by Tony Bulmer
“He is a man to whom you owe everything.”
Hippolyte Charles paused, drawing breath until his immense chest was puffed out like a farmyard rooster. He made a play of controlling his emotions, but it was easy to see that he had been badly rattled by the suggestion that his most desperate rival had some how thrown him a favor, “I take charity from no man, least of all that damned Corsican.” His eyes grew wide with ire as he added, “I am a self made man Madame, made good against the currents of the most unfavorable times in which we live. I thought you of all people would recognize and celebrate that fact, you are after all a plantation owners daughter, are you not?”
Joséphine brought the rosebud to her lips once again, and breathed in its fledgling scent, “In the perilous times in which we live Hippolyte, possessions are no longer as desirable as once they were. As a man of business I am sure you understand that, and since we are on the subject of received wisdom, you may be interested to know how you achieved your lucrative posting in the sun-kissed south, while a million men in the Grande Armée were fighting through the Russian winter, assailed by starvation, disease and the ravaging Cossack hoards?” Joséphine raised her eyebrows fractionally, and gave the sweetest of smiles.
“You suggest your husband did me a favor by sending me south? The very idea is preposterous. The campaign was doomed from the start, a guerrilla war more brutal than any yet seen by man, and the whole enterprise conceived by a madman. That I stand before you now to bear witness to the atrocities I witnessed is a miracle in itself.”
“How true Hippolyte, your destiny could have been quite different—a firing squad in the Champs-de-Mars or perhaps a quiet noose, courtesy of some backroom court on any number of charges,” Josephine paused, “ I made him send you away, you know that don’t you?”
Hippolyte Charles stared at her now, his eyes growing wide with the horror of disbelief. “How could you do such a thing,” he stammered at last. “We were in love, my sweet Rose, more in love than two people could ever be.”
“That is why I had to set you free, don’t you see that. If you had remained close to me, my husband would have seen you killed, a quiet non-descript death no doubt, the kind of death that wouldn‘t have raised any question of scandal.”
“You condemned me none the less—to a life without love—a hopeless exile in the wilderness.” He clutched for her arm, in desperation. “It is not too late, say you will be mine, and we will put all that is past behind us, move forward into a new and beauteous life, where the name Bonaparte is nothing but a cursed memory.”
“I wish it could be so my dear Hippolyte, but it is too late. As our dear Emperor heads to exile so must we.” Josephine paused, and looked towards the house. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a luncheon with Tsar Alexander.”
“You would dine with the Tsar of Russia, before your oldest and dearest friend?”
“I am an Empress now Hippolyte, Certain duties, no matter how onerous, are required of my position.
“Empress, pah! I should march over to the house and give that Russian dog a lesson in the etiquette of gentlemen.”
Joséphine shook her head, her eyes closing with serene patience as she said, “It is over Hippolyte, go forward to your estate in Cassan, find yourself a round bodied peasant girl who will bear you many children. Live a long and happy life, surrounded by the vine rich countryside, and the spoils of your ill spent youth.”
“What if I choose not to? What if I choose to stay and stake my claim to love and self-respect against this Russian dog you have known since breakfast time?”
“Go now Hippolyte. Go while you still have safe passage. I would hate to see you murdered for the sake of luncheon, given my efforts to ensure your salvation, such a gesture would be nothing more than an exercise in futility.”
Hippolyte Charles gave Joséphine a hurt look. “You would see me walk away so readily?”
“It is a long ride south my dear Hippolyte. I would suggest you call in at the kitchen have them supply you with lunch.”
Hippolyte Charles nodded with curt understanding, “I you owe you a debt Madame, greater than any man may pay, I wish you bon chance, and if you are ever in Cassan…” He left the words hanging. She didn’t reply, just gave him a sad smile, then turned and walked away to the house. He watched her go, hoping she would look back, knowing that if she did there was still a chance that she loved him. She never did look back, just kept on walking, until she got to the house, then disappeared through the big glass doors into the sparkling candle lit world of tainted privilege. Hippolyte Charles stood in the rose garden for a long moment. Then, he turned away, heading towards the stables, with heavy heart, the last words of his love circling through his anguished mind.
As he reached the courtyard, an intense aroma of roast game foul reached out to him from the kitchens, the smell was succulent and intense, melting across the tongue, caressing every taste bud as it passed. It was a long time since he had eaten, too long. He looked to the kitchen door, wondering if he should perhaps take the directions of Madame Joséphine. He paused on the edge of the courtyard behind the house and let the cooking smells assail him. Should he visit the kitchen, to sample the delicious fare? He paused for what seemed like a near eternity. Finally he dismissed the idea out of hand. Eating lunch in the servants quarters while she entertained royalty—did she take him for a complete fool? Hippolyte Charles made progress towards the stables with renewed vigor, if he moved quickly he would be able to meet up with his men and hit the road south to Chartres before nightfall.
As he entered the stables, the grooms were still working on his horse. Hippolyte Charles watched the stable lads go about their business, and gave a wistful sigh for what might have been. He was a fool to think it could have been any other way. He stared glassy eyed, as his horse—a beautiful Arabian grey named Valdés—stamped and preened, making it clear that he was unimpressed by his masters recent absence. Valdés had been skittish all day, as though he had been trying to relate some unspoken news on the future of his master’s love life. The big horse turned, tossed his head and let out a furious whiney, as if to say, I told you so.
Horses—what the hell did they know about the age-old problems of man?
Hippolyte Charles, smiled, and ran a gentle, reassuring hand across the horse’s big grey head then he moved close, and whispered reassuring words in the beasts ear. Valdés shook his head, and snorted ever louder.
As he comforted his horse, a wiry unshaven man in chef’s attire slouched up to the gate of the stable and leaned in, “Monsieur, your lunch is ready.”
“Thank you, but I will not be staying for lunch.”
The chef sniffed, wiped his sleeve across his nose then sniffed again. “I got orders mon ami. Madame says you get lunch, you get lunch, I don’t get paid extra to ask questions.” The chef gave him a wet stare, his jaw hanging loose, like a response was required. When no reply was forthcoming, he folded his arms and leaned in over the stable door. He hung watching for a long time—then at last, the chef said. “That’s a nice horse you got there, real nice.” He leaned in against the door, watching every stroke of the grooms brush, his big wet eyes drinking in every nuanced detail. “I could bring you a plate of food out, if you had an appetite to do it justice—if you wanted to that is.”
Hippolyte Charles smiled, “That would be very kind of you.”
The chef gave a quiet nod then slouched off. When he returned, he was followed by a pair of smart-jacketed assistants, heavily laden with the fixings of a civilized luncheon. The chef barked curt directions, and the assistants made a place setting for one, on a rough oak-wood table, that stood just outside the stable. The assistants laid out table linen and silver wear, then fussed around, arranging the details, before opening a giant silver serving cloche to reveal the finest meal that Hippolyte Charles had seen in many long weeks—a brace of fresh game birds with dumplings and spring vegetables, arranged in a rich, dark sauce, that smelled simply divine. With the food
revealed, the chef hurried the servers away, departing himself with the briefest bow, satisfied now that he had completed his task as directed by his mistress.
Although his stomach called him to the table in haste, Hippolyte Charles stood dignified, until the kitchen-staff were safely back inside the house. Then, finally, he took his seat at the rough oak table and ate the delicious lunch. He made no pause, gulping down the food like a wandering savage. When the meal was done, he drank a half flagon of wine and looked up at the windows of the house. No way to tell who was watching, as the hundred windows stared down at him. He felt small, more humble than he had known possible. He did not like the feeling, and as the delicious lunch swelled inside him, he could only think of escape. He would ride hard for the south—burn away the shame of defeat with long hours in the saddle, it was the hussars way. He could be defeated, but never beaten. He would ride on, into a bright new future, a new world closed away from his long years of obsession.
Cheered by his newfound fortitude, Hippolyte Charles resolved to thank the persistent chef for the delicious meal. He headed over to the house and peered inside. Dozens of kitchen staff were busying themselves, preparing a lavish repast for their mistress and her distinguished guests. Not seeing the chef, he ventured inside, where he was presented by a long corridor of whitewashed walls, hung at tasteful intervals with portraits of austere looking faces from the worlds of war and government. Many of the faces he had met, others he wished he hadn’t.
—Still no sign of the chef.
Perhaps he was presenting one of his famous creations to the assembled guests? Hippolyte Charles turned upon his heel, thinking that perhaps it might, after all, be better if he left unannounced. Striding back the way he came, a lightening bolt of recognition suddenly reached out to him from the wall, striking him hard in a way that brought the tumultuous years with Joséphine back in an adrenaline rush so powerful he almost lost his balance.
—It was the portrait of the girl.
The one from his lover’s bedroom—
How many countless times had he stared at this painting after their fevered lovemaking—too many times to mention—
He felt is heart beating out of control, as he stared at the painting, fascinated by the memories it held.
He peered closer then, picking out the dark script on the frame—Lucretzia—a strange, beautiful name, that bore no meaning to him. He looked into the dark eyes of the girl, and noticed perhaps for the first time, a faint almost mocking smile lingering lightly at the corners of her pretty little mouth. She was mysterious—elegant—beautiful and so many memories contained within the beauty of her gaze..
—He had to have her—in the tumult of the household, who would notice her missing?
“She is beautiful is she not?”
Hippolyte Charles turned quickly, almost crying out in surprise. In his fixation, he had failed to notice the approach of chef, as he arrived silently at his shoulder.
“I rescued her from the garden, many years ago, the old master, General Bonaparte that is, threw her from the bedroom window—these married couples eh, monsieur—so many things that come between them.”
The chef threw him a crafty wink—or maybe it was a twitch. Hippolyte Charles found that his heart was racing so abominably fast, it was difficult to tell. “I would like to thank you for you kindness in providing me lunch,” he stammered at last.
The chef shrugged, made a snorting noise.
“Tell me, is this painting very old?”
“Old enough to throw out the window,” said the chef, “And see the deep cuts in the frame, the mark of the General’s saber I shouldn’t wonder—the General is a man of passion, a greater passion than France will see again, mores the pity.”
“He threw it from the window you say?”
“The mistress caught him giving it to one of his little whores,” chuckled the chef. He gave the painting a leery nod. “If I hadn’t rescued the mademoiselle she would still be embedded in the garden no doubt.”
Hippolyte Charles nodded, then reached inside his coat and pulled out a handful of Spanish doubloons. Holding one of the glittering coins discreetly he offered it to the chef and said, “Thanks once again for lunch, were you not so dedicated and loyal to your present service I would be tempted to offer you a position in my own household.”
The chef looked hard at the coin and swallowed in disbelief.
Turning once again for the door, Hippolyte Charles, took two steps, maybe three, before the dry rasping tone of the chef caught up with him.
“You are quite the big shot with your Spanish gold and your Arab pony, aren’t you monsieur? Perhaps you think I don’t remember you from the old days, perhaps you think you are too lofty in your ways to be remembered by the people who have served you?”
Hippolyte Charles stopped in his tracks. He flipped a doubloon, saw it idle in the air like a fat gold bird, before falling down, down into his waiting grasp. He caught it with a neat backhand, turned and said, “I will warrant that it has been some time since your mistress has passed this way my culinary friend.”
The chef gave him a thin look, said nothing.
“I will also wager, that it has been many long years since Bonaparte has passed this way.” Hippolyte Charles paused, smiled, then tossed the doubloon again, it flew high catching the golden light as it fell downwards. At the very last instant, he flipped his wrist and covered the coin neatly on the back of his hand.
“The painting is mine, she didn’t want it, so it stays with me,” blurted the chef.
As a betting man I would say your mistress has long forgotten about that painting. In fact, I would suggest that the sight of it alone would cause her a great deal of grief.”
The chef gave him a wary look.
“So here’s an idea,” said Hippolyte Charles brightly. “An honest wager—heads I buy the painting from you, for three of these doubloons—tails, you sell it to me for four.”
“What if I choose not to take your infernal wager?”
“Then we will say no more of it, but as gentlemen together we will know that you are a man of bold integrity and firm esthetic judgment and I will take my gold away, so that it may be more readily loved elsewhere.”
“Tails,” said the chef.
Hippolyte Charles turned his hand and pulled a face, “Heads.”
The chef’s wet eyes clouded over with the pain of loss. “Put the painting in your cloak and leave quickly, no one must see, or it will mean both our heads,” he rasped.
“Discretion is always the better part of valor monsieur,” Hippolyte Charles emptied doubloons into the chef’s outstretched hand and smoothly removed the painting from the wall, then folded it tightly, in his thick black cloak. As he turned to the door he thrust another gold coin into the chef’s hand. And gave him a parting smile.
“I would have taken two blurted the chef, they pay me with sawdust and coal.”
Hippolyte Charles, just smiled, threw the wiry little chef a parting salute and headed for the stables. He would have paid ten for the painting and more besides, but he said nothing. Business deals are best closed with both parties thinking they have the better deal. He thrust the tight packed painting deep in his saddle-bag. He had a hard ride ahead of him and now he could travel in the knowledge that his journey hadn’t been completely wasted—he was a businessman after all.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 31
Los Angeles California, present day.
It took quite some time for Mira to revive Alicia Calibano. The shock of discovering that she had been harboring a hundred million dollar painting stolen from the collection of the Vatican museum in Rome had been traumatic. Worse, the guilt, she carried after stealing the portrait of the girl from her murdered employer had made this new revelation even more traumatic.
Professor Cornelius Franklin stared down at Signora Calibano, with a practiced eye, “You really are doing a marvelous job Mira. It would seem her pulse is stabilizing, I think that there may by hope
for your medical career after all.”
Mira rolled her eyes, “Maybe you could have broken the news a little more easily?”
“What ever do you mean Mira? The bold facts of the case need to be related, we have no time to candy coat the bitter taste of reality,” Franklin peered closer, as the dark, frightened eyes of Alicia Calibano fluttered open. Upon seeing him, she gave a violent start, as though awoken from a terrible nightmare to discover that her darkest, most private fears had become a reality.
Alicia Calibano gave an involuntary whimper, then whispered, “I want them out of here, take them away—return the paintings to their rightful owners—I want no part of this sinful conspiracy—I beg you Signor Franklin, when you return the pictures, make no mention of my name, I could not bear the shame.”
Franklin nodded, his high-boned face lined with concern. “You have no need to worry my dear woman, in fact, I suspect that once this rather unpleasant affair draws to its natural conclusion, you will have no cause to worry about anything, ever again.” Franklin paused, gave Alicia Calibano a kind look then said, “I shall make it my duty to resolve this business with the greatest possible speed, and you can rest assured that I will treat your most singular predicament with the utmost discretion.”
Alicia Calibano gave a sob, “Just take the paintings Signor—take them, or I will be reminded every minute of the day of the sins I have committed.”
Franklin gave her a concerned look, “You judge yourself too harshly Signora. Perhaps you should reserve your feelings of condemnation for those who murdered your employer.”
Alicia Calibano blinked as if hearing the words but not quite understanding them.
“Is there anyone we can call for you Signora? A member of your family perhaps?” Asked Mira.
“I must bear my cross of shame alone,” sobbed Alicia Calibano, her shoulders juddering, with the weight of the burden she carried.
“That is very commendable dear lady, but my niece and I must depart, so that we might further unravel the web of unpleasantness in which we have become entangled. I would suggest that when we leave, follow my niece’s advice, and seek the comfort of a trusted friend, or neighbor—someone who might be able to offer you counsel in this time of great difficulty.”
