The Scarlet Code

by C. S. Quinn

  I nod, rolling the wine bottle in my hands. ‘It is a calling card of sorts. From a very dangerous man – an arms trader by the name of Salvatore de Aragon.’

  Jemmy goes very quiet. ‘I know of him,’ he says finally. ‘I thought he was dead. Or hoped he was.’

  ‘You’ve never met him?’

  Jemmy shakes his head. ‘Nor would I ever want to. He’s a monster, Attica. Thinks only those with noble blood in their veins are real people. Common men such as myself are lower than animals to him. There are dreadful tales of him starving the workers on his family estate. Men, women children.’ Jemmy’s mouth is set tight. ‘Would that such a man had landed in New York,’ he says, ‘and let the street justice take him. We have no such deference to finery where I’m from.’ There’s an evil glint in his eye. ‘What business do the Sealed Knot have with him?’

  ‘He was imprisoned in the Bastille,’ I explain, ‘escaped when the prison fell. Went back to whatever weaponry dealings he had before. His recent killings don’t make sense. Since he isn’t a political man, the English government suspects he is being influenced. My mission is to discover the influencer and sever the connection.’

  Jemmy considers. ‘Out of character for your heartless Lord Pole to trouble himself with a few little murders.’

  I smile. ‘It’s rather he wants to free Salvatore from any distractions.’ I sigh, pressing a cool palm against my burning forehead. ‘Salvatore is an arms dealer. My government want him to get back to arming the French.’

  ‘Ah. So we’re going to discover who is putting him up to murder? Then let him get away with it?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ I tell Jemmy, wishing he’d stop looking at me so fixedly. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I add drily, ‘the pirate does not approve.’

  ‘I work for no king and my country is my crew,’ says Jemmy, ‘yet it occurs to me that since you’re living in France, you might not want to see it ripped apart by war.’

  His eyes are on mine, with their motley blend of deep green and flecked brown. I find myself considering the straight mouth and rather crooked nose – courtesy of his absent maybe-pirate father, who himself was likely of uncertain parentage, a jumble of dockside dalliances and foreign flings spiralling back who knows how far. I think of Atherton, whose light green eyes and narrow nose can be traced through several generations in portraiture. I have always admired his family’s legacy. For the first time I realise it could also be considered rather detached and predictable.

  ‘You might consider yourself a man of the world,’ I tell Jemmy, rubbing my head. ‘I am English. My country comes first.’ The wine is beginning to ease my headache. I take another sip.

  ‘Salvatore is in Paris tonight,’ I continue. ‘There’s an arms fayre in the Louvre. All the finest jewelled pistols and rifles.’

  Jemmy brightens. ‘Is there so? An arms fayre.’

  I smile. ‘The most prestigious gunmakers in France put on an annual event so ladies can elbow one another aside for the best jewelled pistols. Even the King and Queen sometimes show up.’

  ‘Not this time,’ says Jemmy, still smiling at the idea of a gun-party. ‘The King won’t come to Paris. He is frightened the people won’t let him leave again.’

  ‘He is right to be frightened. In any case, Salvatore will be there. So there will be another fayre somewhere on the premises. For the illegal buyers. Smugglers. Your line of expertise.’

  ‘I’m a pirate, not a smuggler.’

  ‘Surely there can be no difference?’

  To my surprise, Jemmy looks mortally offended.

  ‘There is a great deal of difference, Your Ladyship, not that I would expect a noble such as yourself to understand such subtleties. Smugglers sail at night, and murder any in their way.’

  ‘But don’t pirates—’

  ‘We fight battles. In daylight. There is a world of difference between an honest fight between armed men and a sneaking throat-cutter crawling around in tunnels like a worm.’

  I throw up my hands, exasperated. ‘Forgive my mistake. You are an honourable criminal, whatever that means.’

  Jemmy nods. ‘So we go together?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a party unless we did.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  INSIDE, THE ICEHOUSE IS DAMP WITH AUTUMN CHILL AND the several tonnes of Norwegian ice, stacked in blocks at the base of the egg-shaped cavern.

  Keeping a careful distance from the wet bricked walls, Robespierre tucks his hands into his pockets and watches Danton stamp against the cold.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Danton blows on his hands and eyes his small companion.

  ‘We must take care, always,’ says Robespierre. ‘There could be a time, my friend, when one or both of us are asked difficult questions. We must always be sure we have not been overheard.’

  He ventures a slim hand and pats the moist wall.

  ‘Ten feet thick,’ he says, ‘and the entrance three feet from the surface. This is the perfect place to exchange secrets.’

  Danton looks back at the doorway, tucking his hands under his armpits and shivering.

  ‘They really use all this ice, do they? The nobles?’

  ‘You are disingenuous,’ says Robespierre sharply. ‘I am sure you eat the sorbets at Café Procope.’

  Danton is uncertain how to take this small attack on his frequenting of the bourgeois café where Robespierre, naturally, is never seen, preferring a scant diet of fruit, when he eats at all.

  ‘Well then,’ coughs Danton, shivering again, ‘let us get on with it. How is your situation at the city customs gates?’

  ‘It is a lucrative source of information,’ says Robespierre. ‘Our men have infiltrated the guard, but the King’s men still hold a degree of power. It is a slow process.’

  ‘Control what goes in and out and you gain the Society a great deal of influence.’ Danton nods. ‘Ambitious if it works. Certainly it has not gained you everything, or you shouldn’t have summoned me to this dank little hole.’ He glances around with a shudder. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘Plans of Versailles,’ says Robespierre. ‘Can you get them?’

  ‘Should I ask why you need them?’

  Robespierre smiles thinly in reply.

  ‘I likely know someone who can get them,’ says Danton gruffly. ‘But if you’re thinking what I think you are, they mightn’t be of use.’ He pauses. ‘There’s a side gate at the palace,’ he says. ‘It leads directly to the Princes’ Court, and the entrance to the royal quarters. They lock it at night. Unless you can get a key, there is no sense to any of this.’ He indicates with his hunched shoulder the freezing chill of their clandestine meeting place.

  Robespierre looks thoughtful. ‘This should not pose a problem,’ he replies. ‘I know someone who might be of use.’

  Danton looks suddenly wary. ‘Max,’ he says, ‘I hear you have been making plans with the arms dealer?’

  Robespierre’s face clouds and Danton shakes his head.

  ‘No, no, Max,’ he says, ‘do not be angry. No one has broken your confidence; I only make my own deductions.’ Danton’s little rosebud mouth twists. ‘I have to say, Max, I don’t like it. Better do it my way. Run in, sword in hand.’

  Robespierre manages a small smile. ‘Not all of us are born to be heroes.’

  Danton’s eyes rest on Robespierre’s tiny frame, short and thin as the malnourished fishwives on the market square. ‘They are not to be trusted, the nobles,’ he says.

  Robespierre smiles slightly. ‘You are a little afraid of them, I think.’

  ‘You’re damn right, I’m afraid of them,’ says Danton, trying ineffectually to pull his coat tighter around his big belly. ‘Only a fool would not be afraid. Their cruelty. Their singular ability to see us all as animals.’ He shudders, but not from cold.

  ‘Such things can be put to good use, if channelled properly.’

  ‘And so you hide behind this man. But be careful you do not become like them, Max.’ Danton waves a fat
finger. ‘You think you can distance yourself from this Salvatore fellow; you cannot. I have met men like him before. Lone men. Ones who cannot work with others. Good killers, to be sure. But bad recruits. Ah, but I see you have already made up your mind. Well then! The blood is on your hands. Only be careful. You can best Salvatore at chess, but must allow for the fact he may kick the board over.’

  ‘I am always careful.’

  ‘Just like the Pimpernel, eh?’ agrees Danton goodnaturedly, failing to notice how the comparison draws a flash of rage in his friend. ‘Have you discovered anything to unmask him?’

  Robespierre shakes his small head slowly.

  ‘But you thought there was a pattern to those this Pimpernel fellow chose to aid?’

  Robespierre’s eyes have a distant look. ‘There is something,’ he says. ‘I am sure of it.’ He holds up a list. ‘Here are some of the people he smuggles from justice. Women. Children. I became certain there was a theme. Something to join them all together.’ Robespierre taps his mouth with slim fingers. ‘The children were a distraction. The women, slave reformers all. Women with powerful influence, one way or another. Money, contacts. Husbands with plantations.’

  ‘You thought our dashing rescuer an abolitionist,’ says Danton. ‘The information you requested on the Lisbon docks might confirm it.’ He pats his waistcoat but does not make to remove any papers. ‘You may be intrigued to know that place is where the Pimpernel’s last rescue was held. It is a slave ship dock. A place where the vessels depart for Africa. This confirms your own findings?’

  ‘It does.’ Robespierre’s face is unnaturally still, like a mask. Then he speaks.

  ‘It was burned down?’ he confirms softly.

  ‘Quite the statement, eh?’

  ‘This is something,’ breathes Robespierre. ‘It tells us a great deal. For the setting fire to the dockyard was unnecessary by all accounts. Far easier to sail free with his prize than risk alerting guards to a fire. A reckless man, then. Flamboyant, and fond of drawing attention to his daring deeds.’

  Robespierre is pacing in a small circle and seems to have forgotten Danton is there. He taps his fingers and looks alarmed when Danton clears his throat.

  ‘Perhaps he sends me a message.’ Robespierre’s eyes are burning. ‘A taunt. He knows I speak out against slavery. I think … I believe a part of him wants to be found. Like all great men, he yearns for his genius to be recognised. It is not enough he performs his daring rescues. He wants to be admired. Even celebrated. Yet he is underestimated by those around him; belittled and passed over for some reason I can’t discern.’

  Danton reaches across and pats Robespierre kindly, the way one might a dog. ‘You speak of yourself, perhaps, my friend.’

  Robespierre adjusts his neat white wig, and eyes with displeasure the part of his shoulder where Danton’s hand was moments ago. ‘We are alike, I think.’

  ‘Your cleverness will be discovered soon enough – you can be sure of it. Things in Versailles are bound to change before long. It is cold,’ he adds. ‘Better go before we catch a chill.’ Danton gives Robespierre a long look. ‘Good God, man, don’t you even feel it?’

  Robespierre glances distractedly around. ‘They shall come for us, you know,’ he says, pale fingers adjusting his glasses. ‘This unforgivable audacity cannot be borne. As soon as the pressure is lifted they will find a reason and they shall execute us terribly.’

  Danton lays a heavy hand on Robespierre’s shoulder.

  ‘I know it, my friend,’ he says gravely. ‘If we have done a little good, perhaps it will be worth it. That is how I sleep at night. That and the wine.’

  Robespierre’s lip twitches. ‘What if I could save us, Georges? All of us? What if I could make us safe?’

  There’s a pause as Danton searches Robespierre’s face for the slightest hint of uncertainty. He doesn’t find it.

  ‘Well then, you must do it,’ he says quietly. ‘You must do it.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MY CARRIAGE PASSES ALONG THE RUE DE RIVOLI, JOLTING along the cobbles. I am out of the habit of formal clothing these past months. Since the Bastille fell, aristocratic ladies are at pains to appear meritocratic. Their salons are accordingly open for all walks of life and dress, not wishing to make their common guests feel underdressed. The fashion is for floating gauzy things with ribbons. There is a strong move to ancient democracies. Greek and Roman.

  In contrast, I am feeling hemmed in, rather literally, by my heavy party wear. I’m wearing a deep red velvet over-mantle, studded along the bias-cut opening with silver buttons that run from my neck to my ankle. My elbow-length gloves are matching, as is the scarlet ostrich feather swaying atop my dark hair. Lord Pole’s amber locket, with its consignment of deadly poison, hangs at my neck.

  The boxy lines of the Louvre come into view, resplendent by the light of a hundred flaming torches. Carriages are rolling lazily into the open courtyard, disgorging an assortment of fabulously dressed nobles. As my horses come to a halt, the door is opened by a dark-haired man. He looks so much a highwayman that my hand is halfway to my knife before I realise it’s Jemmy.

  ‘I had forgotten your penchant for arming yourself for social occasions,’ I remark, as he hands me down. ‘Does all that metal play a tune as you walk?’ His waistband is stuffed with both dagger and sword – with jewelled hilts, naturally – and his usual flashy pistols have been replaced with even louder substitutes.

  ‘Even pirates know how to dress for smart occasions,’ he says proudly, patting the elaborately enamelled gun butts. ‘You know how to play the part, that’s for sure,’ he adds, letting out a long whistle as he eyes me up and down. ‘How long did the hair take?’

  I reach up to touch the tower of waxed and jewelled hair with its waving feather. ‘Two hours,’ I admit. ‘It was very dull.’ Even so, my hair is nothing to most of the towering constructions worn by ladies here.

  ‘The amber necklace doesn’t match, mind,’ he adds. ‘A little something from the Sealed Knot? Will it explode if I touch it?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You’re expected to arrive in a carriage,’ I add, looking around to see who has noticed. ‘It’s all part of being admitted. You have to put on a show.’

  ‘Never was one for etiquette of that kind,’ admits Jemmy, shining a button with his finger. ‘Clean clothes, shiny boots, a few jewels on your weaponry and the rest can go to hell, so it can. Besides, you’ve etiquette for both of us, I reckon.’

  Behind us, a steady stream of carriages are depositing splendidly dressed aristocrats, and wheeling away again. I watch a couple, dripping in silks, lace and gems like exotic birds.

  ‘They have no idea, do they?’ says Jemmy, watching their faces as they promenade towards the door. ‘Their days of living off the backs of common folk are numbered. All this is already gone.’ There is a hard set to his jaw.

  ‘The French aristocracy has existed for over four hundred years,’ I tell him. ‘They will carry on in one form or another.’

  ‘You see things as an Englishwoman,’ replies Jemmy lightly, adjusting the sword at his hip. ‘We Americans see the possibility for change in a way you cannot.’

  ‘I thought you were Irish?’

  ‘Depends on the arresting officer. I have been known to be Spanish, if it can get me good terms with the judge.’

  My mind swings to the Bastille, now nothing but an enormous hole in the ground; lined with hawkers selling stones and hinges. I remember the mood of the people who stormed the prison, how impossible things are done when starvation is the only option.

  We have neared the magnificent entrance to the palace now. Fortunately, in the maelstrom of preposterously decorated carriages, Jemmy’s arrival à pied seems to have gone unnoticed.

  A thundering of wheels close behind causes us both to turn sharply. Four enormous plumed horses, their glossy coats slick with sweat, drag a bulbous carriage on enormous gilded wheels. The weight of decorations is pushing it low o
n its leather suspension straps.

  ‘That bloody dandy has near killed those poor horses,’ mutters Jemmy, his hand falling to his sword. ‘I’m going to have words.’

  I put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I’d lay odds this is the man we’ve come to meet.’

  Jemmy and I watch as the carriage jolts to a halt. My eyes move to the driver. He sits in front, reining the horses with cruel ferocity. My eye is instantly drawn to his outlandish dress – far too elaborate for a coachman. His coat and breeches are of aquamarine silk, brocaded a full two inches on every hem with pearls and gold. A munificent flounce of Flanders lace is at his neck, under a high snowy-white linen collar tied with a black silk ribbon. His face is wolfish, with a pronounced widow’s peak to his dark hair.

  Salvatore, I presume.

  Through the glass window, I catch sight of a beautiful girl, her face twisted as she bounces uncomfortably on her satin seat. She’s so arresting I find myself staring.

  The girl’s skin is black – the kind of flawless ebony you rarely see outside of the plantations. Unusually she wears no wig. Her tightly curled hair is swept high and pinned with jewels, a few tendrils free to brush her slender neck. She wears a strangely formal dress for someone of her age, thick embroidered panels holding her upright.

  Is she a slave? A servant? She is dressed too finely for either.

  Unlike most captive slaves she is rather slight. The rigid embrace of her corsetry amplifies the birdlike quality of her slender frame as something fragile and vulnerable. Since she sits alone, she must be a hugely wealthy lady or a courtesan. But it is almost unheard of for a black girl to be either.

  I switch my eyes back to the driver, now dismounting. Two footmen almost fall over themselves to reach the carriage.

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis Salvatore de Aragon,’ mumbles one, bowing very low.

  Salvatore arches an eyebrow, like a sneer. His skin has a deathly prison pallor that sets a doubly unnatural tone to his bloodshot close-set eyes. He looks like a predator.

  ‘Find me a new driver,’ Salvatore says, tossing the reins to the footman. ‘The fool I just kicked into the gutter would have taken all week to get us here.’