'I'll talk to Mrs Harker. You'll be recalled to England. You'll be lucky to end up counting blankets in the Hebrides.'
'It's no worse than I deserve,' she admitted.
Beauregard was sorry. He had not expected her to give in. She could usually be depended on for an argument. As more and more lately, he was tired. At his age, this cruel game should be well behind him. But, as ever, England expected ...
As far as could be gathered from scant reports and the German claims, Cundall's flight had made it to the Château de Malinbois and been surprised by the Flying Freak Show. It was a massacre. Six more victories for Richthofen's killers.
'Charles, aren't we supposed to have command of the air?'
Commander Hugh Trenchard of the Royal Flying Corps advocated a policy of offensive patrols. The skies over France were in theory so dangerous for the ordinary German flier that the German Imperial Air Service was useless as an instrument of observation.
'Yes, Kate. On the whole, we do. In this particular engagement, pitting Condor Squadron against JG1, we have come up short.'
'The enemy have done what you've tried to do, grouped together their best fliers, their worst killers, in one unit.'
'You're well up on all this,' he said.
'Condor Squadron was created to pick up intelligence about the spring offensive?'
'A spring offensive, now there's an idea. I don't suppose you can tell me the date Dracula and Hindenburg intend to launch the attack?'
'Don't be childish, Charles. Everybody knows there'll be an enemy offensive soon. Even Bottomley, and he thinks the war is won and the Union Jack flutters over Berlin.'
'My apologies. I am quite tired, you understand . .
Kate ignoring his sarcasm, continued. 'If Condor Squadron are to gather intelligence, then JG1 must be constituted to harbour it.'
Allard laughed bitterly. 'Not necessarily. Richthofen commands a Circus. It's a show, a glamour machine. No matter how many victories they log, fighters make little difference. An unarmed spotter which brings back a clear photograph of defensive trenches can turn a battle round. The air ace is too busy adding to his score to deign to look at the ground.'
Kate's little face scrunched in thought and she tutted. If she lost self-confidence of her looks, she was appealing in a bespectacled way. When warm, she had been Pamela's friend. Kate sometimes used expressions the women shared, which perturbed him. It was as if his truly dead wife spoke through her undead friend.
'With respect, Captain, there must be more to it than headlines. It is all too elaborate. There is a secret purpose to JG1, just as there is a secret purpose to Condor Squadron.'
Allard said nothing.
'I think perhaps we should send you packing now,' Beauregard said.
Kate's cheeks reddened. 'Am I not under arrest? Due for the stake?'
'You'd like to be a martyr, wouldn't you?' Beauregard said. 'To what cause? The standard of the Graf von Dracula?'
That was unfair: Kate had imperilled herself enough through the years to demonstrate opposition to Dracula. But he was still annoyed with her.
'I certainly don't wish to die for Lord Ruthven and his kith and kind. The truth, perhaps. That might be worth spilling this vampire blood for.'
'Oh, go away, Kate. I've not the heart for this row.'
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Kate hugged him, face pressed to his chest. Her grip was fierce but not crushing. She measured exactly her strength.
'I'm sorry, Charles,' she said to his collar, so low Allard and Dravot could not hear.
His bites tingled. He held Kate to him. He remembered another vampire's arms: she reminded him of her sometimes, too. It was as if there were but one woman in the world, laughing at him from behind a dozen masks.
'I'm sorry too, Kate.'
Dravot had stood, ready to rip the reporter away from Beauregard and tear off her arms like a cooked chicken's wings. Beauregard motioned the sergeant to stay put.
'I'm still having Mina Harker pull you out of this.' 'I know,' she said, patting his chest, 'it's your duty. You have your duty and I have mine. It is the curse of our generation. Duty. Remember, we are the last Victorians.'
He was too empty to smile. Last night's losses were too terrible to shrug off.
'Captain Allard can we find some means of transport to get Miss Reed back to her ambulance unit? Preferably something uncomfortable and undignified?'
Allard conceded that a cart could be made available.
'We'd better send a guard. In case she tries to make her escape.'
Allard nodded. He had a good man in mind.
'I'm doing you a great favour, Kate. Within the hour, we shall be answering to Mr Caleb Croft of the Prime Minister's office. You will remember the gentleman from the '80s, when he was given to placing prices on your head. Have all those insurgency charges been dropped?'
Kate's eyes, magnified by her spectacles, goggled. A dimple of wickedness crept into her cheek.
'I recall Mr Croft well. Does he still head the British Okhrana?'
'Britain has no secret police,' Beauregard explained. 'Officially.'
'Goodbye, Charles. Your loss is my loss.'
Kate left the mess. Dravot's eyes followed her.
'Keep her under observation,' Beauregard told Allard. 'She’s cleverer than she looks.'
Allard nodded. He did not miss the implication.
'Make sure your guard isn't a warm man. If you have one about, send a homosexual or a monk. On second thoughts, I wouldn't trust Kate Reed with a monk.'
Weariness fell on Beauregard like a heavy mantle. He did not know what Croft would require of him but it was likely to be unpleasant. Old enmities lingered from the Terror. Croft's department would like to see the Diogenes Club wound up. A Whitehall school of thought held that the likes of Beauregard and Smith-Cumming were Boys' Own Paper anachronisms with no place in the harder, crueller secret wars of the twentieth century. That school did not appreciate how hard and cruel the secret wars of the nineteenth century had been.
He had not yet written to Spenser's people. Now, he would have to compose a letter of condolence to Winthrop's family too.
'Sir,' said Dravot.
The sergeant's face betrayed no feeling, but Beauregard understood what a blow this would be. Dravot was not in the habit of losing officers.
'There's no question of blame, Danny. If it rests anywhere, it must be with the dead. Major Cundall asked Winthrop if he wished to go on the flight. The mad, brave boy said yes.'
Dravot nodded once, accepting what was said. Then, awkwardly, he produced a letter.
'Lieutenant Winthrop gave me this.'
Beauregard took the letter. It was addressed to Catriona Kaye, The Old Vicarage, Alder, Somerset. With a dead heart, Beauregard could imagine Catriona Kaye. And he could imagine what was in the letter.
He hated: a directionless, all-encompassing hate. It was not enough to hate the war; he had to hate all the components of the engine that had ground up Winthrop and a million young men like him. He had to hate himself.
'I'll see the letter is delivered,' he told Dravot.
26
A Walk in the Sun
The tunnels were dark, but there was light ahead. The sun was up outside. He propelled himself towards the glimmering. Ball stumbled in his wake, determinedly covering ground. The troglodytes, occupied with their fire, did not give immediate chase.
As Winthrop ran, his knee hurt. The field dressing that had been applied was surprisingly sturdy. His booted feet were recovering sensation. He ignored pain.
There were shot sounds but he did not think they were being fired on. Another ammunition case had exploded. Something howled like an animal.