Maisie could just hear the sound of men at the back of the hut. She was vulnerable, her body flat against the side of a white building. Ahead some low trees might offer cover, but only if she could reach them unseen. She’d heard the screech of tires as vehicles approached the airfield at speed, then the slamming of doors and men calling to each other. There was shouting now. One voice in particular was louder than the others, and she recognized it straightaway: Hans Berger. She felt sweat bead on her forehead. She was in danger, of that she had no doubt. There was more yelling from the direction of the airfield, and a scream. She seized the advantage and ran toward the trees. There was no sound of men running toward her, and no one appeared to notice her—but now she had a view of what was happening from her hiding place.
It appeared Berger had demanded the young aviators be brought out, so that they could take to the air in pursuit of the aeroplane carrying Elaine Otterburn and her passengers. The man who had checked the papers was holding out a book toward the officer. Berger took it from him, slammed it shut, and smacked it against the side of the man’s head. He fell to the ground. Maisie held her hand to her mouth. She thought of Ulli Bader again. Had he and the driver passed the SS vehicles on the road? Or had they taken another route along winding roads that only they knew, across country where they were safe? She prayed that they were now well on their way to Munich.
A shot rang out, and Maisie saw one of the pilots fall to the ground. She could only make out a word here and a word there, but without doubt their crime was that they were barely able to walk, let alone fly an aircraft. Berger stepped in front of the second man, who was being held up by guards on either side of him. He struggled to free himself, yet his efforts only rendered him more helpless. Berger laughed as he thumped his revolver into the side of the man’s head, causing him to stumble forward, then screamed at the guards to hold up the man, threatening them with death if the young aviator fell. He laughed and, reaching forward, pinched the man’s nostrils—Maisie saw him struggle to breathe through his mouth, choking back blood. And then, with his free hand, the SS officer put his revolver in his pocket so he could hold the man’s lips together. At first the struggle became more violent, but Berger held on until the man’s eyes rolled back and his frame became limp. Even as his almost lifeless body was supported in place by the two soldiers, Berger continued to clasp the nose and mouth of the dying man until his body shuddered. Then he let go. He nodded to the guards, who dropped the body. He removed his black leather gloves, threw them on top of the dead man, spat on the ground, turned, and walked away, followed by his entourage. She heard doors slam and vehicles drive away at speed.
Maisie watched as the man in charge of the hut came to his feet, staggered, then fell to his knees and vomited. Then he wept.
She knew she could not go to him, could not help him remove the dead. Her own life would be in grave danger if it was known she’d been at the airfield. Her name had been on the manifest, had been logged and documented—but then, it wasn’t her name. She was Maisie Dobbs.
If she used her own passport, she could present herself under yet a different name—Margaret, wife of the late Viscount James Compton. Since she began traveling—before marrying James—she’d always kept her passport with her. It was a habit, something to attach her to home, a legal document that gave her a sense of belonging. Though at the outset of her journey to Munich she had been instructed to leave anything connecting her to her real name in England, she had found a place for her passport. But it was hidden in a pocket within her case, which was still in her room at the hotel. And now she wasn’t sure how she would get back there or, indeed, the route to the city. In any case, she knew she would have to wait some time before setting out on her own to walk to the road.
It was mid-afternoon, the sun low in a cloudy sky, when Maisie stepped out from her hiding place. In that time she had watched as the Gestapo departed, and as other men came to the airfield and dragged the bodies onto a lorry. The man who had overseen the aircraft’s departure left with them, his clothing soiled, his gait unsteady. Two men in blue overalls—they appeared to be mechanics—were left at the hut.
Holding her coat around her, Maisie walked with speed toward the road. There she listened for approaching vehicles and then, keeping close to the verge, began to make her way in what she assumed to be the direction of Munich.
Few motor cars passed her as she walked. It was fortunate that the road was not given to heavy traffic; she could hear a vehicle coming in time to step into the shadow of a tree, or run into a field and hide behind a hedge. On several occasions she thought she might have been seen, when a motor slowed down and then went on its way again. As dusk began to fall, she accepted a lift from a man with a horse and cart, to whom she wove a story about having yet another argument with her husband, who had—yet again—told her to get out of the motor car and walk. But she assured the man that her spouse would be along soon, and then he would be sorry: this ride on the cart had brought her farther than she might otherwise have come on foot, and she might yet be home before him.