Your very humble and obedient servant,
Stanislaw Poniatowski
Tuesday, October 8
Your Highness,
Do not be discouraged by the Countess Poniatowska’s refusal to allow her son to return to Russia. She loves him. She is intelligent, but very bigoted, and has elicited from him a promise that should a marriage ever become possible, he will insist on a ceremony in the Roman church. She has a horror of the Orthodox faith and knows in her heart that you will never repudiate it in order to marry. After all, you cannot be sovereign in your adopted country without adhering to the Orthodox church. But I have more credit with her than anybody and I shall use all of it on this occasion.
Be assured that I am as anxious for the return of Poniatowski as you are, and that I shall work for it with the Great Chancellor Bestuzhev; and I give you my word that if he does not do it, I shall find some pretext to quarrel with him. I shall make my court quarrel with him. He shall never have a penny of the English pension I promised him.
Continue to press him; he is a very slippery eel. Write him letters in a tone which threatens him with the loss of your friendship in the present and your protection in the future. He can do what you ask, if he pleases.
I am sure that you will be sorry to hear that I am not at all well, and that my illness causes me such pain in my head and stomach that I have much difficulty in writing to you and that I cannot be present at court tonight. I fear that my failure in what I came here to do — to bring to a close the subsidy treaty — has made me ill. If it is not too grand to say so, I have let down my King and country and feel the weight of it upon me.
With regret, your humble servant,
Hanbury-Williams
Thursday. October 10
My dear Sir Charles,
I do not like your notes when they are an effort to you. I am afraid of making your health worse. Rather dictate your letters to someone. Your condition pains me extremely. Perhaps I can lift your spirits by telling you that I received a copy of the letter Chancellor Bestuzhev has written to King Augustus. In it he is as effusive as you would like, insisting that “… in the light of the present critical position of affairs, an Envoy Extraordinary should be sent here without delay from the Kingdom of Poland whose presence would draw closer the ties of friendship between the two countries.” He says that he has found “no one who can be more pleasing to his court than Count Poniatowski, who has won Her Imperial Majesty’s favour and the goodwill of the whole court.”
What do you say to that? It seems to me fairly satisfactory!
May God grant you good health, happiness and all the blessings imaginable.
C.
Friday, November 1 (dictated)
Your Highness,
I am sorry, Madame, that your kindness to me will cause you to learn with sorrow that my illness continues the same. Dr. Condoidi assures me that he will pull me through in time; but I doubt it, for my liver no longer does its work, and my digestion is so ruined that I have eaten nothing solid for nearly a month.
I am sorry that Count Poniatowski worries himself about me. I am his friend and will remain so, tho’ we shall not see one another often, since we are Ministers of governments that are in opposing camps. We shall find a means of communicating our thoughts to one another, and I am so certain of his devotion to me that I think only of how to help him. I flatter myself that, one day, you, Madame, and the King of Prussia as your lieutenant, will make him the King of Poland.
You have told me, and I have no doubt of your sincerity, that you hold the King, my Master, in high esteem and that you love England. Russia makes a treaty with France; and at the same moment, France receives with open arms a Minister from the Pretender, in order to plan the invasion of Great Britain. If you were in your rightful place, you would not allow this. You would see all these things with your own eyes.
I hope you will look upon me entirely as a person who is bound to you by love and affection, and as one who will never allow you to do yourself harm in my interests. Adieu, Madame. May heaven preserve you.
Your obedient servant,
H.-W.
St. Petersburg, Wednesday, January 22, 1757
My dear Fox,
I am sorry to tell you that I am in very bad health and have been several times confined to my house with the result that I am no longer able to collect sufficient information to warrant me remaining at my position. Every step I take is watched very narrowly, my letters are opened, and some of the people who used to get me the best intelligence have been questioned why they go so often to my house, and advised not to make me such frequent visits.
I have no illusion as to the course which the Russian court will adopt — it is only a matter of time before they accede to the Treaty of Versailles and join France and their allies. I have no doubt that France has already bought Chancellor Bestuzhev. In light of the continuing intrigues of the French to replace our King with the Pretender, I will not be surprised to hear Bestuzhev exclaim that Bonnie Prince Charlie is the rightful ruler of England! Nobody that is not on the spot can have an idea of this court.
After having twice requested to be recalled, I am sorry to tell you what is serious and ridiculous at the same time, which is, that my disorder is just fallen into my legs, particularly my left leg, so that when I have just got our King’s leave to go away from here, I have no legs to go upon.
Count Poniatowski has at last arrived, after all our efforts. I was well enough to be in court when he presented his credentials to the Empress. One of the Great Chancellor’s conditions for the Count’s return as Polish envoy was that we no longer live under the same roof and indeed associate only in matters of business since our governments are enemies. It is hard on the both of us, since our natural inclinations are affectionate.
I will under no circumstances stay another winter in the country. I can only imagine when you will receive this letter since from the moment when the Prussian army began its advance, the post routes were closed and messengers must make long detours.
I remain your humble servant,
H.-W.
chapter twenty-four
Rebecca was examining a mole on an elderly woman’s face when Iris knocked on the door.
“Dr. Koboy on the phone.”
“So it’s official, Doctor. Miss Czarnowa has Gaucher’s. What a charming lady — when I told her, she kissed my hand. You sure she’s not related?”
Rebecca smiled with relief. “I’m very happy to hear that.”
“She’ll have to stay put for another day or so. We’re going to do a blood transfusion and try to get her blood counts up. I’ll keep you informed.”
When Rebecca had a minute between patients, she looked up Gaucher’s in her pathology text:
… a rare disorder of the reticuloendothelial system in which the enzyme glucocerebrosidase is deficient. The clinical features of inherited glucocerebrosidase deficiency were first characterized by Philippe Charles Gaucher in Paris in 1882. He originally described a patient with massive enlargement of the spleen and liver and identified characteristic cells in the spleen that had an increased size and displaced nucleus. These “Gaucher cells,” characterized by lipid-laden macrophages, were later also found in liver, bone marrow, and other tissues. Accumulation of Gaucher cells in the spleen results in splenomegaly. Also associated with Gaucher’s — anaemia, leucopenia, reduced blood platelets, and skeletal involvement. Clinical symptoms vary widely ranging from disability in children to asymptomatic disease in the elderly. The disease is more severe when symptoms manifest in childhood than in adult onset.
Iris was on the phone arranging appointments for the next day when Rebecca walked past her desk on her way out. It was five-thirty. They waved to each other — Iris blew her a silent kiss with her pen hand — and Rebecca was down the stairs and out the door. It wasn’t until she stepped toward her car in the little lot behind the medical building that she realized she wasn’t going home. Halina’s revelation had burde
ned her. Rebecca had suspected a struggle between Michael and Baron the day of the drowning. Only she couldn’t have known the profound enmity behind that struggle. The disclosure of such betrayal changed her whole picture of that Saturday. It made the taking of vodka and Valium more likely, but it didn’t explain why Michael was in the water.
Rebecca pulled onto Beverley Street and headed south. Baron was probably the last person to see Michael alive. He had refused to consider Michael’s death a suicide when she had suggested it. He also denied being there. This time she would do better. She would use the new information to disarm him. She hated playing games, but some people could not be dealt with any other way.
After parking her car at a meter, she marched up Bay Street toward the Baron Building. Business people in conservative suits were rushing along the sidewalk on their way home from work. She felt underdressed in khaki trousers and an olive green blazer over her camisole. The crowds were giving the area in front of Baron’s building a wide berth.
The miners were still there in their jeans and plaid shirts, only something had changed. Two cops hovered across the street, intently watching the scruffy men argue amongst each other. Tensions had risen along with their voices. One man pushed another until he staggered backwards and started shouting obscenities. Rebecca slowed down, hesitant, searching for Claude Simard but not finding him. She straightened her shoulders, determined to muddle through. After all, she sympathized with their plight. Why should she be intimidated?
She concentrated on the hill of cigarette butts that rose behind a granite planter where some leaves struggled in the shade. But as soon as it was clear she was heading for the entrance, the miners pressed around her.
“I’m on your side,” she said. “But I need to go into the building.”
“Can’t be on our side if you got business in there,” said one heavy-set man.
Twenty faces glared at her, eyes bright with fury.
“Let me by, please,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt.
The men didn’t budge.
“Where’s Claude?” she said, hoping a familiar name would have some influence.
The men began peering at one another furtively as if she had just discovered dirty pictures in their wallets.
“Let the lady through!” a voice bellowed from behind.
A column opened up between the plaid shirts and one of the cops from across the street pushed his way through. He took her by the elbow and led her to the entrance.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not the best time to be coming in here,” he said, opening the front door for her.
She smiled sheepishly and headed for the elevator. There was no line of visitors this time, but the guard intercepted her and asked where she was going. It was a good thing she hadn’t gone beyond the wall plaque bearing the list of suites.
“Reames, Lehrer and Moss,” she said.
He nodded and let her go.
On the twentieth floor, the elevator opened to the grand foyer of Baron’s offices. But this time there was no dishy blonde sitting behind the marble counter. Only two men in suits standing with their backs to her. It was only after Rebecca stepped out of the elevator and her vantage point changed that she knew she was in trouble. One of the men was tying up Baron’s secretary in the chair. Her Queen Elizabeth hairdo had sprung some curls around the plaid handkerchief that they’d tied around her head by way of her mouth. The noise of the elevator door closing made the men’s heads spin around.
Rebecca gasped.
Claude and George fixed their eyes on her. They had combed their hair, but with their lined, nervous faces, they looked like monkeys in suits.
“What’re you doing here?” Rebecca said.
The two men looked at each other. George’s face contorted into a malicious smirk.
“Look, Claude,” he said in a low voice, “she’s come to visit her boyfriend. Maybe check out his heart. No, wait, I forgot — he hasn’t got one.” He took a step toward her.
“How did you get up here?”
“Shh!” George said. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”
“It was easy once we had the suits,” Claude said quietly. “George here thought of it. Not a bad fit for the Sally Ann, eh?”
“Shut up, Claude.”
George took a few more steps toward her. She was thinking it couldn’t have been Bay Street types who’d cleaned out their closets because the grey suits were cheap and shiny. She put her hand out behind her to reach for the elevator button, but he lurched and grabbed her before she could find it.
“Come on, Claude, gimme a hand!”
Each man grabbed one of her elbows and started dragging her further into the office.
“What’re you doing?” she cried, before George pressed his sweaty hand against her mouth.
She flailed her arms, but she was no match for the two of them. An awful picture rose in her mind that this was how they had pulled Michael into the pool. She threw a glance at Baron’s secretary; her eyes bulged with terror.
“You people think you can just go on life as usual?” George removed his hand from her mouth and shook Rebecca by the shoulders until she was dizzy.
“You don’t even know we’re alive, do you?” he snarled in a hoarse whisper. “Well, we’re fuckin’ tired of pissin’ around here waiting for God Awmighty to make up his mind that we’re human too. We got rights, and he’s gonna hear us out.”
Claude began to cough in her ear, a phlegm-filled, wheezy cough that wouldn’t stop.
Everything was spinning in front of her. She needed to get her head back. “I don’t have anything to do with Baron. I was just coming to talk to him about —”
“I don’t care, lady. It’s your own fault you walked in on this. We might be able to use you.”
Now that her head was slowing down, her pulse started to rush in her ears. “This isn’t the way to deal with things,” she said. “You’re just going to get into trouble like this.”
“You think we aren’t in trouble? Claude here is dying. I’m not far behind. Baron knew the mine was killing us all along. He didn’t give a shit if we were breathing in asbestos dust as long as he got his ore out. He got rich and we got cancer.”
“Look, I’m a doctor. I understand what you’re saying, and I agree he’s a monster. But I had nothing to do with it…”
“You know, lady, if I had a penny for everyone who said that — It ain’t my fault you’re dying. But we’re dying anyway. And he wouldn’t even let us in the building to speak our mind. That’s why we had to dress up.”
“You know,” she said, “I came to talk to Baron about Michael Oginski’s death. I thought he might have had something to do with it. But now I think you did.”
Claude shook his head morosely. “I knew this was wrong, George.”
“That’s how much you know, lady,” George said. “Hell, I never even met the guy.”
“But Claude did. He was there the night before Michael died.”
“Claude?” George snickered, a horsy rumble in the back of his throat. “Claude’s not the killer type. Look at him. He’s scared shitless.”
Claude was watching her intently, as if he would learn something from her face.
“Okay, Claude, it’s time.”
“I don’t know, George…”
“You’re dying, Claude, and you still don’t know? They’ve kicked us around for the last time. Just go down the hall and open the door. He doesn’t know we’re here. This is our last chance.”
“How do you know he hasn’t gone home?” she said.
“Listen,” George said, cocking his head.
She heard the distant murmuring of a television.
“Secretary said he’s watching the news.”
Rebecca looked around and thought for a moment; all she needed to do was make a sudden leap past George. He must have sensed something because he grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her, her back against his chest. She could hear him bre
athing loudly. His lungs were damaged but he was bigger than she was. She couldn’t move.
“Go, Claude! I’m right behind you.”
Claude stared at them a moment, his large pasty face trembling. “No, you go first.”
“Ah, Christ. Here. Grab hold of her so she don’t get away.”
Claude came up behind her and self-consciously took both her arms in his hands, holding them with an awkward firmness.
George strolled down the hall with a cocky step, his long, Brill-creamed hair stuck close to his head. Claude pushed her along in front of him in the same direction.
They stopped in front of the oak door with Baron’s name on it. Now the TV announcer could be heard clearly.
“The Shah of Iran and his family have arrived in the United States after Muslim revolutionaries overthrew his government earlier this year…”
George placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it slowly, then opened the door. John Baron was leaning back in his huge leather chair, watching the television built into the wall.
George stepped inside. Claude hesitated before pushing Rebecca inside, following closely on her heels. Baron’s round head flipped up as they barged in. His eyes moved quickly over the three of them, trying to size up the situation.
“Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t recognize us all dressed up?” said George. “Picture us with our faces black and working our butts off in the mines.”
He leaped to his feet, his face purple with rage. “What the fuck you low-lifes think you’re doing? I’m going to call the cops up here…” He pressed some buttons on his phone. “Helen! Helen, where are you?”
George lunged forward and pulled the phone from his hand then wrenched the cord clean out from the wall. He swept his arm viciously across the surface of the desk, throwing photos, memos, an onyx pen set crashing to the floor.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 51
