The knock at my bedroom door began to pull me from my sleep. "My Lord?" an English voice called, and it was enough to push me on to the shores of awareness. I opened my eyes. It was still dark in the room.
Barry!
I was completely awake, pushing back bed covers even as my legs sought the side of the bed. "A moment please," I called and pushed myself to my feet, moving quickly to the foot of the bed and pulling my dressing gown on.
I opened the door to find Dunham standing there waiting for me. I glanced quickly towards Barry's bedroom, but the door was closed. I felt no sense of glumness about Dunham and relaxed. "Yes?" I asked.
"Mr. Churchill is on the telephone in the study, Lord Petersholme," the man from MI5 said. "He's at Chartwell and would like to speak to you for a moment."
"Let me put on my slippers," I told him and returned quickly to the bed, all the while wondering what the Honourable Member wanted of me now.
Churchill wasted no time on pleasantries and had me instantly gomstruck with his tale of the attack on Bellingham Hall the night before. I was assured that my family was safe before he told me that Max had been killed.
I was in shock from that when he requested that I work with Dunham to bring the culprits to heel. I agreed and we rung off.
Standing at the Minister's desk, I was still trying to pull my thoughts together when Dunham pulled the doors of the study closed behind him and we were alone.
"My Lord?"
I turned to face him.
"Young Pettigrew seems to have lucked into an end to this two-pronged attack on you."
"Oh?" I suddenly was unable to pull my gaze from the nondescript man.
"The lad's a bit impulsive but has good instincts—"
"And?"
"You know that it's this Gisele von Kys who orchestrated both attacks on you?" I nodded. "Her subaltern is willing to lead her to us—"
"Why in the world?" I demanded.
Dunham smiled ever so slightly. "It would appear the poor lad has decided that his commanding officer is quite daft—"
"And?"
"He felt that his life would be in jeopardy if she wasn't quickly incapacitated."
"Good God!" I knew that I shouldn't be surprised. Gisele was daft. But I was. "Why?"
"It seems that she'd rather it not get around back in Berlin that she'd failed to kill you. She and this young man are the only ones on their side left alive, either here or in England. I guess it's the old adage, sir—dead men tell no tales."
"So, he thinks she'll kill him if they don't get me?"
"And if they do as well, sir."
I nodded, finally seeing the backdrop behind this lovely mess. "Her mission wasn't approved by her government then?"
"Not that we're able to tell."
"Why doesn't he just—is 'defect' the right word?"
"It would be better for His Majesty's government if he remained in the Waffen-SS and gave us information from Berlin."
"I see," I said. "Gisele is going to try to kill me and this lad, her subordinate, is quite happy to appear to help. You'll be there to ensure that she's captured before she gets the lucky shot off. Where and when does this caper take place?"
"Tonight, sir—here at the château."
"In my apartment—mine and Mr. Alexander's—I suppose?"
"Yes, my Lord. That's the scheme Obersturmführer Schmidt and I came up with last night."
"I see. Elizabeth and Mr. Alexander will be quite safe while all this is going on?"
"I'll personally hide in Mr. Alexander's room until the Jerries make their move, sir."
"In his room?" I groaned. "You're going to let Gisele get that close to him?"
"We have to, sir." He shrugged. "Sub-lieutenant Pettigrew will keep the French away from the entrance on the east wing. They'll steal up the servant stairs there and make their way to your apartment."
"Pettigrew? How did he get involved in this?"
"Schmidt seems to trust him."
"And Elizabeth? Will she be safe?"
"She'll be in her own apartment—" he paused, then added, "or with the Comte. Either place, she'll be well away from the action as it develops."
"I hope," I mumbled. A thought struck me then. "I've not heard a word from you about the Sûreté man or these gendârmes who're all over the place—is this purely an English exercise then?"
He looked away. "I'm afraid so, sir. It seems the second man killed yesterday was with the Sûreté—and a German agent. Young Schmidt doesn't want any record of his collaboration kept in France. He doesn't know who is on the Sicherheitsdienst's payroll and who isn't, and he doesn't want to take any chances. And we don't know exactly who to trust at this point."
"He's taking his chances with us English then?"
Dunham pursed his lips. "He hasn't said and now's not the time to pursue it—but I get the sense that it's common knowledge in Berlin's official circles that France will find herself caught in the German eagle's talons if there's a war."
"So, this is now a completely English scheme then?" I wanted to make damned sure that I understood this.
He nodded.
"What time does the Gräfin expect me to breathe my last?"
"They're due to arrive at a barn several kilometres from the château around ten o'clock tonight and come in by foot from there."
"Between eleven and twelve then?" He nodded. I shrugged. "For King and country then. I'd best be off to wash," I told him and chuckled. "It certainly wouldn't be proper to be unclean when I meet the man on the white horse, would it?"
"No one's going to be hurt, sir. We'll take this woman into custody and whisk her off to England where she'll be put away quietly."
In spite of the bad feeling I had about the scheme, I decided to accept his assurances and let things unfold as they would. "I'm in then," I told him. "Carry on with it, Dunham."
* * *
As she followed him through the woods, the Obersturmbansführerin wondered idly how she would kill her subordinate.
It was, of course, a pity that he had to die. He was so perfectly what the Führer wanted the new German male to be like. And he was good in bed as well. But, there could no chance of his loose tongue wagging once they were back in Berlin. He would have served his purpose as soon as she was in the château and had her Luger aimed at the Drecksau's heart.
Bare twigs caught at her hair and her coat.
She suspected that the damned boy enjoyed leading her through bushes and knee-high snow. Boys, and even men, took a perverse pleasure in leading women into the worst possible situations. And making her way through these woods behind Stefan Schmidt at twenty-three hundred hours was about the worst possible situation she could imagine at the moment—especially now that she'd stepped into that knee-deep patch of snow and it had got inside her boot.
A tree branch snapped as she pushed it away from her face and Schmidt turned back to her. "We must be quiet, Gräfin. We're only about a hundred metres from the house now. Our mission fails if we're found out."
She grunted her acquiescence and studied him through slitted eyes. He'd be dead soon. She might kill him immediately after taking care of Petersholme. A smile touched her frozen lips at the thought. She could even use the Baron's own pistol to do it.
She forced that thought away quickly. The Reichsführer was more than willing to allow his field-grade officers to set their own programmes. He would not mind at all that she had planned this mission. He would mind, however, if it failed. And Himmler would be absolutely livid with her if a the body of a Waffen-SS officer, her own adjutant no less, were found lying beside the man they had come to kill.
No, dear Stefan would have to die elsewhere, anywhere other that the château of the French Minister of Justice.
He couldn't be found at the Hotel Normandie either; they'd arrived together and registered as Germans—she wished now that she'd thought that through before they'd done it. She'd have to do it between Deauville and the Belgian border, though.
She nodded as that thought expanded in her mind. It would be simple really—she had the embassy driver to help her, after all. She'd simply kill Stefan as he sat beside her in the car, maybe as he dozed, in the hours before dawn that lay ahead of them after they had completed their mission. And the driver could strip him completely; that way there would be nothing to link him to the Reich or her when his body was found.
Petersholme would be dead as would her late husband's Schwul and she would have her son back to give to the Reich. There would be no link to the Waffen-SS. Reichsführer Himmler would be pleased with her resourcefulness.
She smiled broadly at her ingenuity and sped up her steps to catch Schmidt. They reached the edge of the woods behind the château together.
"We'll go through the door in the east wing, Gräfin," he told her as they studied the manor before them. Light shone from the windows of most of the ground floor, but most of the upper storeys were dark.
"How do you know where we're going?" she demanded in a low voice.
He looked at her in the moonlight, his face angelically innocent. "I told you, Gräfin. I happened upon one of the maids in service here—"
"And, no doubt, she was a lovely girl as well," she grumbled, wishing now that it had been her who'd had Stefan between her legs. It was a waste that he had to die.
He chuckled and looked away. "Reasonably so. But she did manage to give me a layout of the château before she had to leave this morning. That and where the gendârmes have positioned themselves to protect the English Baron."
"And this door on the east wing?" Gisele demanded in a low voice.
"She's left it unlocked so that I may enter—"
"Thinking that you're coming to her in the servants' quarters, I suppose."
He shrugged nonchalantly and smiled at her. "Of course."
Gisele von Kys resolved then that, once they were back to the car waiting for them at the abandoned stables, there would be a detour back to the Normandie. She would have Stefan a last time. He would die, but he would also have the best possible sex as a reward before her bullet entered his brain.
"Gräfin, if we move along the edge of the woods, we'll have shadow almost to the door," he told her, pointing out the path he was suggesting.
She forced thoughts of him inside her away and forced her gaze to follow his finger pointing towards the end of the wing.
Schmidt ran in a crouch across the two metres of moonlighted snow to reach the door, his Luger in his hand. He reached for the knob hesitantly, now afraid that the English intelligence agent had lied to him. Or, worse, that John Pettigrew had opted for revenge and that he was about to walk into a trap that would ensnare him as well as the Gräfin.
He was satisfied with Brigadier Dunham's scheme, although he would have preferred that the Gräfin died tonight. If there was a war as everyone in Berlin expected, England would be defeated. It was possible that, like France, they would be occupied as well. If that happened, the Obersturmbannführerin would be released and he had no doubt that her memory would be long. He had to risk that, however, to free himself from the death sentence he knew she held over him as long as she was free.
The knob turned in his hand and he carefully began to open the outer door, bringing his pistol up to cover the interior opening to him. He smiled as he accepted that it made no sound. Perhaps things would go well, after all. He could always learn English and be in the first wave of the Waffen-SS to arrive in England. He would ensure that there were no records of his treason or witnesses to it—except perhaps John of the rounded, sweet and compliant Arsch.
He knelt and peered into the darkness between the outer door and inner door. He saw the stairs, exactly as the English brigadier had said. No one was there guarding them. John had not opted for revenge then. Thinking about it, Schmidt was certain that the young officer had enjoyed their coupling of the night before as much as he had. When he entered England after their defeat, he could have John Pettigrew assigned to him. He grinned at the possibilities that offered up.
He shined his electric torch and quickly doused it. He took several steps inside and opened the inner door just enough to peer inside. The noise it made sounded loud and he held his breath as he leaned closer to look through the crack. He saw light from an open doorway a quarter of the way down the corridor and wagers being made in French. There was no one in the corridor, however, and he shut the door.
He motioned to the Gräfin to join him. It was time for her to meet her fate.
Inside, he hushed her with a finger to the lips and slowly started up the stairs to the first floor where the brigadier had said the Baron's apartment was. She followed after him; and, by the fourth step, he could hear her breath becoming rasping. By the time they reached the landing on the first floor, Schmidt was sure that her breathing was loud enough to wake the dead.
He could only thank the God in Heaven that this was an English scheme already. If it had been a real assassination attempt he had no doubt that, the moment they opened the door in front of them now, both English and French riflemen would open fire on them.
* * *
Louis-Philippe d'Orléans was reaching for the handle of the water closet in the toilet next to the stairwell when he heard the creak of the door that opened to the servants' stairs. He paused.
His first thought was that the sentry in the servants' stairwell was coming inside. He instantly changed his mind and remained still when the door didn't open further. He pulled his hand back from the lever.
His second thought was fear for Elizabeth in the parlour at the other end of the corridor. He rejected that just as quickly as he had the idea of the sentry coming in to warm himself. The door had been opened, but not much. Not enough to allow a man to pass through.
That left only two possibilities: a second attack on Elizabeth's cousin or he had imagined the door creaking. He pressed his ear to the wall, hoping that he would hear no sound there.
Muffled, he heard heavy breathing, as if someone had just completed an exercise regime, someone whose body was unfamiliar with the regimen. He smiled and almost chuckled before he remembered the men who had been placed in the château by the police. None of them had appeared out of shape. The servants hadn't, either.
His smile changed into a frown then. He listened as the heavy breather began to climb the stairs.
He opened the door to the toilet slowly and looked into the corridor. The door to the stairwell was closed. Down the hall, the gendârmes were playing cards with the English aviator. Beyond them was the parlour where Elizabeth waited for his return. And, beyond her, were the main staircase to the first floor sleeping quarters.
He hurried down the hallway to the card room, keeping an eye on the door to the servants' stairwell as he moved. In the room, he saw all five gendârmes sitting with the English pilot, their attention riveted to their cards. The Englishman had the most chips.
"Citizens, you're supposed to be defending a guest of France," he growled, "yet, you sit here gambling away next week's wages and hear nothing!"
"What's there to hear?" Pettigrew asked quickly without looking up. Philippe noted subconsciously that the Englishman's French perfect except for the slightest accent. "We're just whiling away a boring night, Capitaine. Relax and pull up a chair."
"Someone is climbing the servants' stairs now," d'Orléans told them. "Where was the sentry there in the stairwell when he entered the château? Are our guests defended?"
Pettigrew looked up at the French Army captain then. "His Lordship is being protected, as is Mr. Alexander." He smiled broadly, hoping to satisfy the other men around the table. "And Miss Myers has you defending her, I would assume."
If he had dared to say something comparable to an English officer, trivialising his concern, he would have been headed for a court martial that he doubted even MI5 could help him escape. But d'Orléans was French, he could only be insulted; he could not bring Pettigrew up on charges. And Brigadier Dunham had stressed the need for him to keep the French police occupied. He was doing exactly that. He hoped that the man knew what the bloody hell he was doing. Besides, this Frenchman had somehow got to Elizabeth, winning her heart.
"Are you in the pay of the Boche as was my superior officer then, Sub-lieutenant?" d'Orléans demanded. Every man at the table could hear his teeth gnash as he spat out the words.
Pettigrew stiffened. "That's an insult, d'Orléans. I am an English officer and a gentleman—"
"Fine!" The Frenchman's eyes blazed. "I will apologise after we have searched the first floor and the servants' stairs—if we find nothing there."
He looked to the gendârmes sitting at the table and watching them. "You will follow me, please. And one of you will bring this English officer and gentleman with us. If he makes to warn anyone on the first floor, shoot him."
Pettigrew knew that he could push the Frenchman no further. Dunham be damned! And Stefan too—if that buggering Jerry got killed, Pettigrew would be well rid of him. He laid his cards facedown on the table and rose. Smiling to the policemen, he said: "Let's go see what we will see."
"Two of you," d'Orléans ordered as he turned back towards the door, "go to the stairwell and guard against anyone trying to escape that way. The rest of you, follow me up the main staircase. And watch the Englishman," he said, glancing at Pettigrew as he stepped to the doorway.
Elizabeth stood in the hallway outside the parlour. A smile began to transform her lips when she saw d'Orléans leave the card room but it quickly disappeared when he was followed by Pettigrew and the five gendârmes. She watched as two of the men broke from the others and start for the door at the end of the corridor.
It seemed almost as if the other three were flanking Pettigrew as guards would a prisoner.
"What's the matter, Philippe?" she asked as he approached her.
"I heard someone on the servants' stairs. We're going upstairs to take a look."
Her face went white. "Robbie?" She looked towards the staircase in the centre of the château.
"Stay here, Elizabeth. We're going to see. It's probably nothing, but—" He took her hand. "Stay here where you're safe."
D'Orléans let go of her hand. "I'll be back in just a few minutes," he assured her and started towards the stairs. Pettigrew and the three gendârmes followed after him.
* * *
Elizabeth watched the men start up the stairs. Her thoughts went to Robbie and poor Barry were up there. And, if Philippe was right, someone was on their way to attack them. There was no way that she would play the part of a shrinking violet and stay quietly in the parlour while her family was in danger.
She needed a weapon. Elizabeth's gaze scanned the corridor quickly. She and Philippe had explored the rooms of the ground floor together on Tuesday. She smiled to herself as she remembered the trophy room directly across from her. Next to it and opening onto it was a gun room. Philippe had told her that the Minister was well known as a gun collector and was proud that every gun in his collection was kept in working order.
She crossed the hallway and slipped into the trophy room before the last gendârme had set foot on the bottom step of the staircase. She slipped into the gun room and turned on the lamp that sat on the table beside the inner door. Before her stood the large gun cabinet she remembered.
She opened it and selected a shotgun, then started opening drawers looking for shells.
Armed, she returned to the corridor and determinedly began to climb the dark stairs.
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025