In the kitchen Hamish Grant sat at one end of the table, the remains of his breakfast before him, and listened gravely to what Anne had to tell him.
When she had finished he shook his head briefly. “No use trying to pretend things look good. They don’t. But one thingis certain. There isn’t much we can do on our own.”
“Then Guernsey is our only hope?”
He nodded and got to his feet. “I think it would be better if we all went. It never pays to take chances and things could get rather unhealthy.”
Fiona came in from the hall carrying his old British warm. “You’ll need this on, Father. It’s rather cold.”
It was the first time she had called him anything but Gen-eral since she was quite small, and his heart went out to her. He reached for her face, dimly seen, and patted her cheek.
“Not to worry, Fiona. We’ll get things sorted out.”
She held his hand tightly for a moment, then turned and led the way into the hall. Anne was already sitting behind the wheel of the brake, the engine ticking over. The General and Jagbir got into the rear, Fiona in the front, and Anne drove away quickly.
It was still raining heavily and she turned on the wipers, leaning forward, watching for pot-holes in the dirt road. As the brake climbed to the crest of the hill she changed to a lower gear, ready for the descent to the harbour. They went over the top of the rise, Fiona gave a cry of alarm and Anne braked quickly.
De Beaumont, Marcel and three sailors stood in the road, looking out towards the sea. About a quarter of a mile offshore, and running strongly south-west towards the French coast, wasFleur de Lys. Marcel had one arm out-stretched as he pointed. He turned to speak to de Beaumont and saw the shooting brake.
As they fanned across the road, Anne slammed her foot hard against the accelerator in a reflex action that took the old brake forward in a surge of power. She saw the mouths open in alarm, voiceless above the roaring of the engine, and then they were scattering to either side. The brake shot through and bounced down on the road, swerving on the bend at the bottom, cutting across the grass towards the jetty.
She braked hard and the vehicle slewed in a long, breath-taking skid that for one awful moment seemed to be taking them over the edge to the beach and the rocks below. They came to a stop, the front bumper lodged against a boulder, and she opened the door and got out.
There was no sign of Owen Morgan or his launch and when she looked up at the boathouse the great doors were still closed. She turned and found the General scrambling out at the rear, helped by Jagbir. As the little Gurka straightened, his coat fell open to show the ivory-and-silver hilt of hiskukri, the curved blade in its leather sheath thrust into his waistband.
As Fiona came round from the other side there was a faint cry up on the hill. Anne looked up and saw de Beaumont and his men running towards them. One of them paused, raised lugs rifle and fired a warning shot that whined across the jetty into the water.
Hamish Grant turned quickly. “What about Owen?”
“No sign of him or the launch,” Anne said. “ButFoxhunter ‘smoored at the end of the jetty.”
Any brief hope that they might be able to take over the launch before de Beaumont and his men arrived disappeared as a sailor came out of the wheelhouse, looked towards them, then hurried back inside.
“We’d better get up to the hotel,” Anne said.
They started up the hill, Fiona leading the way, Hamish Grant using his walking stick to help him. There was another cry from de Beaumont and the sailor who had been guardingFoxhunter rushed out on deck with a rifle and loosed off a quick shot which splintered the woodwork of one of the boathouse doors.
Anne could taste blood in her mouth and there was a pain in her chest. She took Hamish Grant’s hand and scrambled on, her feet slipping on the wet turf, and then they were on to the terrace and moving into the porch.