Lady Virginia Strong, presumably. But where had she got it from? ‘In the report, you called the fleet the “Emperor’s Sharks”.’
‘Oh, yes! It is amusing, this name. I had not heard it before. But this is most typical of the Emperor’s style.’
‘Who would know about the details?’
‘Decrès will know something, but perhaps not details. No doubt there are clerks who could tell you of the details of supply. If it is so secret, Fouché himself must know what is happening. In the great chamber of imperial activity, most men have at best a simple candle. Fouché has the lantern; Fouché is the lighthouse. If you could find his plans, you would know everything.’
‘And the assassination that was mentioned, you know nothing of that?’
‘No, I have not heard of this.’
The conversation stalled rapidly. De Boeldieu was brusque; Roscarrock was absorbed in all that he had heard and read. The man in front of them, realizing their disenchantment, tried a final summary of the brittleness of society around an over-centralized and secretive Government, then subsided, surly.
De Boeldieu and Roscarrock waited fifteen minutes after a rather crestfallen Malmsey had hurried out, and then left themselves, unspeaking. De Boeldieu led them immediately into a network of back alleys, a different route to their horses. A short distance, and he started to murmur his thoughts on the meeting. Then Roscarrock, listening close, saw the sudden stiffening of his face, the surprise, and followed his gaze down the alley. Appearing around a corner was Malmsey: for some unfathomable reason, he had come back to the vicinity of the meeting and was walking towards them. He stared in immediate discomfort when he saw them, and hurried on, head down as he neared.
The briefest shared glance, and Roscarrock and De Boeldieu continued past him, keeping up a murmured conversation. Soon Malmsey was behind them, and they walked on. But they couldn’t miss the sudden shout of surprise, had to turn back to look. Malmsey was at a junction of the alleys, backing away towards them. As he retreated, his whole body rigid and alarmed, another man followed him, stepping uneasily forwards as Malmsey stepped uneasily backwards. They stared at each other, panicked and uncertain, and then the newcomer pulled his coat aside, apprehension and malice fighting on his face. In an instinct of action that surprised his observers, Malmsey snatched forwards at the other’s waistband and pulled out the knife and stabbed its owner in the stomach. Then he was retreating again, stumbling and confused, weaving towards Roscarrock and De Boeldieu with pleading hysterical eyes.
‘An informer! He’s a police informer! We know each other from years back!’ Roscarrock got only a few words from the desperate gabble, but enough. He and De Boeldieu were checking all around them, and then De Boeldieu had grabbed the flailing man by the shoulders.
‘What are you doing back here?’
‘I doubled back – in case I was being followed – so they could not easily follow—’
‘Amateur!’ A vicious spit from De Boeldieu. ‘Moron. And—’
‘That’s Nicolin – the spy – he’s a police spy – he must have recognized—’
‘And now he’s seen all of us.’ Roscarrock spoke over his shoulder, halfway towards the man on the ground. The man was a rolling, groaning bundle, hands clutched to his gut and covered with his blood. It was a terrible, clumsy wound; the spy could have many hours of suffering before he died – and time enough to talk.
Roscarrock looked at De Boeldieu; the Frenchman gave him the slightest of shrugs, a face of resignation and pity.
Roscarrock shook his head grimly. He stepped forwards, and knelt beside the informer. As gently as he could, he pulled the knife from the man’s gut. Then he placed his hand over the man’s mouth, and stabbed him in the heart.
Malmsey watched this horror, and as Roscarrock rolled the corpse into the ditch at the side of alley, he turned to face De Boeldieu again.
‘You killed him, you miserable bastard.’ De Boeldieu’s face was deadly. ‘And probably us too. Now get out of here.’
‘But – can’t I—’
‘No.’
Malmsey stepped away reluctantly, glancing rapidly at the various alleyways. ‘This way.’ Roscarrock was near them again. ‘The way you were going. Don’t stop, don’t make sudden turns or detours. And lose that stupid coat as soon as possible.’
Wide-eyed and small, Malmsey scurried into the warren of back streets. Roscarrock and De Boeldieu had a final glance for any sign that this melodrama had been observed, then strode away to recover their horses.
Two British spies, now party to the murder of a police informant, they stood at the French roadside.
Roscarrock said, ‘The coast?’
De Boeldieu pointed an elegant finger to the left.
‘The next meeting?’
The finger pointed right. ‘Amiens. Halfway to Paris.’
Tom Roscarrock looked at his companion’s sour, stolid face, and smiled maliciously at him. Then he pulled at his horse’s neck, and set off through the dust towards Paris.
‘I don’t care if the imbecile is dead!’ They’d never seen the Inspector like this. ‘He deserved to die! I’d have killed him myself if the English hadn’t saved me the trouble.’ Gabin had one substantial fist wrapped around the remains of a collar, knuckles pressing into the man’s throat. Now he pushed the gasping face away with a final roar of frustration, and turned to the other policemen in the room. ‘Your informer is irrelevant, you hear me? I don’t care if all your informers drown in the Somme tomorrow.’ His boots kicked up flour dust as he stalked around the pale faces. ‘Let me explain: on the one hand, the glory of France, the triumph of the Emperor, the triumph’ – he stabbed a heavy finger at his ambitious deputy – ‘of those who deliver him success. On the other, the life of a gutter spy. Now, you tell me if that matters.’ The voice was calmer now, but the heaviness seemed more ominous. ‘Bring me another informer. Bring one now, and I’ll kill him myself if that’ll help you understand this. It is vital – it is vital!’ – he almost screamed the word – ‘that the Englishman Roscarrock is free to operate. If the incompetence of this morning causes a restriction in his movements, then we are all, my friends, finished.’
Yesterday a deputation of merchants and banking men, styling themselves the Defenders Of Sound Money And Good Trade, were received by the Senior Secretary to His Majesty’s Treasury, Mr Huskisson. Their discussions have not been made public, by agreement of both parties. Nonetheless, their themes may easily be assumed by those familiar with the recent trends in economic debate.
The scarcity and the unnaturally high price of gold, consequent to the extreme and prolonged expenses of war and a regrettable tendency to hoard coin, have become commonplaces of complaint among men of business in recent years. An exaggerated discretion by His Majesty’s Treasury on the state of the nation’s gold reserves has not encouraged confidence, nor has the continued failure to mint the new guinea coins planned following the Union with Ireland five years ago. Gold and confidence are ebbing from London and from Britain, with the predictable and most harmful effect on prices and on stability.
The late public disturbances were a grievous blow to confidence. In combination with the precarious state of the war, they have raised a tumult among even level-headed men of business as well as having an inflammatory effect on the mob. Gentlemen, well before the close of the London season, are shutting up their houses in town and retiring with their families to farther country estates or for prolonged periods of travel abroad. The Duke of Beaufort has, without precedent, cancelled his annual reception. Loyal financiers and merchants sentimental for London’s continued pre-eminence as a city of trade as well as liberty will have prayed for some practical resolution in yesterday’s meeting. The rest are already shifting their activities to neutral lands and seeking means to accommodate their fortunes to the rise of Paris.
[THE TIMES, LONDON, 10TH AUGUST 1805]
11th August 1805
Roscarrock and De Boeldieu slept at the
vilest tavern they could find, a little off the main road. There was too much traffic on the road to be able to spot an observer. Later the next morning they reached Amiens, drawn into the sprawl of complacent townhouses and grim slums by the white mass of the cathedral that soared over the city, its vast, tiered frontage dwarfing the earthly buildings and busy finials scraping the sky. Again they stopped short of the prosperous centre and waited in a forgotten tavern of the outskirts. A one-legged landlord slumped on a stool behind the counter; just one other customer, sitting upright in a corner and playing patience with a greasy deck; silence, under the slap of the cards. Faintly, as they sat and drank and waited, Roscarrock had a perverse urge to rush to that great whale of a building at the heart of the city, just to prove that he was capable of escaping this life in the margins.
Half an hour after they had arrived, the patience player ambled across the flagstones and asked if either of them fancied a game. De Boeldieu grunted agreement, and the man sat. He was a big man, stocky but not fat, staring sombrely at the world from a heavy, jowled face. He shuffled for piquet, and De Boeldieu cut. By the time that the stranger had pulled a squat pencil from a pocket and started to tot up the first elements of their scores on the tabletop, the three of them were talking softly.
De Boeldieu checked that the man behind the counter was still out of earshot. ‘Monsieur Jacques is the landlord of a tavern in Paris,’ he said quietly, ‘and a man with many excellent contacts. He is a scholar, and a well-known card cheat.’
‘A scholar?’
The heavy face swung slowly to Roscarrock. ‘In the end, bottles were cheaper than books.’ He turned back to his cards. ‘Besides, books live longer in the memory than wine. Tell me, Monsieur’ – he leant intently towards De Boeldieu – ‘I must know; have you heard anything of little Joseph?’
De Boeldieu stopped fiddling with his cards. ‘He made it to London, and—’
‘To London?’
‘All the way to London. He died in my arms.’
Monsieur Jacques shook his head slowly. ‘To London! I did not think he would get to the end of the street.’ He pulled absently at a card. ‘Great hearts grow in the strangest places.’ A grunt from De Boeldieu. ‘Monsieur, I have a few pages of notes which I will pass you next time I deal. I am afraid there is little substance to them.’
De Boeldieu’s eyes stayed on his cards. ‘What about the Emperor’s secret fleet? Napoleon’s Sharks – what do we know?’
There was a grumble from within the man’s throat. ‘Gossip: a little; from the navy, and from the police. Facts: none. Fouché is very excited, though.’ He scrawled another number on the table. ‘His wife is in her forties and fattening by the day, and Fouché dines regularly with Madame Messines. That dry insect of a man fancies himself a philanderer; at least it makes Madame feel influential and allows me to get useful insights from her footmen. She asked him whether he wasn’t worried by the Royal Navy. He apparently said, “Ships? I have some English souls, and their ships follow.”’
‘It’s your lead, my friend.’ De Boeldieu examined his cards again. ‘But nothing on the planning for this fleet?’
Monsieur Jacques laid his first card. ‘Nothing at all, Monsieur. I have three different sources who confirm that Fouché has some great plan involving such a fleet, and the defeat of the British, but I can get nothing on the details of the fleet or its movements.’ He shook his head ponderously. ‘I have never met such an unbreakable secret. Fouché is a humourless man, but he’s very pleased with his plotting at the moment. That worries me more than anything, Monsieur.’
The tricks were taken rapidly and without interest. Roscarrock said, ‘I assumed that the unrest in London was influenced by Paris.’
The large man looked momentarily at him. ‘Oh, that is certain. Fouché is most entertained at how Britain weakens herself. This outrage you experienced in London last week, I have no doubt that he knew in advance that it would happen. The last report from Joseph showed this also.’ Roscarrock nodded. ‘And the details of the events – the rebellion by the soldiers, the load of gunpowder that is enough to frighten but not to destroy – he retells these things with great amusement. There was an Irishman, I think? Fann…?’
Another nod from the Englishman. ‘Fannion.’
‘Fouché proposed a toast to the events in London after he had heard of them. “A week ago I did not know the name of this Irishman,” he said, “and now I am in his debt.” He said he was looking forward to meeting him.’
‘That’s very interesting.’ Roscarrock’s face was dark and intent; he shook his head, trying to absorb the points. ‘He was going to meet the Irishman?’
‘He suggested so. He has left Paris now.’
‘You have impressive knowledge of Fouché – even after Joseph had escaped from his service.’
A little smile appeared within the heavy jowls. ‘We cheat, Monsieur.’ Roscarrock frowned in interest. ‘We benefit from the jealousies of the Government. The French navy distrust the Emperor and his plans, and Decrès – the Minister – hates Fouché. The sailors are unhappy that soldiers rule the Empire. They are worried that Villeneuve and the rest of their fleets will be sacrificed unnecessarily. So the navy have one or two spies who report back to them on Fouché and his activities. What they don’t know is that some of this information then reaches me. I have spies who report on the spies. It’s most convenient.’
They spoke about Joseph again, about the man who had hunted him. Over the second hand of cards, De Boeldieu asked about Paris and former acquaintances. Over the third, he prodded again for insights on Napoleon’s fleet and Fouché’s plotting. The fourth hand passed in silence, just the flick of the cards in the lifeless tavern, and Roscarrock saw the frustration in De Boeldieu’s face.
By the end of the fourth hand, Monsieur Jacques had won. He gathered up the cards, and looked at the two men opposite him sombrely.
Roscarrock said, ‘You look rather tired, Monsieur Jacques.’
De Boeldieu’s face darted round to the Englishman, then away more slowly. He nodded. ‘He’s right. You should get some rest, Jacques.’
Monsieur Jacques digested this. He nodded once at De Boeldieu with heavy finality, then stood and walked away with the greasy pack of cards buried in his big fist.
Outside, De Boeldieu said wearily, ‘And he too knew nothing of these Sharks.’
Roscarrock spoke pleasantly. ‘I didn’t expect he would.’ De Boeldieu’s face spun to him, looking for the insult. ‘Now, are we off to interview the Empress, or can we get back to the coast now?’
They rode in silence at first. De Boeldieu threw occasional glances at his companion, and eventually spoke. ‘My friend, our disappointments continue to grow, but you are become more serene. Is the situation of Britain somehow less desperate than I understand?’
Roscarrock thought for a moment. ‘No, the situation is very grim indeed. Without clear information on this magical French fleet, there is every chance that the navy will be unable to stop a French invasion. We are the only people who can get that information out, and we are in the middle of France with much work ahead of us.’
‘And we don’t even know the information! Yet you are calm.’
Roscarrock was watching the horizon, face inscrutable and hands easy with the reins. ‘Kinnaird once told me that there would come a time when I might have to be myself again.’ He smiled privately. ‘I think that time is very near.’
Jessel knocked softly, but the Admiral’s head flicked up irritably. He was looking worried, Jessel thought – less certain than he had always seemed.
The heavy eyes just watched him. ‘This summary has finally been collated, My Lord: Roscarrock.’ He passed over the pages, rolled tight.
Now there was interest in the eyes – almost a hunger.
‘As we suspected, there have been several Roscarrocks of interest in Ireland. No Tom Roscarrock that we have records of, but a whole family of that surname active in Wexford and Dublin. Radicals the
lot of them, certainly, and at least three brothers were part of the United Irish movement in ’98. One killed at Vinegar Hill, one executed, one escaped. They were too smart to get involved in Emmet’s rising two years back, but one or more of the Roscarrocks keeps appearing in reports about the continuing local unrest until it finally died down last year.’
Admiral Bellamy was nodding very slowly. ‘That’s fascinating. Where’s this from?’
‘Our files, and additional researches with Dublin and Belfast.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’ Jessel was letting his own excitement show now. ‘America: again, there’s nothing clear, but a Tadh Roscarrock – God knows how they pronounce that – sailed from the colonies to France in ’96, at the same time as the Irish representatives trying to get support for their rising. New York to Le Havre on the Jersey, January 1796. Age twenty-eight, which would be about right. Then – this is just an accidental observation by our clerk, My Lord, but one rather wonders – a Thomas Ross sailed from America to Dublin in 1801.’
‘Once things had died down a little.’ A nod. The Admiral stared fierce into the distance. ‘Damnit, Jessel, could our man really be one of this crew? That would be something else, wouldn’t it?’ The gaze refocused. ‘Unfortunately, this is a week late to be of practical use to us. Whoever he is, he’s loose in France, and we can only wait to see what he’s up to.’
Inspector Gabin arrived back at the mill in the middle of the afternoon. The meeting with Minister Fouché had been brief and typically direct. The Emperor was becoming increasingly distracted by the reports of Austria’s mobilization in the east. Diplomatic protests would do for the moment, but soon he would have to consider a punitive reminder of who now ruled in Europe. It was more imperative than ever that the invasion of England happened quickly. Minister Fouché had insisted to the Emperor that a few more days would see the final success of his plan for the neutralization of the Royal Navy. Minister Fouché had stated to Inspector Gabin, with ominous clarity that invited no debate, his expectation that the Inspector would successfully conclude the St Valery part of the operation accordingly. Inspector Gabin had given his assurance, and left.
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