Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  ‘Step away, Benjamin, or I’ll put a ball through your skull.’

  ‘Quite right, my dear fellow. Good journey now. Well done on your successful mission.’ The coach jolted forwards and then began to roll smooth and with growing speed into the night.

  Benjamin watched it until it vanished, then turned towards the inn again. The girl’s hair had been dark like Emma’s.

  There was a groan from the shadows near his feet.

  Benjamin helped the young robber up. ‘Next time, lad.’ The lad was still unsteady. ‘For now, it’s back to the shit-heap for us.’

  There wasn’t much fun to be had as the sergeant of police of Évreux. Such, at least, was the opinion of the sergeant of police of Évreux himself. There was a fat-headed idea that his job was all about power, and that his power had only got greater with the Revolution. But it never felt powerful. He spent most of his time compiling Reports Ordinaires for the Hôtel de Ville and for Paris. Never written so many bloody words in his life.

  He’d be compiling a Report Ordinaire following his visit to the Old Willow Tree, that was becoming wearyingly clear. The landlord of the Willow was roaring angry, and he was demanding to know why the hell the police weren’t doing anything to stop these kind of outrages, otherwise what the hell was the point of them, and the Revolution was supposed to have been about stopping this kind of abuse, except it bloody wasn’t, it was just more outrages, and certain fat policemen who thought they could cadge a free bottle whenever they fancied it; and the sergeant – who considered himself no more than imposingly built – was thinking one more crack from you, Pierre, and you’ll be getting a very sharp reference in my Report Ordinaire, and see how you like those onions.

  Law and order, he was hearing, had broken down completely in Évreux. First there’d been the old man and his young niece, all terribly grand and highest-standards-expected, and now they’d only gone and done the pedlar’s flit and not even a sou paid for the meals, let alone for two rooms. And just after he’d discovered that, he found that two others – two foreigners, he fancied, and he shouldn’t have suspected any better, and what the hell was the point of the Revolution if it let people like these tool around France robbing honest trading men? – had gone out the back-window too; not a sou from them either, and they’d had one of his blankets and all.

  The sergeant of police tutted loudly, told the landlord to shut his trap about the Revolution if he didn’t want the Revolution giving him a permanent shave, and plodded around the premises reviewing the various scenes of outrage.

  The old man and the woman, their rooms were more or less clean; no trace of who they were or where they’d gone. Their trunk, in the box-room, contained a couple of bricks and some old clothes.

  The rooms of the two foreign men were also empty. They’d travelled lighter, the landlord was saying as they stood in the second of the rooms; come and gone with what they stood up in. The room was a sad shell: a mattress and two chairs and a candle-stub. The sergeant was enquiring whether the foreigners had stolen the chandelier, and the landlord was suggesting that they’d probably used it for a bribe at the police office, and in a show of restoring order the policeman kicked the mattress more squarely into the corner. The movement exposed a few new inches at the base of the wall, and as it did so a sheaf of papers fell forwards.

  They’d been slipped down between the head of the mattress and the wall. And obviously forgotten by the foreigners in their outrageous escape. The policeman and the landlord both reached for them. Not money; the landlord pulled back.

  Perhaps a dozen handwritten papers, folded in half. The policeman couldn’t make much of them – didn’t look like any French he’d ever seen. He wondered how you were supposed to add things like this to the Report Ordinaire.

  Fouché was trying to discipline himself to work by logic.

  It didn’t always seem to produce the results desired.

  Sometimes he would think of Lavoisier: the proud brittle old man, who had changed the world with his rational deductions; but who could not escape the world, and had in the end proved an incompetent navigator of its currents.

  What is the lesson of Lavoisier?

  He had kept some of the records of the Royal Commission on his desk. He found it soothing sometimes to read their measured style, and to follow their steady solid steps. They were a kind of music. And he kept them on his desk as a totem: a sign to himself of the man he was.

  The desk was not as tidy today as it should have been. Papers were not straight; they overlapped; piles were not distinct. Of late he had been working longer in this room, and the effort to maintain his control of all of the information that floated and dripped through the ministry had left him sometimes feverish; energy became haste became distraction.

  A knock, on the edge of his consciousness, and Guilbert was in the room.

  Fouché was still looking at his desk. He’d become proud of his facility with the information. The faster the papers came in, the faster the information was assimilated to its proper place in his mind.

  ‘They’re waiting for you, Monsieur.’

  Fouché did not feel like going to the Convention to discuss the government’s obligations for costs incurred by the administration of Saint-Domingue. That was not his Revolution.

  He was patrolling behind his desk now. It stood between him and Guilbert. His fingers brushed at papers.

  His eye stuck on the bottom of a piece of paper, protruding ugly from under another dossier and at an angle. Within the text, his eye caught a name: Lavalier.

  Emma Lavalier, who knew foreigners. Emma Lavalier who knew Roland, and Danton, and so many people. Emma Lavalier the suspect. Emma Lavalier the potential asset.

  He lifted the top dossier, and his spread hand made to straighten the paper that mentioned Emma Lavalier, momentarily eased by the even order of the printing.

  Which was strange. Because he could not imagine or recall why the woman Lavalier should have appeared in a printed document. He had written reports of her, and fascinating reading some of them were. But nothing printed, surely.

  Instead of straightening the document, he pulled it towards him. It wasn’t a document about her, or about St-Denis. It was one of the papers of the Royal Commission.

  – in this experiment as throughout, the Commissioners were most careful to ensure that no prior or innate susceptibility, instinct, preference or prejudice should be able to tarnish the purity of the result. Thus a diversity of subjects was tested, some with vessels that had been magnetized and some with vessels that had not, and on this occasion in order to have one subject who was known to be of open mind yet also free from any possibility of favouritism towards an external interest, our Secretary Lavalier was prevailed upon to take –

  Lavoisier’s words to him: an insignificant old functionary had been their secretary; the man was dead now; the secretary had arranged the copying, and thereby established the arrangement of communication that was still working years later.

  And this man had been named Lavalier.

  ‘We have had occasion, Guilbert, to discuss the value of coincidence.’ The age would be right. Emma Lavalier could easily be the widow.

  Guilbert waited.

  ‘We must learn from Monsieur le Professeur Lavoisier the address of the copyist, who was the hub of communication for the Friends of Magnetism.’

  Another anonymous little town in northern France. Another cheap inn. Another bare room. Another shared bed.

  ‘Don’t think me ungrateful, Raph. But if I wanted to spend the rest of my life bunking with rogues in provincial taverns I’d have joined the theatre or the army.’ Pinsent dropped down onto the bed, and it sagged and swayed alarmingly.

  He struggled up to a sitting position. Benjamin was looking out of the window, and checking the fastening. ‘Interesting thing about you, Ned. When you start complaining properly I know you’re feeling in better spirits. What about me, anyway? You’re hardly an asset if I want to entice a petticoat home.’
He sat on the side of the bed and groaned as he pulled at his boots. ‘Thank God you’ve lost a bit of weight this last week, or I’d barely get a corner of the mattress.’

  ‘I ain’t facing the wall for any man. If you want your cock easing you can go down to the parish pump like the rest of us.’

  ‘Heartless, Ned. Heartless.’ Back towards his companion, his fingers felt instinctively for his purse, and then for the lump strung against his chest.

  ‘Still there, is it Raph?’

  ‘Eh?’ He didn’t turn.

  ‘Whatever you’ve had stowed in there since we left Paris. I know it ain’t a heart.’

  Benjamin turned, and pulled his shirt open enough to show the pouch. ‘It ain’t money, alas.’ He closed and straightened his shirt. ‘But it might buy us a ticket to London nonetheless.’

  Pinsent was grave; watchful. ‘My geography may be sketchy, but we ain’t heading for the Channel any more. Nor Switzerland.’

  Benjamin shook his head. Then he folded his coat, propped it against the foot of the bed, and stretched out in the opposite direction to his companion. ‘I had a visitor back in Évreux,’ he said, looking at the ceiling. ‘Not that royalist peri, sadly.’

  Pinsent waited.

  ‘We’d always wondered, hadn’t we, about the men behind Greene? Bit of business or a bit of politics. Keeping him afloat, giving us a bit of sport.’ He glanced down, at Pinsent’s face, still watching. ‘Don’t think we had any illusions, did we? Had a rough idea what was going on, and doing well enough out of it.’ Pinsent grunted. ‘Well, I met one of them at last.’

  Pinsent’s head came forwards. He still didn’t say anything.

  ‘Just the sort of turd you’d expect to be slipping down the gutters of government. The sort of malicious Christian beast they used to set up at school to lord it over the other boys.’ Another grunt. ‘Anyway, with poor Hal off the books, they’re short of a hand or two to do their dirty work.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘Loyal service to His Majesty, get the slate wiped clean.’ Silence. Edward Pinsent was contemplating the condition of his own slate.

  ‘So you’re staying? Hide in the bushes and wait for instructions?’

  ‘I ain’t just hiding, Ned, and I ain’t just waiting.’ He sat upright. ‘First thing is to get the Revolution off my back. Off our backs. Damned if I’m spending my days skulking in some provincial pot-house. These last weeks I’ve been building that creeping Scotsman up as the main act; British spy and royalist agent. Well, it’s time to put their attention there once and for all.’ He eased himself back down onto the makeshift pillow.

  Pinsent considered it for a time; watched his friend; watched the grey profile, the eyes lost in the air. Then: ‘You believe ’em, Raph?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Do your duty and hie for home, fatted calf and the thanks of Parliament?’

  ‘You don’t believe them, I take it.’

  ‘Men have been setting themselves up over me all my life, and not one of ’em’s ever said a straight word. You’re being – ’

  Benjamin’s fist thumped down on Pinsent’s leg. ‘Damn you, Ned! I don’t have a choice, do I? What else is there?’

  Fouché sits surrounded by papers. Individual sentences from them murmur back and forth over him, an unruly conversation he strains to understand.

  n.b. – Meaux, Sphinx tavern, a safe haven and men of good character in the district, where + may shelter.

  . . . It is essential, dear K, that the man in question not survive to tell his tales to the revolutionary authorities . . .

  Another route: St-Denis gate (first watch after sunset) – Pointoise cross – (fresh horses Magny, the Sun) – Dr J. Belyue – fresh horses Fleury – or boat with G. from Pont l’Arche – Honfleur either inn or school.

  . . . I have quite deceived the British fops of St-Denis. With my old acquaintance Greene now out of the way, dear Monsieur, now I am freer to collaborate with Pr-

  . . . maps you seek may be provided by the usual source in the rue de Verneuil. Vespucci will serve as your key.

  [SS K/1/X1 VARIOUS] (AUTHOR TRANSLATION)

  Fouché is known now as the master of documents. The sergeant of police of Évreux knew he’d found something significant, and the dozen handwritten papers galloped to Paris, and in Paris to the ministry, and in the ministry they were naturally carried straight to Fouché.

  It’s the Pr- that catches the attention, of course; the last breath of an unfinished letter. On an instinct of discipline, Fouché has forced himself to consider alternative interpretations – Professeur Lavoisier? Pro-royalist elements? Prominent somethings? – but it was discipline become affectation. The interpretation is obvious and striking. This solitary British spy, working with the Prussian, the man reputed the greatest of the spies and the greatest threat to France.

  And this Kinnaird, Fouché’s respect for him is increasing dramatically. Kinnaird features in every outrage. The story of his escape has told of his daring. His continued survival has told of his skill. And despite being hunted, he is everywhere and active.

  He had been reported in Meaux, at around the same time as Bonfils was passing through the place, immediately before Bonfils’s death. And another report has reached Fouché from Évreux. A pair of royalists, the Comte de Charette and his daughter, had been tracked thus far, but in Évreux the trail was lost. Subsequent enquiries have shown that from Évreux they were somehow spirited away, no doubt to the Channel and to safety in England. In Évreux is the mysterious Kinnaird, and in Évreux hunted royalists are miraculously saved.

  Fouché spends two full hours noting and cross-referencing, commissioning copies of other reports that must be associated with these, adding his own marginalia based on other related documents. Then he regathers together the sheaf of papers, trying to hush the voices.

  The dossier on Kinnaird is growing fat.

  ‘Crossroads, Ned.’

  ‘I am aware of the concept, Raph.’ The road in front of them went left towards Rouen, and right towards Paris.

  ‘In more meanings than one.’

  ‘You ain’t about to get prosy, are you? Not on my empty stomach.’

  ‘Listen, old fellow.’ Benjamin was gazing out into the fields. ‘I’ve been playing the solitary fox a bit recently. Not very comradely.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Well, I – ’ Benjamin had missed the sarcasm, until he glanced at his companion’s face. Pinsent was watching him with something like pity.

  ‘Raphael Benjamin, you’ve been playing solitary fox since the cradle. And because you’re the luckiest devil who ever lived, the rest of the world has cheerfully opened its purse or its legs and followed along, to see where the fox might lead.’

  Benjamin was uncomfortable. ‘What I’m trying to say is – ’

  ‘What you’re trying to say is damned impertinent. Some men lead their pack, Raph, and most men are in the pack. But it don’t mean that those of us in the pack are all Hackney clogs. When I find better sport, or some fading madam who needs a congenial mate to guard the door and keep an eye on the books, I’ll take my leave of you and good riddance. Til then I’ll tag along, thank’ee.’

  ‘I’m playing for myself, Ned. I own it.’ Benjamin was gazing at the junction again. ‘We’ve favours enough owed to us. You could scrape enough to get home, and you’ve a good enough tale to tell of what we’ve done here. Get out while the going’s good, will you?’

  ‘But I won’t, Raph, will I? Now get along before I become discourteous.’

  ‘Yes, Ned.’

  The horses began to trot towards Paris.

  ‘It’s a jolly enough life, Raph, and there’s always sport out there. But the road never ends, does it?’

  ‘No, Ned.’

  On 4th November, according to the register, a party of Americans visited the ministry. A courtesy visit, Roland called it, when arranging that he should only be obliged to spend five minutes with them before leaving them to
Fouché. One at least was new off the boat at Le Havre. Coming to review arrangements at the embassy. Fouché was thinking: You don’t send someone across the Atlantic to review arrangements.

  Fouché didn’t know what he thought of Americans. English, Prussians, Italians: such men he could place. Americans . . . Americans were something new. France had helped them in their rising against the English, of course. But . . . new. Unknowable.

  He thought of Franklin, the former American ambassador, and his strange contacts in Paris. He thought of the current American ambassador, and his involvement with royal documents.

  He knew immediately which the new arrival was as soon as the three men entered his office, and knew him for the senior. The man in the middle was not much taller than the two either side of him, but he was substantially bigger. Not fat, just . . . big; solid. He didn’t appear to possess a neck. And above all, Fouché thought, he was controlled. His movements, even just stepping into an office, were simple and certain.

  His eyes too moved little, and moved sure.

  He sat carefully, as if the chair might not hold him. Given the size of his shoulders, it was a distinct possibility.

  ‘Mr Fowch is the minister’s principal aide,’ one of the companions said.

  ‘He’s the coming man, aren’t you, Mr Foosh?’ the other said.

  Fouché smiled thin humility. It wasn’t easy to follow that.

  ‘I’ve been hearing about you, Monsieur Fouché,’ the man in the middle said. His voice was as solid and sure as everything else about him. He pronounced the name correctly, except that he over-emphasized the second syllable, so that it seemed to drift away. ‘My name is Murad.’

  ‘You’re most welcome to Paris, Mr Murad.’ Fouché gave a little bow, and finally found a reply to the earlier comments. ‘Such energies and abilities as I have are devoted to our citizens, and our allies. I am honoured to have you here.’ He found his fluency both nauseating and somehow satisfying. Necessary arts. ‘You are . . . visiting your embassy, Mr Murad?’