The Bloody Red Baron: 1918

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.

Only a few yards away now, the curtain hung over the tunnel mouth. White dots showed through the weave of camouflage netting. Once out in the sun, they should be safe. The troglodytes were newborns, not yet strong enough to stand daylight.

And so was Albert Ball. The thought hit Winthrop just as he pushed through the curtain. It was too late to change course. He staggered, sprawling, outside and tripped, falling flat onto the pitted bottom of the shell-hole. After the dark, his eyes hurt in the milk-mild light. Blinking, he recovered quickly.

It was a pleasant, quiet day. Not even much bombardment. The air was still sharp with February chill, but the clouds had drifted apart and the sun shone gently.

Ball shot out of the tunnel mouth and, smitten, fell. His limbs twisted as tendons shortened, giving him the look of an ossified Pompeiian. His chest and head began to emit tendril wisps of smoke. His face contorted further and stiffened in a scream that came out only as a gasp of escaping gas. He held his hand over his face.

Winthrop scrambled upright and ripped the curtain from the tunnel mouth. He draped it over Ball, wrapping the vampire in cool shadow. The ace's writhing stopped. Ball couldn't last long. Winthrop had seen men burst into flames on days more overcast than this. Vampires were frail immortals, he reminded himself. You had to get a good few years behind you before you could stroll in the sunshine.

The dark cave of the tunnel mouth was alive with eyes. A cruel laugh wafted across No Man's Land. Winthrop helped Ball stand, feeling growing heat in the vampire's body.

'Lovely day,' Mellors said. He stood in the darkness, watching his prey struggle. 'Just right for potting a few grouse.'

Winthrop choked on smoke. He had to get Ball into shadow.

In the tunnel mouth, Mellors raised a revolver. Winthrop pushed Ball to one side and shoved after him, getting out of the line of fire. Mellors fired a shot, which lifted a divot a dozen yards off. He could not draw a bead