MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “And if Sackett-Hartley questions this?” asked Bouelac.

  “Send him to me,” said Montrachet. “He is not so blind that he will not understand me.” He resumed his inspection, saying little to Toutdroit and Bouelac, who trailed behind him.

  At last they were done, and as they made their way back to the front door, there was the sound of someone coming into the house.

  Montrachet motioned to the other two to hide behind him in the alcove as he drew a pistol from his belt.

  Footsteps echoed along the narrow hallway, and then a voice called out, “Claude, it is Jean-Armand.” D’Estissac did not raise his voice but the sound of it carried easily.

  Montrachet sighed. “Here, my friend,” he called out and came out of the alcove where he had hidden. “A good thing you identified yourself,” he went on, cocking his head toward the pistol in his hand.

  “I should think so,” said d’Estissac, pretending to be frightened. “We’ve been keeping watch over the house from the church,” he went on by way of explanation. “When Les Aix saw you enter, he sent for me. He didn’t know it was you.”

  “Very sensible,” said Montrachet, shoving the pistol back into his belt. “I trust that you are well. There was nothing in your note that said anything untoward had occurred.”

  “No, nothing after that innkeeper and that was to his misfortune, not ours,” said d’Estissac. “You have not been so fortunate, it seems.” He gestured toward the sling.

  Montrachet hissed with exasperation. “Yes. It is true.” He did not want to go into details. “But the wound was a minor one, hardly more than the dog-bite I sustained the same night. I will be recovered shortly.”

  “Very good,” said d’Estissac. “We had better arrange a meeting for all of us very soon, now that we’re all here. Sackett-Hartley suggested tonight.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Montrachet, and added vaguely. “We need time to prepare.”

  “All the more reason to meet tonight,” said d’Estissac.

  “I don’t think so,” said Montrachet. “I leave it to you to explain this to Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley.” He said the name as if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Are you certain that is what you want?” asked d’Estissac. “The longer we delay, the greater the chance that we will be found out.”

  “One day is not going to make a difference,” assured Montrachet with such finality that the other three men made no effort to counter it.

  “Very well, tomorrow,” said d’Estissac after a short hesitation. “If that is what you think we must do.”

  “It is,” said Montrachet, and looked around the narrow hall in satisfaction. “Toutdroit will watch here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll work out the appropriate schedule for all the rest.”

  This time d’Estissac did not question the order: if Sackett-Hartley did not like Montrachet taking over in this way, he would have to settle the question with Montrachet himself.

  * * *

  The sergeant who waited in the door looked ready to fall asleep. His horse, waiting at the curb, appeared more exhausted than his rider. He saluted Odette and asked for Madame Vernet. “I know it’s early,” he said. “But the letter I bring is from her husband. I have been in the saddle since three in the morning, and I am ready to find my bed. Pray accept my apologies for coming at this hour.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Odette, and stepped back into the house, calling up the stairs to Victoire. “A letter from Inspector-General Vernet. The sergeant is worn out.”

  Victoire, who was still abed, looked up from the file she was reading—Berthier had supplied it to her the night before—and called out, “Take the letter and give the poor man something hot to drink before he goes on his way.” She was already reaching out for her peignoir, wrapping it around her before she slipped out of bed, taking care to put the file beneath her pillows.

  Odette had opened the door to the sergeant, saying, “If you will follow me, my mistress instructs me to give you something to drink, something hot.”

  “Thanks,” the man muttered as he went along to the kitchen with Odette.

  Victoire donned her very sensible slippers and tied the sash of her peignoir. It was not at all proper that she greet the messenger en déshabille, but she was not about to take the twenty minutes it would require to make herself presentable. This man was a soldier, she told herself, and she was a soldier’s wife and neither of them need stand on ceremony. Thus reassured she hurried down to the kitchen, coming through the door just as the kettle on the stove began to thrill.

  The sergeant looked around, blushed, and got to his feet in the same moment. He half-saluted. “The dispatch is—”

  “In my servant’s care, yes, I know that,” said Victoire quickly as she reached out to take the sealed packet of papers Odette offered her as she looked for the India tea.

  “I’m afraid that it must be tea,” she said to the sergeant as she prepared the pot. “We have no beer and—”

  “Tea is welcome, the stronger the better,” said the sergeant. He smiled wearily and sat down again, apologizing as he did. “I am about to fall over, and that is the truth before God.”

  Victoire regarded him for a short while. “Yes, you must be exhausted. All the more reason to have the tea before you go, and to take with you a note for your commanding officer to express my gratitude for your dedication to duty.” She had already broken the seals on the dispatch and was now fumbling with the pages, her hands suddenly clumsy as she tried to read the crossed lines in her husband’s angular scrawl.

  “You’re most gracious, Madame Vernet,” the sergeant said to her.

  “Odette, I am going to write a note for the sergeant to take with him. I leave you to look after him.” Victoire started out of the kitchen door, then paused. “I will need no more than ten minutes.”

  The withdrawing room was chilly and subtly damp, but Victoire ignored these discomforts as she closed the doors and hurried to her writing table. She sat down and spread out the sheets, reading them as quickly as she dared, promising herself to peruse them at length as soon as the sergeant was gone.

  The trail leading to spies in Antwerp, if there ever was such a thing, has long gone cold, and I am forced to accept the possibility that the spies are making their way to Paris, as you suspected from the first. Yet I feel that my time here has not been entirely wasted, for I have learned a great deal more about the danger in which France now stands. It will take a few more days for my work here to be completed, but when it is done, I will not delay an instant returning to you, my dearest. You have put me on the alert and for that reason I am going to take extra care to settle my work here before I come again to Paris. I do not want the ghosts of neglect to rise to haunt me. I will elaborate on that when we can speak together privately, for these reflections do not belong in missives such as this. But to alleviate any concerns you may have, I will tell you that your deductions have proven yet again to be most perceptive.

  “Well, at least they were once we discovered that we were entertaining the wrong assumptions,” Victoire murmured as she read. “But we had to be sure, Lucien.”

  Your account of the events at the Vigne et Tonneau very much shocks me, my treasure, and I am filled with misgiving in regard to your safety. That you should have been subjected to such a dreadful occurrence shames me deeply, for I cannot but believe it would not have happened had you been with me, or had you been accorded proper escort, which you did not have. It may be as you say was decided, that the man was only a thief; others have suggested this to you. But in the event that he was something more, and therefore worse, I implore you to be more cautious than is your wont, to guard yourself at every instant. I am disgusted that French soldiers were so foolish as those corporals you described to me, and I will see that they are reprimanded for their conduct. Do not think to protect them from the consequences of their stupidity, my
dear, for they are dragoons and must learn to bear the responsibility that goes with such work.

  In regard to the circumstances regarding the foreign musician, I must ask you, my treasured wife, not to attempt to find the man. I know your character, and it would not astonish me to learn that you had already determined to see if the miscreant had actually come to Paris. I am not certain that such a desperate man would stop at threats. And if you wounded him as you say you think you did, he will have no charity to offer you but what comes with lead balls. You must not expose yourself to such danger again. It is appalling enough that you were at risk once; it must not happen a second time.

  The rest of the letter was filled with details of what he had investigated, and Victoire knew she would need time to reflect upon what he had told her. She folded the dispatch and placed it in the concealed drawer of the writing table. Then she drew a sheet of paper from the central drawer—the one that was supposed to be seen—and took out her standish and pens. It required no more than a few seconds to compose the note in her head, and she wrote it quickly, sanding the ink carefully. As soon as she was satisfied it was dry, she rose and folded the sheet in half once, then returned to the kitchen.

  The sergeant had finished about half a mug of tea and was listening to Odette fill him in on the gossip about Napoleon’s brother’s marriage. He rose as Victoire came into the room, and said at once, “The tea has revived me, Madame Vernet.”

  “Then thank my housekeeper, for she is the one who made it for you,” said Victoire, and held out her note. “Give this to your commanding officer with my thanks, if you will. You may read it if you like.”

  The sergeant shrugged as he took the paper. “I cannot read, Madame Vernet. That is one of the reasons I have been put on messenger duty.”

  Victoire’s tone was dry. “How sensible of the army.” She glanced over at Odette, then looked back at the sergeant. “I fear that I must excuse myself once more. My husband has requested certain things of me that I must tend to at once, and therefore I will have to dress at once and prepare to depart within the hour.” She did not pause to give any further instructions to Odette but hurried away to dress, planning already to speak first to Berthier before she called upon Ministre Fouche.

  * * *

  Lamplighters were making their nightly rounds by the time Victoire returned to her house. She was worn out, her back and feet were aching, but her mind was filled with a variety of notions that held her attention and doomed her to an evening of restlessness as she struggled to make sense of all she had gleaned in a day of reports and interviews.

  Odette had made them a supper of thin-sliced liver cooked quickly in wine and bacon-grease with shallots and mustard. As she served it, she apologized. “It should be something grander, I know, but the cost—”

  Victoire held up her hand. “I am very pleased with your economies, Odette, and you have no reason to be ashamed of this fare. I am sure my father had such food all through his youth, and my mother as well. Besides, my physician has said that liver is useful to women seeking to ... to get pregnant.” She cut a sliver for herself; since the meat had been cooked quickly it was quite tender. “I am certain I will enjoy this. And we will save the joints of beef and rolls of pork for when there are guests who expect fancier fare.”

  Odette sighed. “You are kind to say so, Madame Vernet, but I cannot like having to feed us as if we were all peasants.” She looked around the kitchen. “Just as it is not fitting for us to have the meal here.”

  “But it is sensible,” said Victoire, who was not nearly so displeased with the arrangement as Odette was. “We do not have to squander wood to heat the dining room, we need not bother with two sets of dishes, and we have the opportunity to converse, which is the most useful of all.”

  “If only things were not so expensive,” said Odette quietly.

  “I share your qualms,” Victoire admitted. “When I look at what Vernet is paid and the money I inherited, and then realize the demands made on it, I despair. I think if my mother had not enjoined her diamond earrings and tiara to be sold only to preserve the life of one of my children ... not that I have any to save as yet.” She quickly dismissed that thought. “And my father’s will left a trust to his grandchildren, as well. There is no way to break it until I have reached the grand climacteric without living children, which is many years away.”

  “Madame!” said Odette, embarrassed at so personal a revelation.

  “Ah, pay no mind; I am only thinking aloud. I don’t intend to impose on you.” She reached to pull out her chair. “Come. I’m tired and hungry, and this food will end one of those two.”

  “I suppose that is true,” said Odette.

  Victoire indicated the two other chairs in the kitchen. “Draw one of those up and let us have this excellent supper.”

  Odette realized that she had been outmaneuvered. “If you insist, Madame.”

  “What do you think I have been doing these last five minutes?” she asked with a laugh. “Pour some of that red wine, too, the plain, not the fancy. Save the best bottles for company. We will have the Saint-Etienne.” She took one of the good-sized rolls and broke it in half. “And tomorrow, let us have that good bean soup, with the minced ham in it. I am very fond of it.”

  “If it is what you want, Madame Vernet,” said Odette carefully, for she was aware that the main attraction of the soup was that it was inexpensive and very filling.

  “Soldiers’ food for soldiers’ wives,” said Victoire, cutting more liver. “Pour the wine and sit down.”

  In the corner the kitchen cat gnawed on a slice of liver, purring and growling at once.

  “The cat has killed two rats this week, and several mice; I have rewarded him,” said Odette as if to defend the animal.

  “Every kitchen needs a cat,” said Victoire, and grinned in the direction of the large tortoise-shell tom. “I suspect he is as good a guardian as a dog could be.” She paused for just an instant, remembering whom the last dog she had seen had bitten. “Please, Odette, sit.”

  This time Odette did as told. As a small token of defiance, she did not remove her apron, and was shocked when she saw that Victoire did not care. “Was it a difficult day, Madame?”

  “Yes, but it was fruitful,” said Victoire, giving every sign of enjoying her supper. “I had quite a long talk with Berthier, and he has not reassured me at all. He is very nearly convinced that I have a point in my concerns, and since Egypt he has occasionally been willing to give my warnings serious consideration. I have laid it all out before him, with my reasons for my apprehension. Between the file missing from the Ministry of Public Safety and what I have learned today, I am beginning to fear that these spies have aid in very high places. And that troubles me.”

  Odette stared at her. “When you say that the spies have aid, do you mean that there are men in the government who are helping them?”

  “Yes, I am coming to think there must be.” She leaned back. “Consider how matters stand: these spies must have reached Paris by now, if Paris is their destination. Yet they have not struck yet, which means that they are not here to strike at random, but have certain specific plans. Which must mean that they have people in Paris who are helping them. And in order to protect their actions, at least one of those people must be high enough to—”

  “To lose files, and give misleading information!” said Odette, who had caught the direction of Victoire’s notions.

  “That is how it appears to me,” said Victoire. “And I am trying to sort out who in the government would seek to aid such men as these spies must be. General Moreau should be beyond question. He is one of the most honored of our generals. And now he claims to have never seen the missing file. It would mean little if they were aided by Royalists, for most of them are known and their activities watched. So it does not seem likely that any of the Royalists would be able to perform the necessary tasks to misdirect
official attention.” She took a long sip of wine. “Therefore I must conclude that the spies have other supporters, men of power who have the ability to do the things the spies require in such a way that no comment is made.”

  “And the missing file?” asked Odette.

  “That is clumsy, if it is truly part of the scheme.” Victoire shook her head. “And it gives me to wonder if there is more than one person in the government who has made common cause with these English spies. If I knew to what end, I would be more able to assess the peril.” She gestured her frustration, flinging her napkin halfway across the kitchen. “I haven’t enough information, and if I make too many surmises, I risk overlooking pertinent clues.” She had confided as much to Berthier while she was with him, and had had the satisfaction of obtaining his promise to keep her informed of any irregular conduct of the men around him.

  “Then what more can you do?” asked Odette, eating with less gusto than Victoire.

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it,” Victoire answered. “Perhaps when my husband returns he and I will be able to work it out between us.” She resolutely put the matter out of her thoughts. “More to the point, however, is what we are going to do about the ball given by the Swedes at the end of next week.”

  “Is it essential that you go, Madame Vernet?” asked Odette.

  “Now that Bernadotte and his wife have called on me, I don’t see how I can refuse. It would be rude beyond anything to say that I cannot attend the Swedish ball when Bernadotte is their protégé. And that means doing something about one of my gowns. I cannot afford a new one, but if I purchase cloth for a new slip—a satin, perhaps—we can take one of the other robes and furbish it up somehow, can’t we?”

  “I suppose so,” said Odette uncertainly, who had already helped Victoire to refashion more than four frocks to appear new.