Chapter Seventeen
Grabbing Geoffrey by the arm, Mathilde thrust him up to the window to show him what she had seen, before quickly gathering up the few possessions that were scattered about and stuffing them into his rucksack.
It would be too dangerous to hide him in the attic: the police usually emptied a round of bullets into the ceiling as a parting shot.
She had to get him out of the house somehow.
Putting her finger to her lips, she pulled his arm over her shoulder and hurried him along the landing, stopping only to retrieve her identity papers from her room.
The man was limping and clearly in pain but they made it to the back staircase and staggered clumsily in tandem down the stairs.
As they reached the kitchen, she heard a commotion at the front entrance: pounding on the door and shouts to open up.
Brioche growled from her basket by the stove but quietened when Mathilde told her to.
She flung open the dresser drawer and rifled through it, clumsy with fear. If she panicked, they were lost.
At last she found the key to the cellar, unlocked the door and motioned Geoffrey through, pausing only to seize Brioche’s leash from its hook on a whim and pull the dog along with them.
The Alsatian’s hackles were up and a low rumble could be heard in her throat but Mathilde knew she would do as she was told.
Locking the door from the other side and slipping the key into her pocket, she let out her breath in a shaky sigh.
The small matter of getting this man out of the chateau remained, but at least she’d gained some time to think.
She reached for the torch in its usual hiding place and led the way down the cellar steps with Brioche, Geoffrey following a cautious distance behind.
The thick stone walls blanketed any sound, but no doubt there would be pandemonium above: men throughout the house and rooms turned upside down.
By the time they’d reached the steps at the other end of the cellar, she had come up with a plan.
Next to the winery was a stable block, home to the two horses to have escaped the Germans’ raiding party: Tresor, the huge Percheron used for ploughing, and Mascotte, who pulled the cart.
There was no time to lose. Motioning for the pilot to stay hidden behind a stack of barrels, Mathilde slipped outside to the stables with Brioche at her heels.
There were no police in sight: for now, they seemed to be concentrating on the chateau rather than its outbuildings, but that could change at any moment.
Luckily, it was too early for the stable lad to have started work so she could act unobserved.
Quickly, she tacked up Mascotte and wheeled the cart into place so she could attach its shafts to the pony’s harness, then turned Mascotte around and backed the cart up to the open winery door.
Spotting a couple of sacks on the floor of the cart, she retrieved Geoffrey from behind the barrels and motioned for him to get in the cart, lie down and wriggle into the sacks: one for his legs and another for his head and body.
Why did he have to be so tall? It was most inconvenient.
Yet he managed to conceal himself well enough, and she loaded two empty barrels into place for extra camouflage.
After a stern command, Brioche consented to jump into the cart too, though she was clearly uneasy and probably made Geoffrey terrified.
Finally Mathilde climbed up to the front seat, slapped the reins and clicked her tongue for Mascotte to set off, her heart beating hard enough to jump out of her chest.
‘Hey, you!’ Seconds later, she heard a shout and looked back to see a dark-uniformed policeman running down the path towards her. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ he panted, drawing level.
‘To Domaine Les Roches,’ she replied, plucking a name out of the air. ‘They started the harvest and needed these barrels yesterday.’
He squinted up at her from under his cap. ‘Papers?’
Wordlessly, she pulled them out of her satchel and handed them over.
He spent what seemed an age inspecting her identity card and certificate of residence before handing them back and walking around the rear of the cart, staring at her load.
Drawing a baton, he plunged it inside one of the barrels and prodded – jumping back smartly when Brioche growled, showing her sharp white teeth.
‘Dangerous dog you’ve got there,’ he said.
‘She’s protective, that’s all,’ Mathilde replied. ‘What’s this about, officer?’
‘Never you mind,’ the man replied. He jerked his head. ‘On your way, then, and make sure to keep that creature under control.’
Mathilde didn’t need telling twice. She urged Mascotte forward, weak with relief, and started off at a brisk pace down the rutted track, which must have been hellishly uncomfortable for poor Geoffrey.
When she had closed the gate behind her and reached the comparative safety of the road, she felt a little easier, but they weren’t out of danger yet.
A van loaded with more policemen drove past and swerved to a halt in front of her, spooking Mascotte.
Mathilde was reaching for her papers when the vehicle suddenly took off again, evidently deciding there was more urgent business to attend to.
On the other side of the hedge lay the field Mathilde and Yves had crossed the night before.
Mathilde opened a gate at the far corner and guided the cart through, glancing about to make sure she was unobserved.
Here the hedgerow was thick, a finger of the woodland beyond.
Under its cover, she drew the cart to a halt and ordered Brioche to jump down, then lifted off the barrels and tentatively poked the sackcloth beneath.
‘Geoffrey?’
The sacks writhed, then sat up; after some wrestling, the pilot emerged, pink in the face but still in one piece.
She unhitched the cart and, with his help, pushed it as far into the hedgerow as possible.
When the task was done, she motioned for Geoffrey to climb on Mascotte’s back and took the reins to lead the valiant pony and her load up the hill, Brioche following behind.
The pilot’s legs were only a foot or so off the ground, but Mascotte threw all her strength into the task and didn’t falter.
Although they kept to the shelter of the hedge, Mathilde felt horribly exposed and was relieved to reach the safety of woodland, to let the trees swallow them up.
The immediate danger had passed, and now her heart was racing at the thought of seeing Yves again.
The camp was deserted. The supplies were in place and smoke drifted from the embers of the fire, but there was no sign of life. Mathilde gazed around, wondering what to do, while Geoffrey slid gingerly off Mascotte’s back and hobbled over to sit on the tree trunk.
‘I nearly shot you,’ said a voice, and she turned to see Yves stepping out from behind a tree, rifle at his side. ‘We should agree on a signal, Lionne, if you’re going to turn up unannounced. I shouldn’t have liked Sanglier to come back and find your corpses.’
Quickly she explained what had happened earlier that morning.
Yves listened intently, then went over to Geoffrey and spoke to him at some length in English.
He rolled up the pilot’s trouser leg and unwound the bandage to examine his wound, then covered it up again and clapped him on the back, evidently satisfied.
Geoffrey must have said something that related to Mathilde because they both looked over at her.
She bristled, hating not being able to understand, and turning away to stroke Mascotte’s soft nose.
‘We agree you’ve saved all our skins,’ Yves called, and she flushed with pleasure despite herself.
He came to join her. ‘Seriously, though,’ he went on in French, ‘this raid is bad news. Someone must have blabbed to the police – unless it was just a random visit, which I very much doubt. Who else knew an Englishman was hiding at the chateau?’
‘Only ourselves and the countess, and Odile, of course,’ Mathilde replied. ‘I don’t think anyone else would have seen him. Doctor Pailleau, naturally—’ She broke off, her stomach sinking.
‘What?’ Yves asked.
‘The doctor’s wife turned up at the chateau the other evening.
She made a scene, accusing him of being there to visit the countess, so he took her to see Geoffrey as proof.
’ Mathilde considered the implications of what she’d just said.
‘But surely Madame Pailleau wouldn’t have gone to the police?
She’d have known they’d find out her husband had been treating this man. ’
‘Maybe she didn’t care. Jealousy can make fools of us all.’ Yves swore under his breath. ‘I’d better have a word with the doctor. In the meantime, restrict your activities and take extra care. Trust no one.’
Mathilde nodded. ‘I should be getting back before someone spots the cart,’ she said, fighting every instinct in her body.
‘Wait here for a moment.’ Yves walked over to the shelter and rummaged in a metal box. Returning, he held out a pistol and shook a small case, which rattled. ‘Take this. But first, let me teach you how to use it.’