The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  Lydia sniffed delicately as a hint of salty sea air stung her nose. They were close to the ocean. Were they headed for the docks? If she could get away, maybe she could find Legacy.

  The shadowy figure raised his voice. “Miss Garrett, you are not attending. I asked if you know who I am.”

  Lydia responded only because she did not want to anger him. “Yes, Dr Marshall, you are Le Faucon.”

  “Bravo, Miss Garrett. I knew you were a bright young lady. I did wonder if you would ever work out who I am.”

  The carriage pulled up sharply and Marshall leaned forward to open the door and climb out. He reached back in, pulled Lydia to a sitting position, and helped her slide out of the carriage.

  “I do regret the damage to your beautiful dress—it was really magnificent,” he said conversationally.

  Was he mad?

  “My associate up in the box will retrieve Mrs Adkins for us. Why don’t you allow me to show you your lodgings? I wish the accommodations could be better, but I had to work with the resources to hand.”

  Lydia surveyed her surroundings carefully. She needed something, anything, to help her pinpoint their location. The darkness was so complete it swallowed all landmarks. Not that she would recognize the area even had it been midday. She had seen little of Calcutta and its environs.

  Dr Marshall gripped her elbow firmly, and led her into a cavernous building looming directly in front of them. He escorted her through a large open room, the space almost entirely taken up with chests of exotic goods stacked nearly to the rafters – cotton, indigo and the critical saltpeter. Further along there were shelves lined with tea chests. Logs of ebony and mahogany made a kind of mountain at one end of the building. There was even a pile of tiger pelts and ivory tusks. At the far end of this warehouse they entered a narrow passage with several doors opening on to it. Marshall led her to the end of this long corridor, opening the last door.

  It swung in onto a space that might once have been an office of some sort. The original furniture—a couple of desks and some broken chairs—had been shoved to one side and two pallets lay on the floor. Three narrow, boarded-over windows were placed high along what she thought must be the outer wall.

  The carriage driver carried in Mrs Adkins, who remained insensible.

  Marshall lit a smoking oil lamp that sat on the desk. Then he excused himself. “I shall return momentarily. You will write a short note to your companions verifying your continued existence. Please don’t do anything rash while I am out of the room, Miss Garrett. Both my friend here and I are well armed, and, while I would regret the necessity, I will not hesitate to kill you if you attempt to escape.”

  “You would not regret it nearly so much as I would.” Lydia jerked her arm free.

  “I knew you were a wit.” He smiled politely at her bravado. “I shall be back with pen and paper.”

  Lydia thought frantically. She must find a way to communicate what little she knew about their whereabouts. Too soon Marshall returned, bearing pen, paper, and ink. He loosed her bonds and pulled a chair to the desk for her to sit down.

  “May I have a moment?” Lydia chafed her hands and arms. She needed a few more minutes to think. “My hands fell asleep while bound and until the blood returns they will not cooperate.”

  “Certainly, my dear. Do not try to be clever though. Mrs Adkins is far more valuable to me as a hostage than you. I will sacrifice you in a trice the moment you become more of a liability than an asset.”

  “I would not dream of trying to be clever. I can hardly think. My head still aches from whatever drug you used.” Lydia snatched up the pen and began to write.

  My dearest Gentlemen. By this time you must be a ware that Mrs Adkins and I are gone from Government House. There must be no recriminations; neither you nor the ast ute soldiers on guard could have prevented this. I have been instructed to write something to assure you of the authenticity of this communication. Lord Danbury, I beg you to remember that when we first met I wore a gown of indigo blue cotton, and put too much salt in your eggs so that Peter scolded me. Please take the greatest care and do not endanger yourselves. Lydia Garrett

  Marshall took the note from her and read it with narrowed eyes. Lydia tried to look unconcerned, and kept her breathing as even as she could.

  “This will do.” He bent at last to add a postscript to the bottom of the note. “I must be off, my dear. Someone is bound to have found my note at Government House, and I should not be found missing as well. It might arouse suspicion. I will see you in the morning. If you have need of anything, my man will be posted outside your door. Do not try his patience. He has instructions to silence you if need be.” Leaving this threat hanging in the air, Marshall departed, closing the heavy door behind him.

  Lydia heard a rustle from the pallet where Mrs Adkins had been laid and she rushed to her side.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” It was more a groan than proper speech. “Could you untie me, please? I feel very ill.”

  Lydia hastened to free the woman. “It will pass soon, except for the headache. I’m feeling much better already.”

  “Was that Dr Marshall?”

  “Yes, I believe he kidnapped us in order to force Lord Wellesley to turn the Peacock Throne over to him. They must have some raja or sultan in the wings waiting to make a grab for power.”

  “He is a devil. I would never have thought it of him. He can be pompous but I would not have thought him a traitor.”

  “I understand his mother was French, so perhaps he does not feel England is his country.”

  “Nevertheless I would not have believed him capable of such deceit. Wellesley will never consent, you know. He will resent the demands. He may even grieve for me.” She smiled ruefully as if she doubted the notion. “But he will never allow himself to be dictated to by such means. He cannot. If word got out, he would be ruined. None of us would be safe. Every time someone wanted something they would snatch a body from the street and then make their demand. It would be ridiculous. No, I’m afraid that we shall have to prepare for our fate, whatever it may be.”

  Lydia almost confided that she had sent a secret message in the note she had prepared, but decided at the last to keep her own counsel. It would be unkind to raise hopes which might come to nothing. She did not know what the future held and while she trusted Mrs Adkins they might be placed under duress. What she did not know she could not divulge.

  At Government House time had turned into a torment. Marcus could not sleep, but neither could he do anything productive. He had not the least notion what to do. It was a torment to sit about wringing his hands. He should know what to do. He was the Honourable Marcus Harting; he always knew what to do.

  He must break free from this hesitation and do something. He had not been at such a loss since Lyons. Nightmare images stormed the barriers he had erected in his mind and he was there once more. The guillotine’s blade glimmered red with blood in the sunset. The scent of death in the air, the fanatic gleam in the eyes of the populace. The press of the wooden barrel that had been his prison. His salvation. His uncle, standing tall and straight with his hands bound behind him, stoically awaiting his turn before Madame La Guillotine. The thunk at once solid and liquid. The roar of approval from the mob.

  Hatred.

  Others had consoled him, counselled him. He had been but a lad of sixteen. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the massacre. He had been right to obey his uncle’s order to remain hidden. But Marcus had vowed never to be so powerless again and he had spent his lifetime thwarting Fouche, Napoleon’s spymaster, the man who had engineered that day’s bloodbath.

  But here he was again. Unable even to begin to assist the person he had come to care for most in the world.

  A servant appeared at his side. Lord Wellesley insisted they should eat. He dragged himself from his seat and plodded blindly to the breakfast room. Danbury sat at the table, his face white and drawn; the same look that a sold
ier sported after an unexpected defeat. Did Marcus look as rumpled and haggard himself?

  The food might have been dust for all he could taste.

  The other guests staying at Government House had not been informed of the abductions, but they seemed to sense something was wrong from the solemn countenances of their companions. The congratulations on the capital ball of the previous evening died on their lips, and the conversation trickled off into a puzzled silence.

  Dr Marshall arrived at the table, hale, hearty and brimming with bonhomie. The downcast aspect of his audience seemed not to affect his own spirits in the least as he peppered them with humorous anecdotes.

  Marcus ground his teeth. Why would the man not be still? His temples pulsed in aching rhythm. Dr Marshall prattled on as if he intended to do so all day. Thankfully a clerk interrupted him to present Lord Wellesley’s compliments, and ask Lord Danbury and Mr Harting to join him at their earliest possible convenience. They leapt from the table murmuring swift farewells and practically flew along to the Governor-General’s study.

  “Gentlemen,” Lord Wellesley greeted them, waving a note. “One of the servants found this propped on a side table in the entry hall. I questioned the girl, of course, but she knows nothing. Somehow this villain has a means of gaining access to Government House whenever he wishes. I tell you, he must be caught!”

  Marcus grabbed the note, read it silently, then passed it to Danbury, who looked ready to rip it from his grasp.

  Danbury read aloud the short portion of the note the abductor had penned. “This is a sign of my good faith. The ladies have not been harmed, and will not be harmed unless you fail to obey my smallest instruction. Further communication will follow.” He then read Lydia’s brief message.

  “Lord Danbury, is the note authentic?” asked Wellesley.

  “Yes, sir, I believe it is. I would recognize Miss Garrett’s hand anywhere. I have seen it often enough. Yet something is wrong. I must think—”

  “What do you mean?” asked Marcus.

  “To begin, I think she had wore a dress of brown linsey-woolsey. Very cheap stuff. I made no complaint about the amount of salt in the eggs. I didn’t even have eggs. And her lout of a relative was called Fenn. What can she mean?”

  Lord Wellesley stood and came around his desk. Both he and Marcus leaned in, reading the note again over Danbury’s shoulder.

  “Is anything else odd?” Wellesley asked.

  “Just… I have never seen her penmanship quite so sloppy.”

  “She must be under a great deal of strain.” To Marcus his words felt thick, lumpy, almost furred with anxiety.

  “Yes, but there is something contrived about this note. I could be mistaken, but I think she is trying to send us a message.”

  Time stretched out, lengthening as it always did when Marcus least wanted it to.

  Eventually, he and Lord Wellesley drifted away to discuss what steps they could take next. Men were already scouring the countryside searching for the ladies. Every servant had been discreetly questioned. No one had seen anything, either at the ball or anywhere else. The sole clue that had been unearthed had come some hours earlier, when one of the soldiers had found Miss Garrett’s dance card in the garden. Even that proved nothing; she might have dropped it during her abduction, or she might have dropped it earlier in the evening. Who could say?

  Marcus and Wellesley debated again and again whether they could turn over the throne in good conscience, and on the other hand how they could consider not turning it over when lives were at stake. Mindless discussion. Marcus hadn’t the slightest intention of allowing Miss Garrett to remain in the hands of some fiend. He would find some way to reach her regardless of Wellesley’s reluctance to trade the throne.

  Danbury took no part in the conversation. Indeed he seemed scarcely to hear them. All his attention was directed on studying the note.

  “There is no way to keep such a decision secret. If we give in to this fiend’s demands it will soon be obvious to one and all that the throne has disappeared, and Britain shall be accused of losing it…”

  “I have it!” Danbury sprang to his feet jubilantly.

  Marcus whipped around and joined Danbury in examining the note.

  “I shall kiss the clever minx when I see her again.”

  Marcus stiffened, but Danbury’s excitement drew him, in spite of himself, as he waved the scrawled note.

  “Look, gentlemen; look. You’ll notice first the short structure of the lines. There is plenty of space for her to have made the lines longer but she wanted to draw our attention to specific words. Look at the last word of the first line.”

  “Aware?” read Marcus.

  “Yes, but see she has left a slight gap between the ‘a’ and the rest of the word. Now look at the last word of the second line.”

  “House,” supplied Lord Wellesley.

  “Yes, don’t you see? Warehouse. They must be in a warehouse. Now, see, she went on. Look at the spacing of these words.” He pointed at the note emphatically. “They begin to run together, except for the last word, which has a curious little break in the middle.”

  “Nor the astute,” the two men read the words aloud to themselves. Marcus said triumphantly, “Northeast! She meant they travelled northeast!”

  “Precisely, and then there is the bit about the eggs and dress: all things that didn’t happen, so we need to look at the individual words. Gentlemen, I think she is trying to tell us they are being held in a warehouse somewhere northeast of here. A warehouse that contains indigo, cotton, and saltpeter.” Triumph blazed in every line of Danbury’s features.

  Marcus nodded, his heart bounding within him. It made sense. Yes. Yes, they had it at last. A starting point.

  Lord Wellesley groaned. “Sir, we are in India. Every warehouse in Calcutta holds indigo, cotton and saltpeter. They are the primary exports.”

  Marcus’s delight faded, but Danbury remained dogged.

  “This information is valuable, sir. It narrows the field of search a great deal.”

  “But I fear it does not narrow it enough.”

  Marcus intervened between the two. “Lord Wellesley, there is an aspect of this situation which causes me great concern. But perhaps with this information we can turn it to our advantage.”

  “Yes?”

  “I fear there is a traitor in our midst. Both Mrs Adkins and Miss Garrett are intelligent individuals. They could not have been lured away by someone they did not know and trust to some extent. The ladies must have gone at least part of the way willingly; no one could have abducted them by force from the middle of the dance floor. In addition, these infernal notes keep popping up in what one would assume were secure locations. It’s too much to suppose this spy can break in and out of Government House at any hour of the night or day without leaving the slightest evidence behind him. The French are good, but not that good.”

  “I see your point.” Lord Wellesley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I hate to think of such a thing, but it is a possibility.”

  “How do we use this to our advantage?” asked Danbury.

  “If we know who has had access to Government House at the times these notes were left, and we can find out who has interests in a warehouse to the northeast, we can begin narrowing down our suspects.”

  “Who do we trust to help us with our investigation?” asked Wellesley.

  “I suggest you use only those men in whom you place your utmost trust. If duty kept them from the ball last night, then so much the better.”

  “We must proceed with the utmost caution. Lyd… Miss Garrett no doubt risked her life to give us this information. The fewer people who know of it the better. If the spy gets any notion we are getting close he will move them and any advantage will be lost. He may even kill Miss Garrett,” said Danbury.

  Lord Wellesley pushed away from his desk. “This spy is a clever fellow. He won’t give us time to plan. He is going to keep us off balance and move matters along quickly. Caution must be
our first concern but haste our second.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Lying on their skimpy pallets, Mrs Adkins and Lydia discussed their situation at length. After some hours they gave up on futile speculation. They needed to sleep. Whatever they faced they would handle it better rested. But while this was a good idea in theory, in practice it wasn’t so easy.

  Lydia tossed and turned. The pallets were better than sleeping directly on the hard packed earth, but not by much. In any event, her senses strained for the sound of movement in the corridor. The waiting for something worse to happen made it difficult to truly contemplate sleep. Eventually, however, exhaustion overwhelmed her.

  The sound of the key turning in the lock instantly roused Lydia from the fitful sleep she had attained. Feeling at a disadvantage sitting on the floor, she stood to face their kidnapper, stooping to help Mrs Adkins do the same as he entered.

  “Good morning, ladies. I trust you slept well?” Dr Marshall came in with the air of a physician attending his patients.

  “I cannot imagine why you would think so,” Mrs Adkins said in a tone meant to freeze him in place.

  “Tut, tut, there is no call for incivility. I brought you breakfast.” The doctor extended a package and a small ewer of water.

  Lydia would have liked nothing better than to fling the parcel at his traitorous face, but they would need the food. It was wiser not to cultivate his displeasure. She stepped forward and accepted the meal, murmuring thanks she did not feel.

  “Now see, Mrs Adkins. Miss Garrett knows how to behave.” He turned to Lydia. “But of course she is the kind of woman who knows which side her bread is buttered on. Adept at pleasing a man, isn’t she?”

  Lydia’s cheeks flamed as if he had slapped her.

  “Do not regard him.” Mrs Adkins put an arm around her shoulder.

  Lydia could not be mollified. “At least I have not betrayed all those who have a natural claim to my loyalty and affection.”