by C. S. Quinn
‘You think no one could break Monsieur Robespierre’s code?’ I suggest.
Trepidation plays on her features but she speaks with the quiet confidence of a woman who thinks she’s being bluffed. She’s perfectly assured that I couldn’t detangle Robespierre’s genius in the few moments I’ve been alone in this room.
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ she says haughtily, ‘only corresponded with perfect proprietary to a politically minded man.’
‘You’ve been telling Robespierre that the King hides enough weapons for an army at the Hôpital des Invalides in Paris.’
Teresa’s face reddens. Her eyes dart around the room, as though looking for an escape.
‘You were an inspired choice of informer,’ I add. ‘A clever woman bored of her gilded cage, hating her royalist husband. He woos you with talk of equality, flatters your opinions on government.’
‘It’s not about that,’ says Teresa. ‘It’s an ideology. We want a democracy, a good and fair leadership.’
‘So you tell Robespierre where the weapons are. He relays the information to his favoured faction of revolutionaries. They raid the guns and suddenly Robespierre has an army.’
‘Sometimes extreme measures must be taken.’ But Teresa sounds less certain.
‘And what of his request that you spy on my cousin?’ I suggest. ‘Written in code, of course, but I have abilities in that regard. A girl whom you plotted to have placed in the hands of a murderous torturer. Do you believe that to be perfectly proper?’
She flinches.
‘How did you ...?’ She’s reaching for the letter. I hand it to her.
‘I haven’t deciphered all of it, I admit; it really is a wonderful code. Monsieur Robespierre is to be commended. I’ll leave it to you to decide if I know enough to prove you led a killer named Oliver Janssen to Grace Elliott. And that your principled Monsieur Robespierre had Gaspard de Mayenne murdered.’
I let this threat settle around us. She hesitates perhaps to insist on the details of what I know.
I seize her by the shoulders.
‘Tell me where Grace is!’ I demand. ‘Tell me what you did with my cousin.’
Teresa’s eyes widen in alarm. But there is something in the depths. An excitement. I have a sudden image of a clever women so intensely bored by her formal lifestyle she’ll do anything to break the ennui.
‘She’s on her way to the Bastille,’ says Teresa. ‘I’m sorry for it. As soon as she passes inside there is no hope for her.’
A thousand thoughts overwhelm me.
‘You had Grace arrested?’
‘No! I would never be responsible for putting a living soul in that dreadful place.’
I release Teresa’s arms. A glimmer of disappointment resounds in her eyes.
‘Tell me everything,’ I say, my mind racing. I’m turning over how I can possibly free Grace from the impenetrable prison.
‘Very well,’ she says, with a sigh. ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I ... I am not the monster you think, Mademoiselle Morgan.’
CHAPTER 51
THE CANDLES IN TERESA’S STUDY SEEM LIKE GLOWERING eyes as I absorb what she’s telling me. A killer came looking for Grace. Grace is gone.
Madame Roland is frowning, choosing her words. ‘It’s true I found Grace,’ she says slowly. ‘Monsieur Robespierre asked me to watch for anyone of that name. But I helped her. Some of my husband’s rogue friends had mistaken her for one of the harlots who come here for profit.’
Teresa’s brown eyes flick to mine. ‘I ran into her just in time. Dress torn, sobbing uncontrollably. She was so drunk as to hardly be able to stand and they’d given her ether. I dread to think what might have happened had I not got to her.’
‘You think yourself virtuous for taking her out of the frying pan and into the fire?’ I don’t bother to hide my contempt.
‘I never meant for it.’ Teresa looks down. ‘She was in my bedchamber. Then she vanished. Just after I gave her back the necklace.’ She sees something in my expression. ‘She had a piece of paste jewellery – Robespierre had already told me it was how I might identify her.’
‘Was this glass necklace styled on le collier de la reine?’ I know the answer, even before she speaks.
‘Why, yes. I imagine Grace didn’t know what a dangerous thing it is, even to imitate. I avidly followed the trial of the jewel thief and Marie Antoinette. We debated it endlessly in my salon. I would go so far as to say it was those missing diamonds that started the first ripples of revolution.’
‘So the first thing you did was send word to Robespierre that Grace was here?’
‘Robespierre believes there is some English plot. He thought Grace should be arrested and returned to England and I agreed.’
I smile at her naivety.
‘You didn’t think,’ I say slowly, ‘that the necklace you saw might have been the real collier de la reine?’
‘I ... But the diamonds were lost. Four years ago. In any case,’ she shakes her head, assuring herself, ‘Monsieur Robespierre is not motivated by money. He would never ...’
‘Send someone to murder Grace and steal the diamonds to fund the rebel cause?’
Teresa blinks hard. ‘I know Robespierre to be an ethical man. A good man. He means a new future for France.’
‘Teresa,’ I say, ‘a man came to your house. A man named Oliver Janssen, known for torturing confessions from his victims. Do you know who he is?’
‘He was a musketeer,’ she agrees. ‘The King disbanded them last year for lack of funds. Many have defected to the rebel cause.’
‘Teresa,’ I tell her gently, ‘who else but Robespierre could have told this musketeer that Grace was here?’
Her eyes track back and forth sightlessly, searching for an explanation that could exonerate Robespierre.
Finally Madame Roland’s shoulders sag. Utter devastation seizes her features. ‘I didn’t know,’ she whispers. Her eyes lift to mine. ‘Please believe me. I didn’t know.’ Her chest is rising and falling fast. She swallows and examines her fingernails guiltily.
‘When I went back to the bedchamber, Grace was gone. Perhaps she saw him from the window and ran. Just before we played at Hazard, a messenger came from the village. Monsieur Janssen had seen Grace entering a Bastille carriage. He wanted me to inform Robespierre by carrier pigeon.’
‘So you did.’
‘It was never my intention to put the girl in danger,’ says Teresa, her voice strained. ‘I assumed she had fled and Robespierre might have the means to help ...’ Her face has a tight flush to it and for once she has run out of words.
‘You didn’t realize what Robespierre was capable of?’ I suggest. ‘You’ve been playing at revolutionaries whilst real people have been dying?’
I can tell I’ve painted the picture well because Teresa can’t meet my eye.
‘So Grace is on her way to the Bastille.’ It’s such a terrible thought. ‘When did this happen?’ I ask. ‘When did she get inside the carriage?’
‘I can’t say for sure,’ says Madame Roland. ‘This morning, I think. They like to make arrests in the countryside early.’
She looks so beaten down by the revelation of Robespierre’s true nature, I feel sorry for her.
‘You were doing your best for France,’ I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She nods, wiping away a tear. She turns to leave, then hesitates.
‘The prison guards don’t always drive straight to Paris,’ she says. ‘They often stop at the countryside lock-ups to collect felons who the King deems criminal enough for the Bastille.’
Her eyes meet mine.
‘You may still have time to save your cousin,’ she says, ‘the gaol-carriage is slow and won’t travel the most direct route. If you go fast to Paris there’s a chance ... Certainly, if your cousin enters the prison, there is no hope for her. People are rarely ever seen again.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, considering my next move. I think for a moment. ‘You have carrier
pigeons here?’
‘Yes. Another affectation the poor hate us for,’ she says. ‘They’re not allowed to eat them.’
‘Can any fly to the east gate of the city?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you might send a message for me.’ I’m making calculations. The Sealed Knot have a man at the east gate trained to look for our codes. If I can get word that Grace is in a Bastille carriage, perhaps one of our men in Paris can intercept it and rescue her. The odds are not good, but it’s worth trying.
‘If you write it,’ says Madame Roland, ‘I will send it. You have my promise. I have made mistakes, I know, but I will try to make amends.’
I move to her desk, tear a small strip of paper and pen a note in code.
Teresa takes the message, places both hands firmly on my shoulders and kisses me on either cheek.
‘I shall put it into the hands of my most trusted servant,’ she promises. ‘It will be at the east gate within the hour. Times are changing for women,’ she adds. ‘You are welcome in my salon, Mademoiselle Morgan, any time you choose. My time with Robespierre is done. But I am still hopeful there can be change in France, without bloodshed.’
I return to the party in a kind of daze, thinking through my next move.
Carrier pigeons are unreliable. I can’t be sure my message will get to the right people in time. I need to get back into Paris and track Grace. I look up to see Jemmy striding towards me. He has a dark expression out of keeping with his usual easygoing nature.
‘Attica.’ He grabs my arm and moves me away from the elevated country views of the long windows.
I’m aware of a strange noise: a buzzing sound. Something I can’t place. As though the hum of party conversation is backed by a lower, louder din somewhere else. The music stops. There’s a scream.
We all turn in shock to see Teresa standing by the window, her face white, a high-pitched cry issuing from her thin lips.
At first I think I don’t understand her French. But then I hear. She isn’t saying words. It’s a noise of pure animal anguish.
She steps back, her eyes glazed like a sleepwalker’s and stumbles. A man catches her just before she falls, red ribbons fluttering.
The party is silent now. I’m suddenly aware of a strange noise at the glass of the fine long windows.
Tap tap tap.
The large apertures have the shutters open. But we’re a full storey off the ground. How could anyone be knocking?
Tap tap tap.
It comes again and then I see it. We all do.
Tapping against the window is a severed man’s head, stuck on a long pike.
Foulon. Or what’s left of him. The mob has brought him here.
CHAPTER 52
FOULON’S HEAD BOBS CLUMSILY UP AND DOWN, PECKING AT the glass. His hair is still dressed perfectly in the courtly style but the corpse lips are glued shut in a rictus of pain. One eye is missing and the skin at the bloody neck is hacked and tattered.
More people are screaming now. The head wavers, one-eyed on his high pike, tapping against the window tauntingly, as though he’s trying to get in.
Now I know what the other noise was. The strange humming is the roar of a mob clamouring in the grounds below.
There must be thousands out there.
There’s a loud smashing sound and then the tinkling of glass hitting the wooden floor. The head, on its pike, has broken through. Foulon’s single eye surveys the room like a macabre puppet.
I instinctively reach for my knife.
Shouts come up from the street.
‘Teresa! Come kiss your lover!’
Now stones and missiles are pitched through the smashed glass. A dead cat thuds on the floor and slides unceremoniously across the shining boards.
‘Attica.’ A calm voice cuts through the shouting. ‘Get away from the window.’
Jemmy’s hand tightens on mine.
He drags me to stand flat against the wall. We both stare out at the chaos in the room. People are running around like headless chickens. A rain of stone and rocks sail through.
Jemmy and I exchange glances.
‘The mob will come in the front door,’ I say.
He casts a glance at my fashionable dress and removes a pistol from his belt. ‘You won’t get out without my help.’
‘You have it the wrong way around,’ I say, pulling out my knife in an easy movement. ‘But I will do my best to protect you.’
‘Holy Mary Mother of God!’ says Jemmy, eyeing the curved blade with its dark wood handle and pointed back section. ‘That’s a Mangbetu blade. Where did you get that?’
‘It was part of my mother’s dowry.’
His eyes are glued to the knife.
‘A story for another time,’ I add.
I nod to the large double doors leading to the stairway. Between us and the exit are a run of long windows, several of which are now broken. Through them, projectiles fly. A hysterical woman dressed as a shepherdess makes a break for freedom. A gun-blast rings out and she goes down, a spray of shot shattering one side of her face. No one moves to mourn the dead woman. They’re all too scared for their own lives.
‘It’s a gauntlet,’ I say. ‘Anyone who passes the windows is a target. The escape route is blocked.’
‘A little organized for a rabid mob, don’t you think?’ says Jemmy.
I nod. ‘Perhaps someone else heard the diamonds were here,’ I say. ‘Someone doesn’t want survivors telling tales.’ I look at the double doors, then at the pistol in Jemmy’s hand. He understands immediately.
Jemmy pivots to the open window. He fires a loud shot downwards and flattens himself back against the wall. Shouting erupts from outside but the assault dies back.
‘We have a few moments until they regroup,’ mutters Jemmy. ‘Think we can make it?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
We set off at a sprint across the long ballroom, weaving through terrified aristocrats, reaching the doorway just as missiles start coming thick and fast again. Partygoers scatter as Jemmy and I make it into the hallway.
Together we scan a quick assessment. At the bottom of the wide staircase, the front door to the house is splintering. The mob is battering it from the outside.
‘We’ve got time to get through the servants’ entrance at the back,’ says Jemmy.
I take hold of his arm.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Those people got to the house with no alarm raised. We can’t trust the servants. At least some of them are complicit.’
‘Then the only way is up,’ says Jemmy.
We race up to the second floor just as the doors below us burst open. A swell of pike-bearing men and women swarm into the ornate hallway. Jemmy ducks a head over the landing and switches back.
‘We have to keep climbing,’ he hisses, keeping an iron grip on my wrist. ‘If they see us we’re dead.’ The staircase narrows as we reach the third floor.
‘This is where the household staff live,’ I say. ‘We must be wary, if they’ve turned on the Rolands ...’
The words aren’t out of my mouth when a footman with a sword emerges from a hidden corner of the stairs. He runs at us, blade held out. Jemmy dodges, drawing his own weapon so swiftly I could have sworn he was holding it all along. The footman advances and Jemmy parries his first swipe.
I duck between them and plunge my knife upwards, past Jemmy’s cheek and driving it under the ear of his assailant. I feel the pointed section pierce brain and then the man’s right eye fills with blood.
Someone is behind me, taking hold of my shoulder. A sword is coming towards my throat. I lift the hand, slash the wrist and turn, kicking back another surprised footman who stumbles and collapses, staring at the blood cascading from his severed artery.
I wipe the curved steel on my dress. ‘Come on.’
Jemmy stands open-mouthed, sword still poised. ‘You move fast,’ he manages, ‘for someone who dances like a wind-up toy.’
‘Some moves are worth l
earning, others are not.’
Jemmy is strangely quiet as we reach the top. Through a small door is an empty attic room with a tiny cot bed and thin blankets.
‘I never saw a Mangbetu knife in action,’ he says as I shut the door. ‘You could have killed me,’ he adds, touching his cheek where the blade plunged past.
‘I never learned from an African native,’ I say, moving to look out the window. ‘So I’m afraid I’m not using it as a Congo warrior might.’ I glance at him. ‘I won’t tell your pirate crew you were saved by a woman.’
‘You didn’t save me. Only speeded the conclusion.’
‘You can thank me later.’
‘So these are the servants’ quarters,’ says Jemmy, changing the subject, his lips a thin line. ‘Very different to the grand rooms.’
The meagre room is cold, draughty and ill maintained, with mould flowering on the ceiling.
‘There’s nowhere to hide,’ I say.
Jemmy’s eyes cast about the room. There’s a shout from the stairs.
‘I think your dead man might be telling tales,’ he observes. ‘Best put that knife away.’
‘I need it.’ Many footsteps are pounding upwards now. The walls of the room are closing in on me.
Jemmy turns to look at me. ‘Attica,’ he takes my shoulders, ‘there’s no way out of this room. If you start fighting a mob, you’ll end up worse than Foulon.’
My hand tightens on the blade. A dark panic is bearing down, something deep-seated and familiar.
‘So I just wait and let them capture me?’
‘You’re reacting to being confined,’ says Jemmy. ‘I’ve seen it in a lot of people who’ve been enslaved. You’re not thinking right.’ He catches my uncertain expression. ‘My mamma used to take in escapees in New York,’ he explains. ‘I can’t pretend to understand everything, but I know a bit. I’m bettin’ you’re not keen on official papers with your name on either.’
This brings me up short. It’s true; in Virginia this was our deepest dread. A named letter meant you belonged to someone else.
‘What do you propose?’ I ask tightly. ‘I throw myself on their mercy, in my fine dress?’ The see-through muslin outfit Angelina lent me is decadent and frivolous all at once.
