"Ah yes, the money . . . money for champagne, for little gifts . . . for all my beautiful women ... But I did enjoy them, I honestly enjoyed them all . . . Only problem was I couldn't afford them, not on a coloner’s salary . . ." He was paler now. "You did it for Margaretha, didn't you, Nicky? They told you to spy on me for God and country but in fact you did it for Margaretha."

Gray nodded, staring at him. "Yes, I did it for Margaretha."

"Everything for Margaretha?"

"Yes."

Michard glanced at the walls, the door, his shotgun on the floor. "All this just to get her back?"

"Yes."

"You'll never get her back, not after the world I've shown her." Then nothing, not the wind, not the snow . . . nothing but the ticking clock.

"You know, even Spangler said she was an extremely expensive woman, Nicky. One brief encounter and he saw that she was very expensive. Not that he wasn't also impressed, perhaps even intrigued . . . But face it, Nicky, I've turned her into something that will always remain beyond your grasp . . . too expensive, too much for the likes of you . . ."

Then neither spoke, fifteen seconds, twenty seconds—a long time. Gray turned away from him, not wanting to hear, or believe. When he looked again, Michard was no longer breathing, and his mouth was cracked in an empty smile.

Gray left the revolver on the floor, his coat in the scullery; he left everything where it lay and moved out into the snow. It was not yet sunrise, but the pines were glowing faintly with a false dawn. It was possible, he thought, that Margaretha had heard the shots, but muffled by the snow he did not think it was likely. Besides, she had always slept soundly, with long unbroken dreams. Like the dreams of the innocent . . .

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

NOVEMBER remained uncertain, somewhere between freezing and thawing. After a brief winter's spring there were even transitory blossoms on the hedgerows. Then came the hard rain, smashing it all back into the gravel.

There were two inquiries following the death of Rolland Michard. The first, a whitewash, conducted by the French and obviously intended to preserve the reputation of the military, concluded that the death had been a suicide, with an earlier diagnosis of cancer of the stomach. The colonel's last act, appropriately directed at the site of the malignancy, had simply been a logical alternative to a long and painful illness.

The second inquiry, conducted from London and not intended for public consumption, focused on Craven's failure to capture Rudolph Spangler. A sixty-two page brief found Craven remiss on two accounts: as operational director he had underestimated Michard, and by failing to enlist the French he had weakened his defensive capability.