I was on the point of abandoning my search when the wall clock struck the half hour, and a new idea occurred to me. The keys for winding clocks were often kept inside the casing – was it possible other keys might be put there too? Without much hope I tripped the catch and opened the carved wood door.
The clock key was there right enough, lying right on the outer ledge. Carefully I slid my hand around the cavity behind the pendulum, and my fingers encountered something cold and hard. A key, without a doubt, but too large, surely, for the pretty bureau…
I pulled it out – and breath caught in my throat. In my hand I was holding the key to Tucker’s Grave Inn!
Fora moment I stared at it as if I had discovered buried treasure, and indeed it seemed to me that I had, for I knew that I now had means of access to my old home within my grasp. But it was not what I was looking for. I felt about inside the cavity once more, and this time came upon another key, much smaller and fancier. Excitement leaped within me. What intuition or good fortune had pointed me in the direction of the clock case I did not know, but almost certainly this was the bureau key I had been seeking.
I replaced the inn key where I had found it and took the other over to the bureau. It fitted the lock perfectly and turned at once. My heart beat an uneven tattoo as I opened the bureau, then stared in surprise. I had expected the bureau to be packed with books and ledgers, but apart from one small journal and a sheaf of papers it was empty. The papers were, I thought, the ones Gavin had been leafing through, and the journal hardly looked big enough to record the illicit dealings of which I suspected Louis.
I took it out, opening it to the first pages. No figures, no accounts, simply a chronology of dates and times which might, I thought, relate to sailings, as some of the details appeared to relate to tides and weather conditions. Disappointment tugged at me. There was no concrete evidence here, or at least none I could make any sense of. On the point of replacing it, I flipped to the back of the book, and saw another couple of pages had been written upon in a sloping scribbled hand that was indecipherable in the dim light.
I took the book to the window, where the light was better, and found myself looking at a list of dates and names – French names, and each preceded by a title. Comte, Marquis, Marquise… On the opposite page, notes had been made to tally with each name, and I saw that ‘Tucker’s Grave’ appeared at least half a dozen times, amongst the names of some of the great country houses of the district.
My heart came into my throat with a great leap; I could scarcely believe what I was looking at. I scurried back to the bureau and pulled out the sheaf of papers. Letters of thanks, all signed by French nobility, but written now from addresses in London, and all over England. Detailed maps of France, and a plan, drawn in pencil, which could only be of a prison compound – The Bastille. Lists of addresses, this time French-sounding…
My breath came out on a long sigh. I had learned Louis’ secret.
He was not engaged in privateering or illicit trade. He was not a rogue and a vagabond as I had feared.
Louis was the Lynx.
* * *
As I stood there, shocked into immobility, trying to make sense of my discovery, I heard Louis’ voice in the hall.
‘Antoinette? Flora? Where are you?’
I took a quick step in the direction of the bureau with the guilty intention of returning the papers to their hiding place – too quick. I collided heavily with the corner of the desk, drawing attention to my presence, and the study door flew open.
‘Flora!’ Louis’ eyes slid over me, standing there with the sheaf of papers in my hand, to the open bureau. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I…’ I could not speak; the words simply would not come.
‘You’re prying!’ His tone was sharp. ‘Haven’t you been told that bureau is not to be opened?’
He strode across the room, snatched the papers from my hands, and thrust them back into their hiding place.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘How much have you seen?’
‘Not much…’ I still could not string more than two words together to save my life.
It was plain Louis did not believe me. His fury was evident.
‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone? I warned you. For your safety… for the safety of all of us… What possessed you?’
My chin came up. Suddenly I regained the use of my vocal cords.
‘You shouldn’t have lied to me, Louis. I knew you were lying and thought you were using Tucker’s Grave for illicit purposes. I wanted to find the proof of it.’
‘And instead you have come upon information that could endanger many lives. You fool, Flora.’
‘Louis – I wouldn’t – I’d never say anything! Do you really think…?’
‘At the present time any hint of involvement is dangerous,’ Louis said shortly. ‘Those who stand to gain from perfidy will stop at nothing to get information from you if they think you might be in possession of it. The fact that you would not, or could not, reveal what they wanted to know would certainly not save you. They would torture and kill for it, without a moment’s hesitation.’
‘You mean… as my father was killed?’ I whispered.
He did not answer me.
‘We have to talk about this. In private, and with urgency. But not if there is any danger of Antoinette overhearing. I don’t want her knowing of it. I can protect her, at least. Where is she?’
‘In her rooms,’ I said, ‘working on her embroidery.’
Louis frowned. ‘That will not last for long, knowing Antoinette. Perhaps it would be best if we went into the garden, where there will be no danger of us being overheard.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll fetch a wrap.’
As I left him the shock of my discovery flooded over me afresh. It was almost beyond belief, and yet somehow there was a rightness about it, and I was glad, so glad.
Perhaps Louis had feigned interest in me, and kissed me, simply to steer me away from the truth, no matter what it was he was hiding. Perhaps he was in mortal danger every time he crossed the Channel, and, for all I knew, in this country, too, from those he had said would be only too ready to betray him. But he was not a common criminal as I had feared. He was not some low, despicable privateer.
The romantic figure who risked his life for the sake of noblemen he scarcely knew, who was hero-worshipped the length and breadth of England, and the man I loved were one and the same, and the knowledge filled me with fierce pride.
Already it was both a torment and a benediction.
* * *
Louis was waiting for me when I returned to the hallway; he wore a very serious expression but it was no longer angry. We went outside. The wind had dropped but there was still a bite in the air. For a moment we walked in silence, then Louis said: ‘So you now know my secret.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You are the Lynx.’
‘A romantic name.’ There was a slight smile in his voice. ‘Too romantic, I think, for such a grisly occupation. But a pseudonym had to be used for purposes of identification, and that is the one that was decided upon between the members of the organization.’
‘It is a good name,’ I said. ‘It implies speed and daring.’
‘Stealth, I think,’ he said. ‘The most important quality is stealth. But you can see now, Flora, why there were things I had to keep from you – secrecy is vital to such an operation. And also why I warned of danger.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘If it became known that you are using your business operations as a cover for smuggling aristocrats whose lives are at risk to the safety of England, you would never get out of France alive.’
‘That is true enough!’ He laughed wryly. ‘But the danger is not only in France. It is here, too, at home – all around us. There are those who, for one reason or another, work for the French. They seek information for their own ends, and will stop at nothing to get it. To be involved in this business, Flora, in any way whatever, is to put one’s l
ife at risk. As the death of your own father proved.’
‘My father worked for you?’ I asked.
Louis nodded. ‘He did. But then, I think you already knew that.’
‘I knew that sometimes Tucker’s Grave was used as a staging post for nobles who had escaped the Terror. And you are still using it, aren’t you? That’s the reason you took possession almost before my father was cold in his grave. The reason you wanted me out of the way.’
‘The alternative would have been to take you into my confidence. I couldn’t risk that, Flora.’
‘And the reason lights were seen there a few nights ago,’ I said.
Louis’ eyes sharpened. ‘Lights were seen? By whom?’
‘An old friend of mine from Monksmoor. He thought it meant I was home and knocked on the door, then the lights were extinguished. He rode over this very morning to tell me about it, and that is the reason…’
‘If lights were seen,’ Louis interrupted me, his voice hard, ‘then someone has been careless in the extreme. I shall have to deal with this, and urgently. If local people who know no better talk of it, and it reaches the wrong ears, then it could be disastrous.’
‘There’s talk already,’ I said. ‘And Ralph told me something else, too. Do you remember me mentioning Jem Giddings, the old vagrant who claimed to have recognized one of the fleeing horses on the night my father was shot? Well, he’s dead. Found in a ditch with his skull cracked open. It might have been an accident, of course – he fell when drunk and broke his head on a boulder – but…’
‘Equally it might not have been an accident.’ Louis’ tone was grim. ‘The old man was telling anyone who would listen that he could identify that horse, and if it reached the ears of your father’s assailant, or whoever had put him up to it…’
I bit my lip. I could hardly tell Louis that I had come to the same conclusion myself – and suspected that he might be the person responsible for Jem’s death.
Louis was silent for a moment, deep in thought.
‘This could well be a vital piece of information, Flora,’ he said at last. ‘If Jem’s death was no accident, then it must mean there was truth in what he said. He claimed the horse came from the Dartmouth area, did he not?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Which may well mean that whoever is working against me is closer to home than I thought.’
Again he was silent for a long moment.
‘You think, then, that my father died because of his connection with the Brotherhood of the Lynx?’ I said.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Louis agreed. ‘What puzzles me is the exact reason why. I can only think he was killed for some information he would not give them.’
‘Such as your identity, you mean?’ I asked. ‘Certainly I am sure my father would have given his life to keep your secret.’
‘I am sure he would, but he could not, in any case, have revealed my identity, for he did not know it,’ Louis said. ‘As far as possible we keep every link in the chain separate so that if one falls it will not bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. But my uncertainty as to what lay behind your father’s death is another reason I could not let you remain at Tucker’s Grave. If those men did not get what they wanted that night, and I am confident they did not, then it was quite likely they would have returned. If they were of the mind that your father knew something that he was unprepared to tell, they might well have believed that you were in the know, also. And God alone knows what they would have done to you in an attempt to elicit that information.’
A chill whispered over my skin. Though I had not realized it, I could certainly have been in mortal danger.
‘So you brought me here,’ I said softly.
‘It was all I could think of to do. If harm befell you because of me, I could never forgive myself. Especially now. I care for you too much. And God alone knows, I already live with a heavy-enough conscience.’
‘For the death of my father and poor old Jem, you mean?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘More, Flora. Much more.’ The silence hung between us. Then he said: ‘Tomorrow I return to France.’
My heart, which had soared when he spoke of caring for me, dropped like a stone. Now that I knew the truth, the thought of him going willingly into such a dangerous situation was almost too much to bear.
‘Why?’ I whispered. ‘Why do you do it?’
‘Because maybe I can save lives.’ He said it simply, yet with heartfelt emphasis. The lines of his face might have been carved in stone. ‘And because it is my way of trying to assuage the guilty conscience I spoke of. To try to make amends.’
I frowned, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’ He said nothing, and I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Louis? What do you mean?’
‘No action in our lives, Flora, is totally inconsequential,’ Louis said. ‘Each one is like a stone thrown into a pond and from it the ripples spread in ever-widening circles. We can never escape the consequences of our actions, and no matter how justified they may seem to us at the time, they may give us cause to torment ourselves with guilt for the rest of our lives.’
I was silent, waiting. There was nothing I could say.
‘You know that my wife was a French noblewoman. It was not a happy marriage. She drove me to the borders of madness. But that does not excuse me for what I did. Now…’
He broke off, and suddenly the chill was whispering over my skin again, icy fingers clutching at my heart. Dear God, was Louis saying what I thought he was saying? Were the rumours of which I had been told true?
You killed her… The words were running around and around in my head but I could not bring myself to speak them.
‘She… she didn’t die of the fever?’ I asked at last.
‘No.’
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
‘You understand now, Flora, why there can be nothing between us? The reason I had to put a stop to what was happening…’ His expression was tortured. The agony of guilt, the regret, the longing for absolution, were there in his eyes, written in every one of the deeply etched lines on his face. And suddenly, whatever it was he had done, it did not matter to me at all, had no power to change my feelings. My love for him was too strong. If Louis had killed his wife, then she must have driven him beyond the bounds of reason.
‘I don’t care!’ I cried passionately. ‘I don’t care about anything except you!’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Flora, what are you saying?’
I was past caring about propriety. Set against the tumult of my need for him, and the knowledge that I might lose him to a terrible death, propriety mattered not at all.
‘All I want is to be with you. I love you, Louis.’
He threw his head back, the sinews of his throat standing out in sharp relief, staring up at the sky as if in prayer. Then his breath came out on a long sigh.
‘Oh Flora, don’t tempt me so! If I allowed such a thing, I would be no better than she!’
His words bewildered me. ‘But…?’
‘Marriage vows are made before God,’ he said harshly. ‘They bind a man and a woman till death do them part. For better or for worse, Lisette is my wife.’
‘But… she’s dead,’ I said stupidly. ‘You said…’
Louis took my hand. He held it between his own, and those tortured eyes met mine.
‘No, Flora, Lisette is not dead – at least, I pray she is not, for if I am too late…’ He broke off, his jaw tightening. ‘My wife is in France, where I sent her, and she is now at the mercy of the Revolutionaries. That is the reason I became the Lynx. To attempt to save her from the terrible fate to which I condemned her. The guilt I bear for that alone would be enough for me to risk all to attempt to avert the consequences of my action all those years ago. But I have yet another reason, even more pressing. There is someone else for whom I would gladly give my life if he can be brought out safely.’ He paused. ‘My son.’
Eleven
In that moment the world seemed to stop turning. A hush had f
allen over the garden. No breeze stirred in the leaves, no birds fluttered in the bushes. And the stillness was in me too – my heart seemed not to beat, my lungs refused to draw breath. It was too much to take in all at once, this sudden revelation. Nothing was as it had seemed. And yet… and yet all the pieces were falling relentlessly into place. Louis’ rejection of me. His dedication to the task he had set himself, the ruthlessness with which he pursued it.
From the time I had first heard of the Lynx and his fearless exploits, I had wondered why any man would return again and again to danger, no matter how worthy the cause, putting his own life at risk for the sake of others. Now I knew. He did it principally not for the arrogant, faceless aristocrats whose treatment of the poor had brought about their predicament. He did it for his wife, his conscience – and his own flesh and blood.
‘You have a son in France?’ I asked in a whisper.
Louis nodded. ‘It’s a long story, Flora, and not a pretty one, but I think I owe it to you. Just one thing I would ask of you – that you do not speak of it to anyone. Lives depend on the secrecy of this operation, my own included.’
‘I would never breathe a word to a living soul,’ I vowed.
‘Not even Antoinette knows the truth so far,’ he went on, ‘though I think now I must enlighten her, for the new information I have in my possession will, I hope, mean that this time I shall find Lisette and my son and, God willing, bring them back safe to England. It would be a great shock to her if I did not prewarn her of their existence.’
‘But why have you not told her the truth before now?’ I asked. ‘Surely she had a right to know?’
Louis’ features were set in granite. ‘Lisette never cared for Antoinette,’ he said harshly. ‘For reasons I prefer not to discuss, she rejected Antoinette at birth and never relented. When she went back to France, she did not even ask to see the child to say goodbye, much less beg to take her. It seemed to me at the time it was in Antoinette’s best interests to believe her mother to be dead, as she was, to all intents and purposes, to me. I can see now that I was wrong, but once such a lie is told, it is nigh on impossible to take it back. At the time I did what I thought was best to prevent Antoinette learning a truth which would have destroyed her.’
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