The sleeping arrangements though, were less successful. Myself and Asif were together in the same damp basement dormitory, which smelt musty, at best. Outside I could still hear the storm worsening. Inside, the snoring and farting of my bedfellows made it impossible to sleep. I was also very worried about the future. A whole new life in France – an idea both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Small wonder sleep deserted me. I noticed Asif was fine though, he could sleep anywhere. I was also worried sick about Marie. Would Pierre be alright? Would he have nightmares? Wet the bed? Have a screaming fit? Finally, I gave in to my concerns. Around midnight I crept out of the dormitory, sliding past my smelly sleeping compatriots. I quietly tiptoed my way into the hotel proper and found the porter still on reception. He was half asleep but recognising me, soon perked up. I explained that I was travelling with Marie and her disabled son and that I had forgotten to give them some particularly important medicines. The porter was not having it at first, but a gold sovereign slipped into his hand did the trick. I got the key and quietly walked up to their room.
I gently unlocked the door and making no noise, went into the room. I could see Marie on the bed asleep. On a second bed I could see a bundle of bedclothes, so assumed Pierre was asleep underneath. I gingerly crept up to Marie’s bed and slipped under the bedclothes. I breathed a sigh of relief; I had got in without waking her! Just to be near her was still magical to me. I could feel the warmth of her naked body, the slight smell of her lingering perfume. I was happy just to lay there taking this all in, as outside the storm rattled the windowpanes.
We stayed like this for a while, then she rolled over and bumped into me. Her eyes opened with a start. She barely had let out the word ‘William’ when a worry crossed her forehead. She looked around the room. There was no other sound. She quickly and effortlessly got out of bed and went over to where Pierre was sleeping. The bed was empty.
Thirty-Seven
The Raging Sea
Marie stood stunned, unable to speak. I could see the look of total panic on her face. She ran over to the window, which was half open. From here to the walkway below was just a few feet and if Pierre had been careful and avoided the cast-iron railings, he could have got away easily.
She looked at me with hopelessness in her eyes. ‘William, he has gone. Where do we start to look for him? What do we do?’
I almost shrugged at this point. In truth he could now be anywhere. Why hadn’t we made sure the window was locked, or that the room was not on the ground floor?
I stared out over the harbour, scanning the promenade and pier. Then something amazing happened. A flash of lightning illuminated the whole of the seascape in front of us. For a brief moment the whole area was floodlit with the cruel yellow light of a lightning flash. And there he was, standing on Admiralty Pier, perhaps a furlong away. I could swear to it. I pointed for Marie’s sake. ‘Look, out over there. Standing on the pier.’
She stared into the distance and could just make out the figure of her boy. Then the light was gone and in a few seconds the thunder rolled in. The noise was deafening. This was one humdinger of a storm – and Pierre was in the middle of it!
Admiralty Pier was where the railway line terminated, and the steam packets moored up. It was a large stone breakwater along which ran the railway line. It was not the place to be when a storm was raging and the waves from an angry sea were crashing into the stonework. I urged Marie to get dressed. We needed to get down to the pier now. Marie pulled on an underskirt and stopped at that.
‘I don’t have time William. I’ll go out as I am.’
At this we speedily departed the room scarcely shutting the door behind us. We clattered down the corridor and past the porter, I yelled at him. ‘Our boy has wandered off onto the harbour wall, can you call for men to help us save him?’ He looked at me blankly. I didn’t have time to stop and explain further. I turned to Marie.
‘I’ll get Asif, and some rope. If he falls into the harbour in this weather, he will have no chance.’
At the main door Marie left me, she was almost running now, straight ahead towards the pier. I ran over to the servants’ quarters and woke Asif.
‘Quick, Asif. Pierre is on the harbour wall. Get the spare rope from the carriage and join me there.’ He was quickly on the case and heading for the stabling block. I turned and rushed back towards the harbour breakwater.
The thunderstorm was still at its height, the rain beating down. I could see Marie ahead of me, her white pantaloon undergarments already sodden and her shoeless feet slipping over the greasy wet flagstones of the pier. I caught up with her and put my hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t worry we will get him. Asif is bringing some rope.’ At that I fell silent. With the rain in our faces we were struggling to make progress, we were moving forward at a desperate half walk, half stumble. We finally reached the spot on the pier where I had seen Pierre. Without the lightning flash I would never have spotted him in a million years.
The pier was a substantial affair with flagstones above a concrete base, rising perhaps fifteen feet in height above the waterline. The railway line was on the north side of the breakwater so should have been immune to waves crashing from the south-west. However, such was the force of the storm that the sea was constantly breaking over and swamping the railway track, and the narrow path alongside it. Iron railings should have kept anyone walking alongside the railway track safe, but the raging sea was making a mockery of man’s engineering achievement – constantly rising and falling and sucking anything and anybody into its grasp.
So, holding her hand tightly, and with the other hand grasping the iron railings, we gingerly made our way towards the boy. Every few seconds the waves broke over the breakwater and soaked us. But we managed to stay on our feet and keep going.
There was another savage streak of lightning and we could see Pierre ahead. Still in the same position, about fifty yards away – just standing still, looking at the raging sea. No other help had arrived yet, though through the light of the flash I could see Asif just leaving the promenade and heading up the breakwater in our direction.
We kept going until we were about twenty yards short of Pierre. Something about his demeanour suggested we must be careful in our actions. Marie shouted at him imploringly in French, ‘Pierre, please, stay absolutely still. We will get you.’
For a few seconds we all froze.
Pierre turned his head towards us. He looked at his mother for a moment, smiled slightly, then to our horror – he jumped! Straight into the raging sea!
I looked at Marie, she was mortified. There was no choice. I ran to where he had been standing and jumped in. I hit the water so hard, it was like hitting a brick wall. It was freezing, bitter. All the air came out of my lungs. For a few moments I had to fight the panic, then my heartbeat calmed just enough to think straight. I paddled furiously but could not see any sign of him. I looked above me, and Marie was standing there. She pointed to my right. I looked, and looked, but I could see nothing. Then to my horror, she jumped in! There and then – in her soggy white pantaloons! She hit the water hard and like me was clearly winded and disorientated. I followed my instinct and half swam, half paddled, to where she was struggling. But it was already too late, her head was under the water, she was in a state of total desperation. I grabbed her around the waist, trying to hoist her head above the waves so she could breathe, but her panic was beating us both. At this rate she would take me down with her. The waves were so strong, they beat us both back against the breakwater stone. For a moment I thought I might be able to hold onto the slippery rock, but the ebb and flow of the raging tide sucked us both back out into the maelstrom.
I was close to giving up hope. I was just not strong enough for this, we were both doomed. Then above me, I heard a voice. It was Asif, with a rope. He caught my eye and gesturing, threw it towards me. Three or four times he missed but finally I had gra
bbed it. I was still holding Marie desperately, my fingernails embedded into her body. Somehow, in some way, Asif pulled us towards him. Using my free hand, I scrabbled at the stone, half my body out of the water. By sheer force of will, and great strength, Asif got us out of the water, under the railings, and onto the flat stonework alongside the rail track. Marie was by now a dead weight. I could not tell if she had taken in too much water or hit her head against the rock, but she was virtually unconscious.
I touched Asif’s outstretched hand and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
I looked back below us to the sea.
There was no sign of the boy.
Nothing.
I looked again at Asif and his face told me what I knew. We would never see the lad alive again. Strangers had now arrived to see if they could help and were now gathered around Marie’s prostrate body. She looked awful. White faced. While others watched, Asif acted, putting her on to her side and squeezing the water out of her lungs. I pummelled her back hoping that would push the seawater out. For a few seconds nothing happened, then, thank God, it did. She vomited up water and debris. She was frozen and hurt, but still alive. Blood was also coming out freely from a vicious cut on her forehead.
We managed to get her sitting up and I pressed a handkerchief on the wound. She was clearly beyond exhaustion but found the strength to speak.
‘William, have you found him? Have you got my boy?’
I looked into her eyes and indicated that we had not.
‘I’m so sorry Marie, he is gone. I never saw him again after he left the pier.’
She looked both angry and hysterical in equal measures. ‘Go on in, keep going, you must find him. I implore you!’
I looked at Asif, he shook his head. I turned to her. ‘I’m so sorry, there is nothing more we can do. The sea is too strong and cold, he will be dead by now.’
She scowled at me. ‘Cowards, miserable English cowards.’ Then realising her hopelessness, she burst into tears. I put my arms around her and with the help of the others, got her to her feet.
One of the strangers then said, ‘We must get out of here; this is too dangerous. We could all get swept away by the waves.’
Marie’s face showed a sense of total desolation but unable to walk unaided, we led her back down the breakwater path to the safety of the promenade.
We all made it safely and waiting there was a hospital carriage. We gladly accepted the help and took her to the local hospital.
Thirty-Eight
The Funeral
We stayed in Dover that week. Marie’s head wound was not as bad as feared and she was able to be released from Buckland Hospital. She did not want to carry on staying at the Lord Warden – the view of the pier from her window brought back nightmares of that awful night. So, we moved to a more modest hotel in the town centre, near to Dover Priory station. We slept the next few nights at that hotel.
Poor Pierre’s body was washed up on Dover’s pebble beach, on the next morning’s tide. We had no idea how long it would take for the coroner to release the corpse for burial. It seemed petty to keep Asif away from his work in Gravesend any longer, there was also the cost of stabling and feed for the horses to consider, so with a heavy heart I asked Asif if he could take the carriage back to Gravesend. As always he obliged without complaint.
There were now just the two of us. We spent the next few days walking the promenade, looking out to sea. On sunny days we could see the French coast, almost within touching distance. Marie was distant and preoccupied. Distraught over her boy’s death. She took to wearing black widow’s weeds most of the time. She was clearly unsure of the future, as was I. On days when the sun shone I tried broaching the subject of our future, but it felt awkward, strained. Would we still move to Paris, or stay in England? The one thing she did seem intent on was not returning to Camden Place.
The coroner released the body for burial in less than a week, but it felt like a lifetime. He had pronounced that the cause of Pierre’s death was drowning while his mind was disturbed. It was an open and shut case.
It was clearly impractical to take the corpse to France for burial, and Marie had no desire to beg Napoleon for the permission to have him buried in Chislehurst.
As luck would have it, the hotel manager’s brother was well connected to a church in the town centre of Dover – it was St Peters and St Pauls Church, in the Charlton area. We visited the church together, and though we had no connection to the town, the vicar kindly allowed us a burial in the churchyard. Perhaps the name of the church was apt, as St Peter was the patron saint of fishermen.
Young Pierre would not have been the first, nor the last person drowning in the English Channel to be buried there. I telegrammed Gordon to let him know the arrangements and enquired as to the health of Asif and Jessie Armitage. I got no response so assumed he was away from Gravesend.
The day of the funeral dawned. I paid for it myself. It was the least I could do. Sadly, it was the coldest, greyest day imaginable, even though it was the height of summer. The body was taken in a hearse behind a black horse, with black feathered head decoration, from the mortuary to the church. It was a fine old Gothic church, slightly away from the busiest part of town but within yards of the River Dour. We followed the hearse in a black hansom cab. There was just the two of us due – the only other people at the funeral would be the vicar and pallbearers.
The undertakers carried the coffin in through the old timber doors of the church and along the aisle. At that moment I caught sight of my dearest comrades – Gordon along with Asif, sitting alone in the empty church. I nodded. Asif smiled. Gordon gave the briefest of nods in return.
The ceremony progressed. What could be said of Pierre’s life? He should now have been looking forward to manhood in Paris. But the war and the greed of men had stopped all that. The only crumb of comfort was that he was getting a Christian burial, and not just rotting away in a tunnel under a pub in Gravesend.
Marie was impassive throughout. Her grief was difficult to touch, or imagine, so for the most part I kept my distance. English reserve, or cowardice?
The service ended and the coffin was carried out. I took the front corner and Asif the other, with the undertakers carrying the rear.
Outside the day had gone from grey damp to howling wind and rain. We carried on regardless. What else was there to do? Soon we were off the path and standing in sodden grass beside a newly dug grave. A few more words and the coffin was lowered. Marie and I threw some dirt on top of it. The gravedigger then started filling in more dirt as we walked away. I looked over and saw Marie was struggling, so I took her arm to stop her slipping on the wet grass. She looked very distant.
I had hoped that the church graveyard would have a view over the channel, to the boy’s homeland of France, but I could see nothing but mist and rain.
After thanking the vicar and undertakers, we went back into the hansom cab. By now we were all cold, wet and thoroughly down. I thanked Gordon and Asif for coming and we all decided to go back to the hotel for a warming drink.
Thirty-Nine
Farewell to Dover
We entered the hotel tearooms and I helped Marie into her seat. Gordon also insisted, quite rightly, that Asif join us. Hotels could sometimes be awkward about lascars in their dining rooms but clearly Gordon was a gentleman of stature, and if he was willing to share his table, then the waiting staff had no cause for complaint. I thanked Gordon profusely for coming down to Dover; his response was both measured and warm.
‘It is the least we can do in the circumstances. We got the train this morning and will return this afternoon.’ He turned to Marie. ‘I thought we should let you know how sorry we are for your loss, and ashamed that Pierre’s death was due to my fellow countrymen’s brutality and avarice.’
She stared back at him, then gently touched his hand with her fingers. ‘Thank you.’
Gordo
n continued, ‘Have you made any plans for the future?’
I looked at Marie, she looked at me. We had been avoiding that question all week. I spoke quietly. ‘Too soon.’ Gordon concurred. I changed the subject.
‘Any news on Jessie Armitage?’
Gordon sighed. ‘Dead I’m afraid. The injuries were too severe.’
I was saddened by this news.
‘That is a shame. At heart he was a good man. What of the deaths of Lynch and Bennett?’
‘The formal inquest has yet to take place, but everyone believes that an open verdict is the likely outcome. Just a tragic accident.’
Marie seemed to be concerned at this and spoke up. ‘But what of the other men involved? The photographer Mr Bussell, and all the other people who must have known what was happening to those poor boys?’
Gordon was clearly feeling awkward at this and was glad that the waitress brought over a pot of tea at that very moment. We all waited a few moments while teacups were filled, and the waitress departed.
Finally, Gordon replied. ‘I’m afraid they are still at large. Also, in all truth if I were to pursue the case against them, it might open up your involvement in the situation. Any link between Napoleon and a senior officer working for our armed forces might be picked up by the press and cause repercussions. I am here in a purely personal capacity. You understand that.’
I replied, ‘Of course, and incredibly grateful we are too for your attendance at the funeral.’
I could read from Marie’s body language that she was not content with this. Gordon seemed to sense this also.
‘Obviously, Reeves, if you returned to Gravesend it might be possible for you to bottom out the remaining threads of this foul undertaking.’
‘You mean the child sex ring?’
The French Emperor's Woman Page 19
