by David McDine
The innkeeper screwed up his eyes and studied the newcomer. ‘Mon dieu! Lieutenant Anson, n’est ce pas?’
‘Oui, c’est moi.’
‘Un verre?’
‘Oui, vin rouge.’
There was no sign of Thérѐse, nor her son from her marriage to a soldier who had been killed in action before Anson first met her.
‘Où est Thérѐse?’
‘Marié, à un fermier près de Rouen.’
Anson sipped the familiar rough red wine. ‘Est elle heureuse?
‘Bien sȗr. Elle espérait que tu revientrais, mais la guerre...’
So she had hoped he would return. Anson nodded and shrugged. ‘Oui, la guerre.’
The inn-keeper rattled off something Anson understood to mean that after his departure she had met a widower, a farmer, they had been happily married for a year and now had a baby daughter, a sister for Thierry.
The arrival of a group of farm-workers eager for a thirst-quencher after their days’ work interrupted them, and once they had been served, the landlord, being a man who clearly remembered prompt payers, was only too happy to agree to put Anson up for the night, stable his horse and provide a meal.
The so-called beefsteak offered was of the same suspiciously blueish tinge as that which he, Fagg and Hoover had been served when they were first washed up at the auberge three years before. But Anson was so hungry he did not care if it was horse-meat or not. When he retired for the night it was to the room he had occupied before, only this time there would be no amorous visitation from Thérѐse.
As he drifted off to sleep he went over what he had learned and consoled himself that at least by her father’s account she was happy and secure — and that her new child could not possibly be his. He had been very fond of her, and their intimacy had filled a need that both had at the time. But it had not been love.
41
A Final Warning
Down on the Marsh, Billy MacIntyre had already heard about the formation of the Woodhurst Militia and who was leading it.
He cursed, remembering with anger that the cretin who’d replaced him as bosun of the Seagate Sea Fencibles and his marine mate were the ones who had foiled his attempt to kill Lieutenant Anson in the Mermaid pub.
And now they were standing in his way again.
He had been given carte blanche by the gang leader to sort out the uppity villagers of Woodhurst, who had refused cooperation and if they weren’t punished and made to toe the line others elsewhere might well follow suit.
So they needed to be taught a lesson they would never forget, and a sure-fire way was to carry out his threat to burn down their meeting house and make examples of a few of them.
But first, the American and his sidekick would find out what a mistake it was to cross Billy Black.
*
A musket shot scared pigeons away from the church roof and sent the few villagers who were out and about scuttling indoors. Hoover and Fagg, who were demolishing a lamb pie in the Rose and Crown, dropped their eating irons and grabbed their muskets.
‘This could be it.’
‘Yeah, unless some idiot’s ’ad a haccidental discharge.’
‘Well, like they say, there’s only one way to find out!’
Outside, the village appeared to be deserted except for a lone figure waving at them from the church tower.
‘Looks like Attwood.’
They hurried into the churchyard. As a former man-of-war foretop-man, Fagg had a voice that could be just as easily heard from ground level to church tower as from mast-head to deck. Cupping his hands to his mouth he yelled, ‘What’s up, George? Was that what they calls haccidental?’
Attwood peered down. ‘No, there are strangers approaching!’
‘How many?’
‘I’ve seen about half a dozen but there could be more.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘That’s the funny thing. When I fired they disappeared behind the chapel, but two of ’em’s just come out in the open the other side of the churchyard wall carrying something. Looks like a makeshift white flag!’
Hoover exchanged a puzzled glance with Fagg and called up to the lookout, ‘Could be some kind of trick. Reload, with ball this time, and keep them covered.’
‘Right, sergeant, and there’s some of our lot heading for the church.’
‘Sam, when our boys get here send some up the tower and get the rest to take cover behind gravestones. I’m gonna find out what’s occurring.’
Happy to defer to the marine in a scrap, Fagg raised his thumb and took shelter behind a tombstone.
‘And make sure they’ve loaded their muskets!’
Crouching low, Hoover threaded his way through the graves towards the white cloth that was being waved back and forth the other side of the five-foot rag-stone wall. Peering over it, he was taken aback to see the battered features of a face he had last seen in the Mermaid on the night Lieutenant Anson was attacked.
‘MacIntyre!’
The Scotsman, accompanied by an evil-looking wall-eyed, lank-haired companion carrying a forked pole with a sheet hanging from it, responded with a surly grin. ‘It’s Billy Black now. And you’s that clown Anson’s minder! Ye’re a lang way frae the sea, laddie.’
Hoover guessed, correctly, that they had raided someone’s washing line for their flag of truce. ‘What d’you want?’
‘We just want these worms to cooperate with the free tradin’ like everyone else does.’
Hoover glanced up and could see that several more men had joined the lookout in the tower. MacIntyre had clearly spotted them, too.
‘And what if we don’t agree to cooperate?’
‘Then we’ll be back in force. Whatever they’re paying yous is no enough. If ye’ve got any sense you and your hop-along friend will be long gone afore we come back and this stupid militia will ’ave packed it in and agreed to toe the line.’
‘We ain’t being paid. Not a penny. We’re doing this on account of how much we enjoy seeing off scum like you.’
‘Then ye’re even dafter than ye look. Anyways, we’ll be back wi’ a lot mair men to sort yous lot out.’
And if we’re still here?’
‘Then we’ll kill ye both, burn down yon chapel and the houses of anyone stupid enough not to have got out o’ this pathetic militia.’
And without waiting for a reaction MacIntyre signed to his side-kick to throw aside the white flag, and they turned and stalked away.
Warily, in case of tricks, Hoover backed away to the cluster of gravestones where Fagg was sheltering.
‘You heard?’
‘I ’eard. So if we don’t piss orf they’re comin’ back to top us?’
‘In a nutshell, yes. I reckon it’s time to send for a few reinforcements and prepare some surprises for Black Mac and his men.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Oh, by the by, we’ll need a drum.’
Fagg frowned. ‘A drum?’
‘Yeah, can you put your feelers out? Someone around here must have a drum and know how to bang it.’
Nodding, the bosun knew he wouldn’t get anything more out of Hoover when he was in his enigmatic mode. But if there was a drum to be had within a ten-mile radius, Sam Fagg, ace procurer, would surely find it.
42
Paris
In Paris, as arranged, Anson found Parkin and Cassandra at the fashionable Richelieu Hotel, to which they had been recommended by the old gentlemen’s banking contacts.
It was a happy reunion. The Parkins were abuzz about their week in Calais enjoying the theatrical productions and excellent dinners at Dessein’s and meeting other English travellers both coming and going.
‘Cassandra met a quite a number of fellow art enthusiasts, you know,’ the old gentleman recalled. ‘One was a rather odd man, a Mister Turner, risking arrest by sketching a packet boat entering the harbour in stormy weather. Don’t know if the picture he paints will amount to much, but you never know.’
They were full, too, of tales
about the trials and tribulations of their journey to Paris. At one village they had been held up by a bunch of hostile locals. ‘But Mister Bell saw them off with his blunderbuss. One shot over their heads and they scattered!’ Cassandra recalled.
It had taken four days including overnight stops en route, but the excitement of arriving in the capital outweighed all that.
Pettiworth, they told Anson, was spending his days ‘passing on the benefits of his business acumen’ to the French, so was not a burden on his fellow-tourists’ time.
Parkin had already taken his niece to see some of the sights, shadowed at all times by Nat Bell to ensure that they were not dunned or insulted. The blackthorn walking stick that he carried around the capital was a fearsome weapon, and clearly not there simply for decoration.
The old gentleman, Cassandra and Anson found comfortable wicker chairs in the hotel foyer and took tea.
Anson was anxious to talk to Cassandra, but in company conversation was stilted, so he confined himself to enquiring what she had seen of Paris so far.
‘Uncle took me to the site of the storming of the Bastille, but of course since it was demolished there is little to see—’
Parkin interrupted. ‘However, I was able to purchase — at some expense I might add — one of the original bricks carved into a replica of the fortress. It is secreted in my room and I will show it to you later.’
Deadpan, Anson assured the old gentleman: ‘I will be on tenterhooks until I see it.’ But privately he wondered just how many such bricks had survived from the once massive fortress and were being similarly chiselled out by the locals for sale to gullible foreigners.
‘We’ve also been to look at the old Marie in the second arrondissement where Napoleon and Josephine married. They say he was very late for the ceremony and eventually rushed in ordering “Marry us quickly!” So romantic!’
‘Do I detect you have become an admirer of the First Consul?’ Anson asked.
‘In some ways, yes. When they married he gave her a pendant, you know, inscribed “To Destiny”.’
‘Yet by all accounts she cheated on him almost immediately.’
‘Oh, Oliver, at times you are so cold-hearted!’
He frowned. Was that how she saw him? He made a mental note to come up with some sort of romantic gesture, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of one at the moment.
Oblivious to such nuances, Parkin spoke again. ‘Cassandra also insisted I took her to see the house in Rue de la Victoire where Napoleon and Josephine lived. But of course after his coup d’état he moved to the Luxembourg, which they’ve now renamed the Palais du Consulate.’
Cassandra added excitedly: ‘We’ve yet to go there, or to the Notre-Dame — or the Tuileries and the Louvre, let alone Versailles and Fontainebleau, so there’s still much to be see now we’re all together.’
‘All of us except Hurel, or perhaps I should say Gerald Tunbridge. I take it there’s been no sign of him as yet?’
Cassandra shook her head. ‘No, I hope he arrives soon because he’s promised to help me with my French conversation.’
‘Hmm. I hope he will not get in the way of our sight-seeing.’
She sighed. ‘I must confess that since we’ve been here it seems we’ve spent more time being stared at than we did sightseeing. Frenchmen are very…’ she groped for the word, ‘forward, I find.’
Anson smiled ruefully. He could sympathise with the Frenchmen and would prefer looking at her to peering at monuments any day. There was no doubt she was an extremely attractive woman, with a handsome figure, raven hair and fine complexion, and he thanked his lucky stars that after his visit to the Auberge du Marin he was no longer carrying any emotional baggage.
And now he was determined not to be passed over in Cassandra’s favour by ‘le Baron’.
Changing the subject, he asked the old gentleman. ‘And you, sir? Is Paris living up to your expectations?’
Parkin took a sip of his tea. ‘Do please call me Josiah. We are surely old shipmates by now, are we not?’
‘Very well, er, Josiah. Have you managed to make contact with fellow antiquarians and natural historians?’
‘I have indeed been welcomed by a distinguished body of Parisian luminaries.’
Anson raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, luminaries, persons who have obtained eminence in their fields of endeavour and become an inspiration to others. Why, some of the world’s leading bird and bat stuffers base themselves here in Paris.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘Then there are a good many botanists, antiquarians — and more eminent etymologists than you can shake a stick insect at!’
‘Awesome. If you’d care to spend more time with them I can always take over your role of escorting Cassandra.’
‘Would you, my dear fellow? How kind. There’s a lecture tomorrow about the microscopic examination of rat droppings to identify their eating habits. Quite fascinating and not something I would wish to miss. So you’ll kindly take my niece off my hands?’
‘With the greatest pleasure!’
*
Parkin excused himself to update his journal, leaving Cassandra and Anson together.
She asked, a little shyly, ‘How was your journey? I shall quite understand if you feel you are not able to discuss it.’
‘There was someone I needed to see, something I had to check.’
‘From the time of your escape after the St Valery raid?’
Yes, a ghost to lay to rest.’
‘Was it something to do with where you recuperated while waiting to escape?’
‘It was — and someone I knew while I was there.’
‘I think I understand. And have you laid the ghost?’
He nodded. ‘I have.’
*
On board the river craft, Hurel was bored. He was fulfilling a particular mission seeking information about a new terror weapon but, truth be told, he did not believe there was such a thing — and if there was he doubted very much that he would come across any trace of it.
He had kept his eyes open and his ears flapping throughout the slow passage down the Seine, but he had not seen or heard anything of interest.
But as the vessel neared Le Havre and stopped to pick up some passengers, he struck gold.
He fell into conversation with a farmer bound for the port and enquired as casually as he was able about strange goings-on in the estuary that he claimed to have heard about — as indeed he had from Colonel Redfearn before leaving Dover.
The man guffawed. ‘Oui, monsieur, ils ont capturé un monstre — un monstre marin!’
43
The Gold Anchor
At breakfast, Parkin asked: ‘Cassandra, my dear, will you kindly remind us what is on our list of essential places to visit?’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes, we’ll visit Versailles and Fontainebleau later.’
‘Well then, I’ve always longed to stroll along the banks of the Seine to the Notre-Dame. So romantic!’
‘Then so you shall, this very day.’
He thought for a moment, put his hand to his forehead and exclaimed: ‘Ah, no, I almost forgot the lecture about the microscopic examination of rat droppings. But you indicated that you are free to escort Cassandra, my boy?’
‘Of course!’ Anson smiled. He would be alone with her at last and was determined to reveal that, despite her accusation of cold-heartedness, he also had a romantic side.
While she went back to her room with her maid to prepare for the outing, Anson made enquiries at the reception desk and slipped out of the hotel, headed for the piazza of the old Palais Royal.
There among the coffee houses, milliners and booksellers he found a jeweller’s shop that had exactly what he was seeking and was happy to pay the asking price without a murmur.
Later, as they crossed the bridge to the Île de la Cité with Bessie the maid trailing behind, they were taken aback by the grandeur of the Gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame.
They entered, leaving Bessie to stand alone outside, since she preferred to risk being kidnapped and sold into white slavery rather than set foot in a Roman Catholic building. Anson supposed, correctly, that she was blissfully ignorant of the fact that her own local church in Ludden, where she worshipped every Sunday, was originally of the same persuasion.
In the dimly-lit nave Anson took Cassandra’s hand protectively and they wandered around the great building together, not really taking much in but content to be in one another’s company.
They did register the damage and neglect the cathedral had suffered as a result of the Revolution and she insisted fervently: ‘It was Napoleon who rescued it from destruction, you know!’
Anson smiled secretly. Clearly, had the First Consul not been otherwise occupied with his wife and mistresses he could well have been a serious rival for Cassandra’s affections.
Outside they blinked in the sunlight, took the greatly relieved Bessie back in tow, and made their way to a wooden bench overlooking the Seine.
The package Anson had obtained earlier at the jeweller’s was burning a hole in his pocket, but with Bessie hovering nearby he was hampered. He whispered to Cassandra: ‘There’s something I wish to tell you, but...’ and he nodded towards Bessie.
Cassandra caught on immediately and told her maid: ‘Bessie, I think I may have dropped my lace handkerchief near the cathedral doors. Please see if you can find it.’
Bessie walked reluctantly away, glancing warily to left and right, and Cassandra turned to Anson. ‘So, Oliver, we are alone. What is this confidential matter you wish to mention?’
He stuttered: ‘You said I was cold-hearted.’
‘It was in jest.’
‘Yes, but I wished to make a romantic gesture, so I bought you this.’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced the package tied with a tiny red ribbon.’
