‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur?’
Gabin looked up into the worried face. At first he’d thought the lad was a true-blooded revolutionary – there were a few around still – but he’d turned out to be just an old-fashioned, ambitious little sod.
‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ Gabin tried to look more encouraging; perhaps the young man was not, after all, reporting another failure. ‘It’s probably trivial. But you insisted that we should share every detail of these people.’
Gabin nodded, then held up a finger; it would do no harm to cultivate the local man. ‘A lesson in police politics, my young friend, since you seem like a fellow who wants to get on.’ There was no reply, but the brightening of the face told everything. ‘Incompetence and failure and disloyalty will cost you, and rightly so. But never be afraid to seem stupid. Some genuinely rather stupid men have made impressive careers for themselves. And half the time stupidity is just lack of guidance. Sometimes, indeed, stupidity turns out to be brilliance.’
‘It’s just local gossip, really, but you asked for every detail and discrepancy.’ Gabin waited; this looked like it was going to be stupidity after all. ‘The farmer Lamarque; where the Englishman visited.’ Gabin tried to maintain the encouragement in his face. ‘He has a wife, and two daughters, and his old uncle. Well, I was going through the reports, and it’s just that one old lady we were speaking to said in passing that Lamarque’s uncle died ten years ago.’
Now Gabin smiled for real.
De Boeldieu and Roscarrock were the rest of the day on the road back from Amiens, and the muffling peace of the summer evening had covered the land by the time they reached the outskirts of St Valery-sur-Somme. They were sore after a day in the saddle, and had long ago run out of things to say to each other. They avoided the centre of the village, but De Boeldieu stopped them at Marceau’s, a rambling and decrepit hovel passing itself off as a tavern. He went inside, leaving Roscarrock inconspicuous under nearby trees, keeping an eye on the horses and trying with a clumsy hand to restore normal circulation to his legs.
De Boeldieu was back within a minute. ‘Two messages. One good – the General will meet us – officially this time, I guess. Tomorrow night. We must decide where.’
Satisfaction cracked Roscarrock’s tiredness. ‘Good. That’s good. Can he come to us at the farm? It’s closer if he wants a look at the gold.’
‘Very well. I’ll ask. The second message is perhaps not so good.’ De Boeldieu’s usual flamboyance was flattened by exhaustion; he thrust a scrap of paper into Roscarrock’s hand. ‘Ah, my Roscarrock: even in France, the ladies, they reach out to you.’ The words fell heavy. Roscarrock was trying to decipher the handwriting and the French. ‘From my friends. Their ears, their eyes, they are well spread. Your friend Mrs Van Vliet – the fair Lady Virginia – was noted in an hotel in Étaples this morning. She was heard to say that she was heading for the town of Rue, in connection with some unfinished business of her late husband.’ Roscarrock’s jaw had tightened. ‘Does that phrase mean something?’
‘It does. It means she needs help, and badly.’ Roscarrock shook his head, and reached for his horse. ‘That damn woman draws trouble.’
‘She draws you, my friend. She is an elegant blonde woman with a most charming figure, and she is a spy; there has been no greater force for trouble since Eve.’ He put a hand on Roscarrock’s arm. ‘I cannot go, my friend. I have business here this evening and through the night.’
‘I know. Better this way.’ He was pulling himself painfully up onto the horse again.
‘Oh, I interrupt your liai—’
‘Just tell me where on earth Rue is.’
‘I’m serious, your French is not—’
‘I have to go! She may have vital intelligence about the Sharks. And—’
De Boeldieu patted him on the knee. ‘And I understand, my friend. Maybe there is a bit of the Frenchman in you.’
Roscarrock scowled. ‘Philippe, is there any chance of a fresh horse?’
‘From Marceau? Are you deranged? That man cooks any mammal that enters the district, and not well.’
FIELD REPORT, WRITTEN THE 11TH DAY OF AUGUST 1805
Chatham. An attempt was last night made on the life of Mr Fulton. As his coach progressed from London towards this place, it was accosted while crossing the Bexley Heath. Two horsemen emerged from the scrub and ordered the coach to stop. Though this desert place is notorious, their indifference to the coachman, their failure to make any reference to valuables, and their lack of any bags to carry off their gains, lead me strongly to suspect that these were no highway robbers. I was riding separately behind the coach according to our practice and, as they approached it, I engaged the men with pistol and sword, ordering the coach to drive on. The assassins loosed three wild shots at the coach as it escaped, but then did not linger as I advanced. The American is peevish but unharmed, and I have him fast and well-protected in the town here.
[SS X/42/61]
The little town of Rue was north of the Somme estuary, and Roscarrock cantered towards it in the last of the light, easing his horse to a trot as he got closer. Fortunately De Boeldieu’s directions had been good, along with the horse that he’d procured by some triumph of influence or larceny.
He rode through slowly, getting an idea of the town and where Virginia Strong might be staying. A line of dull stone and plaster frontages huddled under a fantastical tower in the centre, its miniature turrets shaming their ordinariness and disappearing into the deep blue sky. Fortunately there was only one establishment on the main street that would be acceptable for a Dutchwoman of quality or an English spy accustomed to moving in high society, and Roscarrock tried to mark the pattern of side streets and shadows around it as he passed.
He reached the far edge of Rue, and tethered his horse in an alley where there was less chance of it being seen or stolen. Then he made his way back towards the centre on foot. The hotel Lion d’Or was unlikely to have a tavern room dingy and inhospitable enough for a spy to remain unobtrusive, so he’d have to find somewhere outside where he could watch and wait for a sign of the lady.
He was still some distance short of the hotel when a coach overtook him, rattling and lurching on the uneven road. The coach was closed, which made for a basic comfort – but not at all ornate, so probably not privately owned. Perhaps a public passenger coach, then – and Roscarrock tried to remember how far Étaples was from Rue, and how long the journey would take. No form of idiosyncrasy or bravado was beyond Lady Virginia Strong, but travelling as a grieving and prudent Dutch woman she was much more likely to travel by coach than horse, and there would not be many coaches during the day.
The coach stopped outside the hotel, with a final stamping of its horses’ feet and creakings of its strained springs. The driver dropped heavily into the roadway, the little door opened and he helped down a tall figure in full cloak and hood. She moved quickly to the door of the hotel but, as the driver pulled it open and she turned to thank him, the light from inside shone brilliant on her face and a golden frame of hair under the hood. Something kicked inside Roscarrock, and then he scowled at his own susceptibility.
Others were getting down from the coach now; it might be continuing to Abbeville tonight, but the travellers would be given the chance of a drink first. Roscarrock was suddenly aware of someone near him. He’d heard the brisk beating of hooves, but his attention had been on the coach and that shining face. The horseman had stopped only a few yards beyond him, in the middle of the street, and was now watching the hotel as intently as he had done.
Roscarrock slipped further into the shadows, and watched the horseman.
The last of the passengers having descended, the coachman climbed up again and the vehicle lumbered a short distance out of the way of the hotel entrance. The horseman watched this, and then kicked his horse into a cautious walk. Roscarrock waited. Just across the street from the hotel, the rider turned into an alley. Roscarrock waited a little longer, but there was nothin
g more to see. He crossed the road himself and disappeared into the back streets.
There were days when Virginia Strong felt that she was gliding over the world, and she loved them. Too much of life was defined by the structures and rules of others. The restrictions of society, of conventions, of governments, were those of just another frigid governess and she first writhed against them and then created a life where she only conformed when it suited or amused her. This was such a day – of life, of pleasure, of gliding. No one could touch her, as she moved between England and France. Today she was Dutch, and it meant nothing. She could have been Italian or Turk and still she would have soared down the French coast, unrattled by the coach, unhindered by the soldiers, untouched by the war and the world. She could even have been English to the boy downstairs if she’d wanted to; she would have found a justification, a way to make it first attractive, and from there to make it acceptable. To be French would be hard, even if you wanted that restriction of identity and loyalty. But to be acceptably not French, that was easy. An Englishwoman, with a Dutch name, speaking French: she sailed through Europe as she chose, a spirit free of restraint and identity. She was not an English spy; she wasn’t an English anything. Nor was she French, nor Dutch. She was neither heroine nor traitoress. She was neither impudent nor undignified. There was no wrong place to be, no wrong thing to do. She was a free creature of the world, moving as she pleased.
The practicalities of life were tiresome: the long registration process with the rather pretty young man behind the desk; having to come down again to complain at the linen, to command laundry, food, hot water. But she stood outside herself through it all. Climbing back up the stairs, this free creature of the world was looking forward to washing herself and eating a hot meal. When she locked the door and turned to face her room, Tom Roscarrock was standing by the bed.
She stifled a gasp. Then she walked quickly to him and kissed him on the cheek.
Roscarrock frowned. ‘Your message said you needed my help.’
‘Help, never,’ she said. ‘You… always. I think someone’s been following me.’
‘They have.’
‘They could be outside now.’
‘They were.’ She frowned. ‘They’re now unconscious, gagged and tied, and under a pile of straw in a stable. We should be going.’
The tiniest flash of wonder flared in her eyes and mouth. ‘You’re mighty competent, Tom Roscarrock. Getting in here like that, too.’
‘If I can manage your corset, a shed roof and a window aren’t much of a challenge.’
She undid the clasp at her neck, and pulled the cloak back off her shoulders. Under it she wore a simple white dress in the French style, tight on her breasts and showing her hips as she walked to a chair to drop the cloak and kick off her shoes and then came back towards him.
She stopped in the centre of the room, as if finding her place on a stage. Then she looked at Roscarrock and, as though suddenly free of some great constraint, her face opened with an exhilaration that she could no longer suppress. Her eyes shone wide, her hands covered her mouth in a final moment of disbelief, and then dropped to release a long breath of excitement.
‘I met him, Tom!’ There was no affectation or control in the voice now. ‘Napoleon! The Emperor himself – I met him.’
He nodded his genuine respect, and watched the unfamiliar honesty with interest. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Small!’ She shook her head at the recollection. ‘An amazing man, truly. All that nonsense people have talked about him… But he really is extraordinary. A clarity, a conviction, and a… a drive. I’m not sure he’s as intelligent as they think, but he’s harnessed the whole power of France simply by being quicker to seize a chance than anyone else – and by sheer charisma. I just don’t see the old societies of Europe being able to produce a man to challenge him.’
‘And his secret fleet?’
‘I have it all.’ She waited for the reaction.
He smiled. ‘Honestly, I never doubted it.’ She flickered with interest at his sincerity. ‘Kinnaird’s network, the rest of the Comptrollerate-General, they couldn’t do it. But you did.’
‘Tom, I think you’re actually impressed.’
‘You know where the fleet is?’
‘It’ll be gathering within the next two days. As soon as I can get the message out, our navy can move to intercept them.’
‘Of course. We should be going.’ He turned towards the window, then hesitated. ‘I hope the associate of Emperors will not mind clambering over an outside privy to escape.’
She frowned. ‘We’re not going now, surely.’ He looked the question. ‘We can’t get anywhere, on land or sea, in pitch darkness.’
‘At least I can hide you somewhere else in town.’
‘I’m staying! I have no desire to spend the night in one of your stables.’ Behind the petulance there was professional calculation. ‘Whoever’s after me thinks I’m safely under watch here. Better to let them think that, than risk drawing attention to both of us, which we’d surely risk if we had to steal a horse or ride together.’ She lifted one delicate eyebrow. ‘I am… a little distinctive, Tom. Besides, this is much the most comfortable place to spend the night.’
He observed the performance. ‘De Boeldieu calls you the greatest force for trouble since Eve. I’m liking that man more and more.’
She was wary. ‘Are you sure which side he’s on?’
‘I don’t know which side I’m on myself. He and I have a healthy relationship of affection based on strong mutual distrust. Tell me about Napoleon’s Sharks.’
She pouted, but it was too girlish an affectation for her elegance. ‘I’d romantic notions of you, Tom Roscarrock. Perhaps you’ve been corrupted into bureaucracy after all.’ The glittering eyes and fidgeting body still burnt with her excitement.
‘Wouldn’t you rather pursue your romantic notions after you’ve escaped to England and saved the Empire?’
She was breathing hard, an animal after the chase. ‘This might be our last night on earth; who wants to talk politics?’
Her exhilaration would not be contained, and as Roscarrock kissed the scar above her nose, and pulled the dress away from her shoulders and let it breathe down her body to the floorboards, he rediscovered another part of himself. In a world where death waited in every shift of wind and waves, a man took his pleasures as he found them. She was right in that, at least. Every aspect of existence in the last weeks had become a veil: loyalties, affections, and even identities were distortions. He must start with what he knew. He was a man; he would sustain his life for as long as he could, and while alive he would truly live, by his beliefs and his instincts. He pushed his fingers into her hair, pulled her face up towards his, and his other hand moved down firm over the small of her back and on towards the swell of her rump.
They made love outside the ruled world, rolling free and wild, waves over the rocks, water eroding stone, each confident in their own secrets and an equal spirit. Later, lying on her side with the sheet still tangled around her legs, watching his profile and the rise and fall of his chest, the fierce marks of her possession still plain across it, she said, ‘Who are you?’
The profile turned to her for a second. ‘I’m waiting for someone to tell me.’
She poked him in the side. ‘Don’t play with me.’ More gently: ‘Kinnaird knew that you’d been in Ireland; America.’
He pushed his head back into the pillow. ‘All right. My family is Irish, though I’ve spent most of my life out of the place. The Roscarrocks are from the south-west of the country: Cork and around. My father disappeared when I was young – we were always told he was taken by the British, but I guess there was some Irish politics mixed up in it as well. You’ll never have heard of Conor Roscarrock, but around Cork they still sing of him.’ He glanced at her again; she laid a hand on the muscles of his stomach. ‘I was the youngest. My mother I think wanted to keep me out of the worst of it. So I was schooled away from home, and se
nt travelling. America, when I was older. It was an exciting time to be there – a new country creating itself. I listened to politics, and learnt to distrust it. I worked for a radical printer, McCulloch, for a while; travelled in the interior. I’ve spent a lot of my time in Cornwall – we’ve links there, and the Cornish think they’re a nation apart, which suited me. I’m a citizen of the sea as much as anywhere. I call myself an orphan, but that’s a statement of politics and geography more than anything.’
It came like a release.
Lady Virginia Strong was nodding, and finally smiled. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘You’re another free soul.’
He smiled, trying the idea, then sat up. ‘It’ll be light soon. I must go.’ He was looking down at her, enjoying the swelling of her breasts under the sheet, the candlelight in her eyes. ‘You’ll be well here? I’ll send someone when I’ve got you a boat.’
‘I’ll be fine here.’ She lay serene, face haloed by the hair that spread over the pillow and crept onto her naked shoulders. ‘Tonight was about finding you. I may have work to do still. Did you find your General?’
‘I found him.’
‘And the gold?’
‘Safe ashore and hidden.’
There was another flash of wonder in her face. ‘Of course. All ship-shape with Tom Roscarrock.’
He dressed quickly, and moved to the window. ‘We should get you out of France quickly. No delays or games for you.’
She nodded seriously. ‘Yes. Perhaps you’re right. Send your man quickly.’
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