by M C Beaton
“Your own life, you fool,” said Lord Fletcher, “and the life of any servant who stands between me and escape. Give me what you have found and do not try to bluff.”
“What makes you think the builders and servants do not know your secret?” asked the comte.
“They have not had time. Besides, they would already have tried to take me prisoner. I would shoot you now and be done with it, for you are a menace with your interfering ways, but I feel sure you will do nothing to put Lady Wright’s life in jeopardy. Now, hand it over!”
I must play for time, thought the comte bleakly. He slowly handed over the book, hoping that Lord Fletcher might study it there and then so that he would have a chance to overpower him, but Lord Fletcher merely smiled thinly and put the book in his pocket.
He backed toward the door. “Not a word,” he spat out, “or we will send Lady Wright back to you in pieces.”
When he had left, the comte buried his head in his hands. He could alert the forces of law and order and have them storm Madame Beauregard’s house which is where he was sure Emma was being held. But he was sure Fletcher would kill Emma before she could be reached. For all he knew, she might already be dead.
Why had he not armed himself? All he had in his pocket was a bottle of French perfume he had bought for Emma. He drew it out and looked at it. It was in a green bottle that winked and flashed in its crystal container when he held it up.
He looked at it thoughtfully and then he slowly put it back into his pocket. There was one weapon he could use.…
“I do not think his affections are deeply engaged,” said Lord Fletcher. He was lounging in a chair in Madame Beauregard’s saloon. Emma was still tied to the chair. She was feeling exhausted with fear and emotion. She had been allowed to move only once, and that was to go to the privy in the garden under guard. She had been momentarily relieved that her captors had at least spared her the indignity of soiling herself, but they had promptly regagged and rebound her and had shown no signs of giving her anything to eat. But she roused slightly at the sound of “he,” guessing accurately that they spoke of the comte.
“I pray you,” went on Lord Fletcher earnestly, all foppish mannerisms gone, “to consider that this fool of a comte may go straight to the authorities.”
Madame Beauregard swung one slippered foot and yawned. “And if they do? What proof have they? At the first sign of any attack, we get rid of her, protest our innocence, and make our escape. Keep a cool head. It is not an Englishman accusing us but some dilettante comte whom nobody has ever taken seriously.”
“I must remind you that the Comte Saint-Juste has powerful friends. What does Beauregard say?”
“My husband does as he is told. It takes time to make arrangements. This evening or tomorrow, the comte will meet with a sad accident. Then we will dispose of her. Then we will leave for France until all chance of suspicion falling on us has died down.”
“But we have involved so many people. There is that actress…”
“Pooh! She thought she was doing it as a joke.”
“Then there is that large friend of Saint-Juste’s with the ridiculous nickname… Jolly. He will surely step in to help. And what about the housemaid I bribed to get us information? We can’t kill them all.”
“I tell you, my friend, we will be safely out of the country soon, and our spies will tell us whether we can return or not.”
“It is madness to wait.”
“Look out the window. All is quiet. It is my belief that the frivolous comte will shrug off this matter and go back to his idle life. But you fatigue me with your fears. Go out to your oh-so-English clubs and listen. Believe me, you will not hear a murmur, and it will put your mind at rest.”
“I will do that,” said Lord Fletcher edgily. “I cannot sit here like a rat in a trap.”
Emma watched him go. Madame Beauregard picked up a fashion magazine and began to read an article as if Emma were already dead. Emma feared the Frenchwoman. There was a mad callousness about her. But had she judged the comte accurately? Would he decide, as Madame Beauregard had said, that it was all too much trouble? Perhaps the comte himself was a follower of Napoleon?
Emma closed her eyes, seeing pictures from her life flashing in front of her eyes, her husband’s brutal face, his body lying sprawled on the office floor, the comte, laughing and charming and teasing, the feel of his lips against hers, and tears squeezed between her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.
She would never see him again, never know whether he missed her or not. Or perhaps even now he might be dead.
She heard through her misery a knock at the street door. Then the butler opened the door and said in accents of extreme surprise, “The Comte Saint-Juste, madam. Shall I tell him there is no one at home?”
Madame Beauregard looked at Emma, and then a slow smile spread over her face. “No, Groumand, send him in.”
“Here, madam. But…”
“I said, send him in here!”
“Very good, madam.”
Hope leapt in Emma’s bosom. She was facing the door and she stared at it, her whole heart in her eyes.
What happened next was like a nightmare. Dressed in the finest evening dress, jewels winking at his stock and on his fingers, the Comte Saint-Juste strolled into the room. He did not even look at Emma but went straight to Madame Beauregard and bowed over her hand, kissing the air above the back of it.
“Well, Saint-Juste,” said Madame Beauregard, “you have a cool nerve.”
“I came to present my compliments to the most beautiful woman in London,” said the comte, smiling into her eyes.
So did he once smile on me, thought Emma bleakly as all hope ebbed away.
The comte took a chair and placed it so that he was facing Madame Beauregard, their knees almost touching. Outside, unaware of this macabre scene, London nightlife went on. There was the rumble of carriages as they came and went in Manchester Square, the chatter of voices, the call of the watch, and the shrill voices of the linkboys, their lights bobbing like fireflies past the windows.
“Tell me how you arranged it all, my beloved adversary,” said the comte. “And why you are still here? You must trust me to keep my mouth shut.”
“I thought our prize here would do that effectively,” said Madame Beauregard, flicking a contemptuous glance at the bound and gagged Emma.
“Oh, no, it is my own skin I am thinking of,” said the comte. “I am sure you have already made plans to get rid of me. I put it to you thus, my silence for my life and you can do what you will with Lady Wright. She has become a bore.”
“Now I understand you!” laughed Madame Beauregard. “You are in fact what I thought you always were—a heartless dilettante.”
“You have been very clever,” said the comte, taking her hand and caressing it. “How did you entrap such a one as Sir Benjamin?”
“T’was easy. He wanted money, that was all, and did not care how he got it. He signed his own death warrant. The fool tried to blackmail me.”
“And so you sent Fletcher to kill him?”
“No, I wished the satisfaction of doing it myself. He had given me keys to the back door of his home and his study. I sent Fletcher to the ball to fetch something of the wife’s that might incriminate her. She was so enamored of you that she dropped her fan and never noticed it. A neat domestic murder, you see. He brought back the fan, I dressed in men’s clothes to scale that filthy wall from the mews with ease, and the rest was simple. You should have seen the old fool’s face.”
“But it took strength to lift the drugged secretary up on that hook,” said the comte.
“I left that affair to my husband and Fletcher. We will probably spare your life, milor, if you prove you are safe.”
“And how shall I do that, my sweeting?”
“Strangle Lady Wright. I do not want her shot. The watch might become too inquisitive.”
Faint with terror and misery, Emma heard the comte laugh. “Kiss me first,” she heard
him say, “to give me strength.”
Madame Beauregard rose to her feet and held out her arms. He rose as well. He put one arm around her waist and smiled down at her. Then with his other hand he brought a little green bottle out of his pocket and held it up. “Perfume from Paris for you, my love,” he said.
He released her for a moment and unscrewed the top. “Would you like to smell it, ma chèrie?” he asked.
“What an odd man you are. I have scent a-plenty.”
“But not like this one,” he said, his arm going around her again and holding her close while with one hand he held up the bottle to the light. “This one contains acid… acid to burn off that pretty face of yours. No! Do not scream. By the time any of your servants arrived, you would have no face left.”
She swore at him furiously in French while her eyes, dilated with terror, never left the bottle he held above her.
“You are so low,” said the comte, “so base that your mistake was to consider me as low and base as you. Now you will release Lady Wright. Remember, you may turn your face away, you may try to escape, but I am quick and I will succeed in emptying this vial over you before help can reach you. Had I tried to shoot you, you would have let me, for you are a fanatic. You would have died knowing the shot would have alerted your servants and they would have killed myself and Lady Wright. But your vanity is great and you could not bear to have your face ruined, even in death. Odd, is it not? Now release Lady Wright.”
He kept one arm around her waist and urged her forward to the chair on which Emma sat. Emma looked at him with dazed hope, hardly able to believe her ears. “The knots are too tight, you fool,” hissed Madame Beauregard. “Then take that knife from the table over there and use it, but remember, one slip of the knife and you are ruined,” the comte said.
Emma sat very still, fearing at any moment to feel the knife being driven into her ribs. One by one the bonds fell away, and Emma herself untied the gag from her mouth.
“Now, madam,” said the comte, “you will walk to the street door and open it. Tell the servants, should any be around, not to interfere.”
Madame Beauregard looked at him, her face distorted with fear and rage. She slowly walked to the door, the comte supporting her like a lover but holding the green bottle ready.
The hall was empty. Emma walked slowly to the door.
“Open it quickly,” said the comte. “You will find Jolly outside with the carriage. Go straight away.”
“But you…” whispered Emma.
“I have work to do. Go!”
Emma unlocked and unbolted the door. She swayed for a moment on the step, her figure illuminated for a moment by the light over the door, and then she was gone. The comte could hear Jolly’s glad cry of welcome.
“Now,” he said to Madame Beauregard, “back inside.”
“You have what you want,” she said harshly.
“Not all. Where is Sir Benjamin’s book?”
“We burnt it.”
“No, you fools felt too secure. Your arrogance had made you make many stupid mistakes. So far luck has been on your side, but that luck has run out.” His eyes raked round the room, and then he began to laugh. “Why, there it is, for all the world to see!”
He snatched the book from a console table and put it in his pocket. He backed toward the door, while she stood, half crouched, staring at him with eyes full of venom.
“Oh, ma chèrie,” he said lightly, “there is one thing more…” He suddenly hurled the contents of the bottle full in her face. Madame Beauregard gave a scream like a mortally wounded animal and fell on the floor, clutching her face while the comte ran out into the street, shouting for the constable, shouting for the watch, at the top of his voice.
Madame Beauregard’s husband and Lord Fletcher drew quickly back into the shadows of the square. “The jig’s up,” said Lord Fletcher. “We must escape alone. Come, man, look at the men and torches. The whole army’s descending on the house.”
Madame Beauregard was still lying on the floor where the comte had last seen her when he entered with the militia, the watch, and the constable.
She was screaming and moaning and clutching at her face.
“Has she run mad?” asked the colonel of the militia.
“Mad with fear,” said the comte. “I thought she deserved to suffer for all the misery she has caused.” He seized a mirror and knelt down by Madame Beauregard. “Hold her hands away from her face,” he ordered.
“Look at yourself,” said the comte. “Take a look.”
Two men held her arms while another forced her to look in the mirror. She stared at her reflection. Her face, apart from a redness at the eyes, was the same as ever.
“Mustard water,” said the comte cheerfully. “Not acid. You may take her away.” As he left, he heard her begin to scream again, but this time with rage.
It was late at night when the comte finally made his way to Curzon Street. Jolly was sitting in the hall with a shotgun across his knees, fast asleep, and did not even wake when Tamworthy let the comte in.
“A fine guard you make,” said the comte, shaking his friend awake. “Where is Lady Wright?”
“Gone to bed,” said Jolly, and then let out a cavernous yawn.
The comte felt disappointed. He had rescued Emma and she should have been there to throw herself into his arms.
“Well, I suppose I had better join you on guard, but we may retire upstairs. There are two members of the militia outside the doors. Madame Beauregard has been taken, but there is no sign of her villainous husband or Fletcher. Do you know Fletcher was seen at the club earlier this evening, as bold as brass? They must have been so sure of their luck holding. I thing they were all under Madame Beauregard’s sway, and I think that lady is quite mad.”
The pair walked up the stairs together to Emma’s drawing room. “Think, mon ami,” said the comte, sinking into an armchair, “of their incredible stupidity. All they had to do was to take Lady Wright somewhere out of town where we could not find her. Or why not kill her outright and then me? What a night I have had! There is one thing which still puzzles me. Lady Wright was on her way to visit Mrs. Carruthers when she was abducted. After the arrest of Madame Beauregard and her servants, we went straight to the Carruthers home and interrogated Carruthers himself. Oh, he was very smooth. He had sent no carriage for Lady Wright. He had assumed she had changed her mind. Was it not, he was asked, a coincidence that he had told her the time to come was exactly the hour when it suited Fletcher? For, as you know, the authorities were quick to interrogate the servants here and find that little housemaid had been helping Fletcher, although she thought she was helping a lover. Carruthers gave that easy laugh of his and said he had gossiped the night before to Fletcher of how he had planned to please his wife by inviting Lady Wright. All very simple. But that pretty wife of his looked afraid and miserable. Of course they believed him. Who does not believe a drunk and a gambler? It is only the worthy sober people who are held in suspicion. Carruthers, said the magistrate indulgently, is no end of a good fellow. Pah!”
“So what do we do with Lady Wright while these villains are still at large?” asked Jolly.
“I had better marry her, and then she will have constant protection.”
“Not a sound basis for marriage.”
“There are other factors,” said the comte. “I am so very tired. Go to bed, Jolly, and I will awaken you in two hours’ time and we will change guard. Come, I will show you to the spare bedchamber. The servants have drunk so much consoling brandy, they are probably all asleep by now.”
After Jolly had retired, the comte turned the facts about the traitors over in his mind. In that precious book had been other names, names of men and women who were already being arrested. But money, it seemed, could buy anything in this age of gambling and ruin. He would have to tell Emma not to have anything further to do with the Carruthers. He was sure Carruthers himself had accepted a large bribe. The traitors seemed to have money to burn. Mone
y could buy conscience, wives, children—his eyelids began to droop—comforts in prison, special treatment, even the loyalty of the guards.
All of a sudden he was wide awake. Perhaps even now Beauregard had found some way to bribe his wife’s release from prison. Without their Lady Macbeth, he felt sure Fletcher and Beauregard would be relatively harmless. But with her…
He ran to Jolly’s room, roused his large friend, and explained his fears.
“Should have taken her to the Tower,” grumbled Jolly. “Where is she?”
“Newgate.”
“My dear fellow, she is probably chained to the floor!”
“But chains can be removed. I must go.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled Jolly, climbing down from the bed. “I will stand guard while you are gone.”
The comte ran from the house to the mews, where his carriage and horses were stabled, rousing his grooms and his grumbling tiger, who protested loudly at the very idea of a drive to Newgate in the middle of the night.
With his swearing tiger clinging on the back, he hurtled toward the City, down Fleet Street, past the silent taverns, across the sluggish, smelly Fleet River, up Ludgate Hill, and under the shadow of St. Paul’s.
The prison governor was extremely cross. The hour was four in the morning, and he did not like to be roused by what he privately damned as an excitable Frenchman, demanding to make sure that Madame Beauregard was still locked up.
“My lord,” snapped the governor, struggling with all the disadvantages of trying to be haughty in a red Kilmarnock nightcap and flannel nightgown. “You should be ashamed of yourself. No one has escaped from Newgate since the days of Jack Shepard. The Frenchwoman is fettered and chained, and no one but the wardresses are allowed near her.”
“Sir, I beg of you,” said the comte, “please ascertain that she is still secure in this prison.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled the governor. He rang the bell and ordered his servant to go to the prison and ask the turnkeys to check that Madame Beauregard was still imprisoned.
“You must understand,” said the governor, waxing pompous while they waited, “that this is not France. We order things better in this country. You appear to suggest that one of my fellows would take a bribe. Ridiculous. Why, if that were the case, half the cells would be empty. I remember the time…”
