MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “And therefore, it is an invitation to trouble, because this policy turns honest men into desperate men,” she said at her most reasonable. She watched him write, and then said, “Tomorrow morning I want to take a turn around the town before we leave. I haven’t had much opportunity to see the place.”

  Vernet nodded, a bit distracted. “Very well, I’ll arrange an escort for you.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. I won’t go anyplace dangerous,” she promised him blithely.

  “You must forgive me if I doubt that,” he said over his shoulder, his smile affectionate. “You did not think going up the banks of the Nile was dangerous.”

  She smiled back. “Actually I did, but I thought not going was more dangerous,” she said, and then her expression grew more somber. “I have my grandmother’s writing set at home, you know the one, very old-fashioned. I never use it. It is made of gold and should bring a good price—enough to purchase a dress uniform, at least.”

  Vernet stopped writing. “I cannot ask you to do that,” he said very softly.

  “You are not asking,” she pointed out. “I am telling you that I can get the money for the uniform without either of us being forced to borrow.”

  “But it was your grandmother’s,” Vernet protested, feeling wretched.

  “And now it is mine, and I am sure she would understand why I wish to sell it. She was a sensible, practical woman, and not one to stick at niceties. I will sell it, you will have the uniform, and there may be enough for me to afford a new lace robe for my green ballgown. It will make the whole dress look new, especially if I change the corsage with new embroidery, and perhaps a few of those seed-pearls from my mother’s wedding dress. We will both look very smart.” She favored him with a determined nod. “It is the most sensible thing to do, Vernet, and you know it as well as I do.”

  “I don’t like to see you selling such things for me,” he said stubbornly.

  “Well, I am sure that is very honorable of you, but just at present it is not very practical, and it is more sensible to use good sense.” As far as she was concerned it was settled. “You will not disgrace yourself, and we will keep our heads above water for a little while yet. In the meantime, you might arrange to speak to Fouche. He may be able to do something for you.”

  “Fouche is a very busy man, and his hands are full,” said Vernet, who hesitated to involve the former teacher who was head of Napoleon’s spies. The man was notorious for his greed and self-aggrandizement. And he used people in his shadow-filled world; to deal with him even once as a supplicant often meant you were never again free from his demands. “I do not like to make such petitions to men of such high position.”

  “Well,” said Victoire in her most heartening manner, “if we do not do something, we are going to run out of items to sell or pawn, and then we will have to petition someone, perhaps a magistrate of the court instead of Director Fouche.”

  “That is a gloomy prospect,” said Vernet.

  “Then put your mind on other things,” said Victoire. “For brooding will not change anything. You are among the highest law officers in France and that gives you many social obligations. Your successful investigation, however, might bring you one of those many bonuses Napoleon hands out, which is far more to the point.” She regarded the pile of dispatches. “You had best take those at once.”

  “Of course,” said Vernet. “First things first.”

  * * *

  As in most fishing towns, the market in Dunkerque opened before dawn and was bustling as the sun rose. Farmers brought their produce and stock to trade for fish and the specialties of the town; fishermen coming in from the sea brought live lobsters and other bounty. It all offered a wonderful opportunity for haggling and gossip.

  Victoire had dressed in her plainest clothes and had borrowed a cloak from the maid at the Garçon Rouge and bought a small woven basket, so that she looked much the same as most of the women who attended the market. She had tucked her fair hair under a starched matron’s cap and affected a strong Rouen accent whenever she stopped at a stall to ask a price.

  The Englishwoman was easy to spot, for in spite of her French dress, her face was the milk-and-strawberry of true English girls. She had large blue eyes and faded brown hair under her hat, and her apron came from Suffolk, which was obvious from the style of smocking. For some time she sat alone, making no effort to converse with the women in the stalls on either side of her. Occasionally she exchanged a greeting with one of the buyers at the market, but otherwise she kept to herself.

  Once she identified her quarry, Victoire did not hurry, for that would not serve her purpose. She approached the stand where the Englishwoman sat indirectly so that her true mission would not be obvious.

  “When was that caught?” Victoire inquired, pointing at a bug-eyed fish lying on a slab. Very few of the fish in this stall had been sold, and Victoire suspected the reason was that the townspeople were keeping their distance from the Englishwoman.

  The Englishwoman looked at her, a little startled at the accent. “Last night. They are fresh, all of them. They were caught and wrapped at once in straw, as you can see.”

  “What is the price?” Victoire asked.

  “Two sous,” said the Englishwoman. Her French was practiced but there was a tone to it that was ineffably English.

  “Two?” Victoire inquired as if she thought the sum outrageous; it was expected as part of the dealing.

  “Two,” the woman answered, a bit more firmly. “It is fresh. No one brings fresher fish than my husband and his brothers. You may sniff it for yourself if you have any doubts.”

  “It would be hard to distinguish that fish with so many others around,” said Victoire, waving a hand to the rest of the market. “The whole of this quarter of the town stinks of fish.”

  “I no longer notice,” said the Englishwoman, a little spark of interest in her eyes now.

  “So I would suppose,” said Victoire, then dropped a slight curtsy. “I am Madame Vernet, Madame, and I am new to this place. I was hoping that I might come to know some of the women here, but they ...” She let the phrase trail away to nothing.

  “They are used to their own society,” agreed the Englishwoman. “I know how difficult it can be to gain their friendship, and how little it requires to jeopardize it.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice now, and she tried to laugh to cover it. “I am English, you see, and they do not often permit me to forget it.”

  “You must be lonely,” said Victoire with sympathy.

  “There are times when I am. At other times fishermen come from home, and I do not feel so isolated.” She sighed. “It has not happened much, recently.”

  Victoire did her best to appear surprised. “But English, in this part of the coast, surely there are many English here?”

  “Not these days,” said the Englishwoman. “They prefer to deal with the Dutch, for there is less interference.”

  “But ...” Victoire chose her words very carefully. “I was told that often there were mariners here who carried secret cargo from France to England. A merchant I knew at home said he made a good profit on brandy sent to England clandestinely.”

  “Oh, that happens,” said the Englishwoman, coloring a little. “But it is very dangerous now that the French have become more strict in ... in so many things.” There was a slight hesitation. “It must be for the good, of course.”

  “But I know how it is to be in a foreign place without the company of your own people,” she said with sincerity. “How unfair to someone like you.”

  The Englishwoman smiled uncertainly. “My father might say so,” she ventured at last. “But it is the way of the world, now that Napoleon is reigning here.”

  “Reigning?” Victoire asked, startled at the woman’s choice of words.

  “What else would y
ou call it, now that he is First Consul and there are no others.”

  Victoire nodded, agreeing in spite of herself; she shifted the topic a bit. “If you could tell me, how much traffic of that sort goes on about here?” She saw the Englishwoman stiffen, and went on, “I’m curious because the merchant I knew made some claims that I find hard to believe.”

  “There is money to be made,” said the Englishwoman, her face clouding. “But the risks are great.”

  “The merchant made it seem as if it were just a game. You know, saying that they would make the run at night without any lights, and there would be signals and transfers, sometimes at sea, sometimes in secret harbors.” She was able to make it seem as if she longed for such adventure, which was nearer the truth than she wanted to admit.

  “I have heard that the patrols of the French and the English both have been increased. If your merchant friend thinks it a game, then he is being a fool,” said the Englishwoman. “No one carries special cargos for the sport of it, not these days.”

  “And what of other cargos?” asked Victoire innocently, concealing a frisson of danger. “Is everything done so honestly, even by the honest merchants?” She laughed at her own impertinence. “Your pardon, Madame, but it seems to me that those who are the most sanctimonious about minding the laws are merely the ones who have found a successful way to cheat.”

  The Englishwoman made a very French gesture of contempt. “It is all the navy now, in any case. They are everywhere, stopping honest fishermen and looking for spies and all the rest.” She looked around nervously, and added in an undervoice, “They say that there are fishermen who do that, too, but I know of none. And I would if they lived in Dunkerque.”

  “Of course you would,” said Victoire as if the notion had just occurred to her. “I suppose you know all the English.”

  “Not all, but I know enough,” she said obscurely. Then she sighed. “If war comes again, no doubt my husband will be detained because of me.”

  “Surely there is not going to be real war,” prompted Victoire.

  “It is coming,” said the Englishwoman heavily. “It is in the air, like the smell of fish.”

  “Ah,” said Victoire. “Perhaps you know more than most, living where you do and being English. I pray that we will not fight, for I hate to see our fine young men die.” Her smile was roguish. “There are so many better things for young men to do.”

  It took the Englishwoman a short moment to answer. “My father says it’ll not come, and my brother thinks it will not, but they are wrong.” Her face darkened. “I have spoken to others, and they are afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Victoire prompted. She had sensed she was being watched, but she could not determine where the watcher was; it made her nervous.

  “Fisherfolk do badly when navies battle. They are all troubled because once the guns sound, they will have to find other waters.” She wiped her face with her apron.

  “What woman does not fear for her men when there is war?” Victoire said this with great feeling, and added, “It’s unfortunate that powerful men cannot find other ways to agree.”

  “Amen,” whispered the Englishwoman. Then she smoothed her apron. “The price could be a single sou, since you have just come here.”

  Victoire realized she had learned all that she would be able to from the Englishwoman, and so she reached into her reticule and retrieved the coin. “Done!” she cried, and handed over her basket.

  “Come again some time, Madame ... Ver ...”

  “Vernet,” said Victoire. “And perhaps I will.” She took the basket back, and dropped the Englishwoman a sociable curtsy. “God send you a good profit and calm seas.”

  The Englishwoman smiled, and ducked her head politely.

  As she made her way back through the market, Victoire decided she would ask the landlord at the Garçon Rouge to prepare the fish with a caper sauce.

  * * *

  They were almost ready to depart for Calais; Vernet had supervised the loading of their luggage and was now making a last check of their room to be certain that nothing had been left behind. He glanced at Victoire as he rummaged in the armoire. “You are satisfied then, that the woman knows nothing of the English landing?”

  “Quite satisfied,” said Victoire. She automatically smoothed the bed cover and then added, “I gave her every opportunity to reveal something about English landing here, but there was no suggestion of it in anything she said. I doubt she is clever enough to dissemble so expertly. Which, when you come to think of it, is all the more reason to be worried.”

  “Truly,” said Vernet, closing the armoire. “There should be answers to my dispatches waiting for us by the time we reach Calais. Then we will decide what is to be done.”

  “Or it will be decided for us,” said Victoire fatalistically, and followed her husband out to the waiting carriage. As she handed a doucement to the ostler, she remarked to Vernet, “I hope that someone has the good sense to pay attention to your warning.”

  “You mean to your warning,” he said with a wink.

  “It had best be your warning, or they will not heed it at all.”

  She took her place in the carriage, wishing that she had a softer pillow for her back. But that would be a foolish extravagance, she reminded herself, and she had endured far worse than sore muscles in her travels. Her physician had said that it would require time for her to recover completely from the miscarriage, and that in time her muscles would be as strong as ever.

  “Victoire?” Vernet asked as they set out. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “Only a little,” she lied.

  * * *

  “At least there is one response,” said Vernet as he came to their room in the Lanterne in Calais. “Bernadotte has sent this.” He held out the response, which he had opened already. “Read it, and tell me what you think. He is suggesting—which is as good as ordering—that I go to Antwerp. He wishes me to act at once. Apparently he thinks that if the spies have landed, they are seeking to disrupt the negotiations to unite the Republics of France and Holland.”

  Victoire took the sheet and read it. “Ah. I see this is another man who consults his wife. You noticed that he indicates that his wife Desirée believes that the spies are bound there, and she has convinced him of it. I hadn’t realized he relied on her so much. Look there: ‘My dear wife wishes to preserve the safety of France as ardently as I do, and for that reason I am accepting her good counsel. She has much knowledge of these affairs and her mind is as keen as any man’s. Therefore I will be guided by her and advise you to proceed as soon as possible to Antwerp.’ Antwerp.” Victoire shook her head.

  “What is it?” Vernet asked, recognizing Victoire’s expression of doubt. “What makes you question the orders?”

  Victoire did not answer directly. She tapped her finger on the vellum. “Something is not quite as it should be, but ... I am curious as to why ...” Her words trailed off as she lapsed into deep thought.

  Vernet sighed. “I suppose you will tell me when you have worked it through?”

  Her smile was quick but preoccupied; already she was caught up in assessing the letter, “Naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Vernet echoed with an affectionate gesture of resignation.

  IT WAS a small inn, far from prosperous. The innkeeper had inherited it from his father and somehow kept it open throughout the Revolution and the invasions that followed, though just barely. Now taxes threatened what the combined armies of three kings had failed to do—force him to close. He was therefore more pleased than annoyed when a party of twenty men woke him after midnight, demanding rooms and a meal. The landlord set about making them welcome, opening the taproom to the travelers while he filled the ewers in the guest rooms. He was bustling for the pantry to put together a cold supper for his guests when he realized some were speaking English, and was foolish enough to comment upon it.
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  They buried the innkeeper under his own midden pile.

  * * *

  There were half a dozen Gendarmes waiting for Vernet first thing the next morning; he hastened away with them for a day of conferring and evaluations, which left Victoire with little to do but darn socks and think. She kept to their room, half-listening to the bustle in the inn yard as she strove to turn the collar of his second-best uniform just one more time.

  It was dusk by the time Vernet came back, apologizing as he opened the door. “I had no idea we would require such a long discussion, but there—”

  “It is not important,” said Victoire, who had not risen from the end of the bed where she sat. “I am pleased to have had the time to think. Truly, Lucien, I have put the hours to good use, I think.” She indicated the uniform tunic. “And I do not mean that.”

  Vernet shook his head. “It is bad enough that you have had to pass the time alone, but you have had to have such thankless chores, as well.”

  “Never mind,” she said, assuring him more emphatically. “I am certain that a little darning will not destroy my eyesight or my fingers. And what I have decided is more important than darning, in any case.”

  “How do you mean?” Now he was curious, and he dropped his cap on the bed as he sat down in the single chair provided.

  “I mean that I have considered that reply sent from Bernadotte, searching for what has rankled,” she told him. “And I am more perplexed by it than ever.” She looked at him, trying to discover if he wanted her to go on.

  “Why is that?” asked Vernet, willing to encourage her.

  “It bothers me that spies would enter France to disrupt negotiations in Holland. We have both remarked upon it. It is difficult and dangerous to land in France, but relatively easy to land in Holland. So if the negotiations are their destination, it makes no sense that they would go to the risk of landing here rather than sailing quite properly into a northern port in Holland, where there would be no trouble for them. Do you follow my thoughts?”