“Why inevitably?” asked Elizabeth.
“The Russian disaster, Mademoiselle. For after that Colonel Suchet was no longer working to strengthen the fleet—he was stripping it of men for the army, in preparation for the European campaigns of 1813. The Portsmouth Plan perished in the snows of Moscow.”
“If there ever was a new Portsmouth Plan, Professor.” The retreat of the Grande Armée encouraged Aske to advance again.
But Professor Belperron smiled. “Oh, there was a new Portsmouth Plan, I believe that now, even though I have not had time to prove it yet. Not conclusively …”
He had something else, thought Elizabeth. He had had it all along, and he had just been waiting for the right moment to let it out of the bag, to impress them.
Paul caught her eye, and grinned—Paul had come to the same conclusion, and that grin told her that he was quite prepared to be impressed if that gave him what he wanted.
He even kept the grin in place for the Professor. “You know … I don’t think you’ve been quite straight with us, Professor,” he said.
The little man, who had been concentrating on Aske, now frowned slightly at Paul. “Pardon, Dr Mitchell?”
“What we want to know is why Colonel Suchet was so keen to get our fellows from the Vengeful back into the cooler—which should also give us the answer why they were treated the way they were, and shunted off to the Lautenbourg, instead of to Verdun, or somewhere like that, where there were other prisoners.” Paul leaned forward again. “Well, my old friend Bertrand Bourienne told me that you know more than any man alive about what was happening in France in Napoleon’s time, and particularly the last five years of the First Empire—he said, if you didn’t know, then no one knew, by God!”
For a moment Elizabeth was afraid that he was laying it on a bit too thick, but then she saw that the Professor was visibly disarmed by such confidence.
“Dr Mitchell… I fear your friend overrates me—“
“I don’t think so. I think you know exactly what Suchet was after … Or, you’ve got a pretty damn good idea of it.”
Aske sniffed. “Well, it’s pretty damn obvious, I should have thought: somehow the poor devils had tumbled to this new Portsmouth Plan of his—it can hardly be anything else, can it?”
Belperron’s eyes glinted behind his spectacles. “Can’t it, Mr Aske? Can’t it?”
Aske opened his mouth, and then thought better of what he had been about to say, and said nothing at all.
Belperron shook his head. “To tell the truth, my friends, I do not know exactly what Suchet wished to suppress—I have had far too little time … only a matter of hours … to look for the necessary confirmation of what I believe … All I have at this moment is another name—another name connected with Colonel Suchet—and the known facts about him … a most interesting man …”
“What man—what name, Professor?” asked Paul, dutifully on cue.
“James Burns—no, I am sure you will never have heard of him, Mr Aske. James Burns, merchant—import-export, as we would say now … James Burns, of London, New York … and Portsmouth, Mr Aske.”
“Another traitor?” Aske’s mouth twisted. “Or another renegade patriot?”
“No, none of those.” The little man shook his head. “This time— another spy, Mr Aske. Even perhaps a super-spy, since you British never caught him—never even suspected him, so far as I am aware … though I know nothing of his subsequent history as yet.”
Whatever happened to Father’s book on the twelve Vengefuls, there was a book here—or at least a learned article in the Annales historiques de l’Empire in the making, thought Elizabeth. It was surprising that Belperron was prepared to let so much slip.
“How was he not a traitor—or a renegade, Professor?” she asked.
“Because he was not an Englishman at all, Mademoiselle,” said Belperron simply. “He was an American—an Irish American.”
“But also a French spy—a spy for France?”
“Ah … now there again we are on those debatable frontiers! Where should a good American—and an Irishman … an Irishman in any age … where should such a man be when England is at war? And in those days, after the Irish Rebellion of 1798, in which my country assisted so inadequately and disastrously?”
“In Portsmouth, apparently,” said Paul dryly. “And we let him import-export from there, did we?”
Belperron shook his head. “In England I am not sure that he was James Burns—American … not from the way he continued to move at will between the two countries after the Americans had declared war on you. What he did in England, except that he traded in naval stores … American timber and cordage, and the like … that I do not know. But here in France it was in military equipment—in British greatcoats and boots for the French Army—“
“In what?” Paul’s voice cracked.
“British greatcoats and boots—the Grande Armée wore them both into Russia … imported through Hamburg, of course.” The Professor smiled his little coldly-amused smile again. “You must understand how the Industrial Revolution and the French Revolution came to terms with each other, Dr Mitchell, and how honest neutrals were caught between them—it was not a business as conducted in later war. Because in those pragmatic days an honest trader could also obtain licences to break the rules, to the advantage of all parties.”
“And James Burns was good at getting licences?”
“That is what I think, Dr Mitchell. As yet I am not sure.”
“But you’re sure he was a spy?”
“James Burns was a client of Joseph Fouché’s Ministry in 1805, and again in 1808—and a close colleague of Colonel Suchet in 1812—that I know, Mr Aske.” Professor Belperron brought his hands together. “James Burns had a dream … of confusion to Albion … that is what I believe.”
“With the Portsmouth Plan?”
“With his Portsmouth Plan. Which was very different from those of de la Rousselière and Hamilton—very different, and much more outrageous … but perhaps also much more dangerous to England.” The little man switched from Aske to Paul. “And which Suchet, of all men, would have recognised, where Fouché would have discounted it.” He shrugged. “Though, to be fair, the time was not ripe in Fouché’s day, as it was in Suchet’s.”
This time they both waited, now that he was altogether wrapped in his own cleverness.
“Some of this I know … and some of it I am guessing, on the basis of what I was told last night, which has made me put facts together with guesses … to make an instant theory, you understand? No more than that.”
They nodded, and Elizabeth nodded too, to encourage him.
“Good … Now it may be that your escaped prisoners somehow knew of de la Rousselière’s plans, Mr Aske—Dr Mitchell. I do not know how … but it does not matter. Because, if his plans were good in 1779, they were bad in 1812—they were plans which would not have attracted Colonel Suchet, I suspect. And also because he would have had in mind the invasion plans of 1804-5—the massing of a great army on the Channel coast to conquer England, not merely to raid it, or capture a foothold.”
Aske snuffled. “He would probably have had the Royal Navy in mind also, Professor. And the battle of Trafalgar.”
“Very correct, Mr Aske. Always the Royal Navy … But by then the Royal Navy without Nelson. And the Royal Navy was stretched all the way to the war with America, with the best part of the British Army fighting in Spain, and the rest of it in Canada, fighting the Americans … And 1813 would not have been 1805 in Europe either, Mr Aske: Suchet was planning for an invasion in which the Emperor no longer had to worry about the armies of Austria and Prussia and Russia, as he had had to do in 1805. This would have been his last battle, you must remember, Mr Aske—his very last battle!”
That silenced Aske, as Elizabeth herself could hear the echo of his own words from yesterday: In 1812 we were losing the war … And that had been before this image of a defeated Russia, with no catastrophic retreat from Moscow.
“So what was James Burns’s ‘Portsmouth Plan’, then?” asked Paul. “Because Portsmouth would have been a strong enough place. Apart from whatever garrison there would have been, there’d be the navy itself—the ships at anchor. You’d never have got a ship into Portsmouth harbour, Professor, let alone a man ashore.”
“You are right,” agreed the Professor, “but, you see, there was no need to get a ship into the harbour, Dr Mitchell, and no need to put a man ashore. Not when they were already there.” He paused momentarily. “The hulks, Mr Aske—have you forgotten the hulks?”
“Christ!” exclaimed Aske. “The hulks!”
“The hulks?” Paul turned to him.
“The prison ships. There was a whole line of them right there in the harbour—jammed with French prisoners!”
“Fourteen ships, to be exact, Mr Aske,” said the Professor pedantically. “Your old prizes of war from France, like the Prothée, from which Colonel Suchet escaped, and from the Spanish and Danish fleets … and your own old worn-out battleships—fourteen ships containing over nine thousand men … Wretched prisoners—embittered prisoners—all the men who had escaped and been re-captured, officers among them … desperate men, Mr Aske—Dr Mitchell … and also trained soldiers and sailors, with trained leaders among them.”
“And right there in the harbour,” Aske repeated. “Christ!”
“And on shore too—right there in the harbour,” said the Professor softly. “Behind the old Roman walls of Portchester Castle … another seven thousand men. And just across the water, in the prison at Gosport … thousands more. Over twenty thousand men in all.”
For a moment neither Paul nor Aske spoke, then Paul drew a deep breath. “Evidence, Professor?”
“For 1812—little as yet, Dr Mitchell.” The Professor shook his head. “As yet I have not had time, and I am guessing … But for James Burns’ earlier plans there is evidence—plans which were discounted at the time, in spite of all his powers of persuasion.” He paused. “He argued that the troops guarding the prisoners were of the poorest quality—the sweepings of the British army and navy, officered by pensioners and rejects … He argued that both the hulks and the land prisons were organised to keep unarmed men from breaking out—not to prevent a handful of armed and determined men breaking in … To be precise, he asked for two hundred men, two hundred British uniforms, and a thousand muskets. After that he said he would capture what he needed, and burn what he did not want. And with that he could take Portsea Island, occupying the fortified lines across the isthmus, and would hold it until relieved by the invading armies.”
Aske looked at Paul. “It would have been a bloody massacre— either way.”
The Professor shrugged. “It would have been chaos and confusion, and death and destruction, of that there can be no doubt.” He wagged a finger at them both. “But it would have appealed to Colonel Suchet, of all men—that is important. Because he knew the hulks, and he knew Portsmouth. And even if he did not plan to land the invasion army at Portsmouth, he would appreciate the value of such a terrifying diversion—I am sure of that.”
Paul rubbed his chin, looking first at Elizabeth, then at Aske. “I think we have to go away and think about this one.”
Aske frowned. “What d’you mean, think about it?”
“Well, for a start … going to Alsace can serve no useful purpose, not now.” Paul thought for a moment. “We have to begin again with the Vengeful—how the devil can Chipperfield have got wind of any of this?”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps Colonel Suchet was just trying to make sure … ?”
“Perhaps we ought to have another look at the Fortuné?” said Aske tentatively. “We could do that over here, with Professor Belperron’s help, maybe?”
“Professor Wilder could tell us about Portsmouth,” said Elizabeth. “He’s a tremendous expert on everything to do with its history—even Father admitted that.”
Paul nodded. “Wilder’s a good bet, Elizabeth.” He looked towards the little Frenchman. “If you could keep digging at this end, sir … if you could spare the time, that is?”
Belperron had been watching them curiously, his eyes darting from one to the other. “Well … if that is all that you want … there will surely be other documents, it is only a matter of knowing where to look, and what to look for, and how to look at it—“ He stopped abruptly as Paul stood up.
“Of course. Isn’t it always?” Paul started to shrug, then turned the shrug into a little bow. “And you have pointed us in a promising direction, Professor. We are indebted to you … But we mustn’t take any more of your time.”
“Yes.” Aske stood up in turn, taking his cue from Paul.
“Elizabeth,” commanded Paul.
“Yes.” She stood up obediently, but she was conscious that something had happened which she had missed, only she had no idea what it was.
Belperron stood up behind his desk, unnaturally tall. For a moment he seemed undecided as to what to say. Then he returned the bow. “I will be interested to hear from you, Dr Mitchell. We must keep in touch,” he said stiffly.
“Absolutely right—we must keep in touch!” Paul’s enthusiasm was as false as the Professor’s height. “Please don’t bother—we’ll see our way out—“
Aske was already opening the door. Elizabeth found herself sidling through it almost crab-wise.
“Most grateful, Professor—“ she heard Paul say as she collided with one of the chairs in the second ante-room.
Paul closed the door behind him. “Is there a back-entrance, Aske?”
“Christ! I don’t know!” said Aske.
“What’s happening?” said Elizabeth.
Paul went to the window. “There’s something not right about this.”
Aske nodded. “I agree. Definitely not right.”
“I don’t understand—“ Elizabeth heard her own voice crack. “What—?”
“Can you see anything?” said Aske. And then, when Paul merely shook his head, he turned to Elizabeth. “He didn’t ask enough questions—he gave us too much, much too easily—he was scared, if you ask me—“ he switched to Paul “—right?”
“And he’s not the only one, by God!” murmured Paul, still craning his neck at the window.
“Scared?” Whatever they’d seen, she hadn’t caught the slightest glimpse of it. But now she was joining the club to which they both belonged.
“There has to be a back-entrance,” said Aske decisively. “Let’s get out while we can, Mitchell … I’ll go first—that’s what I’m bloody-well paid for—“
He took two steps towards the door, but it opened before he could grasp the handle, and he skipped back as though it had tried to sting him.
Elizabeth was simultaneously aware of Aske jumping back, and Paul turning from the window towards the open door, and of her own frozen immobility.
And of what was in the doorway.
“Nikki!” exclaimed Paul. “What a delightful surprise!
”
XIII
EMERALD GREEN—emerald green was by any reckoning a dangerous colour for a woman to attempt.
But this woman could get away with it, with her pale complexion and the flaming red hair—except that it wasn’t red, thought Elizabeth enviously, but that painter’s colour which stopped the man who’d been talking to you in mid-sentence and made him lose the thread of what he was saying.
“Nikki!” The second time Paul managed to substitute pleasure for surprise. “How delightful!”
The woman in the doorway gave him a cold smile. “Captain … Mitchell, is it?” The eyes took in Aske, and dismissed him; and then took in Elizabeth, and lingered on her for just half a second longer— the eyes were green too, damn it!—and then dropped her, coming back to Paul. “It’s been a long time, Captain—six years?”
“Seven, more like—since Hameau Ridge, Nikki—far too long!” He wasn’t pretending his regret: even the best liar couldn’t electrify his lie so well. “We should have contrived a Hameau Ridge Old Comrades’ Reunion ages ago.”
Mid-thirties, decided Elizabeth critically. But still almost flawless, and seven years ago didn’t bear thinking about.
“But what brings you here?” This time there was a slight loss of conviction in Paul’s voice.
“You do—as you well know.”
“I do?” He frowned. “But why? What am I supposed to have done now?” The frown deepened. “You’re not going to tell me that this is … official?”
“Official—what?” said Aske. “What’s going on?”
“What indeed!” Paul gestured helplessly. “I’m sorry, Humphrey—and Elizabeth … but this, apparently, is Mademoiselle Nicole MacMahon, of the French security service—which bit of it I’m not quite sure.” His voice tightened as he spoke. “But if this is official business then I don’t need to introduce my friends to you, Nikki, because you’ll already know who they are … Only, as for what’s going on—I’d like to know that, too.”
The Old Vengeful Page 22
