De Beaumont was sitting at his desk writing, his hair silver in the soft light. He blotted the sheet of paper carefully, put down his pen and looked up.
A frown appeared on his face. “What’s happened, Jacaud? Where are General Grant and Guy on?”
“Marcel is taking care of them now,” Jacaud said calmly.
“Taking care of them? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you, my brave colonel?” Jacaud laughed harshly. “Did you really think I’d stand to one side and allow you to fly off to Paris to playle grand seigneur, a de Beaumont to the end?”
“How dare you!” de Beaumont said hoarsely.
“For you it’s always been a game,” Jacaud said. “A great and wonderful game with bugles blowing and standards flying in the breeze like some medieval set-piece. That’s the way you’ve lived and that’s the way you want to die, but not this time, Colonel. They’ll squeeze you so hard you’ll tell them everything that’s ever happened to you since you were three years old. Unfortunately for you, that includes me.”
De Beaumont grabbed a glass paperweight, hurled it with all his force and reached for the handle of the drawer con-taining his revolver. Jacaud jumped to one side, the paper-weight smashing against the wall, and fired.
The bullet caught de Beaumont in the left shoulder, spinning him round, and Jacaud fired again twice, the impact driving de Beaumont forward. He clutched at themantelpiece, the linen material of his jacket bursting into flames, and reached up towards the old battle standard. He started to fall, his fingers catching at the fringe, and it flut-tered down to cover him like a scarlet shroud.
The door of the turret room opened and Anne and Fiona Grant appeared. The young girl screamed once, her hands going up to her face. Jacaud ignored them. He walked slowly across the room and stood looking down at de Beaumont, a dazed expression in his eyes.
Behind him the door swung open with a crash. As he turned, Raoul Guyon hurled himself forward. Jacaud’s first bullet chipped the wall beside the door, his second caught Guyon just above the left breast, stopping him in his tracks. Guvon groaned and fell to one knee. Jacaud raised the Liiger, took careful aim and fired again.
As the hammer fell on an empty chamber, Anne Grant flung herself forward, grabbing at his arm. He hit her back-handed, slamming her against the wall, and reached into his pocket for some spare rounds.
Mallory seemed to fill the doorway, the eyes dark shadows in a face that was lined with fatigue. He started forward, sway-ing slightly from side to side, eyes never leaving Jacaud, no expression on his face, a dead man walking.
Jacaud dropped the Liiger, seized the heavy brass poker from the fireplace and weighed it in his hand, a savage smile on his face.
“Come on!” he said. “Come on, you bastard!”
Mallory stood there, hands hanging loosely at his sides, fatigue washing over his face, and Jacaud sprang forward, the brass poker swinging down, gleaming in the lamplight.
To Mallory that blow was like a branch swaying in the wind. As the poker came down he grabbed for the wrist, twisting the arm up and out to one side, taut as a steel bar, using the same terrible grip he had used on the jetty at Southampton so long ago.
Jacaud screamed, dropping the poker, and the muscles of his shoulder started to tear. Mallory reached for the wrist with his other hand and twisted it round and up.
Again there was a tearing sound as muscle gave and Jacaud screamed again. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Mallory ran him head first across the room towards the great window. It dissolved in a snowstorm of flying glass and Jacaud dived into darkness, his last cry swept away on the wind like some departing spirit.
Raoul Guyon was propped against Fiona’s knee, his face hollow with pain, and Hamish Grant stood in the doorway. When Mallory turned, blood on his face from the flying glass, they were all looking towards him strangely.
He started to fall and strong arms caught him, easing him down to the floor, and he looked up at Anne Grant, that dark, dear face so full of love for him.