The General himself, wrapped in a thick cape and wearing a tall silk hat, stood in the centre of the courtyard with the young doctor and Sergeant Clement, who held a second rifle. Gunther, stripped to his shirt like O’Gilroy but, unlike him, wearing a silk scarf to hide the indelicacy of being collarless, stood back by the far wall.
Ranklin parked O’Gilroy by the opposite wing of the building and took the rifle over to Sergeant Clement. Everybody raised their hats to everybody and the General perfunctorily introduced the doctor.
“Does your principal wish to apologise?” Ranklin asked.
“He is ready to regret that he made the observation.”
As an apology it was rice-paper thin, barely acceptable, and that surprised Ranklin. Why hadn’t he made it so abject as to call off the duel and get back to the business of the code and straightforward murder?
Then he realised why and smiled thinly over at Gunther. Playing the part of His Majesty’s loyal servant, he now found himself cast as King’s Champion and defender of the Royal Et Cetera, and as such couldn’t crawl abjectly out of duels. Not if he wanted to keep the confidence of the General and an open peephole into the Ministere de la Guerre.
Turning back to the General, he became cold and careful. “If my principal were to accept this apology, what would happen next?”
The General was puzzled. “We would, if you wish, return to complete our dinner. With coffee and cognac, and if you desire, a cigar.”
“And the matter of the code?”
This time the General really was baffled. He peered at Ranklin. “The matter of the code is quite different.”
And in his mind it really was, it had no connection with the duel. Ranklin said stiffly: “Very well. You may inform your principal that my principal considers his honour so deeply impugned by the accusation that he is a member of the Secret Service, that he believes the stain can only be washed out by blood.”
And I’ll bet the author of that line never thought it would play in France, he reflected. The General shuffled away.
The doctor, who must have had a little English but no idea of what the duel was about, goggled across at O’Gilroy. Standing under a wall lamp, shirt sleeves rolled up and his dark hair tangled into his eyes, he looked like a schoolgirl’s dream of a romantic pirate.
Ranklin said conversationally: “Naturellement, vous avez prepare beaucoup de l’eau chaude?”
The doctor turned ice-white in the yellow lamplight, waggled his beard, and rushed off to speak to one of the women. No hot water at a duel! Mon Dieu! Shame and dishonour!
In fact, it was a serious matter: if the doctor hadn’t realised that somebody was about to get hurt, probably badly, it was time he did. The General poked his way back with his stick and asked what had happened.
“He had forgotten to prepare hot water.”
The General apologised. Ranklin stared at the starless sky as if asking God, that well-known Englishman, to forgive this foreign bumbling, and said curtly: “C’est de rien.”
“My principal,” the General puffed, leaning on his stick, “regrets that he cannot change his apology. The matter of the code is not connected.”
Ranklin shrugged. “So, the moment this affaire is settled, you will order your servants to assault us. I am not familiar with this custom, but I am your guest.” He gave that a moment to seep in, then: “Now, to the procedure for the encounter.”
They agreed that the combatants would stand with bayonet tips touching – just like a sword fight – and begin on Sergeant Clement’s word. As to finishing …
“First blood?” suggested the General.
“Only if the one who bleeds wishes to stop.”
“It is honourable …”
“Our principals are not young ladies of a seminary.”
They left it at that. The two principals were called to the centre and each took a rifle. Ranklin promptly grabbed O’Gilroy’s and began examining it as they walked back. He felt it wasn’t seemly for O’Gilroy to do so, and anyway, he didn’t want O’Gilroy showing off his familiarity with weapons.
“Suspicious?” O’Gilroy asked as Ranklin tested the firmness of the bayonet fitting.
“I’m learning. It may not be the same rifle.”
“I fancy ye was giving the General some of yer English-officer talk. I saw the moths flying out of his ears.”
Ranklin smiled sourly. “Just a few points of etiquette.”
“How come ye know so much about duelling, Captain?”
It comes with the dream, Ranklin wanted to say. And there was plenty of Army folklore about old duels, famous and infamous, but: “Most of it’s bluff. Just try to sound more honourable and fair than he is, take off your hat a lot, and you can get away with – with anything. One thing,” he added quickly, “is that generally duels end at the first blood, even just a scratch. Now, I’m not giving any advice …”
But O’Gilroy’s face showed he had already taken it.
The wind still huffed from the open side of the yard where the cars were parked on the edge of the night, and the closed lamps didn’t flicker but glowed and dimmed slightly, throwing multiple shadows on the glitter of the damp cobbles. Except for Sergeant Clement, standing alone and very soldierly in the middle of the yard, the staff clustered round the main door with the doctor in front trying to be invisible but visibly not a servant. Above, the house got darker with height until its turret roofs were just black peaks against the thick grey sky.
Their boots echoed unevenly as they gathered round Sergeant Clement. Ranklin looked at Gunther but Gunther was watching O’Gilroy, his face expressionless, holding the long rifle lightly in his big hands.
Ranklin raised his hat. “Your principal offers no apology?”
The General raised his. “None.”
Ranklin nodded, they replaced their hats and stepped well back. The General looked at Sergeant Clement, who said softly: “En garde, Messieurs.”
O’Gilroy slid smoothly into position, not quite crouched, left foot forward. More precisely, Gunther mirrored his stance, the length of the rifles keeping them a good six feet apart, the bayonets pointing slightly up towards each other’s eyes. The points touched with a little click.
“Commencez.”
There was a quick clattering flurry of bayonets and an indrawn squeal from one of the women, but they had barely moved their feet and neither had committed himself to a real thrust. Only the professional watchers saw that Gunther had been trying to knock aside O’Gilroy’s bayonet to create an opening, and each time O’Gilroy had disengaged and parried instantly.
Then Gunther took a quick step back out of range and they began a shuffling circle to the right. Their many shadows stretched and shortened, darkened and vanished, as they rotated through the pools of light.
And now, Ranklin thought contentedly, Gunther knows. For probably the first time in what must have been a very complicated career, he is up against a man who very simply wants to kill him and can do so within a few seconds. No careful plot, no disguise or false identity can help one gramme against a common soldier’s skill.
Gunther took another step back, then charged. He met O’Gilroy’s parry with a savage sideways swipe, but O’Gilroy was already jerking his rifle down, so the impetus of the swipe took Gunther’s point way off as he rushed in. Unable to pull back for a thrust, O’Gilroy pivoted the rifle and whacked the flat of the butt into Gunther’s stomach – the butt-stroke he had used on the butler at Queenstown.
Gunther sprawled past and came down with a thump and clatter at the General’s feet. Trying to step back, the General went down as well, while Clement and Ranklin shouted and O’Gilroy checked his instinctive downward stab into Gunther’s back. On the battlefield, Gunther was dead.
Between them Ranklin and Sergeant Clement got the quivering General up and propped on his stick. The doctor waved an eye-watering little bottle under the General’s nose, Gaston the butler put a glass into the old boy’s hand and guided it to his mouth. Then Clement levered Gunther up and brushed him down, and O’Gilroy stood alone, dangling the Lebel easily but unmilitarily across his thighs.