Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Because by the time I came back he was killed.’ Jack kept his voice low. ‘That was the reason. And at the end of the day, no matter what happened, when your brother gets killed, you can’t let that pass. I see that now. David was an arrogant, manipulative bastard – but he was my brother too. I’ll follow his clues no matter where and when I find the person who cut his throat, I’ll send them to hell.’

  Cleo opened her mouth to speak, but Jack looked across at her with dangerous eyes.

  ‘You’re helping me now, which is good and I appreciate it.’ He spoke with a quiet, calm authority. ‘But when the time comes, step well back.’

  It was enough to stop the conversation.

  They spent the rest of the drive in silence and it was almost two am before she dropped him off in King’s Cross. He thanked her for the ride and for the second time that night stood in the shadows watching as the Aston Martin accelerated into the distance.

  It was not until he was lying stretched out in another cheap and soulless hotel that he reviewed what he and Cleo had said. He could not trust her at all, he knew, but her help at in Aldershot and the lift back to London were marks in her favour. Her relationship with David, however, was still not entirely clear. Any clue would help. With that thought, David pulled out the stiff card he had grabbed from the floor of Cleo’s Aston Martin as he had exited it the first time. He lay back on the cheap polyester-cotton bed sheets and turned the card over his hands, examining it minutely under the timorous illumination of the seedy bedside lamp. It was a thick, white card of fine texture, gold-trimmed with elegant black print.

  ‘The Duke of Wellington warmly invites Dr David Starling to a Cocktail Party in celebration of the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, to be held at Apsley House, 149 Piccadilly, Hyde Park Corner, at seven pm on Monday the 15th of June, 2015.’

  The words ‘Dr David Starling’ were crossed out with the strong strike of a black fountain pen and ‘David’ scrawled above it. A personal touch for David, Jack thought cynically. It was no surprise that Arthur Wellesley’s descendent would be hosting a party celebrating the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo – that was the battle that put the ‘Iron Duke’ at the centre of Britain’s heroic pantheon. Nor was it surprising that David had been invited – Jack knew that despite his secret day job, David Starling had been one of the foremost British scholars of the Napoleonic era.

  It was a surprise, however, to find David’s invitation on the floor of Cleo’s Aston Martin. Jack gave a sigh and shifted slightly in the narrow, creaking bed.

  What am I doing? The thought sprung into Jack’s head. I’m trying to avenge David… not steal invitations to parties. Jack shut his eyes in frustration. I should be tracking down Deschamps… looking for him in Paris, not chasing mad dreams in London.

  But David was killed in London, not Paris.

  It came back to the gold. Find the gold and Deschamps will come to you. Follow the trail that David left for you.

  Jack frowned in the darkness. He had followed the trail, all the way to the Wellington Statue at Aldershot. All he had found was a string of numbers that might not mean anything at all.

  Cleo had said there was another secret, a way to decoding the numbers at the statue. If he was going to find the gold, it seemed he would need Cleo Draycott once again. At least he knew where she was planning to be tomorrow night. Jack tapped the card against his teeth, slowly considering his options. She knew more about Deschamps, the gold and the whole situation than she was letting on.

  Maybe I should go to this party after all, Jack mused. But… where would I find a tuxedo?

  0600 hrs 15 June 2015, St James’s Park, London.

  GR 51.501980, -0.132455

  ‘A tuxedo?’ Andrew looked at him with surprise. It was a cold Monday morning and broad swathes of unseasonal mist were lingering throughout the park despite the pale morning sun. The rolling parkland had a peaceful, timeless quality, but Jack was feeling exposed and vulnerable, regretting the suggestion of St James’s Park as a rendezvous. It had been a famous meeting place for spies and diplomats during the Cold War, when the open spaces made surveillance difficult. Surveillance had evolved since then, Jack knew, but at least there were no CCTV cameras in view, unlike most other parts of London. Instead, the great names of British power – Downing Street, Buckingham Palace, Scotland Yard – all lay within a street or two of their park bench. Jack sat with the shoulder-itching nervousness of a soldier who was pushing his luck. Early morning joggers and dog-walkers rolled past and Jack tried to ignore the feeling that each one of them was staring suspiciously.

  ‘Why on earth do you need a tuxedo?’ Andrew looked at him curiously.

  Jack smiled, enjoying Andrew’s bemusement for a moment. ‘I’m going to a party, obviously.’

  ‘A party?’

  Jack nodded as if it was a logical activity for a fugitive from the law. ‘Long story.’

  Andrew sighed, too nervous to play the game.

  ‘Never mind,’ Jack smiled. ‘It’s just an idea. Tell me what you know.’

  Andrew got down to business. ‘Well, police officers are still combing the town of Aldershot and surrounds. The Aldershot Station CCTV caught you leaving the station last night, but they lost you in the township once night fell. They’re wondering if you’re planning an attack against the garrison there.’

  Jack shook his head. When there was not enough data to follow, even the wildest of ideas seemed possible.

  ‘They’re not sure where you are,’ Andrew continued, ‘but they think it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught.’

  ‘It probably is,’ Jack agreed dolefully. ‘It’s like there’s a CCTV camera on every street corner.’

  ‘Almost every corner,’ Andrew nodded. ‘Over half a million in London, not including all the secret ones around the government buildings. It’s impossible to avoid them and the computer recognition software behind it is improving all the time. It identified you on the train last night, despite the hoodie and the sunglasses you were wearing’

  Jack sighed. It was troubling to him. All that government surveillance was an affront to the stubborn Britishness that was part of his natural makeup. He shook his head and focused on the issues at hand.

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘Ah,’ Andrew nodded, ‘Cleo Draycott. It’s a strange story…’

  ‘What?’ Jack looked across curiously.

  ‘Well, I looked her up on the system. It says she’s a New Zealander.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack frowned. He had not noticed an accent.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Andrew said, ‘but she’s a New Zealander who should be in New Zealand. Cleo Draycott, age 26, of Dunedin, New Zealand. The only time she used a passport was in 1999, for a school choir trip to Sydney, Australia. How she got to the UK, I don’t know. Maybe Cleo isn’t even her name.’

  Jack rubbed a hand across his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But the strange thing is,’ Andrew continued, ‘even though the record says she’s still in New Zealand, there’s a coded security tag next to her name – and it was put there by your brother.’

  Jack looked across at Andrew curiously, trying to decide the implications of the news. ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘Well,’ Andrew scratched an ear as he explained, ‘it means her name wouldn’t trigger a security alarm if a regular customs officer or police officer did an ID search. Beyond that, I don’t really know – and I can’t find out without leaving electronic fingerprints on David’s tag – and right now that would be… pretty unwise.’ He shrugged. ‘But at face value, it means that David Starling knew about her and that he wanted to keep her off the radar.’

  Jack nodded slowly. It sounded as though Cleo had been telling the truth – she must have been working for David and he had been using his influence to cover up her actions. But still, did that really mean he could trust her about anything else?

  ‘Will you see her again?’ Andrew asked.
<
br />   Jack grinned. ‘I’m not sure. She’s a wild one, but I can’t exactly call the police on her – she’s operating outside the law just as much as I am. And she knows it.’

  ‘So what then?’

  Jack reluctantly pushed her out of his mind. ‘Forget about her for now. Deschamps is the real enemy.’

  ‘Ok,’ Andrew let the matter drop. ‘I did a search on him as well. Nasty piece of work. Small time French criminal in the 1980s, slowly worked his way up and is, from what I can gather, a very influential player in Paris – and a lot of that influence is built on corruption, bribery and blackmail.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘It means that if you’re going up against him, Jack, then you’re going to have to be very careful and very lucky.’ Andrew gave him a warning look. ‘On his home turf Deschamps is pretty much untouchable – no policeman in France would arrest him, no prosecutor would try him, no judge would sentence him. If Deschamps was really responsible for your brother’s death...’

  ‘He was,’ Jack spoke with finality.

  ‘Well…’ Andrew paused diplomatically, ‘if he was, then it’s going to take more than mere evidence to get him arrested. Telephone taps, money trails, witnesses… none of it would be strong enough to make the French even try to arrest him.’

  Jack thought carefully for a long moment. Arresting Deschamps would be good – but only if justice was truly served.

  ‘Ok,’ he sighed eventually, ‘we’ll come back to that problem later too, I guess. But right now, he thinks I know something that he doesn’t. Which means I need to find out what it is as well. And that, Andrew, means that anything you know about that poem the better.’

  Andrew looked confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Right. The poem on the postcard.’ He grinned. Jack smiled in return. The shy young IT staffer had an understated doggedness about him. If there was ever a crisis, someone like Andrew would be useful to have around. Jack liked him.

  ‘So,’ there was a note of confidence in Andrew’s voice to match his smile. ‘I was thinking about it last night and something hit me.’ He pulled out a notepad and placed it across his knee. Jack could see he had written the words from the postcard down.

  Andrew read the lines out carefully.

  ‘Once first of London over see

  From arch inverse then fired Alder flee

  Satyr’s service held thee fast

  And proudly of his daughters cast,

  To shadow victors every breath

  Yet rode this rider after death’

  ‘And?’ Jack frowned. He had run the words through his head again and again to no avail.

  ‘Well,’ Andrew shifted excitedly, ‘it was the words fired Alder. I had been thinking about burning alder trees, or famous fires like the Great Fire of London, or the burning of Moscow in 1812 – given that was during Wellington’s time... but my thoughts kept coming back to where the Wellington Statue had been placed – in Aldershot!’

  ‘I know.’ Andrew frowned. ‘The postcard was from Aldershot, with a picture of the Wellington statue. Where else would it be.’

  ‘But that’s the clue!’ Andrew smiled. ‘It wasn’t fired Alder – fired is just another word for shot – it’s Aldershot!’

  Jack looked at him in surprise. It was as if something incredibly complex had just been made perfectly simple, like a children’s cartoon, when a curious scribble is turned upside down to reveal the picture of a man walking a dog.

  ‘Ok,’ Jack nodded, ‘fired Alder into Aldershot, I can see that. But what’s the point of it, if I already had the postcard?’

  ‘Because the whole poem is about the statue!’ Andrew was excited.

  Jack frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I was there, I found the code, but look at the words of the poem - From arch inverse then fired Alder flee – the statue was on a pedestal, not an arch – and an inverse arch would be upside down, right? Anyway, that statue must weigh 50 tonnes, it’s not fleeing anywhere.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s it!’ Andrew was triumphant. ‘It’s not fleeing from Aldershot – it was fleeing to Aldershot! The Wellington Statue wasn’t always at Aldershot Barracks, it was only moved there in 1885 – before that it had been in the middle of London, for decades – outside Apsley House, the Duke of Wellington’s home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack felt himself floundering out of his depth.

  ‘It’s a riddle!’ Andrew explained. ‘It’s all clues about where those numbers were to be found. I did some research and it all fell into place. You see, the statue was originally placed on Hyde Park corner, overlooking Apsley House – and it wasn’t sitting on a pedestal… it was sitting on an arch!’

  Jack shifted in his seat, thinking through the poem as fragments of old London lore came together in his head. ‘And Apsley House used to be called Number One London, because it was the first house people saw after coming through the Knight’s Bridge Toll House.’ A smile broke out across his face. ‘So Once first of London oversee means it literally used to be Number One London! So the poem isn’t nonsense – it’s a map – a map to find the clue.’ Jack could feel excitement rising through him as he began to spy the meaning of David’s words.

  ‘Exactly!’ Andrew breathed out in excitement. ‘Every line is part of it. The statue was an eye sore in its original location at Hyde Park Corner, but no one wanted to say anything because the Duke of Wellington was still alive. That explains the line ‘Satyr’s service held thee fast – the Duke was so respected as a general and Prime Minister that no one wanted to tell him how ugly the statue was!’

  ‘But why Satyr?’ Jack frowned, trying to keep up with Andrew’s explanation.

  ‘Ah,’ Andrew grinned awkwardly, ‘I think that refers to the Duke’s private life. He was a bit of a lady’s man, from what I gather!’

  ‘Really?’ Jack raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  ‘Oh yes. You would be surprised what our illustrious ancestors got up to!’ Andrew explained. ‘Apparently the Duke slept with two of Napoleon’s mistresses – and possibly his sister as well.’ Andrew grinned. ‘Apparently the mistresses both agreed he was a much better lover too!’

  Jack smiled. It was not really the sort of thing that his brother would have laughed at – David had always blushed easily at any mention of sex – but true to form, David had followed the truth and left that information in the poem to help guide Jack and Andrew toward the answer.

  ‘But what about this line?’ Jack continued. ‘And proudly of his daughters cast,’ He looked at Andrew in expectation.

  Andrew met the challenge. ‘That’s a reference to the statue itself – cast out of the French cannon captured after the Battle of Waterloo. Napoleon always said that the French cannons were his daughters… and the next line, To shadow victors every breath, another reference to the statue’s original location, where it would cast a shadow over Apsley House, where Wellington lived. Then, the next line – yet rode this rider after death – the death of the Duke himself, after which they could move his statue to Aldershot! It’s all there in plain English!’

  ‘That’s it.’ Jack sat back and scratched his head, amazed at the simplicity of the explanation. He grinned. ‘That’s it. That must be it – so every line of the poem leads to the next clue.’

  Andrew leant back and nodded in agreement. ‘Yep, that’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  ‘Which leaves us with only one real problem,’ Jack declared. Andrew looked at him expectantly.

  ‘I have absolutely no bloody idea what the rest of the poem means.’ He frowned and leant back against the wooden slats of the park bench. What had seemed so easy seconds ago was already sliding back into mystery and confusion. A friendly dog ambled past, closely watched by its owner and Jack let it smell the back of his hand before giving it a scratch behind the ear. Its owner nodded amiably and walked onward, clicking the dog to heel. The beast paused for a moment then galloped off after its owner, dismissing Jack in an instant. Jack smiled. He had always liked d
ogs and they had always liked him.

  Andrew broke into his reverie with a gentle smile. ‘So I was right.’

  Jack looked across at him. ‘How so?’

  ‘I knew there was more to the story than just that postcard. Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve already received the next piece of David’s poetry.’

  Jack felt a chill raise the hairs on his neck. Suddenly he was wondering if his companion could be trusted. What else did Andrew know? How could Jack have been so careless as to let slip that David had written more?

  0700 Hrs (0600 hrs GMT) 15 June 2015, Rue de Passy, 16th Arrondissement, Paris.

  GR 48.857847, 2.280398

  Deschamps peered suspiciously at the fragments of half-burnt paper spread across his desk. The small Italian criminal who had carried them from London stood nervously before him, dreading that he would be blamed for the burnt condition of the papers.

  ‘So Reynard has finally sent these scraps to me, 24 hours after he took them from David Starling’s home?’ Deschamps’ question was delivered with a hard-to-read mildness. He was dressed in an elegant silk morning kimono, while a tray to one side of the desk held a small coffee and a plate with a single freshly-baked croissant. ‘These scraps of paper? Nothing else?’

  ‘Si, Capo, nothing else,’ the Italian shifted from foot to foot. Deschamps looked at him expectantly, letting the silence stretch out to a torturous length.

  ‘Si,’ the petty criminal repeated, inevitably filling the silence with his nervous chatter. ‘I was with him there, when we were capturing the big Englishman. When we arrive and burst in, we find him by the fireplace, burning these papers. Mr Reynard, he stop the fire and bring these out. The Englishman, we try to make him talk, but he no talk, so Mr Reynard, he…’ Deschamps raised a warning finger. Taking the hint, the Italian rephrased his comment.

  ‘Mr Reynard… he finish having a talk and when we sit in the car, we hear someone else has gone back inside the Englishman’s house.’ Deschamps nodded – it had been his call to Reynard that alerted the criminal group to Jack Starling’s arrival.