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.

“Raoul?” he said. “How’s Raoul? Is it serious?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

There was something else, something important. He frowned desperately and then remembered. “The radio room – downstairs. We must call Jersey. There are three motor torpedo boats just waiting for the right signal.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Everything’s all right. We’ll take care of it.”

She pillowed his head against her breast, her arms about him. He turned into their softness, the sound of the sea in his ears, and slept.