Josephine recognised the music; it was one of Johann Naumann’s sonatas for glass harmonica, and she had heard it played many years before in London. One of her clients, an official in the Ministry of War, was an admirer of Naumann’s work and had taken her to a private concert where the famous blind musician Marianne Kirchgässner had played this piece. That client had been fond of her, she recalled, and often gave her little treats; he had been one of the nicer ones. He never did realise that once he had bedded her and fallen asleep, she broke into his strongbox and read his official papers, and then passed on the contents to Colonel Beauregard.
The music was deceptively simple; the structure was clever, and she could see it building towards a resolution. She guessed, too, the moment when the music would change. When the sonata stopped and the glass harmonica’s sound veered off into a high-pitched scream of agony and hate, she was ready. She felt the power of the music reaching for her, clawing at her, but it could not pierce the armour of her mind. She listened for a moment to the shrieking and howling, and her lips curved into a bitter smile.
‘Your devil has no power to harm me,’ she said aloud. ‘I have looked into hells much deeper than this one.’ Then, drawing the pistol from her pocket and cocking it, she walked to the vestry door and flung it open.
The glass harmonica stood on a table, black metal frame with spinning glass discs; she saw the name of its maker, B. Franklin, picked out in gold on the frame. Behind it stood a figure cloaked and hooded in black, working the treadle with one foot and resting fine, dextrous fingers on the rims of the glass wheels. Its face was painted black and white, divided vertically. For a moment they stared at each other, and Josephine looked into eyes full of violence and madness.
The music gave one final screech and stopped. The cloaked man lunged for the knife lying on the table beside the glass harmonica, but before he could reach it, Josephine raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. The pistol barked and spat flame, and a cloud of stinking smoke filled the little room. Through the smoke Josephine saw the man stagger, clutching at his side for a moment, and then he grabbed the knife with dripping red fingers and threw it at her. Josephine ducked, stumbling and tripping over the hem of her cloak and sprawling on the wooden floor. The pistol slid out of her hand. Rolling over and grabbing the weapon, she sat up, but before she could move further, the man wrenched open the exterior door of the vestry and fled.
Reaching into her pocket for the powder flask and shot, Josephine reloaded the pistol and then rose and hurried to the door. She could see the tracks of her assailant in the snow, leading across the little churchyard and into a dense stand of trees on the far side. There were flecks of blood on the snow, black against the light. She took a step forward, intending to follow the trail, but then stopped. The glass harmonica player might well have accomplices waiting in the trees, and a single woman with a pistol would be no match for them. She needed reinforcements.
The west door of the church slammed open. She heard a man’s voice shouting, full of alarm. ‘Hallo? Hallo, is anyone there?’
To her relief, she recognised the voice. ‘It’s me, Mr Boydell!’ she called. ‘Madame Lafitte!’
She walked out of the vestry as Boydell came hurrying up the nave towards her. He too had a pistol in his hand. ‘I heard a shot,’ he said.
‘It was the assassin,’ Josephine said. She was astonished at how calm she felt. ‘The man who killed Fanning and Street and Fraser. I shot and wounded him, but he escaped across the churchyard.’
‘My God!’ said Boydell. He studied her for a moment, his eyes searching her face. ‘And you? Are you hurt?’
‘I am entirely unharmed. Mr Boydell, the man left a clear trail in the snow. If we move quickly, there is still time to follow him.’
Boydell nodded. ‘Lead on,’ he said, cocking his pistol. His eyes and face were hard. ‘Don’t worry, madame. I shall be right behind you.’
Before she could move, the door slammed open again, and Alec Murray and Abel Thomas came running up the nave. ‘Thank God,’ said Murray. ‘We heard the shot and thought we were too late. What happened?’
‘I was passing by,’ said Boydell. ‘I too heard the shot and came running. It seems Madame Lafitte has met our assassin. She managed to wing him with her pistol, and now he is on the run.’
Murray stared at her. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘We must follow him,’ Josephine said again. ‘It will be easy to track him. He left a trail of blood in the snow.’
Boydell held up a hand. ‘Now that Mr Murray is here, let us handle this,’ he said. ‘I salute your courage, madame, but you have done enough already. I suggest you return home before it gets dark.’
‘Thomas, go with her,’ said Murray. ‘And this time, don’t let her out of your sight, or you’ll have me to deal with. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Thomas, saluting.
‘Good. Mr Boydell, let’s go find our murderer.’
Pistols in hand, the two of them ran through the vestry, past the glass harmonica, and out into the snowbound churchyard. Back in the nave, Abel Thomas turned to Josephine. ‘I’m sorry, madame, but you heard him.’
Josephine nodded. ‘This time, Mr Thomas, I will be glad of an escort. But we are not going straight home. First I wish to pay a call on Julius Kramer.’
* * *
Josephine had been right: even in the dying light under the trees, it was easy to follow the trail. Days and nights of freezing cold had given the snow a hard, sparkling crust, and the blood spots were like dots of jet on its silver-white surface. ‘He’s keeping to the trees,’ Boydell said.
‘Doesn’t want to attract attention to himself,’ said Murray. ‘If he went staggering down the street leaking blood everywhere, people would start to notice. But he must have a hiding place somewhere in town. He won’t want to stay outside overnight.’
‘He might have a cabin up in the forest,’ said Boydell.
Murray shook his head. ‘You can see how much blood he has lost. He’ll need medical attention, and for that he’ll need to stay close to town. What are those lights up ahead? Is that Duchess Street?’
The lamps of a few houses could be seen through the trees. Boydell nodded. Frost was crusted on the scarf around his face, sparkling a little in the last glow of sunset. ‘This is the northern edge of the town. After that, there are a few fields, and then the forest begins.’
‘Then that’s where he is heading,’ said Murray.
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because Elijah Dunne lives on Duchess Street.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
They ran through the trees, occasionally breaking through the crust and falling hip deep into the soft snow, then clambering out and running on. The lights of Duchess Street grew closer, and the trail of blood spots continued. The houses on the north side of the street were surrounded by high wooden walls, erected to keep out marauding bears. The trail led past the back walls of the first two houses, and then ended abruptly at a gate leading into the rear courtyard of the third.
‘This is Dunne’s house,’ Murray said. ‘And the killer went through this gate. Which means he must have a key.’
He tried the gate. It was locked, and the wall around the courtyard was too high to climb. Retracing their steps through the falling night, they came to the point where Duchess Street ended and the wilderness began. Croghan, on watch, was loitering at the end of the street. He looked up in surprise when he saw Murray and Boydell.
‘Has anyone come in or out of the house in the last few hours?’ Murray demanded.
‘Naw,’ said the backwoodsman. ‘Ain’t seen nothin’ all afternoon ’cept a few whiskey jacks.’
‘Come with us,’ Murray said. He walked down the street to the front of Dunne’s house, the other two close behind him, and hammered hard on the door. A frightened footman opened it. ‘Mr Dunne is not at home, sir.’
‘We’ll decide
that for ourselves,’ said Murray, shouldering past him into the hall. Boydell and Croghan followed. A woman, so small that her head barely came up to Murray’s midriff, marched out into the hall and stopped in front of them, hands planted on her hips. She was in her fifties, Murray saw, with grey hair drawn up in a tight coif.
‘Mr Boydell!’ she snapped. ‘And you, you ruffians, whoever you may be! What is the meaning of this?’
‘I am sorry to intrude on you, ma’am, but we are hunting for a murderer,’ Boydell said. ‘I am afraid we must search your house.’
‘Murderer? This is a God-fearing house, Mr Boydell! There are no criminals here. Now begone!’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said Boydell. ‘Stand aside, if you please.’
‘No! I forbid it! This is my house, and I order you to leave! Go, before I call God’s curse down upon your heads!’
Murray gestured towards the stairs. ‘Mr Boydell, you take the upstairs,’ he said. ‘I’ll search this floor. Croghan, go outside and check the outbuildings. Look for a trail of blood.’
Boydell started for the stairs. ‘You devils!’ the woman screamed. ‘You swine! May God pluck out your eyes! May he rip out your tongue and shrivel your bowels! May he rend your flesh and burn you with fire! Oh God, curse them, curse them and all their descendants for ever more!’
‘Oh, shut up, you old windbag,’ said Murray. ‘I don’t have any descendants.’
The woman ignored him. She followed, still spitting curses and imprecations, while he walked through the ground floor of the house, pistol in hand. The rooms were plain and dark, the walls bare; whatever Dunne spent his money on, it was not pictures or furnishings. Dining room, drawing room and morning room were all empty. ‘Where are the rest of your servants?’ Murray asked.
‘None of your business!’
Murray looked down at her. ‘Mrs Dunne, if you really want to get rid of us, the quickest way to do it is to answer my questions. Otherwise I’ll be here for hours.’
She stood for a moment quivering with righteous rage. ‘We have few servants. Apart from the footman, the rest are out. It is their night off.’
According to Croghan, no one had left the house. ‘Where is your son?’ Murray asked.
‘He is not here.’
‘I can see that. Where is he?’
‘He is away on business.’
‘No he isn’t,’ said Murray. ‘My men have been watching this house and his office every day. Mr Dunne has not left town. One more time, ma’am. Where is he?’
She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring up at him, her lips compressed in a tight line and her eyes dark with hate. Murray turned away from her, walking to the rear of the house and into the kitchen. In the lamplight he saw at once the stain on the big wooden table in the middle of the room, and a dark pool on the floor. He could smell, too, the sharp tang of fresh blood.
He turned towards Mrs Dunne. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What has happened here?’
‘We killed a pig earlier,’ she snapped.
‘I thought you said the servants had the night off.’
‘I did it myself. I’m used to killing pigs,’ she added, glaring at him again.
Boots sounded in the passageway and Boydell came into the kitchen. ‘Nothing upstairs. Have you found—’ He saw the blood, and whistled. ‘God’s life,’ he said.
The back door opened and Croghan came in, knocking snow off his boots. ‘I found the blood trail, Sar’nt. It leads right up to the door here.’
Murray stared at Mrs Dunne. ‘Well?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s pig’s blood!’ she shouted. She was shaking again, but whether it was with anger or fear, Murray could not tell ‘Now get out of my house, you stinking redcoat filth! Get out! Get out!’
In the street outside, Murray turned to the others. ‘It’s plain enough what happened. Dunne met madame at the church. After she shot him, he fled back here. That old witch patched him up, and now he is hiding somewhere.’
Boydell stared at him. ‘Dunne! Christ on the cross! You think it was him who tried to kill Madame Lafitte?’
‘And who killed Fraser and Street and Fanning,’ said Murray. ‘He’s a homicidal maniac, driven by a fanatical hatred of Britain. And he is working with Polaris.’
‘God in heaven,’ said Boydell. He looked genuinely shaken. ‘Wilson, Street and now Dunne. All these people, all these men I have known for years.’ He shook his head. ‘God, this sickens me!’
‘It sickens all of us,’ said Murray. ‘Now, let’s make an end to it. Croghan, find the rest of the boys and bring them here.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Boydell asked.
‘The trail of blood ends in Dunne’s kitchen,’ Murray said. ‘He’s somewhere in that house, I’ll swear to it. They must have a priest hole or something. We’re going to take that house apart plank by bloody plank if we have to, but we’re going to find Dunne.’
* * *
Julius Kramer stood motionless in the hall of his house, looking at Josephine. He wore a beautifully cut black coat with silver braid, white shirt and high-waisted fawn trousers of fashionable cut. His eyes strayed lazily over her face and down her body.
‘Madame Lafitte,’ he said. ‘Have you come to make beautiful music with me? I knew you would change your mind in the end and accept my offer. Send your slave away and we can begin. My bedroom is at the top of the stairs.’
At the word slave, Abel Thomas started forward, but Josephine put a hand on his arm. ‘I will not stay long,’ she said. ‘I wish to see your glass harmonica.’
‘My glass harmonica? Oh, my dear, I have a much better instrument in mind, and I shall very much enjoy teaching you to play it. You will like it too, I am sure. The technique is simple; not unlike the clarinet, only with more use of the tongue.’
‘The glass harmonica,’ repeated Josephine, pulling her pistol out of her pocket and pointing it at Kramer’s chest. ‘At once, if you please.’
Kramer gazed at the pistol for a moment. He seemed amused. ‘You certainly have an interesting way of arousing a man,’ he said. ‘Very well. This way.’
She followed Kramer into the drawing room, Abel Thomas close behind her. Kramer was moving freely, she saw, with no sign of injury. He was not the man she had shot, and a little corner of her mind thought this was a pity, because she wouldn’t really have minded shooting him. The thought startled her. What have I become? she asked herself.
The glass harmonica sat on a polished satinwood table in the middle of the room. The gilded rims of the glass discs sparkled in the candlelight. ‘A beautiful instrument, is it not?’ said Kramer. ‘It was made especially for me by Fröschela, one of the finest instrument makers in the world. But of course you have seen it before. This is the harmonica I played at the concert back in December.’
‘Yes,’ said Josephine. ‘Mr Kramer, have you given lessons to anyone since you arrived in York? Have you taught anyone to play this instrument?’
Kramer looked even more amused. ‘One does not learn to play the glass harmonica overnight, madame. It takes years of dedication and persistence to learn this skill.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Josephine. ‘Have you allowed anyone else to play it? Elijah Dunne, for instance?’
Kramer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Dunne? That philistine? He knows nothing of music, and cares even less. Thanks to his pious Scottish upbringing, he regards it as the invention of Satan. The devil’s string bag, he once called my violin.’
‘And yet he was at the musical evening,’ said Josephine.
‘If you want to know what Mr Dunne’s motives are, why don’t you ask him?’
‘I intend to,’ said Josephine. She eased off the hammer on her pistol and put the weapon back in her pocket. ‘Who are you, Mr Kramer? Are you really what you claim to be? An Austrian agent, searching for Beauregard? Or are you actually working with him?’
This time Kramer laughed out loud. ‘Oh madame,’ he said. ‘Are you really a spy? I
f so, then you are not a very good one.’
Josephine shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am a spy no longer. If you are working for Peter Beauregard, then you may tell him this. Kingston is now impregnable and cannot be stormed by any force the Americans possess. And tell him that Josephine Lafitte has performed her last service for him. From now on, I am a free woman.’
‘Ah, madame, madame,’ said Kramer. He was still laughing. ‘None of us is ever free. We all call someone our master.’
‘No,’ said Josephine. ‘No longer. Good evening, Mr Kramer. I am sorry to have intruded on you.’
* * *
They gathered in MacLea’s room at Whitworth’s Hotel – Murray, Robinson, Abel Thomas and Josephine. The captain was sitting up in bed, his bruises a livid blue, but there was more life in his face than before. ‘Kramer is not the killer,’ Josephine said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I went to his house and saw him. Don’t worry. I took Corporal Thomas with me.’
‘Why did you go?’ asked Robinson.
‘To find out whether he was the man I had shot. I set a trap for Polaris, Mr Robinson, with myself as bait. That is why I asked John to call off his guards, so I could go to the church alone. If Mr Thomas or any of the others had been there, Polaris would have realised it was a trap.’
‘So you waited to see who would come and try to kill you,’ said Murray in wonder. ‘God. That took guts.’
‘It had to be done,’ Josephine said simply. ‘I left a message in the usual place for Kramer to find. But it wasn’t Kramer who came to the church.’
‘You’re certain of this?’ asked Robinson. MacLea watched her silently, the expression on his face unreadable.
‘I am,’ said Josephine. ‘I shot the man high up in the ribs. Kramer was wearing an open coat, and I could see no sign of blood or bandages. Also, he still had his glass harmonica at the house, and it was a different instrument from the one I saw at the church. Kramer’s harmonica is German, made by Fröschela. The killer’s instrument was made by Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia. I saw the maker’s signature on the side. Did you recover it from the vestry?’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 28
