Curtis was on his feet in a second, so fast his head swam slightly, crouching so as not to present a target to the window.
Daniel was kneeling by him, eyes wide in the dim light. “There’s people moving out there. I saw March. I heard James Armstrong.”
Curtis grabbed his Webley, checking it with the speed of long practice, and thrust handfuls of cartridges into his pockets. “Pat left a revolver. Can you shoot?”
“No.”
Damn. “Then stay away from the windows. Is the door barred?”
“Yes.”
At least he knew when to be brief. Curtis gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he pulled on his boots.
The mezzanine floor covered perhaps half of the interior, with a walkway running round the entire interior circumference of the absurd tower except where the stairs broke into it, allowing visitors to look out all around. Curtis, keeping low, manoeuvred himself to the front of the building. Daniel slithered round to the other side of the walkway, so he was a few feet away.
“Curtis!” It was a shout from outside. He recognised the voice and shot a look back at Daniel, who grimaced. “Curtis!”
He made a long arm, unlatched the closest window and pushed it open. “Sir Hubert,” he called. “Good morning.”
“Come out of there at once,” shouted his host testily. “I don’t know what you’re playing at.”
“No?” Curtis positioned himself to squat on his heels, back to the wall. “I dare say you’ll find out if you wait long enough.”
“Why don’t you come down and discuss this like a sensible man?”
There was a soft rattle from the ground, someone trying the door.
“I think I can have a sensible conversation from here,” Curtis said. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Where’s Holt?” That was James Armstrong interrupting, sounding wild. “What have you done with Holt?”
Curtis glanced at Daniel, who shook his head.
“I’ve no idea where Holt is. Why would I?”
“You know where he is! You’ve got that bloody sneaking Yid in there, you filthy bugger!”
Curtis didn’t give a damn for James Armstrong, except that he had every intention of beating him to a pulp before this was done. Still, the words were a drenching shock. He looked at Daniel again, and saw him mouth a sardonic, “Oooh,” that steadied him as nothing else could have done.
“If you mean da Silva, yes, he’s here. So?”
“So I’ll kill him if you don’t tell me where Holt is!”
Curtis grinned mirthlessly. “You’ll have to get him first, you fucking shithouse cricket.”
“Mind your language!” Sir Hubert sounded outraged.
Daniel craned his neck to glance out the window. “Oh, what the—Lady Armstrong’s down there.”
“Christ, really? Who else?”
“March. The other servant, Preston. They’ve all got those big guns, except her.”
“Look out the other side,” Curtis directed in a low voice.
Sir Hubert was calling up again. “There’s no point in this. There’s no way for this to end except in your disgrace.”
“I think you’re wrong.” Curtis raised his brows at Daniel, who had been peering out of the windows. He shook his head, indicating no other arrivals.
Sir Hubert, James, March and Preston. Four guns to his one. But the folly was stone, the door thick new oak, the bar strong, his vantage point commanding. They could hold out here till the reinforcements arrived.
Sir Hubert made a pitying sort of noise. “I suppose you’re thinking about the Foreign Office men you summoned.”
“I expect he thinks they’re coming to help him.” Lady Armstrong’s voice rippled with laughter.
“Help us, more like,” James put in with a heavy sneer.
Curtis glanced over and saw Daniel’s grim expression. The dark man’s jaw was set.
“What are you talking about?” Curtis called out.
“Sir Maurice Vaizey’s men,” Sir Hubert said. “The ones you called when you telephoned your uncle with your tissue of lies. They’ll be here by nine, I’m told.”
Daniel muttered an obscenity. “They’ve a man on the inside, in the Bureau. Someone warned them.”
“Hell,” said Curtis quietly, then raised his voice. “Good. I’m looking forward to their arrival.”
“I doubt that.” Sir Hubert’s voice was gloating. “You see, by the time they’re here, there will be nothing for them to find. No documents, no photographs, no cameras. No evidence.”
“Well, there is one set of photographs left,” Lady Armstrong added, sugar sweet.