The Scarlet Code

by C. S. Quinn

  Then the shape comes into focus and I see it is Centime. Despite it all, my heart twists to see her, standing at Salvatore’s side.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt her.’ Centime’s sad voice does something to me I can’t explain. It is worse than the cold water. I wonder if she really is here. If it is perhaps some trick of the cold and shock.

  Then she looks at me, and something passes between us. Salvatore sees it and his dark eyebrows knit together in fury.

  He strides back to the mechanism, and turns it fast. This time when I go under, I’m not quick enough to take a breath of air. Instead, I inhale a gulp of water somewhere in the freezing dark world beneath.

  When I break the surface I am upside-down, entirely disoriented, and choking on cold water. Slowly I am turned the right way about, and am once again brought level with Salvatore’s face.

  There is a horrible expression of excitement to his wolfish features, the close-set eyes hard and bright, the fleshy lips red and hungry.

  I am coughing, trying to breathe, and shaking uncontrollably from the cold. My heart is pounding; my forehead feels swollen, like a cold mask. I find I cannot move my fingers. It is as though my body no longer knows how to order itself.

  ‘Tell me where the pirate is,’ demands Salvatore.

  I shake my head. The world is sliding in and out of focus. He smiles thinly. ‘Then let us use some more persuasive tools,’ he decides. ‘Something from Monsieur Robespierre’s execution assignments, perhaps.’

  He retreats to the back of the platform, where I notice with an abstract kind of dread that he has a leather bag, similar to what a doctor might carry. As I’m weighing up the terrible possibility of what might be inside it, Centime walks closer to me.

  She extends a hand, her face screwed up in pity, and strokes a tendril of soaking hair from my wet face.

  ‘Poor Attica,’ she whispers. ‘You must not be so brave. He won’t stop. Tell him what you know.’

  I shake my head. She leans in closer, and now her eyes are at my chest. I am still wearing the amber locket given me by Lord Pole. With the suicide pill.

  Gently, she eases it open and removes the tiny glass vial.

  ‘Take it,’ she urges, lifting it to my mouth.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Please. The things he does …’

  I shut my mouth tight, and look away from her.

  Centime rests her head on my neck and a little sob escapes her. She thinks I will break under torture, I realise, and cannot bear to see it.

  ‘If it ends for me here, it will not be as Salvatore hopes,’ I tell her. ‘I will never give Jemmy up.’

  She raises her head, looking into my eyes.

  ‘You are brave,’ she whispers. ‘But it will do you no good.’ Centime shakes her head.

  She places a hand on my chest and jerks the locket free in her closed fist.

  From a few feet away Salvatore laughs. ‘What a venal creature you truly are, Centime. Surely you can wait until she is dead to rob the corpse?’

  She backs away, keeping her eyes on mine.

  Then she turns in a whirl of skirts, and returns to Salvatore, who is clutching a wicked-looking set of pincers. Centime holds the necklace aloft.

  ‘A spy device?’ she suggests, letting the empty compartment swing.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Salvatore barely looks at it. ‘You shall have to work harder for my forgiveness.’

  She bats her lashes and gives him a dazzling smile.

  ‘My darling, it will be the business of my life.’ She leans up and kisses him softly on the mouth. Salvatore winds his hand into her hair, pulling her head back. He finally releases her with a self-satisfied expression, looking at me.

  ‘You can never trust a whore,’ says Salvatore, gazing down at Centime. ‘They will always follow the money.’

  Centime turns to me. ‘Adieu,’ she says softly. But there is something in her eyes – a sadness. As swiftly as a card sharp, she moves her closed fist to her mouth. When she brings it down again her fingers are outstretched, empty.

  The poison pills. She was holding the capsules in her palm.

  Centime turns back to Salvatore, who is still gloating at his prize.

  ‘One last kiss,’ she says, ‘before I go.’

  ‘No! Centime!’ I close my eyes, trying to find the words. I am struck by an awful childlike fear of her leaving me here. It shames and surprises me all at once.

  Misinterpreting my horror, Salvatore throws his head back and laughs victoriously. He pulls Centime close to him. She moulds her body to his and kisses him passionately.

  ‘Centime,’ I say, helplessly straining at my bonds. ‘Don’t.’

  When she breaks away from Salvatore, her lips are already contorting strangely.

  She brings her dark fingers to them wonderingly, following the spasms of her mouth.

  ‘You were right,’ she says in a strange voice. ‘It is so quick.’

  Behind her, Salvatore’s smile of victory does a bizarre jig, as though the muscles have their own agenda. There is a fraction of horror in his expression as he realises something strong is burning him.

  ‘Centime,’ he croaks in utter disbelief. ‘What have you done?’

  Centime wheels away, panting, then falls to the ground, eyelids fluttering.

  ‘She got the stronger dose,’ I tell him, watching as Centime fades away.

  Salvatore’s fury at the unexpected betrayal could burn through walls. But it is too late for him. He tries to lurch towards me. Then it all happens so quickly, I can hardly believe it.

  Within two rapid breaths, Salvatore falls to his knees, his whole body gripped in sudden spasm. His arms wing out, as though jerked by invisible strings, then he gasps and slumps unmoving on the ground.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  LAFAYETTE SLIDES FROM HIS HORSE AND LEANS FOR A moment, pressing his head to the sweating flank. He has not slept now for two days. And still there is work to do. The King has inadequate guard. Grossly inadequate. Barely enough to form a colourful parade, far less defend a palace of the proportions here.

  The best he can do is dig in and await the breach. Because this flimsy palace cannot withstand even the most half-hearted attack by starving women. Seven long decades have lavished millions on broadening the doors, widening the windows and painting it all gold. He must only hope the King has dug some vestige of charm from his strangely mannered demeanour.

  Lafayette turns these things in his mind, when a strange little man approaches, apparently from nowhere. He is a pin-neat fellow, with the ink-stained fingers of a book-man. Likely one of the men from the National Assembly, considers Lafayette, with a lurch of unease. One of the lawyers. Though this man looks so pale and small as to be almost ill, with a disturbingly burning glint behind his round glasses.

  He bows to Lafayette. ‘A good evening to you,’ he says. ‘I am Monsieur Robespierre.’ He pauses and the next words seem to cost him some effort. ‘It is a good thing you did for France today,’ he says. ‘We were told you helped guide those women and stop them from tearing apart the palace. It seems you are popular with the people.’

  Robespierre makes a smile which is odd in the extreme.

  Through his exhaustion, Lafayette notices the lawyer holds a decanter of wine, clasped incongruously to his spotless shirt, as though the hand of a drunkard has been strangely grafted to the body of a pedant.

  ‘How did you get up here?’ demands Lafayette, attempting to shake back his tiredness and stand straighter.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ says Robespierre, ignoring the question. ‘The men at the National Assembly thought you should take some comfort after your long ride.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lafayette finds himself thinking he has seen this man before, but cannot bring to mind where.

  ‘Only to say, your watch is over,’ says the man. ‘There is no danger to the Queen. Most of the arrivals are asleep, or falling down drunk. The rest have returned to Paris, well satisfied with their King.’


  Lafayette nods. He is relieved, though a part of him feels there is something not quite right about this tidy little fellow, with his spotless suit.

  ‘You are one of the Assembly men?’ he asks finally, rubbing his forehead. ‘One of the lawyers?’

  The man nods politely. ‘No one of importance,’ he replies. ‘Only a messenger. But be assured, you may rest now. Your duty to the King has been accomplished.’ He raises the decanter like a peace gesture, then places it on the ground. ‘For your thirst,’ he says. ‘No glasses could be found. Food is being sent. The guard are under orders to alert you if any women make an attempt on the palace. But this seems unlikely. They are simple market people, exhausted and sleeping where they fall.’

  Lafayette accepts this with relief as Robespierre turns to leave. With a great sigh, he lifts the decanter, and tips an appreciable measure down his throat.

  He slides to sitting, running through the outcomes of tonight. The King and Queen are in their apartments. A scant guard is assigned to their protection. Enough, surely, to repel hungry women, should the need arise. He formulates other possibilities, but sleep is overcoming him. The situation is under control. The lawyer told him so. Guards will come if things change.

  Before he knows it, Lafayette is lost in slumber.

  Out in the grounds, the guard retire to their beds. The usual night watch come on duty – a handful of men to keep an eye on the glittering fairyland of Versailles, deep in sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  BOTH CENTIME AND SALVATORE LIE ON THE GROUND. HE is on his back, prone, features stretched in an unnatural expression, horror in the dead eyes.

  Centime lies sideways. Her lifeless face is peaceful. Blood seeps from her nose.

  My situation dawns on me by degrees. There’s no easy way off this waterwheel. And now the immediate threat is passed, my painful position, stretched backward and soaked in icy water, is more apparent.

  I set about trying to work my hands free, but it’s an impossible process, made even more so by the compulsive shivering that racks by body every few seconds.

  At some point someone will arrive, I decide, trying to ignore the seeping cold that clings to my sodden limbs. The waterwheels must be maintained. I’ll be set free and I’ll have to explain the presence of a dead aristocrat and his courtesan. The shaking grips me again. So long as the cold doesn’t shut me down before then.

  I make another futile pull with my wrists, gritting my teeth as the rope cuts into my trembling wrists. Just when I’m ready to give myself up to despair, I see a movement. Someone is climbing down from a gantry that supports part of the turning mechanism.

  I’m hopeful it’s an engineer. Preferably a naive one. But then to my overwhelming relief, I see Jemmy, moving down the overhanging structure with the rapid alacrity of a seasoned sailor.

  ‘Attica!’ His voice echoes above the turning wheels. ‘Attica?’

  But at the sound of his voice, something seizes tight in my throat and for a moment I can’t speak at all.

  I watch Jemmy’s slight figure climbing fast over the wooden edge of the wheelhouse.

  ‘Attica!’ he calls. ‘Jesus and all the saints, girl, just tell me you’re alive!’

  ‘I’m here,’ I manage weakly, fighting the constriction in my voice. ‘I’m well,’ I add. ‘No injuries.’

  ‘Thank Jesus above,’ he says, his voice shaking with emotion as he runs to where I’m confined. ‘You gave me a good scare there.’ He looks into my face, and begins untying the ropes.

  ‘You are not hurt?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I shake my head, but he purses his lips, unconvinced.

  ‘I know a bluff when I see one,’ he says. ‘You’re half frozen to death. Let me get you down.’

  I wait as he works at the ropes, drawing his sword and cutting away the cord with more care than I might have credited him with.

  ‘Can you stand?’ he asks, as one of my hands comes free, and he grasps it in his. ‘Mary Mother of God, you’re cold.’

  I try to answer, and find my jaw frozen. He cuts free the rest of my bonds without further comment. He catches me as I fall from the wheel, and suddenly I am able to talk.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a bother,’ I say, trying and failing to stand on my own two feet. ‘I cannot seem to make my limbs work.’

  He laughs in relief. ‘Cold water can have strange effects,’ he says, carrying me to the far side of the wheelhouse. ‘I’ve seen it before. You’ll be right in a few moments.’ He takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. Then he stands and walks over to the bodies of Salvatore and Centime.

  I pull the coat around me. The cold is abating, but for some reason I can’t stop shaking.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ observes Jemmy. ‘Your spy handler won’t be pleased with this day’s work. You were supposed to keep Salvatore alive.’ He seems pleased by this.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ I point out, through chattering teeth. ‘Centime sacrificed herself. Managed to feed poison to Salvatore, but had to take it in the process.’

  ‘I did wonder how they both died.’ Jemmy scans around the wheelhouse and then fixes on a pile of hessian sacks laid up in a corner. He lifts a few then lays them over the bodies.

  Relief washes through me, to have them out of sight.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t risk failing. And I wasn’t sure what side Centime was on.’

  ‘Her own, for the most part,’ I admit. ‘But she rallied at the last. How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘You mean, how did I know you hadn’t sailed back to England as you’d threatened?’ He smiles. ‘Like I said before, just a feeling I had. I figured you’d be too stubborn to come on your own, so I went to find you in the tavern. Only took a few pieces of gold to persuade the drunk old landlady to tell me everything. How Centime had drugged you. Some noble man had arrived from nowhere and taken you away.’

  His expression darkens at this last part.

  ‘They told her you were an errant noble bride, who’d run from your wedding. True enough in a way, I suppose.’ His eyebrows lift. ‘In any case, I tracked you here and listened in to some of what happened,’ he adds conversationally. Jemmy returns to where I’m sitting, and drops to one knee to look into my eyes. He peers intently then draws back, not entirely satisfied.

  ‘So, I’m a fool and a showy pirate who cares only for gold, eh?’ he asks.

  I shudder involuntarily. ‘I was only trying to keep you safe.’

  ‘I’m teasing, Attica. I was about to come in, guns blazing, when your girl there did my work for me. Lucky she did,’ he added. ‘I didn’t fancy my chances against Salvatore. But I would have tried. For you.’

  ‘For me?’ I try to smile, but my face muscles are working against me. ‘Didn’t you think I’d run back to England?’

  ‘I’ve a little more faith in myself.’

  ‘Your arrogance always was your worst quality.’ I’m smiling now.

  ‘Perseverance and arrogance are often confused.’

  ‘Salvatore sent a message to Robespierre,’ I say. ‘Telling him the identity of the Pimpernel. It is all over for me now in France.’

  ‘Never mind all that.’ He stands, raising me with him. His previous concern has been replaced by something more workmanlike.

  ‘How are your legs?’ His tone is brusque, awkward even.

  ‘Getting better.’

  ‘Then we must get you aboard the ship,’ he says. ‘With a little luck and a fair wind, we might get out before midnight.’

  ‘But …’ I try to stand alone, and this time am more successful. ‘Then we still have time.’ My eyes are blazing. ‘We can get to Versailles, stop Robespierre using his key to open the gate. Perhaps even delay Salvatore’s messenger …’

  Jemmy is shaking his head.

  ‘Salvatore told me there is another way into the Queen’s apartments, where her bedchamber is,’ I insist. ‘One that a commoner like Robespie
rre would not know of. I doubt Marie Antoinette would demean herself to use it, but if someone could get to her that way …’

  ‘It is perhaps a few minutes until midnight,’ says Jemmy gently. ‘We are miles from Versailles and you are in no state to go up against a mob of fearsome women. Even if you could ride faster than time, which you cannot.’

  I frown, trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘I’m sorry, Attica,’ he explains softly. ‘The thing is done. We tried but we lost.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  FROM THE EAST SIDE OF THE PALACE, ROBESPIERRE SLIPS out quietly. It is dark and no torches are lit. The soldiers are asleep. All about, women are snoring, sleeping off the wine. A few are picking around looking for better places to sleep than under the relentless rain.

  Robespierre can hardly believe it. There are thousands here. His heart swells a little. He is proud of them, these bold women. The simple purity of their message had so much more impact than the meandering politics of the men. Bread. Only bread. And here they are, with what seems like half of France alongside them.

  Robespierre looks out on the sleeping masses. They are so thin, so tired, wet with rain and ragged with exhaustion. Some have found barns or porticos to shelter under. Others have drunk what wine they could steal and collapsed on the open cobbles. He is struck by an urge to leave them here, sleeping. To save them an ugly fate at the hands of the King’s soldiers.

  Robespierre’s fingers linger on the lock of the gate – a preposterously gold-latticed thing. He has almost decided to turn back when he hears a high-pitched scream. It takes him a moment to realise it is a child. A small boy, perhaps three or four, though age is a tricky thing to discern in situations of desperate poverty. Robespierre has met seven-year-olds who don’t yet speak, and young women who look like old crones.

  The little boy writhes and kicks, fighting an unseen assailant. He is having a nightmare, Robespierre realises, and the realisation is more like a memory which blindsides him with its familiarity. A slumbering woman rolls next to the boy and tries to coax him back to sleep. Robespierre lets his gaze wander across all the sleeping children. The babes in arms. He wonders how many are here with their mothers, and how many had mothers who did not wake up.