The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

‘Would you rather speak in English?’ Marat asked - in English. He was a doctor by profession and had held a practice in Pimlico in London for some time.

  ‘No, thank you, Citizen,’ Carton declined, then instantly wondered if it was wise. ‘Perhaps you would indulge me should my French falter?’

  ‘What is it you want?’ Marat repeated. His expression was hard to read because of the ravages of disease upon his face. He was in his fifties, a generation older than most of the other Revolutionary leaders, and a lifetime of hate had exhausted him.

  ‘I believe a certain Citizen Duclos has discovered a quantity of exceptionally good food, cheeses and bacon to be exact, in the keeping of a Citizen Fleuriot, and has blackmailed him into concealing that food from the common good.’ Carton was speaking too quickly and he knew it, but he could not control himself enough to slow down. ‘Citizen Duclos is in a position of power in the local committee, so I cannot turn to them to search and find it.’

  Marat blinked. ‘So you want me to have men from the Commune search?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Marat grunted and eased his position a little, wincing as the ulcerated flesh touched the sides of the bath. ‘I’ll consider it,’ he said with a gasp. ‘Why do you care? Is it your cheese?’

  ‘No, Citizen. But it is unjust. And it could be mine next time.’

  Marat stared at him. Carton felt the steam settle on his skin and trickle down his face and body. His clothes were sticking to him. The pulse throbbed in his head and his throat. Marat did not believe him. He knew it.

  ‘A friend of mine was blamed for it, and shot,’ he added. Was he insane to tell Marat this? Too late now. ‘I want revenge.’

  Marat nodded slowly. ‘Come back this evening. I’ll have men for you,’ he assured. ‘I understand hate.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Carton said hoarsely, then instantly despised himself for it. He did not want to have anything in common with this man, this embodiment of insane rage who had sworn to drown Paris in seas of blood. He half bowed, and backed out of that dreadful room into the hallway again.

  He returned to his rooms and fell asleep for a while. He woke with a headache like a tight band around his temples. He washed in cold water, changed his clothes, and went out to buy a cup of coffee. He would have to think about something more for publication soon, as he would run out of money.

  It was half past seven in the evening. He had not long before he would have to report to Sabot.

  He was almost back to Marat’s house when he heard shouting in the street and a woman screaming. He hastened his step and was at the archway when a Revolutionary Guardsman pushed past him.

  ‘What is it?’ Carton asked, alarm growing inside him.

  ‘Marat’s been killed!’ a young man cried out. ‘Murdered! Stabbed to death in his bath. A mad woman from Calvados. Marat’s dead!’

  There were more footsteps running, shouts and screams, armed men clattering by, howls of grief, rage and terror.

  Dead! Carton stood still, leaning a little against the wall in the street. In spite of all his will to stop it, in his mind he could see the ghastly figure of Marat in that aqueous room, the steam, the shrivelled skin, the stench, the pain in his face. He imagined the body lifeless, and blood pouring into the vinegar and water. And with a wave of pity he thought of a quiet woman who for some inconceivable reason had loved him.

  He must get out of here! Maybe he would be lucky and the widow would not even remember his name, let alone why he had come. He straightened up and stumbled away, tripping on the cobbles as he heard the shouts behind him, more men coming. Someone let off a musket shot, and then another.

  All his instincts impelled him to run, but he must not. It would look as if he were escaping. A couple of women accosted him, asking what was wrong. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘Some kind of trouble. But stay away from it.’ And without waiting he left them.

  When he finally got inside his own rooms and locked the door, he realised the full impact of what had happened. Marat, the head of the Commune, the most powerful man in Paris, had been murdered by some woman from the countryside. The revenge for it would be unimaginable. But of more immediate concern to Carton, he did not have Marat’s men to search Fleuriot’s house for the cheeses. And Sabot would expect an answer tonight or Carton himself would pay the price for it. He would have to do something about it himself, and immediately.

  He dashed a little water over his face, dried it, put his jacket back on, and went outside again. The one idea in his mind was desperate, but then so would the result be if he did nothing.

  Rats were the key. If he could not get Marat’s men to search Fleuriot’s house, then he would have to get someone else to do it. The carpenter Duplay, with his wood yard next door, was at least a chance. He could think of nothing better.

  He walked quickly toward the Rue St Honoré, hoping not to give himself time to think of all the things that could go wrong. He had no choice. He kept telling himself that - no choice! It was a drumbeat in his head as he strode along the cobbles, crossed to avoid a cart unloading barrels, and came to the archway at the entrance to the carpenter’s house. He knocked before he had time to hesitate.

  It was opened within two minutes by a young woman. She was small and very neat, rather like a child, except that her face was quite mature, as if she were at least in her middle twenties. She inquired politely what she could do to help him.

  ‘I believe the Citizen who lives here is a carpenter,’ he said, after thanking her for her courtesy.

  ‘Yes, Citizen. He is excellent. Did you wish to purchase something, or have something made, perhaps?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, but I am concerned for his stock of wood, possibly even his finished work,’ he replied. ‘I have reason to believe that food is being stored in the house next door - cheese, to be precise - and there are a large number of rats collecting...’ He stopped, seeing the distaste in her face, as if he had spoken of something obscene. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Perhaps I should not have mentioned it to you, but I feel that the Citizen...’

  There was a click of high heels on the wooden stairway and Carton looked beyond the young woman to see a man whose resemblance to her was marked enough for him to assume that they were related. He was about thirty, small and intensely neat, as she was, almost feline in his manner, with a greenish pallor to his complexion, and myopic green eyes which he blinked repeatedly as he stared at Carton. He was dressed perfectly in the manner of the Ançien Régime, as if he were to present himself at the court of Louis XVI, complete with green striped nankeen jacket, exquisitely cut, a waistcoat and cravat, breeches and stockings. It was his high heels Carton had heard. His hair was meticulously powdered and tied back. He fluttered his very small, nail-bitten hands when he spoke.

  ‘It is all right, Charlotte, I shall deal with the matter.’

  ‘Yes, Maximilien,’ she said obediently, and excused herself.

  ‘Did you say “rats”, Citizen?’ the man asked, his voice soft, accented with a curious sibilance.

  With a shock like icy water on his bare flesh, Carton realised what he had done. Of all the carpenters in Paris he had knocked on the door of the one in whose house lodged Citizen Robespierre, and apparently his sister. He stood frozen to the spot, staring at the little man still on the bottom stair, as far away from him as he could be without being absurd. Carton remembered someone saying that Robespierre was so personally fastidious as to dislike anyone close to him, let alone touching him. He had constant indigestion for which he sucked oranges, and anything as gross as a bodily appetite or function offended him beyond belief.

  ‘I am sorry to mention such a matter,’ Carton apologised again. He found himself thinking of Jean-Jacques and his grief, and how alive Marie-Claire had been, how full of laughter, anger, and dreams. ‘But I believe Citizen Fleuriot next door is hoarding cheese, and it is unfair that he rob the good citizens of food by doing so, but it is also a considerable danger to his immediate neighb
ours, because of the vermin it attracts.’

  Robespierre was staring at him with his strange, short-sighted eyes.

  Carton gulped. ‘I have not the power to do anything about it myself,’ he went on, ‘but I can at least warn others. I imagine Citizen Duplay has a great deal of valuable wood which could be damaged.’ He bowed very slightly. ‘Thank you for your courtesy, Citizen. I hope I have not distressed the Citizeness.’

  ‘You did your duty,’ Robespierre replied with satisfaction. ‘The “Purity of the People’“ - he spoke as if it were some kind of divine entity - ‘requires sacrifice. We must rid France of vermin of every kind. I shall myself go to see this Citizen Fleuriot. Come with me.’

  Carton drew in his breath, and choked. Robespierre waited while he suffered a fit of coughing, then when Carton was able to compose himself, he repeated his command. ‘Come with me.’

  Carton followed the diminutive figure in the green jacket, heels clicking on the cobbles, white-powdered head gleaming in the last of the daylight, until they reached Fleuriot’s door. Robespierre stepped aside for Carton to knock. The door opened and Fleuriot himself stood in the entrance, face tight with annoyance.

  Carton moved aside and Fleuriot saw Robespierre. A curious thing happened. There could not be two such men in all France, let alone in this district of Paris. Fleuriot’s recognition was instant. He turned a bilious shade of yellowish-green and swayed so wildly that had he not caught hold of the door lintel he would have fallen over.

  ‘I have been told that you have some cheeses,’ Robespierre said in his soft, insistent voice. ‘A great many, in fact.’ He blinked. ‘Of course I do not know if that is true, but lying would make you an enemy to the people...’

  Fleuriot made a strange, half-strangled sound in his throat.

  Carton closed his eyes and opened them again. His mouth was dry as the dust on the stones. ‘It’s possible Citizen Fleuriot does not own the cheeses?’ he said, his voice catching. He coughed as Robespierre swivelled around to stare at him, peering forward as if it were difficult to see. Carton cleared his throat again. ‘Perhaps he is frightened of someone else, Citizen?’

  ‘Yes!’ Fleuriot said in a high-pitched squeak, as if he were being strangled. ‘The good citizen is right!’ It was painfully clear that he was terrified. His face was ghastly, the sweat stood out on his lip and brow, and he wrung his hands as if he would break them, easing his weight from foot to foot. But the fear that touched his soul was of Robespierre, not of Philippe Duclos. He gulped for air. ‘The cheeses are not mine! They belong to Citizen Duclos, of the local committee. I am keeping them for him! He has threatened to have my head if I don’t...’ His voice wavered off and he looked as if he were going to faint.

  Robespierre stepped back. Such physical signs of terror repelled him. The Purity of the People was a concept, an ideal to be aspired to, and the means to achieve it was obviously fear, but he did not want ever to think of the reality of it, much less be forced to witness it. ‘Philippe Duclos?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes...C-Citizen...R-Robespierre,’ Fleuriot stammered.

  ‘Then Citizen Carton here will help you carry the cheeses out, and we will give them to the people, where they belong,’ Robespierre ordered. ‘And Citizen Duclos will answer with his head.’ He did not even glance at Carton but stood waiting for an obedience he took for granted.

  Carton felt oddly safe as he followed Fleuriot inside. Robespierre was a tiny man with no physical strength at all -Philippe could have broken him with one blow - but it was not even imaginable that he would. Robespierre’s presence in the yard was more powerful than an army of soldiers would have been. Carton would not even have taken a cheese for Sabot without his permission.

  When the food was all removed, the yard was completely dark, but Robespierre was easily discernible by the gleam of his powdered hair. Carton approached him with his heart hammering.

  ‘Citizen Robespierre?’

  Robespierre turned, peering at him in the shadows. ‘Yes, what is it? You have done well.’

  ‘Citizen Sabot of the local committee is a good man.’

  His voice shook, and he despised himself for his words. ‘I would like him to have an opportunity to be rewarded for his service to the people by receiving one of the cheeses.’

  Robespierre stood motionless for several seconds. He drew in his breath with a slight hiss. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘He works long hours.’ Carton felt the blood thundering in his head. ‘I must report to him tonight, to show my honesty in this matter, or...’ he faltered and fell silent.

  ‘He does his duty,’ Robespierre replied.

  Carton’s heart sank.

  ‘But you may be rewarded,’ Robespierre added. ‘You may have one of the cheeses.’

  Carton was giddy with relief. ‘Thank you, Citizen.’ He hated the gratitude in his voice, and he could do nothing about it. ‘You are...’ he said the one word he knew Robespierre longed to hear, ‘...incorruptible.’

  He took the cheese and went to the local committee prison. Sabot was waiting for him. He saw the cheese even before Carton spoke.

  Carton placed it on the table before him, hating to let go of it, and knowing it was the only way to save his life.

  ‘I found them,’ he said. ‘Citizen Robespierre will arrest the hoarder. You would be well advised to take this home, tonight - now! And say nothing.’

  Sabot nodded with profound understanding and a good deal of respect. He picked up the cheese, caressing it with his fingers. ‘I will leave now,’ he agreed. ‘I will walk along the street with you, Citizen.’

  * * * *

  Philippe protested of course, but it availed him nothing. Fleuriot would never have dared retract his testimony, and apart from that, there was a sweetness in having his revenge on Philippe for having stolen his hoard, and then terrified him into guarding it for him, adding insult to injury.

  Reluctantly Sabot was allowed his one cheese in reward. It was all over very swiftly. Robespierre was not yet a member of the Committee of Public Safety, but it was only a matter of time. His star was ascending. Already someone whispered of him as ‘The Sea-Green Incorruptible’. Philippe Duclos was found guilty and sentenced to the guillotine.

  Robespierre never personally witnessed such a disgusting act as an execution. The only time he ever saw the machine of death at all was at the end of the High Terror still a year in the future, when he mounted the blood-spattered steps himself.

  Carton had not intended to go, but the memory of Marie-Claire was suddenly very sharp in his mind. He could see her bright face under its tumbled hair, hear her voice with its laughter and enthusiasm, as if she had gone out of the door only minutes ago. Half against his will, despising himself for it, he nevertheless was waiting in the Place de la Revolution, watching with revulsion Citizeness Defarge and her friends who sat with their knitting needles clicking beside the guillotine when the tumbrels came rattling in with their cargo of the condemned.

  As usual they were all manner of people, but not many of them wore the red bandanna of the Citizen’s power, and Philippe was easy to see.

  Carton felt a joggle at his elbow, and turning for an instant, he thought it was Marie-Claire. It was the same wide, brown eyes, the tangle of hair, but it was Jean-Jacques, his face still haggard with grief. He looked at Carton and his cheeks were wet.

  Carton put out his hand to touch him gently. ‘I’m glad you didn’t try your plan,’ he said with intense gratitude. He liked this odd little man profoundly. It was stupid to have such a hostage to fate, but he could not help it. Afterward they would go and drink together in quiet remembrance and companionship. ‘It would never have worked,’ he added.

  Jean-Jacques smiled through his tears. ‘Yeah, it did,’ he answered.

  <>

  * * * *

  Val McDermid

  Four Calling Birds

  You want to know why what happened last Wednesday night at the Roxette happened at all. You have to go b
ack twenty years. To the miners’ strike. They teach it to the bairns now as history, but I lived through it and it’s as sharp in my memory as yesterday. After she beat the Argies in the Falklands, Thatcher fell in love with the taste of victory, and the miners were her number one target. She was determined to break us, and she didn’t care what it took. Arthur Scargill, the miners’ leader, was as bloody-minded as she was, and when he called his men out on strike, my Alan walked out along with every other miner in his pit.

  We all thought it would be over in a matter of weeks at the most. But no bugger would give an inch. Weeks turned into months, the seasons slipped from spring through summer and autumn into winter. We had four bairns to feed and not a penny coming in. Our savings went; then our insurance policies; and finally, my jewellery. We’d go to bed hungry and wake up the same way, our bellies rumbling like the slow grumble of the armoured police vans that regularly rolled round the streets of our town to remind us who we were fighting. Sometimes they’d taunt us by sitting in their vans flaunting their takeaways, even throwing half-eaten fish suppers out on the pavements as they drove by. Anything to rub our noses in the overtime they were coining by keeping us in our places.