that it wasn't yet even midnight. Part of her had known as much, but she'd almost ignored its warning.
Only, the groan of the outer kitchen door had meant someone had entered the Hall. If she actually had heard it.
She told herself that she'd not really heard anything. That she was having a case of nerves. That she was being a hysterical woman. Only… she was so sure that she had heard the kitchen door being opened.
She pushed off the bed and pulled her dressing gown about her. She knelt beside the bed and found the loaded shotgun where she'd put it. She stood again, facing the door, her index finger automatically moving to the trigger.
"So, you came after all, did you?" she hissed between clenched teeth. "Despicable rubbish!"
She started for the door, moving carefully so as not to make any noise. There, she paused and pressed her ear against the thick oak. She knew that she wasn't likely to hear anything from the corridor through it, not unless it was as loud as a cavalry charge; but she had to be as careful as possible.
Pressed against the wall, she opened the door slowly. In spite of the situation, she smiled that this door's hinges had been oiled. It opened silently. She inched into the doorway, holding the shotgun at waist level as she peered into the darkness of the corridor for anything that should not be there.
The darkness steadily grew more impenetrable the deeper into the house that she looked. Molloy and Jorsten had rooms farther down the corridor than hers was. Neither of them would have heard the kitchen outer door.
She inched further into the doorway and looked towards the landing. There was more light there coming from the quarter moon shining through the cathedral window. If the sounds she'd heard were real, if they meant the Huns had actually invaded the Hall, their attack would come from there. She could make out a form, deciding that it was the chair directly across the corridor from the door to Willi's room.
Movement caught her eye and she squinted, concentrating on the top of the stairs.
Her teeth clinched tighter. She made out a figure rising from the chair. She stepped into the hallway, aiming the shotgun towards it. Her eyes were mere slits as she tried to make it out. The figure stretched and groaned softly.
Alice allowed herself to relax slightly then. She was sure that the figure was Molloy. She nodded as she accepted that the men had set up a watch at the entrance to their bed chambers. And, like men everywhere with a woman, they hadn't bothered to include her in their plans.
She decided it had been Max that she had heard before and wondered idly if she should join him in his vigil or return to her bed. She decided to say something to him and took a step out into the corridor.
Behind Max, at the head of the stairs, a figure materialised. It was far shorter and more indistinct than Molloy was. Alice stared spellbound at it for a moment as it rose up and blended with the figure she knew to be Molloy's.
Molloy grunted once. There was silence then as the combined figures seemed to melt to the floor.
The figure hissed something in German—Alice made out the word for child—and another figure materialised at the head of the steps and started towards Willi's room.
The threat to Willi pulled Alice out of her stupour, galvanising her to action. She raised the shotgun and aimed at the figure making its way towards the child's room. And fired both barrels.
"Scheiße!" a hoarse voice growled.
Alice watched as the figure nearest Willi's room stopped, pausing for a moment before beginning to collapse in on itself. She couldn't move.
She felt, more than heard, an angry hum near her ear and a thud as Müller's bullet hit the oaken door jamb behind her. "Crooksall?" the same German-accented voice called.
Her eyes registered the nearly continuous flashes that began in the corridor behind her then. Bullets hit the wall, sending sparks from the stone. They hit furniture as well, before finding that combined figure huddled before her in the corridor.
Alice's first feelings were the hand grabbing her shoulder and pulling her against a warm, smooth chest. "It's all right, Fraü Alice," Dagold Jorsten told her. "There is no more danger. They're dead."
"Molloy?" she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
"I think—" he began but Alice shivered violent against him. "No," he continued. "I'll hold you more and watch carefully, yes?"
* * *
Pettigrew closed the door and leaned back against it. He was in Stefan Schmidt's room, and it had only cost him his last fifteen Francs to get the key from the desk clerk. It certainly had proved to be a good thing that the French weren't fond of the Jerries.
He took a deep breath and looked slowly around the room, wondering where a man would leave anything incriminating.
He quickly pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned his greatcoat before walking across the room towards the desk beneath the window. He opened drawers and quickly shut them when he saw there was nothing there. It took only moments for him to see that the desk held nothing that would identify Stefan Schmidt for him.
He opened the wardrobe and studied the German's shirts and trousers hanging there. Neither the workmanship nor the material were of what Pettigrew would call superior quality. They were, however, of good quality and indicated a man who took pride in his appearance.
Stefan Schmidt entered the hotel lobby in time to see the hotel clerk hand a key to a handsome, young man. A man with hair that was so dark that it was nearly black; yet, with a complexion so light that Schmidt could make out the freckles on his jaw even across the lobby.
Smiling, he watched as the dark-haired youth took the stairs to the first floor two at a time. And wished that he had a few hours to come to know the other man and, perhaps, to explore mutual pleasures.
He shook his head sadly. A few hours were something that he did not have. He had to develop a scheme that would enable the Gräfin to kill the English Baron. It had to be one that left her beholden to him enough that she would see to his promotions while protecting him from someone like the late Major Urnazy fingering him as a Schwul gigolo. And it had to make him safe from the fat woman's attempts to hide her mistakes. There was no time for pleasures of any kind.
A scheme. That was what he needed. One that would get him safely back to Berlin, even if the Gräfin had to die to make it so. And it was already too late for anything to work—the château had to be swarming with the French police by now. He started across the lobby.
"Monsieur Schmidt!" the desk clerk called to him in German.
Stefan arched an eyebrow in question as he approached the man. "Is something the matter?" he asked when he was close enough to speak the words in a normal voice.
"Your friend from the English university has gone to your room, sir," the man told him and Stefan was able to bite back his surprise before he had shown it. "I gave him the extra key just now."
"The young man with the dark hair?" Schmidt asked quietly. The clerk nodded and Stefan smiled. "I thought I'd recognised him but then—I did not expect to see him in Deauville this time of the year." He nodded. "I'll go up to my room and greet him properly." He handed the clerk a ten Franc note and thanked him.
John Pettigrew was still feeling through the pockets of the trousers hanging in the wardrobe when he heard a sound behind him. He froze when he felt the muzzle of a pistol shoved up against his back.
"Come out—slowly," the German said in halting French. "Your hands—up."
Pettigrew gulped down his fear and began to back slowly out of the wardrobe, his hands holding the back of his head.
"I speak German," he said as his feet reached the floor of the room. He hoped that if he was helpful to the Jerry behind him that he would live long enough to sort out a way out of this mess. He tried not to think of how weak his legs felt.
"Turn around then," Schmidt said in his own language.
Pettigrew did so, slowly. And found himself looking into the muzzle of a Luger aimed at a point between his eyes.
"Take off your coat. Drop it on the floor."
Again, the sub-lieutenant did as he was told, his gaze never wavering from the hole at the end of the machine pistol pointed at him.
"Good!" Schmidt told him. "Now, I can see you if you try something." He studied Pettigrew for a moment. "You are English, yes?"
Pettigrew nodded.
"You are a very foolish Engländer. You steal into the rooms of an officer of the Waffen-SS, and you bring no weapon. Unglaublich!"
"I—" Pettigrew felt his ears burn as he accepted how big a fool he had proved to be.
"Most foolish indeed, Engländer."
Pettigrew looked from one elbow sticking out past his face to the other. "May I take my hands down now?" Schmidt nodded and the sub-lieutenant let both arms fall to his side.
"Sit there at the desk," the German told him. "I had many questions, Engländer, immediately when I found you in my room," he continued as the Englishman moved to the chair and sat, "but I am most interested, I think, in why you are here."
Pettigrew gazed at the blond standing beside the bed, trying to think of an explanation for his presence that would not sign his death warrant.
"I am waiting, Engländer." He grinned. "And I hope that your excuse is a good one."
"I—" The sub-lieutenant decided at that moment that he would paint himself as a common thief. The German would simply call the police, and John Pettigrew was reasonably certain that he could convince them that he was not a criminal and to let them go. He felt certain that Petersholme would vouchsafe for him. "I reckoned that you'd have some valuables," he answered. "I figured to pinch them for myself."
Schmidt studied him for a moment, his eyes hooded. "I think that you should remove your shoes, Engländer. Then, your shirt and trousers."
"What?"
The Obersturmführer's smile broadened. "Of course, if you would prefer to be shot—" He raised the Luger so that it was pointing at the centre of Pettigrew's chest. "It makes no difference to me when you die."
The sub-lieutenant gulped. "You're going to kill me then?" he asked hesitantly.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I haven't yet made a decision."
"Well, I would prefer that you didn't."
Schmidt laughed. "You English, you have such a delightful sense of humour. Now, if you will please undress?"
"If I don't?" Pettigrew asked, looking directly at the blond man.
Schmidt shrugged. "I will kill you."
"And if I do?"
"We'll see then, yes?"
Pettigrew lifted a leg and crooked it over his other leg. He quickly unlaced his shoe and took it off before repeating the action with his other foot. He knew that he had no other choice. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it over his shoulders. "The trousers too?" he asked, his voice announcing his resignation to being in just his pants with this man.
"The trousers too, yes. Pull the belt out of them as well and hand it to me." Schmidt smiled. "And do so slowly, Engländer—unless, of course, you want me to shoot you so soon."
Pettigrew unbuckled the belt and pulled it out of his trousers. The thought of using it to lash the German's arm did come to mind but, nearly as soon as it had appeared, he rejected the idea. He was five or six feet from the blond and sitting—and the German had a pistol aimed at his chest. He could see that there was no chance that he would survive the attack. He rose from his chair slowly and handed the man the belt.
"Remain standing and remove the trousers, Engländer." Schmidt watched the dark-haired Englishman unzip the corduroys and push them over his bottom. As they bunched around his ankles, the German said: "Turn around now and put your hands behind your back."
"What're you going to do?" Pettigrew asked, his mouth suddenly dry as he stared at the Luger still pointed at him.
"I'm going to bind your hands with the belt, Engländer. That is all for the moment."
Pettigrew turned around slowly and moved his hands to rest on the upward curve of his buttocks. He prayed that the Jerry wasn't going to kill him, not nearly naked as he was. He thought that a gentleman shouldn't die in such a way that would embarrass his family.
Schmidt quickly tied his hands and crab-walked him to the bed. He pushed Pettigrew facedown onto the mattress and pulled his trousers off of him. "Let's see who you are, Engländer," he said conversationally as he searched Pettigrew's pockets. "Coins, keys to a motor car," he said, providing a verbal inventory of the Englishman's pockets. "But no wallet, no identification papers—nothing." He moved to the desk and laid the trousers over the back of the chair before glancing down at Pettigrew watching him over his shoulder. "I have never been fond of cyphers, Engländer," he explained. "Where would you have carried your wallet if not in your trousers?" He glanced at the greatcoat on the floor before the wardrobe. "Perhaps there in your coat?" he asked rhetorically and stepped over Pettigrew's outstretched legs to reach it.
He picked up the coat and rifled through its pockets. He grinned and pulled the sub-lieutenant's wallet from the breast pocket. Schmidt laid the greatcoat over the trousers on the back of the desk chair and opened the wallet.
Pettigrew watched fearfully as the German pulled out his identification and studied it. The game was up as he'd known it was the moment he found himself looking down the wrong end of the man's Luger. He tried to remember why he'd be so hellbent on doing something as stupid as entering Jerry's room without even a weapon on himself. He just hoped the blond man would allow him to dress before killing him.
"Was bedeutet 'Royal Navy', Engländer?" Schmidt asked, tripping over the English words.
"I'm an officer in His Majesty's Navy," he told him and was glad that his voice did not betray his fear.
"And why is this officer in the English Navy in my room going through my things? Are you a spy, Engländer?"
"No! I'm an aviator, not a spy."
"You were then thinking to fly your aeroplane into the hotel? Into my room?"
"Under the Geneva Convention, I only have to give you my name, rank, and serial number. I'm John Pettigrew, Sub-lieutenant, Royal Navy. Do you want my serial number?"
Schmidt shrugged. "I have no use for it." He crossed to the bed and sat beside the bound Englishman. "So, Sub-lieutenant John Pettigrew, what am I going to do with you now that I have captured you?"
Pettigrew understood the playful tone in the blond's voice, but he sensed too that the man was in no rush to kill him. He turned on his side to see the German better. "You could start with giving me your name and rank," he said perkily.
Schmidt's eyes twinkled. "Yes, I do like the English sense of humour very much. We are to pretend that I am your prisoner now, yes?"
Pettigrew thought better of answering that and remained silent.
"Ah, I see no harm in this pretence—as long as I'm not expected to untie you—I am called Stefan Schmidt and I am an Obersturmführer in the Waffen-SS, a rank analogous to leutnant in the Wehrmacht."
"It's nice to meet you then, Stefan," Pettigrew said. "I'd shake your hand but I seem to be tied up at the moment."
Schmidt stared at him for a moment before he accepted that the man's words were nothing more than more of his sense of humour. He laughed as he stood and studied the dark-haired Englishman appraisingly.
John Pettigrew reminded him of his sex partner from officer-training school—young-looking with a nearly hairless body. Handsome like a boy still at gymnasium. And with a plump bottom that invited plundering. He felt himself stir beneath his wool trousers.
And why shouldn't he? It would cleanse the feel of the Gräfin from him better than all the soap and water in the world could. The sub-lieutenant would not stop him. He could not stop him, even if he tried. It would be a pleasure to feel such a fine body under his again. He could simply kill the Englishman afterwards if he acted as if he would report their tryst.
But, firstly, he needed more information.
"You are with Baron Petersholme's party at the château of Minister Reynaud, yes?"
Pettigrew studied him. "I don't think that I should answer that question, Obersturmführer," he said finally.
"You don't know," Schmidt told him playfully. "I may want to defect but only to the English."
Pettigrew stared at the young German. Defect? And not kill him? Perhaps this was going to be his lucky day after all. "Were you with the gunmen who tried to kill Lord Petersholme this morning?"
Schmidt had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. It had been so easy to get this Englishman to give him the core information that he'd sought. Instead, he said: "The Reich is also a signatory to the Geneva Conventions, Sub-lieutenant. What was it you said? I need only give you my name, rank, and serial number, yes?"
"But you said you wanted to defect!"
"I said that I might want to, John." He reached down and touched the small of the Englishman's back.
Pettigrew jerked at the touch and turned onto his back, his gaze locked on the German's face. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"You're very handsome." Stefan smiled as his fingers slipped under the waist of Pettigrew's underpants. Your bum looks delectable."
"You!" Pettigrew's face burnt with embarrassment. "I'm not that sort."
"Perhaps not, John. But you want to live—" Stefan smiled at him as his other hand went to the other side of the Englishman's underpants. "And, if I do let you live, you would like nothing better than to have me defect, using your good offices I imagine. That would ensure a promotion, would it not?"
Pettigrew watched in shock as the blond pulled his pants over his legs and tossed them behind him.
"Lovely. I definitely like what I'm seeing of England's youth, John," Schmidt told him, gently sliding his fingertips along the inside of his thigh from the knee to the bollocks.
"I don't—!" Pettigrew yelped. In spite of himself, he felt himself begin to grow.
"You're a virgin? I'll take great care then, lieber Hans. Turn over."
Pettigrew stared into the man's eyes, unable to think of anything to say. He felt his hand move along his hip to cup his bum. "Please—?" he groaned.
"I've got lotion for skin; it won't hurt at all," Stefan told him as he turned him over to expose his bottom.
* * *
Schmidt smiled at the desk clerk as he walked through the lobby. He was sated; and he was surprised to find that he was thinking much more clearly than he had been the past few months that he had been on duty in Berlin.
Yes, Sub-lieutenant Pettigrew had certainly been a fortuitous elixir. But what did he do with him now? That question pulled him up short as he reached the drive in front of the Normandie. What in the devil did he do with him?
He could kill him but that would mean that he'd have to dispose of the body. There would be too much opportunity to be caught.
He could leave him in the hotel room, bound and gagged. That would probably be the easiest course as the Englishman would not be found until after he and the Gräfin were already on their way back to Germany. John Pettigrew would still be there to satisfy him with his body until they left but would be in no position to alert the authorities to his presence in Deauville.
Pettigrew had not been in the hunting party; Schmidt would have seen him if he had been. Yet, he was now in Deauville hours after the attack—an officer of the English Navy. If nothing else, his presence indicated that security had been ratcheted up since the morning—with English intelligence agents and probably their French counterparts now at the château to prevent another attack against the Baron.
It would be foolhardy to attempt to kill the man now. They'd had surprise working for them in the woods; it would not be there again. If he and the Gräfin attempted an attack on the château, they would be killed. Or captured—and France had the guillotine. And he preferred that his head remained attached to his body.
No, any attempt they made now would make no sense. The risks were simply too high.
The hatred Gisele von Kys felt towards the Englishman, however, was illogical. As Schmidt strolled towards the casino, he could see that clearly. The whole operation had been insane from its very inception. Thinking on it now, he was even willing to wager that she had not cleared their plans with superiors in the Waffen-SS. In addition to putting him, Müller, and herself in harm's way, she had endangered Sicherheitsdienst operations in both France and England.
Because she had birds between the ears. Many more birds than just one.
The Obersturmführer didn't doubt that Gisele could avoid a reprimand once they were back in Berlin. She had the money and the connections that placed her on the same level as the highest echelons of the service. That was something he didn't have.
The commandant of the officer training school had warned him to be careful with her. Even from the Mädelbund, she'd been able to have one man face a firing squad. A lover from university, it had been rumoured. That had been all over Berlin two months ago. Everyone had heard about it.
Now, she was his commanding officer. His life was in her hands. And he could see that it rested there most precariously.
He had seen her flub her assignment. And she knew he had. Even if he did develop a scheme that got them into the Reynaud château, allowed them to kill Petersholme, and escape safely, she could still have him dragged out before a firing squad himself.
That was not an attractive thought. Stefan Schmidt enjoyed living and breathing. He especially enjoyed his body being just as healthy as it was.
He would not become indispensable to the Obersturmbannführerin if he found a way for her to finish what they had come to France for—and escape afterwards. Pulling her chestnuts out of the fire would not help him with her.
She would see him as a liability—someone who knew something dark about her. It did not take a university professor to guess what the woman could do to ensure his silence and her continued power in the service. Would do, he corrected himself.
And if he did not devise a scheme for them to kill the English Baron?
He did not want to think about it. It was enough to know that he almost certainly wouldn't live to see Berlin again.
He was dead whatever he did—by an English bullet or a German one. And that simply would not do. There were too many things that Stefan Schmidt wanted to do now that he had pulled himself out of the poverty of his childhood.
His was not a pretty dilemma.
He shoved his hands deeper into his greatcoat as his gait slowed.
There had to be a way for him to escape the death staring him in the face.
He chuckled as he remembered how he'd told John Pettigrew that he was thinking about defecting. In his room and with the proximity of sex with the Englishman, the idea had only been a ruse to lessen the other man's fear of dying. Now, he wondered if he should actually consider it as a possible course of action. It would certainly keep him alive.
Only, he knew very little that could be his coin with the English—or even the French. And he knew that he didn't want to throw himself on the mercy of the French. The Sicherheitsdienst had very obviously infiltrated both their army and their security apparatus. Only that morning he'd killed one mole while the Gräfin killed the other. The French would not be happy to see him. Besides, the eagle's talons would soon destroy them. If he were to defect, it would have to be to the English.
The English, however, would want far more from him than he could give. He knew so little. His knowledge would be useless to them. He couldn't even speak their language.
Even if, somehow, they accepted him and gave him his freedom on their island, what would he do to keep himself alive? He spoke no English. He knew too little about anything to be valuable. He'd starve in England. A slower, more agonising death than a bullet to the head perhaps, but still death.
A motorcar accelerated nearly beside him and he looked up. Across the motorway, he saw the lighted casino rising before him out of the night. He nodded to himself—life was indeed a gamble. Each breath a man took was.
He pivoted and started back towards the Normandie. He wanted to go back to Germany. He wanted the life that was there waiting for him to live it.
If killing the Baron meant his death, if not killing him also meant his death, and if defection was not an option, what did he have left? What was a safer gamble than those three options?
If only Obersturmbannführerin Gisele von Kys didn't exist.
Stefan Schmidt grinned suddenly.
If she didn't exist, his life would be perfect. And he could make sure she didn't exist much longer. That she no longer lived before she could do anything to him. All he had to do was to put her in a position where the English killed her.
Not the French—the Reich would destroy them soon enough. The English—with their channel of water to protect them from the Wehrmacht. No one in Berlin would know then.
His grin broadened. He could even use Sub-lieutenant John Pettigrew to arrange things so that the Gräfin died in Deauville. And it would obligate lieber Hans to him. He felt his Latte grow inside his trousers at the thought.
All he had to do was convince the English that he wanted to become a double agent. If they paid him money, he would even give them titbits of useless information. Better, he would tell his superiors in Berlin and let them select the information he gave the English. That way, his allegiance to the Fatherland would never be questioned.
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025