Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  Kinnaird did so. It was surprisingly comfortable. Pinsent returned to his mattress.

  ‘Do you know, Mr Pinsent, this is probably the first time in all my weeks in France that someone’s genuinely made me welcome?’

  In a Paris slum attic, two worn and hunted men laughed.

  Kinnaird overcame it first. ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said. ‘I had come firstly to offer you my condolences. For the death of your companion.’

  Pinsent grunted. ‘Thank you.’ A heavy nod of approval. ‘Courteous of you. Hell of a way for a man to go – murdered by those vermin. But perhaps he was happier blazing out – in action, you know? Not some dribbling old beggar, as the rest of us will surely end. Still, one’s sorry – ’

  ‘Actually not, Mr Pinsent.’ Pinsent frowned. ‘I was thinking of you.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Kinnaird. I may be a washed-up fool and fraud, but you’ll kindly allow me my pride.’

  ‘Not him, at any rate.’ The frown still watching him. ‘Since I have the strong impression that he was trying to get me killed that night, you’ll forgive me if I don’t spend too much time regretting him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Kinnaird waited. Pinsent was considering him.

  Eventually he seemed to come to a resolution. Delicately he placed the bottle on the floor, and pulled himself straighter and folded his hands in a kind of formality, the best he could manage on the lousy mattress. ‘Mr Kinnaird, I don’t rightly know what he was doing that night, as he left me out of it.’ He leaned forwards and made sure he was looking straight at Kinnaird. ‘But I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  ‘Thank – ’ Kinnaird stopped, and shifted his weight. He reached under his thigh and into Pinsent’s bag and pulled out the pistol. He placed it on the floorboards next to the bag. ‘Thank you for your candour.’

  Pinsent rolled forwards, grabbed the neck of the bottle, and brandished it at his guest.

  Kinnaird shook his head. ‘No, I thank you.’ Pinsent took a swig. ‘That was the second reason I called, in fact.’ Pinsent, bottle halfway to mouth, stopped and watched him. Kinnaird was taking his time. Eventually Pinsent lowered the bottle again. ‘Pinsent, I have spent these weeks the dupe and prey of every man. I tell you this clear: I am fed to the teeth of it, and am resolved on a different role.’

  It was quiet, and steady, and Pinsent listened the more carefully.

  ‘You would oblige me by confirming everything you know about Hal Greene’s work, and what happened to him; and what deceptions were practised with my name.’ Pinsent pulled back into the wall. ‘I may say that I know he was involved to some degree in espionage work, that I know he sometimes worked with you, and that I know you and Benjamin conspired to use me as cover when the attention of the Revolution turned in your direction.’ Pinsent watched him, bleak. ‘I may further say that we, you and I, might even find occasion to work together in the future; or that I, knowing what I do, could have you in the hands of the Revolution within an hour, and this time you wouldn’t come back.’

  For a full minute: silence.

  Then Pinsent spoke. ‘You’ve had a hell of a time of it, haven’t you?’ Kinnaird gazed back at him. Once again, Pinsent pulled himself straighter, and folded his hands in front of him. ‘Greene had connections in London. He would do errands for them. Hide behind a curtain here. Hold up a coach there. I think they paid him for it. He pulled in Raph and me, time by time. Didn’t pay us directly, but he was rather a liberal sort of fellow, and we did well enough by him.’ He felt his own dignity pricking him. ‘A scandalized and ruined by-blow of the rustic gentry must survive as he can, you hear me?’ He took in a great breath, swallowing his anger at his world. ‘So much for Hal.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  Pinsent was startled.

  ‘Pinsent, there is decency and dignity in you. But there’s no honour among thieves, and less among spies. Did you – or Benjamin – kill my friend?’

  ‘No, Kinnaird, we did . . . I did not.’ He smiled without warmth. ‘If we’re being so honest, I may say that I cannot formally speak for Raph on the point. But I cannot think why he would have killed Hal, and I cannot find it in his character. I saw them squabble over a bet sometimes, over a woman almost nightly, and even once or twice over politics . . . I cannot find it in his character.’

  ‘Very well. And your games with me?’

  ‘Distraction. The massacres started. Lavalier was questioned. Hal had disappeared. A couple of Englishmen on the lam, done a few dirty deeds in our time here, we were vulnerable. We needed someone to play the part of British troublemaker.’ He settled back against the wall again. ‘And you, Kinnaird, you’ve been trouble ever since you first walked through my door.’

  ‘The meeting at the Galerie Marillac. The note and the map half-hidden in my rooms for the police to find.’

  ‘Us. Raph used your name a few times. And he spread some stories, faked up some reports, making you the grand man of British skulduggery.’

  Again, there was silence.

  Eventually Kinnaird said, ‘Thank you.’ Then he stood.

  Pinsent also stood, more deftly this time. He stepped forwards, and very slowly offered his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Kinnaird considered the hand for a long time. Then, surprised by himself, he took it. ‘Well, an apology’s a start I – ’

  ‘Not for the deceptions. All’s fair in you know what.’ Pinsent kept a grip of Kinnaird’s hand. ‘You were damn’ fool enough to come to France and stick your nose in, and to run around like the village idiot with a turnip up his arse. You were going to get into trouble with the traps regardless, and we did what we had to do to survive. No . . . ’ The grip eased, and then strengthened, and he shook the hand and finally released it. ‘No, I’m sorry for how we spoke. Behaved like blackguards. Not courteous.’

  Kinnaird nodded. ‘Mr Pinsent, I confess I found the manner a little ripe and the instincts a little trivial. But whatever your spirit and motives, you executed feats of daring as easily as most men take luncheon.’

  Pinsent considered him. ‘You’re a good fellow, Kinnaird.’ He reflected, lugubrious with the wine again. ‘When life seems to have lost its worth, one’s apt to risk it more blithely.’

  ‘You seem to have wandered Paris at will.’

  Pinsent’s hand came up and clutched his arm with surprising speed and considerable force. ‘It’s not easy, Kinnaird! It’s not a bloody game. Every time, the . . . the doubt – the – the fear. It never ends. And time by time your stock of nerve is used up.’ His hand eased, and his voice drifted. ‘Used up. Until there’s nothing left.’

  ‘You survived La Force, I was told.’

  Pinsent shifted uncomfortable. ‘Nothing to speak of. No great elegance to it.’ A smile flickered on the sour face. ‘Raph walked in there once. Twice, indeed, for we went back the next night. And came out with a prisoner each time – Royal ladies-in-waiting, or something.’ A sudden inspiration on his face. ‘Here. Souvenir for you, as you’re interested.’ From the pocket of his coat he pulled out a crumpled paper. ‘Found it in there again yesterday. Didn’t know I still had it. Raph’s aide memoire – he’d got a message from Greene, and he destroyed it as a precaution, but he took note of the names he needed.’

  Kinnaird smoothed out the paper in his palm. It was an etching of a priest and a nun enjoying a distinct and wild kind of communion.

  A moment’s confusion, Kinnaird’s uncertainty and Pinsent’s discomfort, and then Kinnaird looked at the back of the paper. There were two lines written in pencil.

  Delambre SD.

  Tourzels L F.

  ‘Hal would send written messages?’

  ‘Occasionally. If he was travelling. Via that servant girl – the pretty one. She brought the last – Raph made that note of it – and so that night I must buy drinks for an army of peasants to get them warmed up to disrupt some French government bod on the road while Raph was stirring ’em up on the spot.’ Heavy smile. ‘Still rememb
er him turning up at Lavalier’s afterwards. More alive than any man. In his element, you know?’ Pinsent seemed to wriggle. ‘He . . . He sent for my things. When he got me out of clink, he also sent for some of my things, from my room. That’s how the coat came back, with the paper.’ He glanced at the drawing on the mantelpiece. ‘And my girls. He could be thoughtful, you understand?’

  ‘He just walked into La Force?’

  Now Pinsent smiled. It hung heavy in his jowls. ‘Oh, getting in’s easy enough; as a former prisoner, I should know better than most. Getting out’s harder. And getting out with something or someone you’re not supposed to, that’s the hardest of all.’ He pulled his shoulders up. ‘Lessons of a life ill-lived, Kinnaird.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Do.’ He slumped again, the air seeping out of a bladder. ‘Worldly advice.’ An indifferent snort. ‘Only worth it if you’ve got someone to pass it on to.’ His eyes wandered the room. ‘Burbling it through drink, to some odd little Scotchman. In a room that smells of the privy. Oh. No offence, my dear fellow; nothing against you, nothing against the Scots; ingenious fellows, aren’t you? Trade, and so on.’

  Kinnaird’s expression offered gracious acceptance of this grand compliment. Pinsent wasn’t looking at him. ‘I had, but . . . no more.’ He was staring at the two girls in the picture on the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t even know how old they are now. I will surely be damned for that, wouldn’t you say?’ He didn’t wait for agreement. ‘Lovely, ain’t they? Virginia and Charlotte. Ain’t they lovely?’ Kinnaird mumbled something. Pinsent wasn’t listening. ‘I don’t belong any more . . . I don’t deserve . . . ’

  Edward Pinsent’s face was shaking, with big wine-hot breaths. He turned. ‘He came back for me, Mr Kinnaird! That’s the thing, d’you see? And I’m not sure I’d have done the same.’

  He wanted reassurance, or absolution, and Keith Kinnaird had none to give.

  A man was standing on Pieter Marinus’s doorstep. Marinus saw him from his first floor window, first indifferent and then concerned. It was becoming dangerous to have visitors; to have connections; to be known.

  Head bent, clothes tattered. A beggar, hoping for a coin or a mouthful of wine to warm the early evening.

  Marinus’s face twisted in discomfort. The forgotten victims. Then he shook his head at himself and turned his face away from the window.

  The man knocked.

  Marinus ignored it.

  A minute later, the knock again.

  Why hadn’t the servant – ? The servant had left a quarter-hour before. A final glance out of the window – still the bent head, the ragged shoulders – and Marinus was walking wearily for the stairs.

  The eyes, when he opened the door to the man, were more alert than he’d expected. It was immediately an alarm. The rags and the smears of dirt on the face confirmed his beggary, but the eyes belied it.

  Still Marinus held out a coin: ‘Here my friend – ’

  ‘Your name is Marinus.’ The words came in English. ‘My name is Kinnaird, Mr Marinus, and these days I come cheaper than that.’

  Instinct told Marinus it was all wrong. Already he was closing the door. ‘I have no notion – ’

  ‘We were both invited to a meeting.’ Hesitation. ‘By Henry Greene. I went. You didn’t. I – Close the door and I will have your name all over town, Mr Marinus! I will implicate you in everything!’

  Marinus had gasped, held his breath. Now he let it go with a burst. And shook his head. ‘This is nonsense. Good night!’ and the door starting to close again.

  But the man’s boot was in the way.

  ‘The Galerie Marillac, Mr Marinus. You were too shrewd to come, and that tells me something about you.’

  ‘What goes there?’ A shout from along the street. Marinus’s head darted up: a National Guardsman. The beggar man’s dropped. ‘What trouble?’

  Marinus, desperate for this all to go away, started to speak but he didn’t even know to whom. ‘I respect you for a man of discretion, Mr Marinus. But I can shatter that discretion tonight, for ever.’ The guard coming nearer. ‘You thought me a beggar and you let me in for a moment. You can tell I am no robber. Letting me in, you have nothing to lose. In an argument on your doorstep . . . ’

  ‘What goes?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur, I thank you!’ And he was letting Kinnaird past him into the hall, and the door was closed, and Marinus had the uneasy sense that it was he who had crossed a threshold.

  Upstairs, the man Kinnaird refused a seat.

  There was a tension in his movements; an unpredictability. Marinus watched him as he moved.

  Remember Karl.

  Remember yourself.

  Marinus offered a slight bow. ‘I bid you welcome. Will you take a glass of wine with me, Mr Kinnaird?’

  The man stared. ‘No, I won’t. I want answers, not more theatre show.’

  Marinus sat. It took some of the volatility out of the scene.

  Still the man Kinnaird would not settle. He made various attempts at a relaxed or commanding stance in the centre of the room. ‘I was chosen for this masquerade because I am associated with another man who is associated with disreputable and secret dealings in this country. Why were you chosen, Mr Marinus?’

  The face of Marinus was open. Blank. Innocent. Faintly, he shrugged.

  ‘You have no such association? You were pulled into this affair by some staggering coincidence, picked off the street by chance?’

  Marinus frowned.

  ‘Why don’t you answer, damn you? In the whole of France, is there no – ?’

  Still the frown. It wasn’t anger, or worry. It was . . . irritation. It was distaste.

  And Kinnaird saw himself. A great sigh, and a scowl at it all.

  He smiled sadly. ‘I owe you an apology, sir. Whatever you are, you are a man of prudence, and you will do nothing for bluster.’

  Something at Marinus’s lips. And he seemed to relax. The frown eased.

  ‘I think, Mr Marinus, that I will take that glass of wine with you.’

  Marinus smiled, and it seemed sincere. ‘You would honour me.’

  Kinnaird sat. He kept silent until the wine was poured. He made to speak, and then stopped again.

  Marinus raised his own glass, and nodded slightly, in toast.

  Kinnaird reciprocated.

  He sipped at the wine.

  ‘Most pleasant,’ he said. ‘May I ask whether you buy here or you import?’

  ‘This I buy in Paris. Despite the late disquiets, there is still an adequate trade. My man has only a small concern, but he takes his pick of the French vineyards and imports according to his own instincts and the preferences of his private clients. Are you a connoisseur of wine, Mr Kinnaird?’

  ‘No, sir. But I’m fascinated by trade. Would you allow me, Mr Marinus, to rephrase my earlier question?’

  Marinus sat back, the wine glass held close to his chest. ‘I would encourage it, Mr Kinnaird.’

  ‘I thank you. In that case, begging of you no more intimacy than you would share with a stranger in the street, might I ask your occupation or interest?’

  ‘Why ever not? As a citizen of the Low Countries, Mr Kinnaird, I am the inheritor of three worthy traditions: humanist scholarship, painting, and trade. I dabble a little in each. It’s a dilettante interest, in truth, but I am not too proud to say that I earn money, and it enables me to offer an acquaintance a pleasant Chenin of Touraine rather than a flask brought up from the inn. Were you ever in Amsterdam, Mr Kinnaird?’

  ‘Once. A trading visit merely, and speculative. A most tidy city, Mr Marinus, and the most steady driving men of affairs I ever met. It’s no flattery, sir, yet I could give no greater praise.’

  ‘We have been fortunate. A climate for moderation, and we have tried to avoid the fevers of religion and politics.’

  They both nodded, silently, at the prudence of this, and sipped their wine.

  ‘And now,’ Marinus said mildly, ‘you find you have
come to France.’

  Kinnaird took a moment to answer. A breath.

  ‘Yes.’ Now he looked up. ‘And I don’t claim it my shrewdest decision.’ Marinus smiled. ‘A former business acquaintance, Mr Henry Greene, invited me with the promise of trading opportunity. I found him disappeared. And my attempts to investigate where he might have gone only attracted hostility and suspicion.’ He saw Marinus’s expression. ‘Which I should surely have expected, in these times.’ Marinus looked sympathetic. ‘Among the more peculiar incidents was a message, apparently from Hal – from Greene – inviting me to a rendezvous. I learned there that you were also expected.’ He looked at Marinus again. ‘I have traced you today, I should say at this moment, most discreetly and without linking you in any way with my true name or any of the recent incidents.’ Marinus nodded, courtesy returned. ‘Yet you were shrewder than I, for some reason – hardly difficult to be less shrewd. I escaped by a window when my instincts told me of my predicament. The National Guard then came to arrest me, and I hardly escaped. Greene is confirmed dead, and somehow I am more embroiled. I have been in hiding, well away from Paris.’

  ‘And now you have returned.’

  Kinnaird nodded. ‘I have been caught up in I know not what. I fancy I have been made a dupe, or grossly misrepresented or misunderstood. I am done with stumbling and with hiding.’

  Marinus watched him, now more soberly. He took a sip of wine, and continued to watch, and to consider.

  ‘What, may I ask, is your purpose?’

  ‘My purpose?’

  ‘If you seek answers, I would ask whether the questions are worth the risk. If you seek revenge, I would urge you to fly to the coast immediately and not to be so foolish.’

  Kinnaird considered it. ‘I own a stubborn unwillingness to be pushed off.’ Marinus winced. ‘And since some things are clearly being kept from me, I am the more determined to find out what they are.’