The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  There’s a boating lake in the middle distance where a mock-battle is being staged by men so full of drink they can barely stand in their boats. Long-suffering servants row the painted vessels around, firecrackers are hurled.

  I always viewed this kind of behaviour with disdain but here there’s something desperate to it. Like adults clinging to childhood.

  A familiar smell wafts on the air: opium. It hits me at the back of my nostrils, taking me to my father’s little study where papers are scattered and curtains shut out the sun.

  Everyone looks to have missed several nights’ sleep, as though they have been at this exhausting business of decadence for days. It seems no one wants to go to bed for fear they will wake to find the festivities have vanished, never to return.

  Angelina’s warning floats back to me. ‘Be careful,’ she had cautioned me this morning, before I left her house. ‘The nobles were careless before. Now they sense their world slipping away, they become cruel.’

  I walk on, past gardeners who are shovelling up the messes from the dogs who pelt around the lawns. Ahead of me is the great house. If the gardens are the ragged edges of the party, where spent guests stumble, this is the burning heart of it.

  As I near the large doors a footman in a gold-brocaded coat trips down the steps of the approach, his face drawn in puzzlement. He sees my apron, filled with cherries.

  ‘Madame Roland wanted fresh fruit for the table,’ I explain, walking as though in a rush.

  He gives the tired nod of a man used to fielding whimsical requests and makes no mention of having never seen me before. As I’d hoped, there are so many servants in this household it’s difficult for anyone to keep track.

  I take the staff entrance and follow the smell of roasting meats to the kitchen. I pass a cook by a darkened birdcage. He reaches into the depths and throws fistfuls of cheeping finches into a boiling cauldron of Armagnac.

  Further along there’s a housekeeper’s room, hardly more than a cupboard, with a lock on the door that I make short work of with my pick.

  Once inside I locate the household ledger next to some well-used writing materials. I flick through the pages of food orders and staff wages and find the page listing party guests.

  I lift a stubby quill, dip cheap ink and write my name, painstakingly emulating the housekeeper’s primitive letters as I learned under Atherton’s tutorage.

  Since my name now looks too black and fresh, evidently added later than the others, I take a pouch from my purse. Inside is an invention Atherton and I came up with together. Gum sandarac, ground to fine dust, has the effect of both drying wet ink and giving it a passably aged appearance. I sprinkle and rub and the tell-tale deep black writing dulls to grey. At a glance it looks to have been written days ago.

  A thought occurs. I leaf back through the pages, scanning the names of guests. My finger moves rapidly down the list, then stops at a name I’ve heard before.

  Oliver Janssen.

  The dangerous musketeer. Why should the Rolands let a killer and a torturer into their house? There’s only one logical answer to that question and my stomach is churning as I investigate further into the book.

  I stop. In the middle of the elegant curling script is an ugly black blot. A name has been crossed out.

  My fingertips brush where the looping tops of a few letters can still be determined. I lift the page and let my fingers feel underneath, where the shape of the sharp quill pressing the letters is discernible.

  I close my eyes, letting the shapes reveal themselves. There’s a ‘G’, two ‘l’s and two ‘t’s. It’s a simple enough puzzle, though I wish very badly it wasn’t.

  Grace Elliott.

  She was here. Grace was here.

  I want to believe she is alive and in the house still, but I have to face facts. Someone has crossed my cousin off the list and invited a killer to their party. The implications of this are hitting me hard. There’s a sound outside. Footsteps are coming down the corridor outside the room. I quickly shut the book.

  I’m mulling this over as I slip quietly out of the housekeeper’s room. My best hope is to get into the salon and find Madame Roland.

  CHAPTER 42

  INSIDE, THE ROLANDS’ HOUSE IS EVEN MORE MAGNIFICENT than the exterior. A wide marble staircase with lacily carved ebony banisters winds up the centre of the cavernous entrance hall. Everywhere, I think, remembering some Mauritian slaves I rescued near Madagascar, are imports of slavery. The insidiousness of such goods across Europe sometimes overwhelms me.

  The party is on the first floor. I follow the steps up, greeted by an expanse of long windows with far views of rolling green.

  I slip off my maid’s pinafore and announce myself to the footman. He is at first suspicious I have no written invitation, then returns, obsequious and apologetic, when he discovers my name in the housekeeper’s book and leads me to the grand hall.

  There’s a strange squeaking sound as we approach, which gets louder. The doors open and I see the reason. It’s an incredible sight. Every guest has a costume, most of them shocking. There are gauzily clad sultanas and men dressed as women. A great many people are masquerading as commoners, maximizing the chance to expose their plump limbs through meagre rags. There’s more skin on display than in a Turkish harem and a flash of almost everything. I see comely milkmaids, farmer boys, shepherd girls and open-robed clergy.

  Everyone wears a mask and now the squeaking sound is explained. Speech is made in high falsetto, to disguise voices.

  My hopes of easily identifying Madame Roland are evaporating.

  The footman hands me a plain black mask and exits.

  Music starts up and I turn to see the orchestra have their backs to the room. It only takes me a moment to realize why. The half-dressed guests flood the floor, laughing, dancing outrageously close, sliding hands where they shouldn’t.

  I overhear a conversation nearby, a man and a woman talking.

  ‘My husband says it’s Robespierre who is the problem,’ says the man airily. ‘He hates all nobles.’

  ‘At least men like Danton can be bought,’ agrees the woman, nodding furiously. ‘But this Robespierre ... He is incorruptible.’ She sounds the word like the worse kind of insult.

  ‘Over-kindness with the commoners is the reason for all this unrest,’ opines the man. ‘A public spectacle is the thing. Boil alive a whole pack of these parliament rogues. Put the fear of God in the others.’

  I’m taking it all in when I hear a deep voice in my ear.

  ‘They call them masquerades. Isn’t it quite ridiculous?’

  I twist around in shock to see a masked man standing behind me. The bottom half of his face looks different under the bright candlelight, a slight sheen to his olive skin and stubbled face, but I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

  He removes his mask.

  ‘Jemmy!’ I’m so pleased to see him I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him on both cheeks in the French style. His hair is hanging loose, I notice, without the usual dark ribbon tying it back. It’s wavy to just above his shoulders and he’s tucked it behind his ears. A footpad robber, I decide, rather than a highwayman.

  ‘Well,’ he says, the teardrop blemish at his eye twitching upwards, ‘so this is what it takes to make Lady Attica Morgan affectionate: a masquerade ball of false commoners.’

  My delight at seeing him is cooling now. I’m remembering how he sailed away.

  ‘You might have stayed to throw me some oars,’ I admonish. ‘You left me to the dogs.’

  ‘The wind was against us,’ says Jemmy, ‘and the grenade that rattled your boat was meant for us. I couldn’t risk thirty lives for one. Even a pretty one.’ He grins.

  I’m taking in his attire. He still wears a black shirt but with a deep-purple neckerchief, his outlandish boots have been polished to a high shine. I raise a hand above my eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Jemmy, disconcerted.

  ‘I’m shielding my eyes,’ I say, ‘from your cravat.�
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  ‘Jaunty, ain’t she?’ says Jemmy, pleased. ‘Thought I’d bring a little life to the party.’

  ‘And what of your unfortunate shoe-shine boy?’ I ask, looking at the mirrored polish on his boots. ‘Can he still use his arms?’

  ‘I shine me own boots, Your Ladyship, ’specially for a spectacle like this one.’ He gestures to my dress. ‘I see you’ve gone all Frenchified. It well becomes you. The top part, in any case.’ Jemmy gestures to the billow of transparent muslin at my décolletage. I hide a smile as he looks around the room.

  A girl in a tatty sack barely covering her torso is pretending to beg, laughingly imploring other guests for food.

  ‘Look at them,’ he says, shaking his head in disgust, ‘a party to show how much they love the new democracy, when last week they were buying their sons commissions in the clergy so they might never need pay tax. Dressing in rags for a lark. I tell you, Attica, I’ve seen things in this house to make a docker blush.’

  ‘What brings you here,’ I ask, ‘if you dislike the affectation so strongly?’

  ‘I was anxious for you in your fine dress, as it happens,’ he adds. ‘I even asked at the gatehouses.’

  ‘Did you?’ I feel rather flattered. ‘How did you manage that?’

  He reaches into his pocket and brandishes a tricolour cockade – a rosette in red, white and blue. ‘Easy enough. I just showed this to any Republican guard and said, “Vive la France.”’

  I smile at him, knowing he’s underplaying the danger. ‘You did all that just for me?’

  ‘Don’t be getting any ideas about my having feelings for you, Your Ladyship,’ says Jemmy. ‘I’ve an idea you’re searchin’ for some famous diamonds. Marie Antoinette’s necklace is something of a legend to us pirates. You know how we love lost treasure.’

  He looks at me pointedly.

  I consider him for a moment. I’ve never regretted my actions, but sometimes I badly wish I wasn’t who I was. That I could just be normal. At the least, I wish I could tell Jemmy the truth: that I’m happier solving codes than choosing dresses, that I’ve killed people, that I never, ever want to be a wife.

  Instead, I look out into the room.

  ‘A diamond necklace worth two million francs?’ I say. ‘It’s more myth than fact.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to people. Lots of guests are drunk enough to be free with their words. Some say an English girl was here last night. I put two and two together. Reckon that girl might just have been this cousin you’re lookin’ for.’

  ‘You know something of Grace?’ I say. ‘Where she is?’

  Jemmy’s face falls. ‘There was talk of some scandalous auction. Men bid on her virginity. Probably just rumours,’ he adds, seeing my expression.

  ‘Can you tell me who Madame Roland is?’ I ask, looking about the guests. ‘I’ve a feeling she knows where Grace is.’

  I’m thinking of the housekeeper’s book, the name crossed out in black.

  ‘Aye, I know her.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘So it looks as though we must help each other, Mademoiselle Primrose. I will show you to Madame Roland but first you must agree to my price.’

  The music ends and several dancers exit in pairs or threes, looking for bedrooms.

  ‘Your price?’

  ‘Dance with me,’ he says. ‘Nothing is what it seems at this party, Attica. Nothing at all.’

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘I’M NOT A GOOD DANCER,’ I ADMIT AS JEMMY LEADS ME TO the floor. ‘I’m too tall. At school they always made me dance the man’s part.’

  ‘It’s a folk dance,’ he says, ‘informal. I’ll lead you.’ And without waiting for my assent he draws me against his body. The close contact is faintly shocking. I’ve never been pressed this tightly to a man in broad daylight.

  People are watching us from the sidelines, the tall noble woman and the dashing stranger. I rearrange my face so a false smile shows beneath my masked upper-face. Jemmy holds my waist and whirls me sharply.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about you since you got aboard my ship,’ he accuses in a low voice as he pulls me close again. ‘The way you moved wasn’t quite right. And now I see you here I understand what I was missing. Some fancy daughter of a noble isn’t the half of it.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I think you’re an assassin.’

  ‘And how do you imagine I should kill a man?’ I answer. ‘With my bare hands?’

  He slides his hands around my ribs and lifts me with surprisingly little difficulty in time to the music.

  ‘Perhaps with that blade hidden in the front of your dress,’ says Jemmy, letting his thumb feel out the pointed shape.

  ‘I shall never trust an invitation to dance with you again.’ He’s tricked me and, despite myself, I’m rather impressed.

  ‘You shouldn’t.’ Jemmy takes both my hands in his. ‘I always dance with bad intentions. I’ve spent time in Italy,’ he concludes, ‘I know how to identify an assassin. I’ve just never seen a female one, so it took a while for my mind to catch up with what my eyes knew.’

  ‘I’m not an assassin,’ I say. ‘I only kill people when I must.’

  ‘A spy!’ says Jemmy, triumphant. ‘I knew it. Women always make the best spies.’

  ‘They’re better at not announcing themselves to a party full of people,’ I say, looking around to see if anyone is listening. ‘Just tell me what it is you want,’ I hiss, ‘so I can find Madame Roland.’

  ‘Gaspard de Mayenne ...’ says Jemmy. ‘How much do you know?’

  I weigh up what to reveal. ‘He was an aristocratic rebel,’ I say. ‘They found him dead in the Bastille. Most likely he was killed by royalists; the nobles thought him a traitor to his own kind.’

  ‘Whoever murdered Gaspard was an executioner, a professional.’ Jemmy’s dark brows draw together. ‘Tools had been used,’ he says, ‘devices that your average man doesn’t just pick up and deploy. Both Gaspard’s shoulders were dislocated. The bones in his legs had been shattered with heavy weights. His fingers—’

  ‘I understand,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Strappado, boots. Torture.’

  ‘That’s what someone wanted people to think. But I’d say he’d been killed before all the torture took place.’

  ‘You saw the body?’

  ‘It’s for all to see. The Bastille mortuary displays its corpses publicly to deter rumours its prisoners are never seen again. There was no bruising to the shoulders,’ says Jemmy. ‘When you dislocate, the blood vessels rupture. Same with the legs. White as snow. Yet the throat was bruised where it was cut. Worse than cut. Mangled. If I was a betting man, I’d say everything had bled out of him before he reached the Bastille.’

  ‘You’re not a betting man?’

  ‘Only on certainties.’ Jemmy pulls me close as the music plays. ‘I think you know more than you’re lettin’ on about our poor dead Gaspard. Tell me and I’ll show you to Madame Roland.’

  My hands are on his shoulders for this part of the dance. For some reason it’s difficult to think straight with those green eyes on me. Something about Jemmy is muddling my thoughts.

  ‘I’ll tell you all I know,’ I say, ‘which isn’t much. There’s a powerful organization in Paris: the Society of Friends. It’s likely they murdered Gaspard as a warning to the English and they mean to come for Grace next.’

  Jemmy considers this.

  ‘You’re not certain?’

  I consider. ‘I was,’ I say. ‘But Foulon, the finance minister, believes Gaspard’s death was a warning to royalists. I can see how it looks that way.’

  ‘Interesting,’ says Jemmy. ‘Because the rebels think it’s a message for them, the royalists proving their power.’

  We both ponder this.

  ‘Everyone thinks the death is significant to them,’ I conclude. ‘Yet someone somewhere knows what Gaspard’s murder means for certain. Whosoever it is will also be able to identify the killer. If I know that, I have a better chance of keeping Grace safe.’ I put the puzzle to one side. ‘I’ve
told you what I know,’ I say, ‘now show me Madame Roland.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jemmy appears distracted, ‘she’s the one in the black and red beatin’ all those poor fools at Hazard.’ He wheels me about so I catch sight of a middle-aged woman throwing dice with a determined expression. Unlike the other guests, Madame Roland has not troubled herself with a costume or a mask. Her dress is exactly the kind that English women admire in the French, all scalloped red hems and swoops of black lace.

  I’m trying to listen whilst keeping track of what my feet are doing.

  ‘You really are a bad dancer,’ Jemmy observes mildly as I step jerkily in time to his movements.

  ‘It’s not a skill I’ve troubled myself to perfect.’ I look directly at him, our faces a few inches apart, and to my satisfaction he flinches.

  ‘Madame Roland is not at all like the usual decadent French aristocrats,’ says Jemmy. ‘She has a secret room somewhere in the house where she writes her letters. I think she’s in some intrigue with Robespierre. They are all half in love with him, these clever wealthy women. I’ve been trying to find it. But she’s not susceptible to my charms.’ He smiles and dimples appear in his cheeks.

  ‘You amaze me. The great pirate Avery.’

  ‘Regrettably she thinks me a fool,’ admits Jemmy. ‘I’ve already lost twelve forfeits playing her at dice.’ He nods in the direction of some gaming tables. ‘She’s the most dangerous woman here.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I reply, wondering if he can still feel my long knife, pressed against my ribs as we turn around the room.

  I consider for a moment.

  ‘Very well,’ I say, ‘what if I discover Madame Roland’s room?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘If I do,’ I say, ‘I’m willing to trade information. But you must do something for me in return. Agree to get Grace out of Paris when I find her.’

  ‘Not you as well?’

  ‘I can get myself out.’

  ‘You’ll never get Madame Roland to tell you where her secret room is,’ he says with certainty, watching where she sits throwing dice. ‘The lady of the house takes after Robespierre: incorruptible, she cannot be manipulated or seduced.’