The route from the Château de Belcamp to “Little Switzerland” and a hunting-path that diverged from the bridle-path that Temple had already followed in company with Piere Louchet, going uphill instead of down before looping back to make its separate way to the étoile where the road to Miremont quit the highway. The region’s nickname was ironic, because there was nothing mountainous about the region at all; most of the plateau was wooded, but at the eastern extremity to which the ransom note had referred was a small heath, which culminated in a viewpoint from which one could see the entire valley of the Oise, including the full extremity of what had once been the Belcamp domain.
Temple assumed that he and Suzanne would be required to cross the heath and stand on the viewpoint itself, fully exposed beneath the Moon and stars to anyone watching from a semicircular arc of woodland that measured at least 200 paces from end to end. They would be watched from some covert there, and someone would eventually come to meet them. With this prospect in mind, they set out from the château some 25 minutes before the appointed time.
“You have not really been mad, have you, Father?” Suzanne asked, as they trudged through the grounds to the commencement of the path. The gold, packed into a single satchel, was weighing very heavily on his right arm.
“Have I not?” Temple replied. “I believe I was, at least for a while—but I am making progress.” His mouth twisted into a grimace as he used the word—by which he meant, yet again, the restoration of normality and harmony—but Suzanne was holding her lantern in such a way as to light their path, and she could not have seen the expression.
“Is that why you did not write to me?” she asked. “I thought that you were angry with me—that I had betrayed you in so many ways. Richard... the baby. When I helped Henri de Belcamp, I was acting under duress, but I know that’s no excuse... not what you would expect of your daughter.”
“I should never have made the stupid declaration that Richard was no fit husband for you,” Temple said. “I was to blame, not you. As for your being here when Henri de Belcamp came home, and being caught up in his machinations—I understand how desperate you were, and how helpless you felt. It was none of your doing that prevented me from writing to you, but my own shame. I was angry with myself; it was I that felt unworthy of contact with you. I was a fool. I had put it completely out of my mind until Ned Knob reminded you—and I immediately became angry with him, and called him all manner of ugly names, for which he was right to chide me. I should have done everything I could to clear Richard’s name and open the way for the two of you—I mean the three of you—to return to England, but I did not, because I could not face him. If only I had got to his cell in Newgate before John Devil, instead of after... but that, again, was my fault, not his.”
There was a pause while she digested this, and then she said: “Did you mean what you said about the kidnappers wanting you as well as the gold?”
“It’s possible,” he said. “They’ve been dogging my footsteps since Calais, at least, and could have seized me by force at any time, but they know that if they want my full cooperation, they’ll have to play a craftier game. It’s Henri they really want—he’s the one with the secret—but they must be afraid by now that he’ll stay away, or at least in hiding, for exactly that reason. They might regard me as a mere morsel to give them something on which to chew until Henri is prepared to show his hand.”
On the other hand, Temple thought, but dared not say aloud, they might need someone to kill, in order that John Devil may be challenged to bring him back alive.
“Sarah and Jeanne are at odds,” Suzanne told him, after another brief pause. “They were never the best of friends, for they began as rivals, but this business has driven them much further apart.”
“So I observed,” Temple said. “It will not matter. Circumstances will force them to work together, to the same end.”
“If all the children were all released together, that would be true,” Suzanne agreed. “But that is not the case. If Sarah’s boy were the one returned tonight... I’m not so sure that she’d be ready to give her money for the release of the others.”
“I think you underestimate her,” Temple said. “In any case, it will be little Richard who’s released tonight. He’s the least valuable of the three.”
“Do you really think so, Daddy?”
“I’m almost certain—but hush now. We’re getting close to the rendezvous, and we’re almost certainly under close observation.”
Suzanne obeyed immediately, falling silent and lifting the lantern higher. Not for the first time, Temple shifted his satchel from one hand to the other, bring temporary relief to one of his overstressed arms. He had not anticipated, although he should have, the state of extreme exhaustion that he would be in when he had climbed the hill. He had not rested properly since he set off from London, nor for three days before. No matter how little resemblance the hill above Miremont bore to a Swiss Alp, the steep climb was as hard on his tired legs as the gold he carried was on his shoulder muscles.
By the time they reached the bare land at the eastern extremity of the ridge, Temple was very glad of an opportunity to pause and draw breath. The sky was hazy and such moonlight as there was seemed quite impotent, but it was possible to see that the patch of heath was utterly deserted. No one was waiting there.
Suzanne looked at him fearfully, and he put his spare hand on her shoulder in what he hoped would pass for a gesture of reassurance.
“They’ll be watching from cover,” he assured her. “We must go to the edge, where the drop is sheerest, so that they can see that we’re alone and have nowhere to run.” He stepped forward again, taking a deep breath as he did so. The night air was cold enough to slice into his lungs like a razor, but it carried the oxygen he needed to replenish him.
When he and Suzanne had reached the limit of the ridge, where the ground fell away almost vertically, Temple set the bag that contained the gold down on the ground, positioning it carefully. He instructed Suzanne to keep the lantern elevated, displaying their faces plainly to any watchers in the bushes on the edge of the forested section of the ridge.
He was fully prepared to wait, if it should prove necessary—but they did not have to wait long. A lone man came out of the bushes, just about visible although he had no lantern in his hand. He did not have a child with him either.
“Step away from the gold, if you please, Mr. Temple,” a voice said, in very good English, spoken with a mild continental accent. “Then take your pistol out of your pocket, very carefully, and throw it over the edge, hard enough to ensure that it will fall for ten or twelve times a man’s height before it hits the ground.”
“I will do nothing until we see the child,” Temple said. “Indeed, I want the child safe in Suzanne’s care before I step away from the gold. I shall keep my revolver, but you may watch us depart in company with the child, leaving the gold behind. That way, we shall both be sure of getting what we want.”
“How do we know that the bag contains gold?” the other asked.
“You still have two children captive,” Temple pointed out. “We would not put them at risk by playing false. Shall I throw you a coin or two by way of demonstration?”
“What would that prove?” the kidnapper asked—but he had the luxury of sounding amused, knowing that he had the upper hand.
“As much as your returning one child proves regarding the well-being of the others,” Temple retorted. “Next time, I shall insist on seeing both before I hand over any money—and before you waste time in pointing out that you could shoot us down from ambush and simply take the gold, may I point out that the slightest nudge from my foot will send the bag skidding down the slope, scattering its contents far and wide. No one will disturb us if no shots are fired—but if you fire on us, you will not have time to gather your plunder before others come running.”
“The brave soldier of Napoleon, the former apprentice detective and the old woodcutter?” the other countered. “We are men of
peace, who abhor violence, but I think we could take care of them were the need to arise. Your midget, by the way, is off on a wild goose chase just now. Your other friend has not shown up at all—which is a deep disappointment to us, though not entirely a surprise. Do you know how to contact him?”
“Who?” Temple asked. The other man was close enough now for his face to catch a glimmer of lamplight. It was not the man who had called himself Giuseppe Balsamo, nor did he fit the description given by young Besnard. This was a tall and slender man with a goatee beard. He was wearing a black coat beneath his traveling-cloak, but he seemed no more reminiscent of a member of the Veste Nere than a medieval alchemist who had outlived his natural span. The cloak was hooded, but the hood was not up.
“Don’t play games, Mr. Temple,” the kidnapper said. “You know the stakes we are playing for—but we do need the money; this promises to be a very expensive campaign. We are honest brokers, though, and not averse to sensible compromise.” He lifted his arm and beckoned.
Temple could hardly see the gesture, and he was much closer to his interlocutor than the bushes from which the bearded man had come, but someone there with good night vision was ready to respond to the summons. Two other people stepped out of the thicket—one of them a little child, perhaps four years old.
Suzanne must have had good night vision herself, or a mother’s instinct, for she immediately ran towards them, crying: “Richard! Richard!” The flame of the lantern flickered wildly as she ran, but it did not go out.
Temple bit his lip, wishing that she had waited for the child to come to them but not wanting to call her back.
“We will need proof that the others are alive and well,” Temple said, grimly, to the dark shadow confronting him. “This is an earnest of our intent, but we will not hand over any more money unless we are convinced that the younger boys are well.”
“Very well, Mr. Temple,” said the man with the goatee, with suspicious alacrity. “You are very welcome to come with us, and see for yourself.”
Temple had half-expected that, but he was still somewhat uncertain of what he might be letting himself in for. It seemed an opportunity that might be too good to be missed—but he knew that it would also be a dangerous move, and that it would leave Jeanne de Belcamp with no more help and support than she had had before his arrival.
“Suzanne,” he said. “Take little Richard with you and go back the way we came. I’ll stay here to make sure that you’re safely on your way home, and then I shall go with these men, to make sure that... the other children are safe.” He stumbled slightly in his discourse when he suddenly realized that he had not asked the name of Jeanne’s child, or of Sarah’s.
Suzanne opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off abruptly. “Don’t waste time, Suzanne!” he commanded. “Go—take the lantern with you, and hold it up so that I can measure its progress.”
She did not hesitate any further. She had her son and the opportunity to make him safe. She hurried him back to the point where the path disappeared into the trees, drawing him along by the hand, and soon vanished from sight. The boy had not looked at Temple, even when he spoke, and presumably had no idea that he had just met his grandfather for the first—and perhaps the last—time.
“You knew, of course, that my grandson was the least valuable of the three,” Temple said, in a low voice. “Thus far, you’ve given away very little and received 10,000 livres. You must not raise the stakes too much—and you ought to play fair with me, for I’m the best hope you have of making everything go smoothly.”
This time, the man with the goatee laughed in the near-darkness. “It’s not in our interests for anyone to die,” he said. “At least, until we can be sure that we can bring them back. I hope you can assist us with that, Mr. Temple—or at least in locating your old adversary. We were hoping to see him on the coach from Calais, and were sorely disappointed when he missed it. Please pick up the gold and step away from the edge.”
Temple waited a little while longer, for Suzanne’s sake, but as soon as his shadowy interlocutor took another step forward, he did as he as he had been told, and picked up the gold. He stepped forward, and handed it to the bearded man, who fumbled as he took it because he could not see what he was doing.
“Lead on,” Temple said. “I’ll do my best to follow, in spite of the gloom.”
“I think it best if there’s no delay,” the other said. “Give him the flask, Brother.”
Again the darkness made it difficult, but Temple eventually contrived to accept a small stoppered bottle from one of the two men who had brought little Richard out of the bushes.
“Drink it all,” the leader instructed.
Temple did not hesitate. He took the stopper from the bottle, raised it to his lips and drained the vessel. He might have tried to tip the contents into his sleeve, or hold them in his mouth in the hope of an opportunity to spit them out, but the advice he had given the kidnappers held good for him too: at this early stage of the game, it was best to attempt no trickery.
He did not even dare to pretend to fall unconscious before the draught actually took effect—which gave him time to consider its taste very carefully. The drug was not one that he recognized. It was not bitter, but it did not seem to have been sugared or mixed with liquor to make it more palatable. It was certainly not laudanum.
“The secret of the philosopher’s stone and a better sleeping draught,” he murmured. “You seem well-supplied with secrets already. I apologize for my awkward size—it won’t be easy to carry me to...”
He could not complete the sentence, and was in any case regretting that he had not thought of something wittier to say. He felt his knees buckling as his senses reeled—and was oddly grateful to surrender his effortful grip on consciousness. He had, after all, been extremely tired for a very long time.
Chapter Five
The Alchemists’ Masquerade
Gregory Temple woke up gradually and reluctantly, extricating himself by slow degrees from a dream whose joy and comfort were based in lack of meaning, absolute inconsequentiality and a profound sense of well-being. He had not been able to escape himself to such a remarkable degree for many years, and he could not help but struggle against the compulsion to return to himself and put on all his troubles once again.
The physical necessities that finally forced him back to the awful pattern of his life were thirst and a need to urinate. The windowless cell in which he found himself, lit by a single candle that had burned very low on the wooden table set beside his pallet, fortunately provided the means to satisfy both needs. He drank directly from the pitcher set beside the candle, and drained it to the dregs. Otherwise, he felt quite well; there was no trace of the headache he would have expected to feel had he been rendered unconscious by any conventional means.
The cell was small—when he stood in the center he only had to lean slightly to one side or another to touch all four walls, three of which were made in grey brick and one of solid stone—but it was not unfurnished. In addition to the bed and the small table, there was a writing-desk bolted to the wall, with a long-legged chair. There was paper on the desk, and the inkwell was full. The night-stand had a cupboard, but all it contained was a bundle of candles—perhaps enough to light the cell for a week. There were no matches, however; Temple made a mental note to be sure to light a new candle before the old one burned out.
The door of the cell was made of wood, without any cast-iron reinforcements, and the inspection hole set at head-height had a wooden shutter rather than a wrought-iron grille. There was no flap at the bottom through which trays of food could be passed without the necessity of unlocking the door. It was, in consequence, more reminiscent of a monk’s cell than a dungeon—but the door was locked, presumably by means of an external bar. Temple estimated that it would only be the work of ten or twelve minutes to break it down—but he could not do that without making a good deal of noise.
It was easy enough to push the shutter back and look out, bu
t the corridor beyond was unlit.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Is anyone there?”
His ears—which were still keen, despite his age and his failure to hear John Devil enter his bedroom in London—caught the sound of movement from what he guessed to be a cell next to his own, but no one replied.
“Hello!” he called again. “My name is Gregory Temple. My daughter Suzanne is the wife of Richard Thompson, and the mother of another Richard, who was returned to his home last night.”
There was no evident reply from the next cell, but his raised voice had attracted attention from elsewhere. The radiance of a flickering candle-flame, approaching from some distance away, shed some little light on the wall opposite his cell, which was grey stone, as solid as the opposite wall of his cell. The reflections brightened as the candle came nearer, until the flame was held up so close to the hole in the door that he could not see through it, at first, to the man who was holding it. Eventually, though, it was moved aside, deliberately displaying the carrier.
The man’s face was invisible, completely hidden by a ornate mask carefully molded in the form of a death’s-head. There must have been real eyes within what appeared to be empty sockets, but they were not visible; they must have been obscured by something resembling smoked glass—although it must have been very difficult for the masked man to see by feeble candlelight with his eyes screened in that fashion.
“You have slept for a long time, Monsieur,” said a voice he did not recognize, in French. “You must have been in dire need of it. You owe us a debt for your healing, as well our generosity in granting your request.”
“My request has not been granted,” Temple replied, in the same language. “I have not seen the children yet.” It occurred to him then that he had called out before in English—a language in which neither the three-year-old Marquis de Belcamp, nor the three-year-old Count Boehm, could be expected to regard as their first. Even the four-year-old Richard Thompson probably spoke French far more often than English, although he must be fluent enough in both languages.
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