“Penelope?”

They both heard the soft shuffle in the corridor outside. She stepped back, straightening her dress and checking her hair in the mirror. She was suddenly cool and calm. “Yes,” she said.

“You all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Where is Richard?”

“I don’t know. I think he must have gone upstairs.”

They waited, heard a shuffle as Geoffrey moved away again. Field leaned back against the wall, catching sight of himself in the mirror and shutting his eyes in despair. Penelope let herself out quietly, without saying another word.

Field slipped up the stairs to cover himself. When he returned to the dining room, he squeezed between Patrick’s back and the Chinese sideboard, avoiding Geoffrey’s eye and looking as if he had just been sick.

“Are you all right?” Caroline asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, sitting down. “Just been feeling a bit off-color all day.”

“Working the boy too hard, Patrick,” Lewis said sourly. “You should take a break, Dickie, go down to the coast.”

“He’s working on a murder,” Geoffrey said sharply. “He’s hardly got time for that.” Field looked up and saw the hurt in his uncle’s eyes and knew that he had heard.

That he knew exactly.

The meal dragged after that, like nothing Field had ever experienced. It was even worse once the women had retired and the four men were left to their port. Geoffrey and Charles Lewis returned to a discussion of British politics, a conversation that neither Patrick nor Field contributed to.

As soon as Field could reasonably get away with it, he announced his intention to leave, explaining that he still did not feel at his best. He managed to avoid meeting Geoffrey’s eyes as they shook hands, and then Patrick was on his feet to show him to the door. Patrick finished his cigarette as Field put on his holster and jacket. Lewis came into the corridor and leaned against the wall, glaring at him.

Field went back to the veranda, walking past Lewis without comment. He said good night to Caroline and Penelope and then came back to shake Patrick’s hand.

“Good luck, old man,” Lewis said, still watching him.

Field stepped out into the street.

The road was deserted save for a black sedan parked outside a house twenty yards away. As he looked at it, its lights came on and it pulled out into the middle of the road. For a moment Field wondered if it was someone he knew-Caprisi perhaps-and then he heard the rattle of the machine gun and felt a stinging pain in his shoulder.

He was over, on the ground, his head on the sidewalk staring at the night sky, the car’s tires screeching as it stopped, the bullets punching into Granger’s car in front of him and into the sidewalk beside his head.

There was pain, blinding, in his arm-his left arm. He reached into the holster with his right, the gun in his hand now, pointing toward the sky, his finger on the trigger, squeezing off a shot, into the air.

He moved. He swung himself around as the door above him opened and he saw Patrick Granger charging out, as if in slow motion, his gun in his hand. He fired. He was shouting. Field turned his head once more to see a man towering above him, a machine gun in his hand, his face exploding.

Forty-seven

Damn it, man.” Granger was kneeling beside him, tugging at his coat, trying to pull it from his shoulder. “You’re all right.”

Field winced with pain, recoiling from Granger’s rough embrace.

“Stay still. You’re all right.” He had the coat off Field’s shoulder now and tore at his shirt. He exposed the wound, then stuck his fingers in it to stop the bleeding.

Caroline was at the top of the steps, her face ghostly. Penelope, Geoffrey, and Lewis swam into view behind her.

“Get a bandage or a shirt,” Granger shouted. “Anything clean.”

Caroline disappeared. Penelope looked as if she was about to cry as Geoffrey and Lewis came down the steps. Geoffrey stood beside him. Lewis took off his shirt and began tearing it.

“Are you all right?” Geoffrey asked; his face was etched with concern.

“He’s fine,” Granger said. “Hold his arm up, Geoffrey. Higher. It’s not an artery.”

Granger took the strips of shirt from Lewis and began to bind them tightly around Field’s upper arm. He pulled hard so that there was maximum pressure on the wound. “It’s all right,” he said again. “Only flesh-glancing blow. You’re lucky. Bloody fortunate.”

“Who was it?” Lewis asked, but both Geoffrey and Granger were concentrating on Field, so the question went unanswered.

“Geoffrey, call an ambulance, will you?”

Granger stood. He moved around behind Field, put his hands beneath his arms, and pulled him to his feet. Charlie Lewis was waiting on the steps, shirtless, next to Penelope. Caroline came through the door, holding a bandage, which she could see her husband no longer needed. The body of the gunman lay in front of them, the back of his head blown across the edge of the sidewalk, his hand resting against one of the wheels of Granger’s car.

There was a screech of tires, and, as if in slow motion, they all watched the black sedan tearing back down the street toward them. A fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the bullets, Field felt the force of Granger’s push. Caught off balance, he careered to the ground once more, smashing against Granger’s car. He fell back against the sidewalk, the pain in his head intense as he hit the body of the dead gunman and rolled across him.

The car roared away and then there was an ear-piercing scream.

Field raised his head. Patrick Granger was lying behind him, spread-eagle across the sidewalk, his head resting against the bottom step. Caroline was upon him, whispering, “Patrick, Patrick,” but Field could hear only a low groan.

Charlie Lewis moved her aside roughly, dragged Granger flat, and tried to take his pulse. Geoffrey hobbled down the steps and bent over him on the other side, his ear to Granger’s mouth, listening for the sound of breathing.

Field pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He stood unsteadily. He could see that Patrick had been shot six or seven times in the chest, bloody holes in the whiteness of his shirt.

Geoffrey straightened, and put his hand on Caroline’s shoulder to indicate that it was no use, but she did not let go. She clutched his head to her chest, sobbing, whispering his name, her mouth quivering and her eyes shut. And then she convulsed, emitting a single howl of anguish more tortured than any Field had ever heard.

He closed his eyes. Caroline sobbed quietly and slowly, each breath deep and wrenching. She mumbled her husband’s name, over and over again, until Field could not bear to listen to it anymore. He opened his eyes, tried to step forward, and was vaguely aware of pavement rushing up to meet him.

When he came to, he was inside, on a sofa in the front room, Geoffrey’s concerned face above him.

“How long?” he asked.

Geoffrey looked puzzled.

“How long have I been out?”

“You fainted. About two minutes, three… I don’t know.”

Field tried to sit up.

“Steady on. You must take it easy.”

“No.” Field pushed away his uncle’s hand and sat up. He swung his legs onto the floor. “Where is the telephone?”

“You need rest.”

“I need a telephone.”

Field stood, feeling immediately unsteady. He forced himself to overcome it as he crossed the hall. His arm and shoulder burned with pain. He passed Penelope, who sat clenched in a ball on the floor, close to the door. Caroline was still clutching her husband on the sidewalk outside, Charlie Lewis above her, trying to get her to stand.

Field found the phone and had to struggle for a moment to recall the number of the Central Police Station.