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  “Keep going,” Karlovy bellowed. “Keep going.”

  But surely they were at the border, Berkeley thought. Surely . . .

  From out of a shallow dip in front of them came a patrol of Austrian infantry.

  There was no means of avoiding the unexpected enemy; the cavalry were close enough behind to take advantage of the slightest delay.

  “Charge them!” Anna shouted, drawing her revolver.

  Berkeley drew his pistol and Lockwood unslung his shotgun. Karlovy and his men also levelled their guns.

  They all fired together, as did the Austrians. But the soldiers had been as surprised as themselves, and most of the bullets were wide. Two of the Austrians went down, then the horsemen were through them. Now more men appeared in front of them, but these were not soldiers, and at the appearance of the Slovenians the Austrian cavalry drew rein.

  “Safe!” Anna shouted. “Safe!” And she fell from her saddle.

  The men dismounted, while several of the militiamen hurried towards them. “You must keep going,” one said. “They will come across as soon as they receive orders.”

  Berkeley looked up at the Austrian cavalry, lined up a hundred yards away. Then he looked down at Anna. Her eyes were open, but her face was twisted from the pain.

  “Go,” she muttered. “Take the money and go.”

  “Not without you,” He rolled her over. The bullet had struck her in the shoulder, and he reckoned the bone was utterly splintered. She was also losing blood.

  “I have bandages,” Karlovy said, unrolling a first-aid kit. “But we must hurry.”

  When they bound up the wound Anna cried out in pain.

  “I don’t suppose we have any laudanum?” Berkeley asked.

  “I have brandy.”

  “Give her some.”

  He didn’t suppose it would help very much. Even after she had drunk, Anna continued to moan and groan in pain.

  “There is a doctor in Oscijek,” the Slovenian sergeant said. “But if the Austrians are ordered across, they will look for you there.”

  “Better Apratin,” Karlovy said. “It is across the Serb border, and there is a doctor there too.”

  “How far?” Berkeley asked.

  “Five miles.”

  Berkeley drew a deep breath, but there was no alternative.

  “Leave me.” Anna moaned again. “Take the money and go.”

  “No,” he said. “You are my mother-in-law.”

  He scooped her up and mounted her on his horse in front of him; his clothes were stained with her blood.

  “The pain,” Anna whispered. “I do not think I can stand the pain.”

  “You have to.” Berkeley gave her some more brandy to drink, and the little cavalcade set off again, covered for the moment by the Slovenian militia.

  “Will they fight the Austrians?” Berkeley asked Karlovy.

  “Not if they come across in force. But they have bought us some time.”

  *

  It took them half an hour to reach the border. By then Anna had thankfully fainted from the pain, but that she was seriously hurt could not be doubted.

  They rode directly for Apratin, relying on the fact that they would get there before any news of what had happened in the north reached it, but it was necessary to pass through a customs post.

  “This woman is badly hurt,” said the captain. “How did this happen?”

  Karlovy stuck to the original story. “I was guiding this Englishman and his wife and servant to go shooting at Lake Balaton, and the Austrians fired on us.”

  “So what did you do?”

  Karlovy grinned. “We rode like the Devil. But the madame was hit.”

  “And badly,” Berkeley said. “We need a doctor.”

  The captain gave instructions, and Anna was taken to a doctor’s surgery. The doctor pulled his beard as his nurse slowly stripped away the blood-soaked jacket and blouse, and he removed the improvised bandage. Anna woke up and began to scream, and he gave her some laudanum. “This is very bad,” he told Berkeley.

  “I can see that. Will she live?”

  “Very bad,” he said again. “The bullet is still in there. But we will do what we can.”

  He and his nurse began removing the rest of Anna’s clothing, and Berkeley ushered the men out of the room.

  “What will you do?” Karlovy asked.

  “I must stay with Madame Slovitza. But you had better get on with it.”

  “And the money?”

  “The money is Madame Slovitza’s responsibility.”

  “And if she dies?”

  “Then it is mine.”

  The two men gazed at each other.

  “You would not think of robbing us, Englishman?”

  “Either I, or Madame Slovitza herself, will bring the money to Sabac,” Berkeley said. “I would like you to go there now, and inform my wife of what has happened. Tell her I am bringing her mother home.”

  Karlovy considered for a few seconds, then nodded. “I must trust you. And pray for Madame Slovitza.” He held out his hand. “I will do as you ask, and look for you, in Sabac, at the house of Madame Slovitza.”

  Berkeley and Townsend watched the three men ride off; there was no sign or word of the fourth – the decoy.

  “I thought he was going to turn nasty,” Lockwood said.

  “They have too much respect for Anna,” Berkeley said. “Or maybe they fear her too much.” He heard a dreadful scream from the next room and opened the door.

  There were two nurses now, both holding Anna down. The doctor straightened at Berkeley’s entry and turned towards him. His apron was smothered in blood.

  “What are you doing to her?” Berkeley asked, his voice harsh.

  The doctor held out the distorted piece of lead. “The bone is quite shattered.”

  “Had you nothing to give her?”

  “Not enough.”

  Anna’s gasps and writhings were slowly diminishing.

  “I will give her some more laudanum,” the doctor said. “And perhaps she will sleep. But the pain must be considerable.”

  “Will she live?”

  The doctor sighed. “She has lost a great deal of blood.”

  “Give me a straight answer.”

  “She might live, if we could get her to a hospital where they have proper facilities including transfusion equipment.”

  “Where is the nearest hospital?”

  “In Novi-Sad.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “About fifty miles to the south-east. On the road to Belgrade.”

  If it was fifty miles towards Belgrade, Berkeley thought, then it was also some way towards Sabac.

  “But to move her,” the doctor went on, “would be very dangerous. I will stop the bleeding, if I can, and bind her up. If the wound were to open again, on the road . . .”

  Berkeley gazed at the tortured, still beautiful features. Her mouth was working, but uttering no sound.

  “But if she stays here, she will die.”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Then she must be moved. At least she’ll have a chance. Can you purchase me a cart and two horses?”

  “A cart. And maybe one horse.”

  “One horse,” Berkeley agreed. “It must be done now.”

  *

  The surgery was visited by the captain from the bridge.

  “It is very dangerous for you to stay here, Mr Jones. The Austrians are demanding that you be handed over.”

  “They are in Apratin?”

  “No, no, they cannot cross the bridge without permission. But they are saying that you are not what you say you are, that you are an anarchist, that you robbed the military payroll in Tolna. They are seeking an order from the magistrate for you to be arrested and handed over to them. With your wife, and . . .” He glanced at Lockwood. “Servant.”

  “I thought you said they couldn’t cross the bridge?”

  “Their soldiers cannot cross the bridge, without permission. But I
could not stop a civilian agent from doing so.”

  “Well, as I am sure you know by now, my wife is badly hurt. I am arranging to get her out, in a couple of hours. Can you give us that much time?”

  The captain considered. “I will see what I can do,” he said. “But you understand, if we resist the Austrians’ legitimate demands, this could well become a major incident, which would be bad for us. Bad for me. I need to know the truth. Did you rob the payroll?”

  “Do I look like a robber to you?” Berkeley asked. “Would I attempt to rob the Austrian army, with my wife? We are English travellers, proceeding peacefully on our way, when we were attacked by the Austrians. I intend to make representations to my government.”

  Another consideration. Then the captain said, “You understand I cannot delay proceedings for very long.”

  “I understand,” Berkeley said. “Two hours.”

  The captain nodded. “Two hours.”

  “And then?”

  “I can truthfully tell the magistrate that you have left Apratin. I do not know where you are going. A report will then be forwarded to Belgrade, and it may be that there will be more trouble for you when you arrive. If that is where you are going. But this will take several days to be sent and processed and decided upon.”

  “Thank God for Balkan bureaucracy,” Berkeley said.

  “Is it possible to look at your wife?”

  Berkeley frowned. “Why do you wish to do that?”

  “I am doing you a great favour, Mr Jones. Can you not do me a small one?”

  Berkeley’s turn to hesitate. But what the captain had said was perfectly true. He opened the door. The doctor was attending to other patients, having sent one of his servants to arrange the wagon. Anna was the only patient in the operating theatre, still lying on the hard bed and watched by a nurse, who looked up as the two men entered.

  “She is asleep,” she said.

  “We won’t wake her. Well, Captain?”

  The captain gazed at Anna, nodded, and stepped outside again.

  Berkeley joined him.

  “That is not your wife,” the captain said. “That is Anna Slovitza. I have seen her photograph.”

  “Why should Anna Slovitza not be my wife?”

  The captain glanced at him. “She may be, Mr Jones, but she is not an Englishwoman, and she does not spend her time travelling peacefully about Europe. You have lied to me. You did rob that payroll. Where is the money?”

  “I sent it off with Karlovy,” Berkeley said, looking him in the eye.

  “I have the power to arrest you,” the captain said.

  “And hand me and Madame Slovitza over to the Austrians? I would not be hanged, Captain; my government would see to that. But Madame Slovitza would be. And your name would be forever damned. I would see to that.”

  The captain wiped his brow. “I give you two hours, Mr Jones, to be out of Apratin.” He left the room.

  “Seems to me we’re skating on very thin ice, sir,” Lockwood remarked.

  “So we have to move very fast. See if that transport has arrived yet.”

  *

  The transport was, literally, a horse and cart. The doctor and his nurses carried Anna out to it, laid her on a blanket over the bare boards and spread another blanket over her.

  “There is also this tarpaulin to spread over her should it come on to rain. Or . . .” He looked at the sky. “To snow. You have food?”

  “No.”

  The doctor gave instructions to his staff, and they bustled off to return a few minutes later with a sack of food.

  “If you have no trouble, it will take you about twelve hours to reach Novi-Sad,” the doctor said. “That is, if you travel all night.”

  “We intend to,” Berkeley said.

  Lockwood was tethering their horses to the cart; the precious saddlebags he loaded in beside Anna and covered with the tarpaulin.

  “Take this as well,” the doctor said, and gave Berkeley a quarterfull bottle of laudanum.

  “Is this all you have?”

  “Yes. Use it sparingly. There is some brandy in the box. Use that too if you have to.”

  “We are deeply in your debt, doctor.”

  “I am honoured to have been of some assistance. God go with you.”

  “Amen,” Berkeley said, and snapped the whip.

  The sun was setting behind heavy banks of cloud, and it had become very cold. They attracted some attention as they walked the cart through the little town, but as Townsend and Lockwood were both heavily-armed no one attempted to interfere with their progress; and once they were away from the houses the road was empty in the gathering gloom.

  Anna began to wake up, moaning and groaning. Berkeley was not surprised, as the road surface was poor and the cart was unsprung. He gave the reins to Lockwood, sat beside her in the cart and fed her some of the laudanum so that she lapsed into semi-consciousness. But she was again losing blood, seeping through the bandage and even the blouse and blanket.

  “Is she going to make it, sir?” Lockwood asked.

  “It’s up to us to see that she does,” Berkeley told him.

  *

  Around midnight there was a flurry of snow. Berkeley covered Anna with the tarpaulin and they rumbled on their way into the night, the two men huddled in their greatcoats on the driving seat. The snow did not last long, but the sun came up to a countryside scattered with white; even in September it was not that much above freezing, Berkeley reckoned, as he could hear frost crunching beneath their wheels. But in the distance they could see the church spires of Novi-Sad.

  Two hours later they had crossed the bridge over the Danube and were in the streets of the town, regarded curiously by people on their way to work. Berkeley had enough Serbian, as taught him by Caterina, to ask the way to the hospital, and half an hour later they were in the yard.

  “We have a very sick woman in the cart,” Berkeley said. “Will you fetch someone with a stretcher?”

  The porter lifted the tarpaulin to look at Anna, then went inside. When he returned, it was with a doctor as well as two male nurses and a stretcher. The doctor nodded briefly to Berkeley, then himself raised the tarpaulin and peered at Anna, lifting her eyelids and taking her pulse. Then he raised his head. “This woman is dead,” he said.

  Part Two

  A Business of Intrigue

  ‘. . . my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,

  Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,

  Till that a capable and wide revenge

  Swallow them up.’

  William Shakespeare

  The Husband

  Berkeley touched the cold cheek, held the cold hand. He doubted his were any warmer, unprotected by gloves.

  The doctor was peering at the bloodstained clothes. “Take her inside,” he told the porters.

  “No,” Berkeley said.

  The doctor raised his head in surprise.

  “If she is dead,” Berkeley told him, “I will take her home to be buried.”

  “But . . . where is her home?”

  “Sabac. That is only about twenty miles from here, is it not?”

  “That is correct. But there should be a post-mortem.”

  “To what purpose? She suffered a gunshot wound, and has died from loss of blood and exposure.”

  “There will have at least to be an inquest. How did she get this wound?”

  “Contact the captain of the frontier guard at Apratin, and he will explain it to you.”

  The doctor looked thoroughly uncertain; he was used to having people do what he told them to when it came to matters of sickness and death. “This is highly irregular,” he said. “I shall have to report it to the police.”

  “Do so,” Berkeley agreed. “I will wish you good day.”

  “At least tell me her name,” the doctor begged.

  “Her name is Anna Slovitza.”

  “Anna . . .” The doctor gulped, and he stepped up to the cart again, to peer at the still featur
es, relaxed in death.

  “I am taking her to her people,” Berkeley said. “I would strongly recommend that no one attempts to interfere with me. Not even the police.”

  He drove out of the hospital yard.

  *

  “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” Lockwood opined.

  “It was always liable to happen,” Berkeley said.

  Which he knew was perfectly true. Yet he had not expected it to happen. Not to Anna. And certainly not while she had been in his care.

  “Do you think they’ll come after us, sir? The police?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll think long enough about it for them to be unable to catch us.”

  They rode in silence for some time. Then Lockwood said, “Strange how things turn out.”

  Berkeley had been thinking the same thing, but he did not reply.

  “What I mean is, sir,” Lockwood went on, “we were sent here to kidnap the lady and hand her over to the Austrians, who would have hanged her. Well, now they’ve shot her.”

  “So, from the point of view of both the Austrian and British Governments, we have accomplished our mission. That thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, sir, here we are with a dead woman and a very large sum of money . . .”

  “You are a scoundrel, Harry.”

  “Just considering all the options, sir. I mean, the Austrians have no idea that we were involved in that robbery and shoot-out. They’ll find out it was a Mr Jones, an Englishman, but they won’t be able to take it further than that if we get out now. While if we stay . . .”

  “They’ll trace our true identities, given time. But we are going to do the honourable thing, Harry . . . and maybe get back to England as well.”

  Supposing Caterina could be persuaded.

  *

  But first her grief had to be endured. They encountered people they knew when within a mile of Sabac. One of the men had been with Karlovy and had obviously been sent to look out for them. Now he gazed at Anna’s body for several minutes, then wheeled his horse and galloped into the town.

  By the time they got there the streets were crowded, people crossing themselves as the cart rumbled over the cobbles. When they reached the house, Karlovy and several men were waiting for them. Silently they lifted Anna’s body and took it inside and up the narrow staircase, into the reception room. Here Caterina waited. She had already donned black, and wore a black veil which entirely concealed both her hair and her face. She watched her mother’s body laid on the table, never moving. Then she said, “Leave us.”