Henderson brushed past him. The gate to the courtyard stood open. The colonel and the man in the black coat had already passed through it. Calley watched Henderson free his horse, lead it around out of the shade. Only one horse remained there now.

He stood in the doorway, examining the room carefully. The table (cleared of papers), the chairs, the part-shuttered windows, the paintings, the woman with the heart in her hand. As if. He stepped in to the room, closed the doors, and not knowing what else to do, went to stand in front of the chair he had been sitting on during the inquiry. He waited. It was like waiting as a boy to be summoned by the overlooker. He told himself to be steady, to trust in what was reckless in himself, and lucky.

“Calley? Corporal Calley?”

The voice came from the open doorway behind the table. It was not an unexpected source but the suddenness of it, a voice reaching out for him, invisibly, in the midst of the city’s long afternoon drowse, made him almost cringe.

“Come to the door,” said the voice. “Once you have entered the room you may close the door behind you. There is nothing to fear.”

Calley placed his shako on the seat of the chair. He went around the end of the table, paused by the opening of the door, listening for sounds of breathing, for anything at all that might betray what was on the far side, if it was one man or more than one, how close they were. Then he stepped inside and shut the door. The room now glittered with its own darkness, and on that darkness images appeared, curiously, of winter apples dangling on pieces of string such as he had seen hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen where he and Private Withrington had done for the farmer and his wife.

“Three strides to me,” said the voice. “There is nothing in your way.”

Calley stepped forward. Three strides. When next the voice spoke it was just ahead of him. Ahead and below. The man was sitting!

“Here we are, Corporal. Meeting like sweethearts in the dark. You are not one of those timid souls troubled by darkness?”

“No, sir.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Calley held out his left hand; another hand met it; there was something maddening in that contact. The grip was light but it overwhelmed him, took all his strength.

“So that you know something of whom you are speaking with. So you know enough.”

The hand led Calley’s down until his fingers grazed metal, an object, cool and intricate and shaped into a kind of . . . star. The man wore it on his chest. Calley could feel the slight warmth of him, his heart-blood.

“There now,” said the voice, removing Calley’s hand. “You have my credentials. And I, of course, have yours.”

“Yes, sir.”