Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain
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“No; no.” Sunbury stared down at the floor. “I don’t suppose it is.”
Text of a letter to Baron Klemens Manfred von Wolgast from the defrocked priest Paul Reighert.
Chez Noir, Berlin February 19, 1910
My dear Baron;
Your generous donation has arrived without incident, and l am now about to put into action the plan we discussed four days ago. It may seem a needless delay, but 1 am going to find the most reliable men I know of to do the work. You will be pleased to know that two of the men I mentioned to you have already responded to my summons and have declared themselves willing to undertake the surveillance you require. As soon as word comes from my associate in London, it will be possible to commence the thing in earnest. A week from now, I am confident it will not be possible for Ragoczy to make a move without note of it being made.
It may be necessary for me to offer larger amounts than we originally thought would be needed to pay for the service you are seeking. Should that happen I will notify you at once, so that we may have the opportunity to arrange matters to your satisfaction. Bernard in Amsterdam has named a price higher than I anticipated, but I must tell you that his skills are such that it is worthwhile to pay for them. You will not find better for any sum. I do not yet know how much Pollard in London will want, but I advise you to meet it, for no man is better at following without detection than he; I have used him five times in the past and no one has ever detected his presence. Certainly you know it would not serve your purpose to have this observation discovered, and in that case, Pollard is your man. He is also not given to boasting or idle talk, a factor
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nearly as valuable as his skill in watching. You will not want to engage men who trade upon the confidences of their employers.
I am confident that we will have all the particulars on Ragoczys mission before summer, as well as details on whatever progress he may have made. Once that information is obtained, it will not be difficult to undermine the work he is doing, and compromise him in the Czars eyes. I will be at your service then as well as now, to bring about your goals. If my years as a Jesuit taught me nothing else, it gave me instruction in craftiness. As long as you are satisfied with my activities I will continue to devote myself to your cause.
Sincerely,
Reighert
4
In the end, Ragoczy motored to Chalfont Saint Giles with only Harris and Roger for company: a Friday afternoon meeting with King Edward had necessitated a days delay in London while Ragoczy went to Windsor and presented the letter from Czar Nicholas and outlined the Czars hopes for a limitation on the manufacture of arms.
“That’s all well and good,” Edward declared toward the end of the unofficial audience held in a garden folly on Windsor’s grounds where they would not be disturbed. Their talk lasted longer than the forty minutes that had been allotted to it and the day was drawing on toward evening and the winter twilight was taking hold of the sky by the time they concluded their conversation. “I am inclined to support Nichi’s goal, but this situation in South Africa must be completely resolved before I will be in any position to agree to limit the manufacture of arms. Fortunately most of the matter has been settled. It will not be long before it is completed; Parliament approved the South Africa Act last year. You will have to tell the Czar he will have to wait a few months, Count, before I can endorse his efforts. When I am at liberty to do so, I will be inclined to favor his plan. I am certain all will be in order by summer, and that is not more than three months, four at the most. I know he will understand; he’s my newy.”
The resemblance between Nicholas and his Cousin Edward was not
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readily apparent: on a second look it could be discerned, their shared legacy from Queen Victoria. But Edward’s color was higher than Nicholas’, his body larger, and he breathed with effort. Even in a simple dark suit, Edward had the manner of a man used to attention, and for that reason alone he made an effort to conceal the extent of his physical distress. Ragoczy noticed with concern that even sitting in this garden folly, the British King was not rested. “I will convey your predicament to him, Majesty.” He used the most correct title Edward possessed, although he knew many Britains did not; as an emissary and a foreigner, Ragoczy knew that his position did not allow for lapses in form. “And I will await the Czar’s instructions.”
Edward had a ferocious smile that made his beard thrust forward. “You may want to meet with me again. No reason for us not to arrange the basic terms of this agreement while the situation in South Africa is regularized. None of this is so official that I will have to present it formally, which is all to the good.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Nicholas is finding out what it is like, having a government to answer to, with that Duma. Of course,” he added mischievously, “it does provide a group to blame.”
“Is there some reason you anticipate blame, Majesty?” Ragoczy asked with sudden awareness of danger.
“Oh, there is always someone who will protest, no matter what. The bloody Irish haven’t yet finished blowing up English soldiers. They will not welcome peace. Nor would those factions in the Balkans. That has been going on as long as we English have had to contend with the Irish. Damn the Turks.”
“It has been going on far longer than the Turkish presence, I fear, Majesty,” Ragoczy said, remembering the many outbreaks of regional fighting he had witnessed in the Balkans over the last two thousand five hundred years. “If it were only the Turks, peace would have been negotiated there after the Siege of Vienna.”
Edward sighed. “You may be right. It is regrettable, and the risks go beyond the Balkans themselves.” He squared his shoulders. “You may rely upon it: the Serbs and Croats don’t want peace any more than the Irish do. Any attempt to limit arms production would enrage any and all of them, if they knew of it.” He studied Ragoczy a moment. “Tell my newy Nicholas for me that although I am unable to do anything official quite yet, I will arrange what I can with you; I will speak with George about this, as well.” The mention of his heir was awkward; he cleared his throat. “I assume you will be willing to continue our discussions on a clandestine basis?”
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“Whatever will best serve the purpose of the Czars commission,” said Ragoczy, so smoothly that he earned a sharp look from the King.
“Yoti’re mighty practiced at this game, Saint-Germain, though you go to some lengths to disguise your talents, which only serves to confirm them.” Edward shoved himself to his feet. “I begin to appreciate Nicholas’ choosing you for this project of his. At first I was at a loss why he did not employ a Russian for his emissary, but I am beginning to understand. After what happened at The Hague, I can grasp his reasons for a less public agreement, if he is of a mind to delay or prevent war. If my mother had been more determined to have peace then, it might have succeeded.” He stared off into the distance, as if remembering Victoria evoked so much he could not give his attention to Ragoczy and his memories at the same time.
“The Hague was not what Nicholas had hoped it would be,” Ragoczy said carefully, knowing that he was on poor footing. Any remark he made that could be construed as disparaging of the Czar would earn Edward’s immediate disapproval whether Edward agreed with Ragoczy or not.
Edward got up abruptly; Ragoczy did the same, moving more gracefully than the King. “It’s getting dark. We’d probably better go in. There will be tea and sherry. I would invite you to join us, but the French Ambassador would be offended. Very touchy about protocol, the French. To say nothing of the nature of your work. We don’t want your purpose known or speculated about. I’ll have a word with George later in the evening, so he will know what his Russian cousin is doing.” He accepted Ragoczy s bow. “I will expect to hear from you within the fortnight. Give my regards to Nichi, and my nephew Willy.” Without looking to determine where his escort was, he stumped down the steps and trod hea
vily off across the garden, paying no heed to the two men who scrambled after him.
Motoring to Chalfont Saint Giles the next afternoon, Ragoczy had leisure to review all he had been told by Edward and to enlarge on the report he was preparing for encoding for Czar Nicholas, which he would deliver to the Russian embassy the following week, to be hand-carried back to Nicholas. He was afraid that what he told the Czar would not encourage him, and that caused him a few qualms.
“Which turn were we told to take?” Harris asked as they passed Chalfont Saint Peter’s on Denham Lane.
Roger answered for his master. “The second turn on the left after Chalfont Common on the right. There ought to be a gatehouse.” He studied the map Sunbury had sketched for them.
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“A gatehouse on the left. Very good,” said Harris, who did not like taking instruction from Roger.
The gatehouse had originally been built in the reign of Henry VIII and still showed the half-timbering that was characteristic of the Tudor style. But the roof had been recently ornamented with gargoyle spouts along the edge of the roof-slates and the mullioned windows had modern stained glass inserts of lotus blossoms and blooming wisteria. The gate itself was wrought-iron in a design of roses on a trellis, and was manned by a bored, middle-aged servant who put aside the penny-dreadful he had been reading to inquire who the late arrival in the Silver Ghost might be. “They thought you’d be here sooner, Count. They’re having charades tonight, and cards,” he informed Ragoczy as he checked the list of invited guests and compared it to the inscribed card Roger handed to him.
“Is that the whole of it? Charades and cards?” Harris asked as they went through the opened gates; he had assumed that among the aristocracy parties would be more interesting, more scandalous.
“Probably not, but it is all he will admit to us,” said Ragoczy dryly, doing his best to keep from being troubled by the possibility of scrutiny. If such surveillance was taking place, the ones who would be most keenly aware of it would be the servants. “Roger, if you will, listen to the servants. I am curious what their—”
“Gossip is, yes, my master,” said Roger with so little inflection that it was difficult to decide how he felt about such an assignment.
“You listen to servants? Why?” Harris asked, startled at the notion that Ragoczy might have done the same for him. “Not to overstep myself, sir,” he added conscientiously.
“Yes, I listen to servants; a man in my position is a fool if he does not. Servants know so much more than most give them credit for knowing. I have come to value what they learn, and to appreciate their opinions.” He shifted in the seat as he became aware that Harris was trying unsuccessfully to locate him in his rearview mirror.
Roger provided a distraction. “Be alert, Harris,” he said. “Longacres is said to have a herd of deer wandering the grounds. It is late enough in the day that they might well be about.”
“Deer,” he repeated, and thought briefly that he was being twitted.
“The herd is considered one of the finest of its sort,” said Ragoczy, his manner wholly sincere.
Harris shook his head as he tried to decide why anyone would want a private herd of deer. He supposed they were being raised for venison. Obediently he put his concentration on the rhododendrons flank-
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ing the road. To be doubly safe, he switched on the lights although it was still light enough without them. He slowed down for extra safety, and was therefore more able to gawk at the impressive mansion that came into view as they rounded the bend leading to a small stone bridge over a stream running next to the flank of the building.
The Longacres house was in the shape of a capital I, its upper and lower cross-beams extended to the east to create a wide, shallow courtyard paved with old stones taken from the original wall that once surrounded the place. The central part of the massive house was thirteenth century, the stone worn and uneven except where the ongoing repairs had mended them; scaffolding and canvas drapes indicated the work was not yet finished. The crosses at the end were Tudor, replete with the Tudor kettle arches, with low-relief carvings of the family device— nebule per fess, azure over argent, in bend three martlets volant sable—above them, recalling the time when the Pearce family fortunes had flourished. Most of the windows were new, with art nouveau stained glass panels worked into them. The house had been wired for electricity six years ago and now it sparkled as the lights were turned on for the guests gathering for tea.
“Will you look at that?” exclaimed Harris as he brought the Silver Ghost to a halt at the edge of the graveled drive.
Ragoczy who had seen everything from hovels to pyramids, from caravan camps to the Forbidden City, from the ruins of Persian palaces to the ruins of Incan cities, gave Longacres a swift perusal, finding its exuberance and unashamed display oddly endearing. “Let the staff show you where to park the car, Harris,” he said as he saw three servants coming out to them.
The butler, a thick-bodied, baby-faced man of about thirty-five, welcomed the newcomer, saying, “You must be Count Saint-Germain. We were told you would be delayed.”
“Yes; I am Saint-Germain,” said Ragoczy as he got out of the motor car. “This is my manservant, Roger; if you will tell him where to take my things, I would appreciate it.”
“Very good, sir,” said the butler, and turned to Roger. “If you will follow me?” He then glanced at Harris. “Thayer there”—he pointed to the Longacres chauffeur who was coming toward them—“will direct you to the guests’ garage.”
“We appreciate your service,” said Ragoczy. “It would seem I am late. I ought to change for—”
“There is a buffet being laid at seven,” said the butler, adding, “We keep countrified hours and dining here. But there will be a midnight
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supper.” This last provided the butler a modicum of satisfaction, as if the midnight supper were a saving grace. He hurried to keep up with Ragoczy, for although the butler was taller than the black-cloaked guest, he did not move as swiftly, or as silently, as the foreigner did.
“Does Longacres keep country hours in the morning?” asked Ragoczy, dreading the necessity of rising shortly after dawn.
“Actually, no,” said the butler. “The Pearce-Mannings have breakfast laid at eight in the morning room. About half the weekend guests avail themselves of it.” They had reached the entrance to the house which had been improved with a decastyle art nouveau portico, partially concealed by the canvas draping. In the center of the portico was the new porch, almost finished, an unlikely wedding of the gothic style of the original building and the modern art nouveau. The butler ushered Ragoczy through the new double doors of vine-carved oak, remarking as he did, “The electric lanterns are the latest of Madame s trumpery.”
Ragoczy smiled blandly as he surrendered his cloak, “I rather like them,” he said, taking the butler aback.
Before the butler could think of an answer, a woman about as tall as Ragoczy came up to him; she was dressed in the height of fashion, her pale yellow afternoon dress with elbow length sleeves, a high waist with a belt of deep-blue satin, and matching piping on the long lace peplums curving halfway down the organdy skirt. There was a faded prettiness about her, from her beautifully coiffed dark blond hair to the subtle use of cosmetics, and a determined air of wealth: sapphire drops in her ears and a sapphire choker complimented her sapphire ring on the hand she extended to Ragoczy. “Good afternoon, Saint-Germain; welcome to Longacres. We were afraid we would not see you until after dark. With rain coming, you would not want to be out in the night. I am Clarice Pearce-Manning, and I am delighted you were able to join us.” As Ragoczy bowed over her hand, she addressed the butler. “Thank you, Waithe. You may escort the Counts manservant to his masters apartment, and then his own.” She had worked to eradicate any American sound from her voice, but some of it lingered in the letter “r” and an occasionally flat vowel.
<
br /> The butler complied promptly but stiffly.
“Should I address you as Lady, or Missus?” Ragoczy asked as he released her hand. “I would like to know which you prefer.”
This was just the right tone to set. She laughed expertly, like the tinkling sound of fountains. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, Count. You may call me Clarice.”
It was easier, Ragoczy thought, to be on Christian name terms with
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your guests if you take the lead in the matter. He looked her squarely in the eyes, and said, “Very well. I am Franchot.”
“Franchot Saint-German,” she said eagerly.
“Franchot Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain,” he corrected her, his manner deliberately gentle.
Color heightened in her face; she ducked her head in chagrin. “Of course. That was a foolish mistake. I beg your pardon.”
“Nothing of the sort,” he assured her. “It might have as easily been one as the other.” And, he added inwardly, often had been.
She did her best to recover. “No doubt you will want to freshen up after your drive down. Your room is on the first floor”—she pointed to the gallery above them surrounding the main hall—“at the end of the corridor on your left.” She smiled again. “Waithe will have shown your manservant there already, using the side stairs.” As she stepped back, she said, “We are having tea in the south drawing room, if you would like to join us when you are ready. There is just enough light left to see the ornamental lake. The deer come down to the water to drink about this time.”
“I think it might be best if I changed for the evening; you will surely be done with tea before I come down,” he said, wanting to avoid questions about his failure to eat for as long as possible.
“Carlisle and Anselm will be looking forward to seeing you,” she said, “And there are several of our guests who want to meet you.”
Ragoczy took this prompting without annoyance, although he found it disconcerting to think of his solicitor as Carlisle instead of Sunbury. “And I them.” He bowed slightly. “Well, the sooner I begin, the sooner I will finish.”