The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Captain Winters rolled his eyes. “Oh, come, Thomas, you remember what these people are like. Most of them don’t have any training—half of ’em can’t even read their native tongue, let alone Latin or Greek. There are a few kitchen magicians and hedge wizards around, but the real wizards were murdered in the Terror, or left the country to escape Madame la Guillotine. The ones who are left have about as much ability as James here. They were probably trying to cast some sort of spell, but they didn’t succeed.”

  “And a good thing, too, I am sure,” Lady Sylvia put in. “But we must not keep you from your duties, Captain, however pleasant the discussion. I believe you wanted to know more about our little holdup?”

  “If you please, my lady,” Captain Winters said.

  Lady Sylvia nodded and embarked on a severely edited summary of our adventure. She made no mention of the Sainte Ampoule, nor of the suspiciously convenient disability suffered by all of the wizards in our party, nor of the cap the last fleeing ruffian had left behind, nor of Sir Hilary Bedrick, nor of any of Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon’s discoveries, and she contrived to give the impression that we had been set upon by quite ordinary highwaymen.

  Captain Winters paid close attention to Lady Sylvia during this recitation, which was a very good thing. If he had glanced at Kate, he would surely have realized that he was not getting the whole story. Kate’s face was a study. I don’t believe she’d ever had to cope with someone else telling bouncers—Georgina and I always left that to her, because she is so very good at it. So Kate had never before had to listen and nod with a straight face, and she was caught completely unawares.

  Fortunately, by the time Lady Sylvia finished, Kate had schooled her expression. Naturally, we all confirmed what Lady Sylvia had said, and then Thomas and James made arrangements to meet with Captain Winters the following afternoon to discuss wine and reminisce. The Captain departed at last, and we were left alone.

  “I can see where Thomas gets his tendency to withhold information,” James commented at last. “That was a masterful rearrangement of the facts, Lady Sylvia. I don’t think I’ve seen a better spur-of-the-moment job.”

  “That’s only because you haven’t heard Kate when she’s in top form,” Thomas said. “Mother, what are you up to?”

  “I should think that was obvious, Thomas. If there is any connection between the Sainte Ampoule and this incident at the Sainte Chapelle, the situation could be far more serious than your friend is capable of dealing with.” Lady Sylvia tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her teacup.

  “But I thought, from what Captain Winters said, that even if someone did a spell at Sainte Chapelle, it couldn’t have been successful,” I said. “Wouldn’t the army wizards have been able to tell if it was?”

  “If it was an ordinary spell, most certainly,” Lady Sylvia said. “But there are some ceremonies that do not leave a normal magical residue yet still have profound consequences.”

  “Coronation ceremonies, for example?” Thomas said.

  “That is certainly one example,” Lady Sylvia replied with unimpaired calm. “I do not think a coronation was the reason for the unpleasantness at the Sainte Chapelle, however.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “With the Sainte Ampoule missing…”

  “A coronation ceremony of the sort I had in mind requires considerably more than holy oil to be effective,” Lady Sylvia said.

  “So there would be no point in using the Sainte Ampoule alone,” Thomas said.

  “None whatever,” Lady Sylvia answered.

  “Which leaves us with the question of what the vandals were up to,” I said.

  “Leaves us?” James put in pointedly.

  “Leaves you and Thomas, at least,” Lady Sylvia said serenely. “I expect that there will be opportunities for you to discuss his job with Captain Winters tomorrow, and perhaps you can discover some additional details. It would be extremely reassuring if we could be certain that whatever occurred in the Sainte Chapelle did not involve the Sainte Ampoule.”

  “If you want an investigation, it would be better to ask

  Reggie,” James said, though he sounded a bit doubtful. “He is the official in charge.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Nonsense. Reggie Winters hasn’t the slightest notion how to handle things quietly.”

  “And you do?”

  “I have a much better notion of it than Reggie.”

  James frowned. “I don’t like it. This should be dealt with by the proper authorities.”

  “I entirely agree,” Lady Sylvia said. “But I doubt that Captain Winters has quite enough authority to be proper, in these circumstances.”

  “Who would you consider—” Thomas stopped short. “Mother, you wouldn’t. Not even you—”

  “Don’t blither, Thomas. I am speaking of the Duke of Wellington, naturally. How fortunate that I have the custom of giving a card party whenever I return to Paris.” Lady Sylvia smiled. “I shall have to sort through the invitations we have received to see which evening would be best. An unintentional conflict would never do.”

  “Whereas intentional conflicts are the done thing?” Thomas said.

  “Only when I do them, dear.”

  James was looking at Lady Sylvia with a fascinated expression. “The Duke is an old friend, I presume?”

  Lady Sylvia considered. “He is forty-eight,” she said at last. “I do not believe I would call him old.”

  I caught the twinkle in her eye. “Don’t tease, Lady Sylvia,” I said. “How long have you known the Duke?”

  “We have been acquainted since his return from the India campaign, sufficiently well that I believe I can depend on him to accept an invitation to a card party, however last-minute. Especially when he has other old acquaintances to renew.” She looked at James.

  “A mere former A.D.C. is unlikely to be much of a draw,” James said. “I hope you won’t depend on that to persuade him to come.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Sylvia replied. “The Duke speaks very highly of his ‘family.’ I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. Especially if we can reassure him as to the events at the Sainte Chapelle.”

  “Just like Thomas,” James muttered under his breath. Fortunately, neither Lady Sylvia nor Thomas chose to hear. No one raised any more objections to interrogating Captain Winters. I do not think either of them actually wished to, despite the long-suffering expressions they had assumed. The thought of having an excuse to go poking about plainly pleased them both. “But you are not to go haring off to the chapel yourself while we’re with Reggie,” James told me sternly.

  “Of course not,” I said. “I have every confidence in you and Thomas. Besides, Kate and I will be much too busy to go to Notre-Dame tomorrow.”

  “Busy?” James looked at me suspiciously. “With what?”

  “Shopping, of course. We can hardly attend Lady Sylvia’s card party in London fashions.”

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  27 August 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia’s house

  In truth, I never thought it possible that shopping in Paris could live up to Cecy’s expectations. Shopping in Heaven itself would have a hard time matching the glories of her imagination. Yet, somehow, the dressmakers and the milliners we visited with Lady Sylvia succeeded. If they did not surpass our hopes, then they matched them easily.

  This is the very thing I hope to remember fondly in years to come, so I intend to set forth an account of yesterday’s events in as much detail as I can muster. It was a day that began well and ended even better.

  We set forth on a fine morning, Lady Sylvia, Cecy, and I, accompanied by my maid, Reardon, and Lady Sylvia’s maid, Aubert, in Lady Sylvia’s coach. Every detail of the city seemed spruce and clean, fresh and crisp. I hardly took my eyes off the passing streets, so fascinating were the indefinable differences in proportion, in light, in atmosphere. If I were forced to try to describe what it is that makes Paris so distinctly Parisian, I could
n’t muster a word. Yet there is no doubt in my mind that no one who has once seen even a part of Paris could ever mistake it for any other place in the world. Not that it is all beautiful, by any means. On our route we saw nothing of the cramped streets, encrusted with the filth of the ages, one found in the poorest quarters. The only jarring detail on our way was on the most elegant street of all, the Champs-Elysées, a boulevard lined on either side with tree stumps.

  “They cut the chestnut trees down for firewood during the war,” Lady Sylvia told us. “Understandable, but most unfortunate.”

  “Surely they will replant the trees,” said Cecy. “It would be foolish not to.”

  “Someday they may,” said Lady Sylvia. “I find the sight even more melancholy than you do, for I remember what it was like in its glory.”

  Cecy and I could not really understand what had been lost. We could only try to imagine how fine that broad street must once have been. Respect for Lady Sylvia kept us silent for the rest of the short journey.

  “Here we are,” said Lady Sylvia, as the carriage drew up to our first port of call, a prodigiously elegant dressmaker.

  “So soon?” I said. It seemed we had hardly settled ourselves in the carriage. We might easily have walked the distance from Lady Sylvia’s house.

  “At last!” sighed Cecy. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment.”

  We descended from the carriage, and then we descended upon the dressmaker. As Lady Sylvia was well known to the establishment, we were greeted with great cordiality.

  “Oh, this is just as splendid as I thought it would be,” Cecy murmured to me, as we were shown to a corner of the shop with a few elegant yet comfortable chairs, where we were invited to seat ourselves.

  We concealed our gratification and excitement as best we could, so our descent upon Lady Sylvia’s modiste was not quite so much like a ravening wolf descending upon a sheepfold as it might have been. Yet there was no point in pretending we were even mildly blasé about things. For one thing, no one could miss the glow of satisfaction in Cecy’s eyes as she took her first long look around. I suspect that, like me, she was marveling at the colors and textures of the fabrics, the design and detail of the gowns, and the elegance and refinement of the workmanship.

  “Oh, Kate, that rose-colored silk would suit you to perfection.” With that, Cecy was off and running, aided and abetted by the modiste and her skilled assistants.

  “This is only the first, remember. We have a great many more shops to visit before we are through,” Lady Sylvia told us in an undertone. “We must pace ourselves.”

  The fine morning yielded to a stubbornly rainy afternoon. Despite the weather, our shopping campaign, under Lady Sylvia’s generalship, lasted the rest of the day, with only a brief intermission for refreshments. By the time we returned to Lady Sylvia’s house, we were hungry and thirsty, surprisingly leg-weary, given that all we had done was shop, and filled with a sense of righteous accomplishment. With Reardon and Aubert to help match ribbons and hold things for us, we had worked our way through our entire list of necessities and rather a lot of the luxuries. We had ordered gowns, we had chosen hats, we had purchased gloves, fans, and bottles of scent.

  N.B. Bought a flask of scent to give Georgy for her birthday. She loves jasmine.

  I was ready, after the day’s exertions, for nothing more strenuous than a nap before dinner. Cecy’s constitution really must be one of iron, for she and Lady Sylvia interviewed no fewer than three young women for the position of her maid. I did not help. Instead, I retired to my room and took off my slippers while I watched Reardon lay out the gown I would wear at dinner that evening.

  It did not take long for table talk at dinner to travel from a gown-by-gown description of our shopping expedition to a detailed account of James and Thomas’s interview with Reggie, a young man whom Thomas seems to hold in low regard.

  After some spirited remarks from Thomas, James countered, “There’s nothing wrong with Reggie’s wits.”

  “I never meant to imply there was,” Thomas said. “It’s just that I never fail to be amazed by the yawning abyss between what Reggie’s keen wits perceive and what he makes of it. Honestly, drop him into a vat of boiling olive oil and I’ve no doubt he could tell you if it was the first pressing or the second. But then he’d spend his last breath complaining that he never cared above half for olive oil and hinting that he would greatly prefer to be boiled in some other kind.”

  “At times he is rather slow to draw an inference,” James conceded. “But on the other hand, he doesn’t often jump to conclusions.”

  “James,” said Thomas, in that martyred tone of voice he uses when he thinks he might like to tear his hair in frustration but it would only put him to the trouble of tidying his appearance again, “stop making excuses for Reggie. I ask it of you as a friend of long standing. No, I order you. Stop immediately.”

  James said nothing, but he replied as only a friend of many years would do, by launching a bread roll directly at Thomas’s head. He would have made a direct hit, but Thomas ducked efficiently. Apparently, Thomas took this retaliation as a matter of course, for he went on speaking to us as if nothing had happened.

  “Reggie showed us the scene of the break-in at Sainte Chapelle, and he’d made the most perfect notes: the marks on the floor, the candle wax, the fact that incense had been burned there—but he never mentioned that the incense had a very off quality to the scent, and he hadn’t noticed that the marks on the floor made a pattern. Someone held a ritual of some kind on that spot, and it wasn’t a small one.”

  “Reggie insists they detected no magical traces remaining,” James said.

  “That only means Reggie was told no traces had been detected. I think someone’s being a bit less than honest with him,” Thomas said. “A safe enough proposition, given Reggie’s fine qualities.”

  “You made us promise not to visit Sainte Chapelle without you,” Cecy said, “so I don’t think it was very fair of you to go without us.”

  “Oh, Reggie insisted,” said James. “Once we’d begun to question him, he wished to demonstrate that he’d left no stone unturned.”

  “Had there been a stone left unturned, by any chance?” Cecy asked.

  “What Reggie noticed, he recorded meticulously,” Thomas conceded. “Nothing had been taken, nothing left beyond some drops of candle wax and the smell of incense. But it was rather unusual incense.” Thomas produced a snuffbox from his pocket of his white waistcoat and placed it before Lady Sylvia. “Deuced peculiar, in fact.”

  “We scraped up what wax we could,” James explained. “In one of the lumps of wax we found a bit of the unburned incense. Thomas sacrificed his supply of snuff to bring it safely back.”

  “Someone had cleared a circular space about eight feet across,” Thomas said. “At regular intervals on the periphery of the space, seven candles were set out. Someone drew something on the floor in chalk. I think it was a seven-pointed star.”

  “Someone cleaned up after themselves thoroughly enough that we can’t be absolutely positive. That would be my guess, too.” James narrowed his eyes.

  “Was there any sign that the Sainte Ampoule was used?” Lady Sylvia asked. “Any marks that might have been chrism?”

  “None we could find,” Thomas replied.

  “Whatever they were doing,” said James, “it’s an odd place to do it. Even though it was once the private chapel of the kings of France, it’s just a storeroom now.”

  “Was that where the coronations were held?” Cecy asked.

  “No. The coronations were at Reims,” Lady Sylvia replied. “No one would contemplate holding a coronation in Sainte Chapelle.”

  “Indeed not,” said Thomas. “It would be like staging Hamlet in a hatbox.”

  We had finished our dinner when word came to Thomas that Piers had arrived and was asking to see him at the earliest opportunity.

  “The prodigal valet? I don’t believe it,” James said. “It took him lon
g enough to find his way here from Calais, didn’t it?”

  Thomas looked at me. I can’t describe the precise mixture of elements in that look. There was something of guilt, a little reluctance, but most of all resolution, a brave and honest look that meant to tell the truth and hazard the consequences. I looked back inquiringly, and Thomas gave a little nod, as if he’d come to some decision. “I think this interview is one we must conduct in company. Mother, may we speak to him in the green room?”

  “By all means,” said Lady Sylvia. “I’m pleased to hear that we’ll be included in the conversation. Raoul, please have Piers join us in the Salon Vert.”

  The five of us were seated in the drawing room when Piers was shown in. The poor man, never very prepossessing, showed signs of a long journey in bad weather. He looked exhausted, in dire need of a bath and a shave. His clothing was rain-soaked and his boots squelched with every step he took.

  Piers looked startled as he glanced from Thomas to all the rest of us in the room, but he stood before Thomas with his shoulders back and his chin up, with the calm resolution of a man confronted by a firing squad. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord.”

  “We’re eager to hear your report,” Thomas said. “Too eager to wait until morning. Please tell us what you’ve been doing since we left you in Calais.”

  “As you requested, I’ve been investigating the identity of the intruder at Dessein’s,” Piers said carefully. “I found the owner of the Turkish slipper. It belonged to Lord William Mountjoy.”

  “William Mountjoy?” Lady Sylvia looked thoughtful. “I knew his uncle. The son was killed at Waterloo, and Mountjoy inherited quite unexpectedly. Very sad story.”

  “For everyone but Mountjoy,” said James.

  Cecy glanced sharply at James, as if his tartness surprised her.

  Piers went on. “Unfortunately, identifying the owner of the slipper did not necessarily identify the intruder. It seems someone took the trouble to steal the man’s slippers and dressing gown as a disguise. When he heard of the incident, he discovered that his possessions were missing and reported the loss to the authorities. Very indignant he was, having his things worn by an intruder pretending to be him.”