And still the bombers came.
19
The long gallery spanned the river. Built by a long-dead queen. Two hundred feet long. Mullioned windows overlooking the gently flowing river, luminous in the moonlight. Black and white chequerboard tile floor inviting the eye forward. Once a gallery, now a causeway between Nazi-occupied France and the remainder of the country – a nominally free France stretching south from the Loire to the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees.
Two guards at the far end of the gallery blocked Margaret’s passage to freedom, one a young man, the other older. Local men given a choice, a German uniform or a one-way journey in a cattle car to Poland.
The young man got up from his chair and stood his ground. He wasn’t concerned. Nothing in his orders had suggested the possibility of danger from an aristocratic woman. She looked lost. Probably looking for the toilet.
Margaret was in two minds. Knife, or gun. In her right hand, behind her back, she held Schmidt’s Luger. She’d checked the ammunition. Six rounds in the cartridge. One in the chamber. Safety off.
In her left hand, inverted, hidden behind her wrist, a commando knife. A French model, similar in design to the Fairbairn Sykes model she’d been trained with. Two different designers coming to the same conclusion based on function. A long, two-sided blade. Narrow. Deep enough to penetrate to the vital organs. It had been left in the attic for her, along with the radio.
The gun was preferable in all aspects, apart from secrecy. She put a sway into her step as she closed the distance – too many glasses of wine with dinner. Everyone knew women couldn’t hold their drink. She could hit the bull at fifty yards, but shooting at the club was different from shooting in anger. The closer she got, the better. But a doubt lingered. The gunshot would surely rouse others in the chateau – women and soldiers alike. The knife would allow her to slip away quietly, her absence not discovered until the morning, when the local girl who ‘did’ for her at the farmhouse opened the old oak door to find Margaret gone.
She could leave her options open until the last second, but one logistical problem presented itself. She was right-handed. She could, in theory, use the knife in her left hand, but it would be sub-optimal. These may be local men, likely with minimal training, but it seemed like tempting fate.
Margaret kept her eye on the younger sentry. She staggered slightly, over-egging it perhaps. But the sentry seemed to buy it. He perked up. She could see him thinking it through. The lady might fall. A gentleman like himself might need to carry her to her bed, render aid. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, like they’d shown him. He stepped forward to meet her.
Margaret hurried now, faster than before, almost skipping. The other sentry, the older man, shouted a warning.
Confused, the young sentry pulled his rifle and raised it to his shoulder.
‘Arrêtez!’ he shouted. Margaret raised the pistol and fired.
The sentry staggered, like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. He tried to turn but his body wasn’t working.Margaret fired again. A second flash from her gun, then a third.
He fell, dead before he hit the floor. Behind him, the older man raised his hands, his rifle still hung over the back of his chair. Margaret levelled the Luger at his face. He should have fought back. Should have levelled his gun at her, tried to take her down as she ran, firing, towards him. It would have taken the decision out of her hands.
Margaret froze. Shooting the young man as he’d levelled his rifle at her had felt justifiable. Shooting an old man with his hands up was different.
‘Madame,’ he stammered. ‘S’il vous plaît.’
A shot rang out from the far end of the gallery. The guard fell to the floor, his blood already pooling on the black and white tiles. Margaret risked a look back. Schmidt saluted, then stepped back into the shadows.
Margaret hurried down the spiral staircase, running her hand down the central stone column. Distant shouts told her she wouldn’t be alone for long. Schmidt had been very clear on the matter – once she made her escape, she was on her own. Get caught, and face the consequences.
At the bottom of the stairs she stumbled into a dank entranceway. Two coats hung next to a narrow outer door –grey oak boards held together by thick iron bands. She turned the handle, trying to remember if she’d heard the jangle of keys as the older sentry had fallen, his eyes watching her in his last seconds.
The door was locked.
Shouts echoed from the stone staircase above. Hurried footsteps echoed down the spiral, gaining on her.
She tried the door again, pulling it, willing it to be unlocked, but there was no movement.
She had one bullet left in the gun. Bunny’s advice had been clear. Once your cover’s blown, don’t let them take you alive. Better a quick death at your own hand than the agony of interrogation. Better for England. Better for you.
She tried the door one last time, pushing instead of pulling. It burst open and she struggled to stay on her feet. The river bank was clear of undergrowth for ten feet, then the dark wall of the woods beckoned. She ran into the darkness.
They didn’t follow her. The rules were clear, and they knew how to follow rules, especially the junior ones. Besides, the dark woods, this side of the river, were not a safe place for a German soldier.
20
Ruby felt the scratchy wool blanket around her neck and pulled it tight. Her mouth felt dry, like she’d been out late, drinking.
A key turned in a lock, then the creak of a rusty hinge. She wasn’t at home, she realised, opening her eyes.
It was dark. Darker even than her room with its blackout curtains. She felt a breeze, then the door closed. A match flared and she squinted as an oil lamp glowed. A small enough light, but almost blinding against the darkness.
