Thank you for continuing to read GAMES AT DEAUVILLE. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

I hold the copyright and no portion of this manuscript may be published in any medium other than at Nifty without my express and written permission. With the US Congress pretending to be a medieval religious Prince's court (and jury and executioner), it's best that only those over 18 in the US, 16 in the civilised world read this novel.

I would like to refer you to my other story appearing on Nifty: DARK PRINCE that is in the scifi/fan folder.

Nifty can always use operating capital. Please use your credit card and help keep Nifty free.

Enjoy!

Dave MacMillan

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Molloy sipped tea in his father's study and tried to ignore the fact that he was going to drive halfway across England in the hours ahead of him.

He owed it to Robbie to ensure that the man's home was protected. That was justification enough for him to go to Bellingham Hall and to stay until the Navy had its lads in place on Friday. He would only be gone from Easthampton-Mares for two days. And Robbie's son had taken well to being moved.

The old Earl seemed smitten with young Willi. And little Cecil doted on the German boy's every act. The boy was well protected here.

It was that Dagold Jorsten and Miss Alice who were in danger - if there was danger. They were still at Bellingham Hall and in the centre of that damned radio message of last Saturday. Jorsten was.

There hadn't been a direct threat against the farm in it. But it was definitely better to be safe than sorry. Only the damned Navy wouldn't get anyone out to Petersholme's place before Friday. So, he was driving to Bellingham Hall and staying there for the next two days.

"It'll be a quiet couple of days, at least," he mumbled to himself. Besides, he could always ogle that Jorsten lad, he told himself and smiled at the thought.

The German had been the first man to have caught his attention that way since he became involved with Alan Dudding.

Alan provided him with everything he needed or wanted from another man. But Max Molloy refused to believe that it hurt anything if his imagination created fantasies that didn't exist and would never be allowed to exist. Alan would never know of those dreams because Max wasn't about to tell him.

He would dream of what he and Dagold Jorsten could do together while he was a proper guest with Alice Adshead under Robbie's roof. And he would sleep alone.

His cup was drained and he stood, wishing that the Navy or MI-5 had been able to put at least one man at Bellingham Hall immediately. He started for the door.

It was that damnable radio message that would have him drive across country - Jerry must be laughing in his sleeve at the havoc he'd caused with the implied threat to both the farm and to Petersholme.

"Petersholme!" Molloy groaned as he stopped in mid-stride. His friend was in as much danger as his home and family could be.

He turned and walked to his father's study and the telephone there. He bit at the chapped skin on his lower lip as he waited for the operator to place him through to Chartwell. He prayed that he wasn't too late. When the butler came on, he asked for Winston Churchill and identified himself.

After another long wait, the Tory backbencher spoke into the phone.

"Sir, there are naval officers with Petersholme in Deauville, aren't there?" he asked, ignoring the pleasantries.

He frowned as Churchill told him that the fliers were staying in Paris until Petersholme was through with his mission. Molloy began to rub his temple with his index finger. He told Churchill about the radio message from somewhere near Bellingham Hall that had been intercepted and he was on his way there to remain until the Navy could get men out to protect it on Friday.

He listened as Churchill cursed. "Sir," he said as the other paused to breathe, "if there is really any danger, it's as likely aimed at Petersholme as at his family."

The pause at the other end of the conversation grew. Finally, Churchill said: "I'll get word to our embassy in Paris as soon as I've rung off with you. Those boys who flew Petersholme over there will be out at Reynaud's house by evening."

"I hope that'll be soon enough, Mr. Churchill," he mumbled numbly. He pulled on his coat and started for his car, fear icy fingers closing over his heart.

* * *

"Bellingham is a pretty little place, Herr Hauptscharführer," James Crooksall said as they began to enter the village. The silence in the car the past hour had been maddening - even preparing a body for burial wasn't as nerve-wracking as driving Horst Müller from Coventry to meet David Rice. When he was preparing a body, at least it didn't breath heavily.

"I'll remember to visit it after England is a part of the new Europe," he answered.

Crooksall was glad that he would soon be rid of the Waffen-SS sergeant. The man was as warm as he imagined a snake would be. Cold-blooded and mean, that had been Horst Müller's reputation even when Crooksall had trained in Germany. But he was known to be efficient.

The mission that night required cold-blooded meanness, however. And efficiency. Otherwise, the last thing James Crooksall would feel was the rope of the hangman's noose tightening around his neck as the floor fell from under his feet.

It was a job for Hauptscharführer Horst Müller, all right. Crooksall wanted to live to see the new, national socialist England that was coming; he wanted to be a part of building it.

He spotted the ramshackle, open shed beside the road in front of them and slowed the car. Crooksall pulled to the side of the road in front of the shed. "We're here," he announced brightly as he turned the car off.

Müller's hand on his arm stopped him from opening the door and he looked towards the German. "This village smith speaks no German, yes?" Crooksall nodded. "And he knows I speak no English?" Again, Crooksall nodded.

"Good!" Müller said. "It will be a pleasure to hear myself think again."

Crooksall felt his ears burn at the insult but said nothing.

"And you'll return this evening?" The Englishman nodded again. "Good. He will leave me in peace then and, tonight, you'll give him his instructions-"

"To take us out to Bellingham Hall and introduce us to the farmhands who're helping us there?"

"And to wait where we can find him easily - he'll have to bring us back to your car after we complete this mission."

"I'll be back as soon as we've buried our last body, Herr Hauptscharführer - it won't be much before eight-"

"Eight?"

"Twenty hundred hours."

Müller nodded his understanding. "You'll bring chloroform with you tonight, Crooksall."

"Chloroform, Herr Hauptscharführer?"

"I don't feel like listening to or holding onto a screaming brat, Crooksall. I think that it is best that the Graf's son sleeps until we are safely on the undersea boat and on our way back to Germany."

The German opened his door and stepped out onto the roadway. "Come, Crooksall," he grumbled. "It is time that you introduce me to the village blacksmith so that you can be on your way."

* * *

Neville had dressed quietly and left the cottage before Clive could awaken. Three hours later, his stomach growled constantly to remind him that he had missed breakfast.

Neville, however, was not paying attention to his stomach. Clive occupied his thoughts - and what his friend had tried to get him to do. He couldn't shake the memories as he loaded hay onto the wagon, not as he drove out to the far pastures, and not as he began to fork it out to feed his Lordship's cattle.

His mate was all ready to do it to him. Bugger him and make him queer. His best mate in the world. He'd even said that he did it to him before - when he was sleeping off a drunk. Taken advantage of him, Clive had. Like some loose woman.

Clive had to be pulling his leg.

Or maybe he wasn't at that. Neville knew well enough that Clive would still his dick into anything - at least, he'd always said he would, given the chance. Clive well could have done the nasty to him. But he wasn't about to think about that. He'd just make damned sure he never got pissed around Clive again.

Clive sat just inside the tractor shed - he could see out through the cracks in the door but no-one could see him. The farm manager was a real arse about what he called slackers. If he saw a lad taking even a moment for himself, he always had something nasty for him to do.

Clive wondered if the man had ever been young and alive. He doubted it. From the way he'd heard it, the bastard had been running the estate for the Petersholmes since before his present Lordship was born.

He shivered. The cold had a way of working its way into a lad, it did.

He wished he had Neville in the shed with him. The queer could warm him up good. He rubbed his crutch though the corduroy of his trousers.

It wouldn't take much to talk him into it. Last night, he could see Nevie wavering. He'd just need a little more coaxing - maybe even a jaw to the lip. Yeah, old Nevie was a jessie boy, all right. And he'd know it himself soon enough.

Clive laughed. Well, now that he knew what Nevie was, there was no reason that he had to go without any more. They said that a hard dick had no conscience and Clive guessed that was so. His didn't. It didn't matter to his manhood whether it was a bum or a cunt that it was being stuck into. It'd take what it could get.

And it now had Nevie. Or it would right after Clive had coaxed into taking that last step and dropping his trousers like a good queer.

Only, neither one of them dared to let any of the lads on the farm know that Nevie liked dick. That'd have the queer kicked off the estate fast enough, and Clive would be back to having only his hand with which to relieve himself.

No, Nevie was only going to be a nancy boy when he was in bed - with Clive. At least, he was until Clive found himself a girl and got married. Then, the queer could let his secret out and everybody in the world could know about him for all Clive cared.

He considered pulling it out and wanking but decided that it was definitely too cold for that. He'd have a frozen prick for his efforts.

His thoughts turned to the coming evening. David Rice was bringing that Hun out to the farm. A real Nazi, the man was supposed to be - some kind of combination policeman and army. The way Rice had talked about this SS thing the man was in, it sounded like the Hun could take on a whole company of gurkhas by himself. He was supposed to be a real superman.

Clive didn't really believe it, of course. There were no supermen; those existed just in those cartoon magazines from America that he'd seen once in Coventry. And he'd learnt that David Rice tended to exaggerate what he did know. He was just the village blacksmith, after all. Clive was willing to wager that David didn't know much more about the world than he himself did.

But the man did have money. Ten quid for just showing two blokes around the farm. Yeah, he had money - and spent it freely. Even if it was Hun money he was spending.

He wondered what time Rice would bring the Hun around. He'd even volunteer to nab the brat for another fiver.

* * *

"Clive?"

He placed the chicken leg back on his plate and looked at Neville across the table. "Yeah?"

"Last night-" Neville picked at his food, pushing it around on the plate but not putting it in his mouth.

"Don't make yourself sick over it, Nevie," he said and cut a bite from the potato. "I always wondered if you might be queer. Last night you were right on the lip of proving it for both of us."

"But-"

The forkful of boiled potato stopped inches from Clive's mouth as he studied his friend. "Nevie, I'm not going to tell a soul about you. And we're going to have many a night where we make each other feel good, mate." He chuckled and pushed the potato into his mouth. "Until some lass comes along and manages to hogtie me so her brothers can carry me to the altar, you've got free rein of my best feature," he continued, speaking around the food in his mouth.

"But I don't want to be queer, Clive."

"Why not? As long as it's only the two of us who knows, I mean? You'll like it, Nevie. I'll make you feel real good."

Neville continued to push his food around on his plate. He didn't look up to meet Clive's gaze.

Clive swallowed and picked up his drumstick. "So, it's all right that we help each other out - us both liking it like we do."

"But I don't like it, Clive," Neville mumbled, looking down at his food. "You did do it me when I was pissed, didn't you?"

Clive dropped the piece of chicken back on his plate and stared at his friend.

Neville looked up then, meeting the other man's gaze.

Clive sat back in his chair. Nevie was being more difficult that he'd imagined. He understood instinctively that, if he told the man to shut up, he'd lose what he was planning would be his nightly pleasure.

"Nevie, lad, you're probably not even queer at all, you know?"

"I'm not?"

"No. It's probably just a phase. Like little kids playing army - they grow out of that just as you'll grow out of this. In the meantime, though, there ain't no reason we shouldn't both enjoy it."

"And if I don't grow out of it, mate?"

"Then, you'll just have to get married like any other lad. Only, we'll continue to be mates and we can get together to do things-"

"With a wife and kids, Clive?"

"Why not, lad? Did your da take your ma - or you - to the pub when he went out with his mates? Did mine? Bloody hell, Nevie, you get married to get a son, not to become some - some hermit."

Neville retreated back to pushing his food around the plate and Clive picked up his drumstick.

"You're expecting me to get into the bed naked tonight then?" Neville asked as Clive pushed his chair back from the table. "And you're expecting to bugger me?"

"Not tonight, mate. That Hun's coming for me to show them how to get to the brat."

"Clive," Neville groaned, "you aren't really going to do something with those men, are you?"

He picked up his plate and stepped to the rubbish bin. "Of course I am, Nevie. It's only right that Hun brat be with his ma and they capture that criminal his Lordship is protecting. It's even better that David Rice is paying me to guide them up to the house."

"Clive, if those Huns are right, let them take their case to the police! We've got justice in this country."

"Ain't his Lordship the judge for these parts? He sure acted like he was when we were brought up before him this summer - all because we was going to give that queer Yank mate of his some fun. You know what he's going to decide, don't you?"

"But it ain't right, Clive," Neville said, even as both of them knew he was backing down. "This smacks of kidnapping."

"Lord Petersholme just ain't letting those Huns get to the kid - or that criminal up in the house." He scrapped his plate and took it to the sink. "He's a nobleman, you know - he's got more rights than a normal body."

"What're you going to do with David tonight?" Neville asked, resigning himself to Clive doing whatever it was that he'd decided to do. With him helping his mate do it, like he always did.

"Just show him and this Hun how to get up to the house - the Hun's translator too." He turned back to Neville, his face a smile. "And maybe make another fiver - or more - if they want some help getting that brat and criminal away. Maybe we can both make a fiver each out of this. A week's wages for doing nothing - it beats forking hay all day out there in the cold for sure."

"No-one's going to get hurt, are they?"

Clive stared back at Neville in surprise. "Why should they, mate? The Hun will arrest the criminal, put him in chains, and pick up the brat. That's pretty simple, ain't it?"

"What about the old lady, his Lordship's aunt?"

"What's she going to do? The Hun and his translator both will have guns with them. That'll keep her quiet whilst they do their business."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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 MI-5 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 askantly 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. MI-5 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 over-grown 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 farmboy. 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."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Pettigrew," I said as I entered the study and saw him standing with his back to me, gazing out the window.

He about faced instantly, already at attention when he faced me.

I fought against the smile that threatened at the corners of my lips. I concentrated on looking him up and down. He was in uniform, and I suspected that it was the same one that he'd worn on our flight over. It also looked to have been worn since Monday. There was also a bit of stubble on his chin. "It would appear that you weren't prepared to come to my aid when the call came," I said in a neutral tone.

He flushed. From the collar of his uniform blouse to his hairline. "Sir!" he began, sounding like a first week cadet facing his commanding officer, "the First Sea Lord himself-"

"Stanhope? He personally called you out of a lady's boudoir?" I asked, guessing at where a randy young lad would most likely be, if he had several days of leisure available.

He looked ready to start trembling.

"Pettigrew, relax and have a seat, man," I grinned, relenting. "We're countrymen and, I hope, friends." My grin disappeared instantly as I realised why he was here. "John, I need you to help protect Elizabeth - and I certainly don't wear my morals on my sleeve like a certain member of the Lords we both know."

If anything, Pettigrew reddened even deeper at the reference to the Earl of Lancashire. But he did relax.

"I assume that you weren't given time to pack a change of clothes?"

He looked down at his hands and nodded.

"I promise that I won't mention that aspect of our current situation the next time I see your father," I told him, unable to stifle the goad.

A laugh from behind me caught me unaware. It caused Pettigrew to pause as he moved towards the chair closest to the window. He took a deep breath and sat down. I turned to face the man who'd laughed.

"Lord Petersholme, please forgive our young sub-lieutenant his appearance," the man said as my gaze reached him. I was facing the most nondescript man I'd ever seen. I did not doubt for a moment that I would never be able to describe him adequately, even on pain of death. "I walked into that boudoir you mentioned and pulled our randy young gentleman out of the lady's bed and threatened to shoot him in the head if he weren't dressed within ten seconds." He grinned. "He made it too, except for a few buttons."

Pettigrew groaned behind me.

"You are?" I asked the man.

"Dunham, my Lord. Brigadier Dunham of His Majesty's Service. It is to His Majesty's advantage that I was never here and that we never met. If you will, let's keep me away from the sub-lieutenant's visit to Deauville."

"But-"

"He's MI-5, Petersholme," Pettigrew mumbled from behind me.

"Mr. Churchill personally telephoned me this morning, my Lord. It seemed that the situation here was important enough that I should lose a bit of the cover that I've managed to acquire." He glanced beyond me in Pettigrew's direction before returning his gaze to me.

I nodded and turned to face the sub-lieutenant. "Look, John." I smiled. "Go up to my apartment, the one I'm sharing with Barry - the American from the flight over. There's a bathroom there and you should be able to wear Barry's clothes. Freshen up and come back down when you're finished."

"Will you be safe?" he asked as he stood.

"I don't plan on going outside for a while. And Elizabeth is with Barry."

"How is he, sir?"

"He took a bullet in the shoulder. The doctor said it was a fairly clean wound - his clavicle was broken with the shoulder blade broken as well, but the artery wasn't nicked. He gave him a dose of morphine."

"The poor man." John Pettigrew grimaced as he started towards the door. "I won't disturb him, sir."

Brigadier Dunham closed and locked the door behind the sub-lieutenant. He turned back to me. "If you will, my Lord, I'd like to hear what happened this morning," he said. It was obvious to both of us that he had taken complete control of our interview.

I recounted everything that had happened that morning from my first cup of tea to the shots that had brought Barry down and killed the French major. The nondescript man from MI-5 had me revisiting almost every moment, poking and prodding. I was almost to the point of wondering if he wanted the details of my visit to the toilet, he was so bloody thorough.

He frowned finally. "Our French friend was two-timing us as well as his own country then," he grumbled.

My eyebrows rose, seeking my hairline. "What?"

"Major Urnazy. He was a double agent."

I felt pasty. My face must have been the colour of stone. "He was one of ours?" I managed.

"Not exactly. We caught him in an awkward moment several years ago. Rather than let us tell the French about him, he decided to work for us as well as the Germans."

I laughed. "Every Frenchman in the world wants it known that he's a cocksman in bed, Dunham. How did catching him in a delicate moment threaten him?"

The brigadier smiled back at me. "No Frenchman wants his country to know that he likes to be buggered by young lads, my Lord."

"Oh-" My ears burnt suddenly.

"We knew he worked for the Sicherheitsdienst but he confirmed it when we caught him in that compromised position. It was his orders from Berlin that we were interested in - not how he took his pleasures."

"Did he inform you about the attack on us then?" I asked, giving voice to the sense of awareness growing in me.

"He did, my Lord." He sighed. "In an indirect way."

"He what?" I felt weak. "You let them nearly kill Barry?"

"I said 'in an indirect way', Lord Petersholme." He looked towards the fire. "His messages held no urgency. It was decided that we could wait until closer to the weekend to move."

"Barry was shot!" I growled. "He almost died out there this morning - because you decided that you could wait until closer to the weekend?"

"Urnazy was a consummate actor, Lord Petersholme," Dunham said without a trace of emotion. "He also was apparently completely married to the Nazi cause. We didn't know."

"Bloody hell with not knowing!" I growled as I jumped up.

"Sir, we now have to ensure that you and your party remain safe until Minister Reynaud can get away from Paris and meet you."

I looked up at the ceiling and mentally counted to ten. It didn't help.

"This was a Waffen-SS operation from what we've been able to piece together," the man said with a shrug.

"Piece together? You had a man in on the attack-"

"Urnazy wasn't exactly forthcoming." The man smiled. "In fact he had us misdirected completely. And, of course, he's dead now."

"Lovely. So, why do you assume that it was Waffen-SS then?"

He shrugged. "Because if it had been an Sicherheitsdienst operation, you would have been dead, my Lord."

I groaned. "Why do I feel like a fox that's just been let out of its cage and now hears the hounds baying in the distance?" I demanded, not expecting an answer.

"I'll be here tonight and I'll get with the chap from the Sûretè who's here and work out a plan to protect you and your party for the rest of your stay." He bowed slightly and reached for the door. "I know all of this has been most trying for you - especially your-" he paused for the barest instant, "your friend being wounded like this. Thank you for allowing me to have some of your time, Lord Petersholme."

I watched him leave the room with the sure knowledge that the nature of my relationship with Barry was now known in London. Fear of what that would mean was a lump in my throat that refused to be dislodged, regardless of the number of times I swallowed.

* * *

John Pettigrew slipped quietly into the bedroom. The American was lying bare-chested in the bed, the right side of his chest bandaged from his neck to the bottom of his ribcage and extended down his arm to his elbow. The sub-lieutenant thought that he looked pale but peaceful. Elizabeth, sitting beside the bed, had heard the door open and was looking at him as he entered the room.

"I was pulled out of Paris rather quickly this morning, Miss Elizabeth," he told her quietly and felt his face flush. "Without so much as a change of clothes I have to admit. His Lordship suggested that I could wear some of Mr. Alexander's-"

Elizabeth nodded and pointed to the chest-of-drawers between the windows. "I suppose he's unpacked and placed his things there, Sub-lieutenant."

"How is he?" he asked as he crossed the room.

"Dead to the world - oh!" she yelped and her eyes opened wide in surprise as she realised what she'd said.

John smiled and moved to stand beside her. "Right - he'll be that through the night. His Lordship said that he was given morphine."

He caught a whiff of himself, the odour of stale sweat and even staler sex. He stepped back from her then, his ears again flaming. "I'm a mess. I guess that I'd better get those clothes and find the bathroom."

She smiled up at him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Elizabeth." He stepped quickly to the chest-of-drawers. "Perhaps we'll have a chance to chat later?"

In the bathtub, John scrubbed his chest furiously with the flannel. It wasn't that he was ashamed of having spent the last two nights in a woman's bed. In fact, it would add another conquest to his reputation amongst the lads in his squadron, once it had got around.

Lancashire's youngest son would definitely not be thought of as a poofter. And he wasn't ashamed that Petersholme knew about it, either. It established him as a man in the his Lordship's eyes.

His scrubbing moved to one arm and, then, the other. No, it wasn't having been found out that bothered him.

It was the way that he'd been gathered up. His clothes thrown to him as he sat up in the woman's bed. Hurried out of her flat without even a moment to clean their sex off of him.

He was bloody angry with himself for having left his Lordship's party in the haphazard care of that damned French captain! That he'd had to be rousted out of a woman's bed to come to their aid because the Frenchman hadn't been able to. And that he'd let the Yank nearly get himself killed while he was dallying in Paris.

He'd let a lovely lady down. He'd let a confidant of Churchill's and the First Sea Lord down - and the man had nearly been killed for it. He'd trusted a Frenchman to assume his own responsibility. It was his fault alone that the damned American had been shot.

Even if that never found its way into his Navy dossier, he'd still know it. That was enough. Whilst he'd shown that he could do a woman with the best of them, he knew that he'd still failed the test of being a real man.

He raised his foot out of the water and began to scrub vigorously, paying special attention to between his toes.

He couldn't leave Petersholme with that impression of him. He might be an officer in the Royal Navy, but he was a very junior one with a number of men in position to judge him. Petersholme knew them all - at least, he knew Churchill, and that was more than enough.

He reckoned that he'd always be seen as Lancashire's youngest son after this. The sympathiser's whoring son, more like. He'd never be thought of as a man to be entrusted with responsibility by the men who counted.

He had to prove himself to Petersholme.

Flirting with Elizabeth the next few days simply would not help him to do so. Walking the perimeters of this château with a pistol strapped to his belt and peeking behind every curtain wouldn't go very far in doing so, either.

Brigadier Dunham had been quite certain that there was going to be an assassination attempt against Petersholme on the drive out from Paris. He hadn't said much - in fact, he'd been mum almost the whole time - but that much he'd been sure of. And it'd already happened when they arrived at the château.

What he needed to do was capture the Jerries behind the attempt this morning. At least one of them. That would make Petersholme sit up and take notice - London too.

He nodded and raised his other foot. He washed it more gently than he had the other one.

Capture himself a Jerry - that would be sweet, for sure. He shook his head slowly. It didn't take brains to understand that would be a lot harder to accomplish than merely thinking about it.

Pettigrew strongly suspected that the MI-5 agent planned to do nothing about this morning. There would be no English effort to find the assassins. He was going to let the French follow through on it while he disappear back to Paris, now that he had Sub-lieutenant John Pettigrew of the Royal Navy in place to guard Petersholme and his party.

Pettigrew could easily guess what the French were going to do about it. Nothing. They'd let the Germans escape just to avoid a bit of ugliness. After all, they'd had two of their own killed this morning and at least one of those dead Frenchmen had proved to be an undercover agent. He didn't doubt they both were.

The French would let things lie fallow for that, of course. It wouldn't do at all to cast mud on any of their own.

But, if it was a German operation like MI-5 thought it was, the Germans had failed to kill Petersholme. If they knew they'd not got the man they came after, they'd try again. That was so plain that even a five year old could make it out.

He laid back in the tub, letting the warm water lap at his chest and legs and relax him.

Somebody had killed the French major who'd turned out to be a Nazi himself. And the other Frenchman had been killed on the knoll where the assassination team had hidden. It didn't set right somehow to imagine that team had been French, however, not with them killing their French partners it didn't. And Dunham had said it was a German job.

Pettigrew told himself that there had to have been Germans in the woods shooting at everyone. Germans who'd travelled across France to reach Deauville. Germans with no confederates left alive in France. Germans who needed to eat and sleep.

With the temperature hovering at the freezing mark, the sub-lieutenant had no problem guessing that there had to be a room or rooms in Deauville occupied by Germans. At least, there had been - and, if they knew that they'd missed Petersholme, they'd still be around because they had so far failed to accomplish their mission. They had to make another attempt, and it would come before the weekend.

He sat up and pushed himself out of the tub. Quickly towelling himself, he dressed in the American's clothes. All he had to do was find them and alert MI-5, and the danger to his Lordship would be past. He grinned at the thought of that being recorded in his dossier.

As he exited the bathroom, he saw Petersholme enter the American's bedroom. The man hadn't seen him and had left the door open. Pettigrew crossed quickly to the doorway but held back from entering as he realised that he'd be intruding if he made himself known to his Lordship and his ward.

Even holding back, he'd heard the man tell his cousin that the French captain had asked for her hand. He shrugged as he slipped out of the sitting room. So, his Lordship's cousin was going to be one of the women who slipped through his fingers. It was too bad, but there were other women, a whole world of them in fact. Waiting just for him.

* * *

Neville sat on the edge of the bed, glancing out of the corner of his eye at David Rice standing before the fire. He didn't know what to do or, even, what he could do. And he didn't like Rice standing there like the man was guarding Neville. It was almost as if he was in gaol and awaiting a date with the hangman.

He knew that whatever the Hun and that Crooksall were up to was no good. That much was as bleeding obvious as the nose on his face.

Only, Clive was involved in it, too. Just before the men had arrived, Clive was talking like he might do more than show them how to get to the house. That mixed things up into a pretty stew. Clive was his best mate, after all. He couldn't just desert him - even if he could get past Rice. And he couldn't tell on him, either.

Here he was in their cottage whilst Clive was moving further and further away from him with every step. And David Rice was standing in front of the fire, his arms crossed over his chest. Standing between him and the door, he was - like he was some kind of guard in the cells of gaol.

He pushed himself off the bed and, forcing a smile to his face, approached the blacksmith. "How long do you think they'll be then?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Rice just watched him. He didn't move and he didn't speak. His eyes seemed to glower as they stayed on him. Neville knew something was wrong.

He wondered why Crooksall had come back after they'd left and called Rice outside. Something was definitely wrong.

Rice was so much bigger than him. If the man ever got a hold on him, Neville knew he'd be done for without so much as a fuss. He reckoned then that was their plan. He stopped walking towards the man when he reached the foot of the bed, his brain trying to comprehend this.

The big question on it was what Rice was going to do to him. Only, he couldn't stop wondering if Clive knew what the men were planning all along. If he did, maybe Neville wouldn't be hurt too bad - as long as he didn't try to escape. They were mates, after all. Been since they were in nappies. Clive wouldn't let him get hurt. Maybe things would be all right, if he didn't do anything suspicious before Clive and the others got back.

Only - what if Clive wasn't in on what the men were planning? Rice had called the other two comrades - and that made him either a Nazi or a communist. Them as well, most like. And Neville wasn't about to believe that Hun was one of those communists by any stretch.

They were in danger - him and Clive.

Neville's heart pounded in his chest. Clive could be about to die, just as soon as he showed those two where the Hall was and how to get in. Just like he was, whenever Rice got around to doing him in.

Neville gulped and looked over at David Rice again, studying him for anything that would give him away.

There was nothing. Just the smith watching him. Like a hawk watching a mouse.

He glanced towards the door. He hadn't meant to. He understood instinctively that Rice would see it and know that he was now thinking about escape. He pulled his gaze back and gasped when he saw Rice take a step towards him.

Neville looked back to the door, gauging the distance to it. He didn't think about his chances of reaching it, getting it open, or getting out into the night. He had to try, else he was dead.

Rice started across the room, moving directly towards the farmboy. He'd caught Nevie's glance at the door and reckoned he knew what that had meant. His hand went into his coat pocket and found the knife there.

He might as well get it over with. That undertaker had been clear about killing him, like they were going to do to Clive. He'd been thinking about doing just that as he'd driven them out from the village, and it hadn't bothered him at all. It was him or them.

He had to stay in the village after the Hun had the brat and was gone back to Germany. He had a business there, and he didn't relish the idea of swinging on the end of one of His Majesty's ropes. With both boys dead and the Hun gone, there wouldn't be a risk of that.

He'd never killed anything bigger than that hog on his uncle's farm when he'd been sixteen. That hadn't bothered him - in fact, he'd enjoyed it. As he neared Neville, he wondered what it was going to be like to kill a man.

Only, he wished that the boy would run for the door. Anything. Instead, he stood beside the bed, frozen - like a hare caught in the beam of an electric torch.

Even the hog had tried to escape. It had struggled before he could get his knife to its throat, too. Its bucking and squirming had almost got it away from him - until he'd already cut its throat. But he'd managed to hold it down until it was too far gone even to struggle. Blimey! There'd been so much blood.

Nevie, though, just stood there, letting him draw closer with each step. The boy wouldn't even reach the door if he bolted now. Of course, he'd have never got through it, even if he'd run before David started towards him. David Rice was big all right - strong too - but he was fast. Faster than any farmboy he'd ever seen.

"Please don't, Rice," Neville said, his voice low and strained. "Don't do this, please. I won't tell anybody anything."

David Rice took another step, delighting now in how wide the boy's eyes were as they watched him approach. Definitely like a rabbit, Rice told himself. Knowing what was about to happen - the eyes wide with fear and the whole body frozen with it. He almost laughed. He had the knife by its hilt but kept it hidden in his pocket.

Neville bolted for the door suddenly, breaking out of his trance. Rice's big hand grabbed the boy's cotton vest and pulled him back towards himself. The smith's other hand came out of his coat pocket, still holding the knife, and encircled the boy's chest, entrapping both his arms.

"Don't hurt me, mate," Neville whimpered. "I'll do anything you want. Just don't hurt me." He felt the point of the blade through his vest as it rose up his front. "Oh, God!" He jerked then, lunging forward to break away from Rice's hold on him.

The smith tightened his grip, pulling the boy closer. His hand let go of the vest and moved to cover Neville's mouth.

The knife rose over the rest of the boy's chest and Neville felt its tip touch his neck. He looked down, along the sides of his nose and over the hand on his mouth at the big hand holding the knife to his throat.

"No, please-!" he tried to yell but couldn't get his mouth open enough. The sound of his voice was muffled. He felt the metal move across his skin towards the side of his head.

He felt the blade pierce his skin then, just below his ear. He started to scream but the knife slit quickly around over his adam's apple towards his other ear and the only sound he made was a gurgle.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Eliza," I called to her softly as I entered Barry's room and saw her sitting beside him.

She looked up and, seeing that it was I, smiled. "Hello, Robbie. Did you men get it all figured out with those interviews they asked for?"

"I suppose," I answered, entering the room. "I did not like the chap from MI-5, though."

I looked down at Barry lying there. He looked so peaceful. And undisturbed.

"Who was it? The Germans?"

"So it appears. They think it's an Waffen-SS operation because it seems to have been quite bungled. And von Kys' widow is now in the SS - it was probably Gisele."

"Bungled?" she yelped. "Two men dead and Barry lying here wounded-?"

"The chap from MI-5 believes it was me they were after. I do too. Major Urnazy was a German agent - a double agent really - but there was little reason to kill him whilst we were on the hunt. At least, that MI-5 chap didn't indicate any."

"The other dead man?"

"They still don't know who he was."

"And Barry?"

"He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time apparently. The moment before he was hit, he'd been between me and the knoll where the assassins were-"

"Assassins, Robbie? How many of them were there?"

"Two from the footprints in the snow leading away from the knoll." I looked down at Barry again and noticed the beads of perspiration that covered his forehead. "Should he be perspiring so?" I asked.

"You might want to bathe his face with cool water." Elizabeth pointed to the pan sitting on the bedside cabinet nearest us and stood.

"Are you leaving then?" I asked as I wrung out the flannel before folding it and bending over to wipe Barry's face.

"I thought that you might like to be alone with him for a bit," she chuckled.

I looked up at her and saw the merriment dancing in her eyes. I took her seat, refolded the flannel and laid it across Barry's forehead. "I think that we need to chat a bit before you leave."

"Oh?"

"The Comte de Paris has asked me for your hand, Eliza. I think he'll spring the big question on you in the near future."

"He what?" She stared at me. I saw the smile tugging at her lips. Now she was an actress.

"Don't act so shocked, Eliza," I told her, turning my attention to Barry. "You've known all along that the poor man was smitten with you."

"Well, yes, I supposed I did-"

"Oh, and I suppose you aren't smitten with him as well," I continued, knowingly laying it on a bit thick. I permitted myself a slight tug at the edges of my mouth but did not allow the smile to grow. I rather liked this game she and Barry were always working on me, now that the shoe was on the other foot for a change. "At least a little."

"I didn't think that it'd go this far, Robbie," she said softly and I picked on the seriousness that had entered her voice. "I'll admit that he's made me feel good - being with him, I mean. And I'd reckoned that I was in love with him a little. He is very interesting - but marriage?"

I looked up at her then. "Let your heart decide, dear Eliza," I said just as seriously. "He is a good man and he loves you - and you love him as well. Those are very good reasons to get married."

"I'll have to think about it, Robbie," she answered looking away. "Marriage is rather final, you know."

I shrugged. "It is. But love doesn't come along every day, either."

"This war that you think is coming - would Philippe survive it?"

"Will any of us survive it, Eliza? He's in a position to have a better chance than most men will." I pursed my lips. "And I think that you're being more than a bit selfish, if that's one of your criteria for marrying him."

"I'd like to have the opportunity to grow old with him and enjoy our children-"

"Wouldn't any woman - any human being - want that of her partner?" She hung her head. "It shouldn't be something that you use to decide whether you marry Philippe, Cousin. If he makes you happy and you do the same for him, you should enjoy the time that you have - no matter how long or short it is. No-one can beat chance or know the future."

"It is selfish," she mumbled shakily. "It's just that I want him with me forever-"

"Accept his proposal then. Enjoy whatever time God gives you."

She laughed and turned back to face me, her face flushed. Even in the darkening room, I could see that her eyes were puffy. "You sound just like the vicar, Robbie - or Aunt Alice."

I smiled. "Go on with you, lass. Go find Philippe and let the poor lad make his request." I studied her for a moment more and knew that I adored her as much as I did Barry. "Get that first proposal under your belt, Eliza."

She stood indecisively for another moment. "I should go see if I can find a decent cup of tea," she said finally. "Would you like some?"

"I think not. Enjoy, Eliza." I looked back at Barry then. "That's what you're supposed to do with life - enjoy it as it comes."

"Thanks, Robbie," she whispered and was gone.

I remained seated on Barry's bed, watching him and letting my mind wander. I took his hand in mine and held it, trying in some way beyond the normal senses to impress on him my love.

My mind wandered.

It had been Urnazy who'd insisted on the stag hunt. He'd used Philippe to plan it, of course - at least, the part that I'd known about. He and a still unidentified confederate had plotted the rest of the scheme - my elimination at the hands of Gisele von Kys. The man from MI-5 had suggested that she was involved - even as he was saying nothing.

So, Janus' wife had thought to pay me back for my shooting her in the stables of Schloß Kys.

As she was involved, it was obvious why Barry had been shot - if, somehow, she had found out about us. Of course, she had. She'd had Urnazy as an informant - and both Barry and I had picked up on his interest in us last night.

It made sense in an insane sort of way for her to try to kill Barry. It would have been a way to hurt me before I was done in myself. As she had started to do to Janus in that damned stable. As she had done to Dagold, for that matter.

If I was right, I had to expect another attempt on me before Reynaud arrived at the weekend.

Barry could well be killed this time, too. And Elizabeth.

But why wasn't Gisele trying to get Willi back? And possibly finish what she'd started with young Dagold back at Schloß Kys?

I dropped Barry's hand and stood.

I began to pace. I couldn't wait until the Justice Minister of France finished his verbal duels and political games necessary to arrive at compromise with the other parties in the Government coalition.

I had promised Churchill that I would brief Reynaud and de Gaulle. The voice of armour in the French army had elected not to hear my briefing, relegating me to Philippe. That lessened the value of my giving information by at least half.

Why shouldn't I merely brief Philippe and let him get the information to his people?

I would be able to get Barry to a doctor who could at least speak English. He'd be in a top drawer hospital as he recovered. I would also have Elizabeth and myself out of France where Gisele was presumably acting like some American cowboy with unlimited guns and ammunition.

I wondered if Philippe had popped the question to Elizabeth yet. If he hadn't, it would probably be bad form merely to announce that I was going to brief him and, then, pack up my party and have young Pettigrew drive us back to Paris.

* * *

The narrow path up to the Hall from the cottages had been cleared since the last storm. But there were small patches of ice.

Crooksall's foot landed on one and, before he had realised that he was on ice, he'd put his weight on it. Both Clive and Müller watched him try to keep his footing before both legs shot out from under him.

Crooksall went down silently. Clive laughed.

"Schweigen, Schweinhund!" Müller hissed at the boy and moved carefully to pull Crooksall to his feet. "This rubbish has to remain silent, comrade," he told the Englishman as he helped him up. "Until we reach the manor - then, I'll silence him permanently."

"Clive, you've got to stay quiet, lad," Crooksall said quietly as he brushed snow off his coat and trousers. "We get caught and it's the dickens for all of us. You as well as us."

"You were funny," he answered. "Like one of them puppets at the fair, you were." The boy managed to get control of himself, stifling the last of his chuckles.

They trudged silently along the path after that - Clive in the lead with Crooksall between him and Müller.

After they'd walked what the Hauptscharführer was sure was a kilometre, he began to wonder if, perhaps, this English farmboy was as slow witted as he'd initially thought. Instead of being greedy as well as dense, he could well have alerted the nobleman to what the smith had paid him to do. He could now be leading them into a trap. And that ox he'd left back at the cottage to finish off the other dunce and his bumbling would be the cause of it.

He speeded up to catch the undertaker. "How much further?" he whispered to Crooksall.

Clive stopped when he heard the whispering and looked around at the two men behind.

"How much further?" Crooksall asked softly in English.

"See them woods jutting out there ahead of us?" Clive asked, pointing to the even darker area of the shadows in front of them. "Just after them, we'll come out amongst the outhouses and all. It's only a hop, skip, and jump from there to the kitchen - maybe a couple of furlongs as the crow flies."

Crooksall translated and Müller, squinting, tried to see into the shadows. "Why would he lead us to the kitchen? There's more danger of being found out there than any other part of the manor, isn't there? Don't servants do the aristocracy's work here in this country?"

Crooksall translated the essence of the Hauptscharführer's questions without including the man's suspicion.

Clive grinned cheekily at both men. "They leave the kitchen unlocked so eggs and stuff can be brought in and the fire started before the cook is up. Everything else is locked." His grin widened. "Maybe they expect us to come after them with pitchforks or somesuch - and they don't think we're smart enough to know that they're leaving the kitchen as a way in."

Müller nodded to himself as Crooksall translated. Clive turned and they began to move along the path again.

English nobles closed up their manors at night. Müller could understand their reasoning, but it would seem that English peasants were more revolutionary than German peasants were. At least, the aristocracy who ruled them thought that they were.

He smiled. Locked doors would not protect these relics of feudal times - not after the Führer had liberated all of the Volk and brought them under the same banner. Then, greater Germany would finally rid itself of the useless relic that the aristocracy was. No door would be able to withstand the force of history.

The quarter moon had broken through the clouds when they'd made their way through the woods. Crooksall saw the outbuildings and turned to Müller. He smiled as he pointed to them.

Like some child, the Hauptscharführer thought. Crooksall was as mindless as the farmboy. And nearly as useless. He wished that he could handle the undertaker the way he intended to do the boy. Unfortunately, the undertaker held his key to escape - and he had to carry the Obersturmbannführerin's son back to Germany.

They halted in the shadows of the outbuilding closest to the kitchen and Müller surveyed the manor carefully. The entire upper storey was dark, but he could see a faint light in the west wing on the first floor and another on the ground floor west of the kitchen.

"They had electric put in three years ago," Clive volunteered, "just before the old Lord died. That and the telephone."

"Where is everybody?" Müller grunted.

"Miss Murray and Cook, they're on the top floor," Clive told them after Crooksall had translated. "Miss Alice now - she keeps an apartment on the ground floor over there," he pointed to the west wing where Müller had seen the light. "Her and Miss Elizabeth both do." He leered.

Müller could see the glint of his eyes. "Who is this Elizabeth?"

"She's His Lordship's young cousin and quite an eyeful, I must say."

The Hauptscharführer reckoned that the boy had watched the young aristocrat through her windows. That made Clive both stupid and a leering pervert. "And the others?" he demanded, a sharper edge to his voice. Crooksall translated.

"All the sleeping quarters are on the first floor there."

"The child too?" Crooksall translated and the farmboy nodded. "And the escaped criminal as well?" Again, Clive nodded.

"Which rooms are theirs?"

Clive looked back to the woods beyond the outbuildings.

"Which rooms?" Müller growled.

Clive turned back to the other men before Crooksall could translate. He didn't look at them but intently looked at the dark shadow at their feet. "I've only been inside the Hall once. And that time only to his Lordship's study."

"So, he doesn't know then," Müller groaned. He instantly imagined them searching from room to room for the dead Graf's son and lover. He could only hope that there was only the old woman, the Graf's Schwul, and the child inside the house. He was beginning to revise downward the chances of his getting the brat out of England.

He reached into the left pocket of his greatcoat to find his dagger and looked at the farmboy gazing at the back of the manor. The dagger was the standard, ornamental issue that was part of the dress uniform of the Waffen-SS - with the German eagle holding the swastika enclosed in a circle of laurel leaves. Horst Müller had found that the steel was good however, and had the blade sharpened.

"Find out from him where the unlocked door is, comrade," he told Crooksall as he began to edge towards Clive. "That and anything unusual he might remember. But hurry! We must be back to this Coventry of yours and on the road to the coast as close to midnight as possible."

Clive and Crooksall spoke together for several minutes while the Hauptscharführer inched closer to the farmboy. There were but inches separating them when he stopped moving and reached into his greatcoat for the dagger.

"Ask him if there is any reason that these aristocrats might guess that there is a threat to them," he told Crooksall, slipping the dagger out of his pocket so that it was pressed against the greatcoat's sleeve unseen.

Watching the farmboy shake his head and answer the question, the Hauptscharführer worked the blade of his dagger around so that it jutted out from his hand, ready for a quick jab to the boy's back.

Clive turned to peer up towards the Hall. Müller's right hand clamped over his mouth, pulling the boy back towards him while his left hand thrust the dagger into his back. The Hauptscharführer stabbed him three more times before he felt the body go limp in his arms. He held him close to himself for another minute to make sure that he was dead.

Müller let the body go and watched it collapse. He reached over and cleaned his dagger on the boy's jacket. "Let's get inside," he told Crooksall. "Just stay within the shadows, like we taught you at camp in the Fatherland."

* * *

John Pettigrew drove into the village. It hadn't taken the majordomo but minutes to find car keys for him. He hadn't even had to explain why he wanted them. That had surprised him; he had expected to be grilled about why he wanted to go out alone. After all, there'd been two men killed and one wounded only hours earlier.

He snorted. The French were always so damned efficient, even when they were being insanely inefficient. He only hoped that it wouldn't be as easy to get inside the château as it was to leave it.

It was Elizabeth who occupied his thoughts as he drove towards Deauville. She was a lovely thing - far more interesting than the girls his mother had had around for him to look over. Lord Petersholme's cousin was one he'd enjoy a bout with in the kip, but it'd have to be on the quiet. And take some planning. It was never just a quick roll in the hay when the girl was one of his sort.

He drove past the casino before parking. Less than a block ahead of him stood the Normandie and the Germans he reckoned to be there. According to the majordomo at the château, there was only one other hotel in the village - one that didn't cater to gentlefolk. It was also in a shabbier part of Deauville.

Germans were ostentatious in Pettigrew's experience, at least the Nazis were - those were men who thought themselves the equals of their betters. It would be logical not to call attention to themselves, to take rooms at a hotel that was simple and did not call attention to itself. It's what he would have done if this had somehow been his mission. The less exposure, the better.

Only, the few Germans he'd had occasion to meet didn't seem to think like that. They wanted people to be aware of them, of their presence. To Pettigrew's mind, that meant that the Jerry who'd tried to kill Petersholme and very nearly succeeded in doing so with the American would not try to hide himself.

He continued to sit in the motor car and studied the front of the hotel. He'd left the château enthused at doing something that would square him with Petersholme and have his dossier show him to be ingenious. He'd only thought far enough along that he found Jerry, but now he realised that wasn't even half of it. What happened if he did find one or more Germans encamped in Deauville?

He frowned as he accepted that, in itself, meant nothing. Germans were allowed to move about in France, just as they were in England. He had to make sure that the Germans he found were connected to the assassination attempt that morning. He had to have evidence.

"Bloody hell!" he groaned aloud to himself. "I'm as dense as dear old pater ever was," he mumbled to himself, continuing his train of thought. "I need a plan of action."

If he did find Germans at either hotel, he told himself, it wouldn't mean anything - not by itself, it wouldn't. He could envision himself bursting in and proudly reporting what he'd found to Brigadier Dunham agent at the château. The man would love that - le jeune homme Anglais proving what he probably already knew. Pettigrew felt his ears burn as he imagined the man laugh at him.

No, he needed more than just confirmation that there were Germans staying in Deauville. French internal security had to have that information already. He needed something that was more concrete than that. He needed something that would place any Germans he found inside the plot to kill Petersholme.

He grinned. He'd studied German at Marlborough, just as he had French and Latin. He reckoned that he could read anything he found in a room occupied by a German. He'd know all right if he had intelligence that the chap from MI-5 would have to act on.

His grin broadened as he thought of the kiss that Elizabeth Myers would give him once she knew how thoroughly bright he'd been in finding her cousin's attempted murderers. He could even smell her perfume. Of course, she would permit him to show her London after this was over. And he'd turn on all the charm his dear old mum was always saying that he had in order to make sure she fell into his bed.

Pettigrew pulled himself back from the direction his thoughts were taking. It didn't matter if Elizabeth became interested in him or not. He was, after all, an officer in His Majesty's Navy. Putting a stop to a plan to kill any man on His Majesty's business was his duty. Finding evidence of such a plan and being able to identify the killer would certainly gain the attention of both Churchill and the First Lord of the Admiralty.

So, how did he get into a Jerry's room, he asked himself.

Firstly, he'd have to learn if there was a Jerry at the hotel. The best way to do that, he reckoned, was simply to ask at the desk. Desk clerks were forthcoming if they were palming money in all those films he'd seen in the cinema; Pettigrew had no reason to believe they were any different in reality.

He pulled his wallet from the American's trousers and felt cloth gather up against his genitals in a strange way. He paused and curiously ground his bottom against the car seat. "Blast!" he grumbled. "The whole bloody cut of these pants is wrong."

He allowed himself a moment to wonder how the Yanks could endure the way the seam cut into a man's wedding tackle. American underpants weren't cut sensibly at all. He'd be walking queerly inside a day if he had to wear these things all the time. Thank God for sane English tailoring.

Pettigrew remembered his wallet then and opened it, turning so that he had some light to see by. He had twenty-five Francs left. He wished he had more. But it would have to do. He figured he could offer no more than five Francs to the desk clerk to learn if the hotel had Germans. Not if he was then to have enough to buy information as to whether any German he found was in his rooms or not.

He had ten pounds in his wallet. He quickly calculated that was worth more than fifty Francs at the official exchange rate. It should be enough for what he wanted.

He pulled the Francs from his wallet and shoved them into his front pocket. Placing his wallet in his greatcoat, he stepped out of the car and started towards the Normandie.

He strolled leisurely up to the front desk, just as he imagined Basil Rathbone's Sherlock Holmes would do on a similar case.

He smiled kindly at the balding man behind the desk and asked in French: "Do you have any Germans registered? I'm looking for a friend who was supposedly was coming to Deauville."

The clerk opened a ledger and nodded. "Oui, Monsieur. Two. A Gräfin von Kys and her aide."

"Gräfin?" John Pettigrew asked, picking through his memory for translations of German titles.

The clerk nodded dourly. "Countess for us in the civilised world, Monsieur," he said softly in a Breton dialect.

"Why would a countess be here at Christmastime?" Pettigrew wondered aloud.

"To play the games at the casino - she said."

Even through the dialect, the sub-lieutenant made out the man's disbelief. "And she has yet to visit the casino?" he asked.

"Is she the friend you seek, Monsieur?"

"Definitely not. The chap I'm looking for attended university with me - in England."

"Mais oui! This Boche is a cow - no! A hog! She eats like one and wallows in her rooms as if it were a sty."

Pettigrew pulled a five Franc note from his pocket and placed it near the clerk's hand. It seemed to disappear into thin air. "Is she in now?" he asked.

The clerk shrugged. "I have not seen her go out this evening and it is most difficult to miss her."

"Her aide? What about him?"

"He's called Stefan Schmidt. I saw him leave almost twenty minutes ago."

"Stefan Schmidt?" Pettigrew pulled another five Franc note from his pocket and, watching more carefully, was still unable to see the clerk pick it up. It still disappeared before his eyes. "I wonder if this is he's same Stefan Schmidt I knew at university?" he mumbled. "What room is he in?" he asked more forcibly.

CHAPTER TWENTY

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 as well.

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 clinched 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 face-down 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 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

He'd been bloody buggered!

John Pettigrew sniffed and rubbed his face across the pillow to get rid of his tears. Here he was - a grown man - and crying like some child.

But if any man had a right to cry, he did. Damn it! He'd enjoyed the bloody Jerry ploughing his arse. He'd been hard from the moment he felt Stefan Schmidt's pubic bush crushing against his bumcheeks. He'd pushed back to get the man back inside him, just like the woman he'd serviced the last two days. And he'd had an orgasm with the German's dick buried in him.

He'd experimented as a child. He guessed all the boys at Marlborough did when puberty started and hormones began to rage. He'd even let a couple of lads in his backdoor as they had him. But they'd been just lads then - maybe age thirteen. Just first formers.

He was a man now, however. More importantly, he was an officer in the Royal Navy. He'd still had an orgasm whilst being buggered.

Worse, he was erect now, just thinking about it. His dick caught between his belly and the bed covers. One of his own socks stuck in his mouth. Wanting it again. Thank God the German had dressed and left after having his way with him. He'd die of shame if the man saw that he was ready for more.

His legs were bound to the foot of the bed. He tried to pull one leg and then the other up towards his body. He tried to bring them together. Nothing he could think of worked. He was bound spread-eagled and securely.

He'd had sex women. He thought them beautiful, especially unclothed and waiting to be ravished. He'd never felt that way with any boy when he was experimenting in school; he didn't feel that way towards Stefan Schmidt now.

He just wanted the German's hard cock in his bum again.

That made no sense at all.

Either he was a bloody invert or he wasn't. Either he wanted women as sex partners - or he wanted men. Either he wanted what was natural or he didn't. Yet, somehow, he wanted both. And, right now, he wanted the Jerry ploughing his arse again. His body did.

He forced himself to concentrate on his hands. Schmidt had taken the belt off after he'd done the nasty on him and tied each hand to either side of the bedboard. Tight too. He couldn't even move them, much less get his fingers on the rope.

He tried rubbing the rope holding the sock in his mouth against the pillow. He tried to pull his lower jaw back so the damned rope would slip past his lip. The rope rubbed his face but didn't bulge. The damned thing was tied tight behind his head.

He hoped Stefan returned soon, he was freezing.

His bottom felt like he was sitting on a cake of ice. His whole body did. It was cold in Stefan's room. He wished he wasn't naked. He wished he could think of something other than the bloody Jerry sodomising him.

He wished he could reach his erection.

* * *

Dagold switched on the electric torch and, together with Alice, surveyed the corridor before them. Handing her the torch, he pulled bullets from his dressing gown and reloaded the ammunition clip of his pistol.

"Fraü Alice," he said as he snapped the clip back into place, "reload your shotgun. I want you to train it on the single one there near Willi's room while I turn on the lamp and see to Lord Molloy and the other one."

"They all look dead to me," she said in a small voice, the enormity of what had just happening beginning to descend upon her.

"They do, gnädige Fraü, but we would not want a surprise, would we?" He crossed the corridor and turned on the lamp sitting on the table near where Molloy and his murderer had fallen.

"Hauptscharführer Müller!" Jorsten growled as he recognised the German.

"Who?" Alice asked.

"My Graf's sergeant major, Fraü Alice. He is - was - what the Party calls an old fighter, a Party paramilitary since before the Nazis came to power.

Müller was on his back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling; his Lordship laid face-down on the floor. Jorsten moved to the two bodies and knelt at their heads, his Luger pressed against Müller's forehead as he reached for the Hauptscharführer's wrist. The dagger slipped from the man's fingers as Dagold felt for a pulse.

He smiled when he felt none. He studied the blood-soaked front of Müller's coat. He nodded to himself. Those interminable days of target practice had proved useful after all. He had hit Müller four times in the chest and once in the stomach.

Dagold turned to Lord Molloy then. He reached for his wrist but knew the man was already dead. Blood still seeped from the wound between his ribs just left on his spine where the Hauptscharführer had stabbed him. There was no doubt in his mind that the dagger had entered the man's heart.

"Ärmer Herr Molloy," he mumbled as he felt nothing and lay the man's arm back on the floor. He looked up at Alice then. "Lord Molloy is dead," he said, his voice a rasp in the stillness of the corridor. "So is his murderer."

"And this one?" she asked through clinched teeth, her face a mask of resolve, her shotgun still pointed at Crooksall's prone body.

Crossing the hallway, Jorsten turned the body onto its back with his foot. He knew the man was dead just from the blood that covered the front of his greatcoat. From the looks of it, both of Alice's shots had hit him in the chest. He felt for a pulse but found none. "He is dead also, Fraü Alice," Dagold told her, looking up at her.

She seemed to shrink before his eyes. Her body shuddered. He stood and moved quickly to hold her. "It is all right, gnädige Fraü. They are dead, and we are safe."

"Are we?" she whispered and buried her face against the breast of his dressing gown. "Are we really? Will we ever be safe again, Dagold? Will this ever be over?"

"You must take control of yourself, Fraü Alice. We must search through the Hall and ensure that it is secure."

He felt her take a deep breath. Her body stiffened against him. She lifted her head and met his gaze. "I'm sorry," she sniffed.

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes. It's just - I never believed something like this could happen in England."

"Miss Murray - she lives here in the Hall, doesn't she?" he asked.

Alice glanced towards the stairs. "Upstairs, in the servants' quarters. She and Cook both do-"

"Are there others here as well?"

"No. Only the two of them."

"It would be best if you awakened her then. We need to secure the Hall. She can arm herself with his Lordship's pistol-"

"I'll take that and give her the shotgun," Alice said firmly.

Jorsten studied her for a moment and she turned back to meet his gaze. "Have you ever fired a pistol, Fraü Alice?" he asked finally.

"My late brother insisted that I learn to fire one - during the Great War."

He nodded. "You'll take Lord Molloy's pistol then. Please bring Miss Murray as quickly as you can."

Dagold had dressed by the time Alice returned with Jane Murray. Cook followed behind them, peeking between her fingers. He had pulled on his coat as well.

"Will you be going out then?" Alice asked when she saw him as she reached the first floor landing.

"After we've looked through the Hall. We need to know if the property is safe as well as the house."

"And we'll need to call in the police," she said.

"Oh, my God!" Jane Murray groaned, staring at carnage at the beginning of the corridor. Cook groaned and ran back up the stairs.

Jorsten quickly glanced to her and followed her gaze to the dead men.

"It is a nasty mess," Alice said, moving to take her in her arms. "But it's all right now, Jane." She turned to Jorsten. "Cook can cut and chop any meat you put in front of her, Dagold, but she's afraid of a little mouse." She nodded towards the carnage. "We've found something else that she's afraid of."

"Miss Murray, can you fire a shotgun?" Dagold asked.

"Me?" the woman asked in surprise, pulling her gaze from the dead men to look at Alice and then Jorsten. "I-"

He smiled. "It's all right. All you have to do is aim it and everything within five metres will be hit."

"I couldn't-"

"We must make sure there's no-one else in the Hall, Jane," Alice told her.

"You and Fraü Alice will need to cover me as I look for more of these men. Can you do that, Miss Murray?"

"I - I guess I could," she mumbled, looking down at the shotgun at Alice's side. Fearfully she looked back up at Jorsten. "Do you think they're still here?" she asked in a small voice.

"No," he answered without hesitation, knowing that he had to soothe her doubts quickly. "Anyone who might have been with those two would have heard the gunshots and then our voices and us moving around - they also wouldn't have seen their friends return. They would have escaped - if there were any others. But we do need to make sure - so that we all remain safe."

"I heard them," Alice told them. "I heard them enter the kitchen." She shook her head. "I thought I was imagining it - just an old woman allowing herself to become hysterical." She chuckled at her comment, knowing that she was helping Jane Murray to grapple with the reality of violent death before her. "It was only when I heard a sound on the stairs that I knew I wasn't dreaming."

Her eyes widened. "I opened my door and that's when I saw-" She sobbed. "I saw that man kill Lord Molloy," she gasped, tears suddenly rimming her eyes.

Dagold shuddered involuntarily as he thanked the God above that it had not been him who had stood guard over the corridor when Horst Müller attacked.

He glanced over his shoulder at the body of Maximillian Molloy lying at the entrance of the corridor, shame spreading through him like a gorge. His Lordship's death had taken the murderers just long enough that he and Fraü Alice could kill them.

And, now, they had to be in control of themselves - all three of them - in order to search the Hall. Or Lord Molloy would have died in vain.

He forced his shoulders back and faced the women. "We must be strong now, each of us. There is much to do and no time for us to become hysterical."

He took a step towards the head of the stairs. "I'll go down first and watch my right side. Fraü Alice will follow three steps behind me and watch our left side. Miss Murray, you'll stay here at the top of the steps and watch for any movement. If you see any, aim at it and fire."

Alice squared her shoulders and nodded as Jane Murray muttered a weak "yes, sir". Dagold took the first step and tried to swallow his heart that had somehow lodged in his throat.

"We seem to be clear of them," Alice said as they stood in the kitchen.

"Should I make tea?" Miss Murray asked, looking from one to the other of them.

"Go tell Cook that she's safe and we need her in the kitchen," Alice told her.

Dagold frowned. He would like coffee. That would settle his nerves better than anything. But coffee was one thing the English seemed totally incapable of making. "It will need to be strong."

"No-one will be able to sleep then!" Miss Murray yelped.

"I doubt any of us will anyway, Jane," Alice told her.

"While she's making the tea," Jorsten told Alice, "Miss Murray and I can go to the cottages for help."

"I'll call the police then," Alice told him while the housekeeper hurried to get Cook.

* * *

David Rice pulled his watch from his fob pocket and frowned as he looked at the time. Crooksall and that stuck-up Hun bastard had been gone more than an hour. His gaze moved idly to Neville's body on the floor.

Blood covered most of the floor on that side of the room. Who'd have thought the kid had that much in him. A line of it had made its way almost to the door before it clotted. And it smelled like an abattoir. Anyone who entered the cottage would know instantly that there had been a murder - even without seeing the body.

If he continued to sit in the cottage, he'd be found out.

That led him to the thought of having to take those thirteen steps up to the hangman's noose. He shuddered and pushed himself out of the chair. What was taking Crooksall and that Hun Müller so long?

He believed in the new order all right - especially cleaning up the race and making sure that whites like him ruled the world, it was their natural-born right to do so. But he didn't believe in it enough to get himself hanged. He understood that was exactly what would happen if he was cornered in the cottage.

If anything had gone wrong up at the Hall and word got back down to the cottages, the farm manager would come for Neville - for both him and Clive to go help out at the Hall.

They'd find Neville, all right. Dead.

They sure as hell didn't need to find him with the body, though. If he tried to escape, he'd be shot like some dumb animal at the charnel house - and he'd hang if he surrendered.

He stood with his back to the dying fire and stared at the door.

It was cold outside and he didn't know how long he'd have to wait for his two companions. If he went out there to wait for them.

If something did go wrong with the scheme-? He'd be quietly warming his hands when the farmhands came looking for the boys. Armed.

It wasn't healthy to stay in the cottage, no matter how warm it was. Rice sighed and put his coat on. He started for the door, making sure that he didn't step in any blood, and pulled on his gloves. Pulling the door to behind him, he slipped unseen into the midnight silence.

He made his way to t