The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘You told me Gaspard’s rescue was to bolster the morale of the rebels,’ I accuse, taking a long draft.

  Lord Pole steeples his fingers.

  ‘In part it was. The point is someone powerful got to Gaspard, someone we know next to nothing about. Considering the extent of our intelligence in France, this is significant. Their influence is everywhere. They are involved in deep intrigues and implicated in the assassination of several of our best men.’

  ‘Implicated,’ I demand, ‘involved? Since when did you deal in anything other than absolutes.’

  The strangest expression crosses Lord Pole’s face, as though he’s trying to grasp something just beyond his reach.

  ‘There is an organisation,’ he says. ‘Or a rebel faction ... They are called Le Société des Amis.’

  I translate. ‘The Society of Friends? The name gives no indication which side they favour.’

  ‘They could be royalists. Their opposition is split. Some want to keep their King, with democratic checks. Others, Gaspard being one, wanted the monarch deposed and replaced.’

  ‘What of the third option? No King at all?’

  ‘The Society of Friends are unlikely to be extremists,’ says Lord Pole, looking pained at his inability to say this for certain. ‘This is not America. The French have had a King for eight hundred years.’

  If I wasn’t so frightened for my cousin, I’d be reeling at the existence of a group that intimidates the emotionally bulwarked Lord Pole.

  ‘Whoever they are, they are powerful. We only know one thing about them for certain. They use a man named Oliver Janssen. He was a musketeer. Lost a hand in service and had a silversmith make him a prosthetic capable of cutting and worse.’

  To my surprise, Lord Pole shuts his eyes for a long moment, then opens them again, the dark pools giving nothing away.

  ‘Janssen gained a reputation as a man who gets confessions by whatever means necessary,’ he explains.

  A desperate need to see my cousin safe grips me. Grace was the first white person who ever smiled at me. When I landed in Bristol, stinking and lice-ridden, she had folded her fingers around my ulcerated hand. I remember her gap-toothed urchin grin as she enfolded me in her unruly games, almost all of which involved breaking things. ‘Grandpappy says so long as you don’t get caught it doesn’t signify,’ she’d told me, beaming. I’d been in awe of her outrageous incaution.

  ‘Let me find Grace,’ I say. ‘Please. Just two days—’

  ‘Atherton has let you get away with your crusades for too long now. He’s sentimental about you, on account of ...’ Lord Pole waves a hand to encompass and dismiss the Virginian uprising, near-death imprisonment in the hull of a ship and the eventual escape that led to the death of my mother. ‘Your background,’ he concludes.

  ‘You have shown time and time again that you will pursue your own aims and squander resources freeing captives when there are more material gains to be made. That galleon you stole from Haiti had to be reimbursed to avoid a war. The Indian prison for deserters that we did not ask to be blown to pieces. Not to mention the relations we must now repair with the Russian Empress, whose goodwill is not easily won.’

  I’m silent.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew about the galleon in Haiti,’ I admit finally.

  He takes a sip of whisky, hesitates, then speaks. ‘We have reports from Paris that an English girl sold a ruby and amethyst hair comb to a coach driver yesterday,’ he says slowly.

  I steady my breathing. That hair comb was Grace’s favourite.

  ‘She wanted passage to the Salon des Princes,’ concludes Lord Pole.

  I close my eyes. Of course it would make perfect sense that Grace would go there. She would only have heard what is written about it in English pamphlets. The debates held amongst women there are often written up and circulated. My innocent cousin would have no idea what really happens at the infamous salon.

  Lord Pole’s dark eyes meet mine.

  ‘Do you see now why there is no sense going after your cousin?’ he asks pointedly. ‘Grace might enter the salon as a fresh-faced bride-to-be, but she’s unlikely to leave that way.’ He steeples his fingers. ‘In any case, the message of Gaspard’s death is clear. The Society of Friends will come for Grace next.’

  CHAPTER 20

  SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK STREETS OF PARIS, A MAN SITS at a plain desk. He straightens his already straight clothing: a lawyer’s white shirt and black coat, leather shoes with a buckle. Nothing showy, but pin-neat and immaculate all the same.

  The man has been watching the English girl, Grace Elliott. He watches everything. Information and the orderly assimilation thereof is what he believes to be the heart of true power. The Society of Friends is run on information.

  His name is Maximilien Robespierre. Despite humble beginnings, he enjoys modest success practising law in Paris. He is told he should be grateful, but he cannot unsee what he saw as a poorer man. In his free hours he has begun to write political speeches. They are well received in the coffee houses and clubs. One day he hopes to speak to crowds of thousands.

  A new letter is on his desk and he lifts it with long ink-stained fingers. It is secured with a blue wax seal used by a company of foreign villains and thieves known as the Sealed Knot.

  This correspondence has been secretly intercepted from a fishing boat, docked in a harbour at Porte de Saint-Cloud, just outside the city limits. Hidden below deck, behind swathes of seaweed-scabbed nets, are cages of homing pigeons and materials for the manufacture of secret messages. It has been calculated, with the right messengers and horses in place, messages could travel from London’s Whitehall to Paris in around ten hours and perhaps as little as six.

  Robespierre breaks open this newest interception, reads, considers. He lifts a quill, hesitates and looks deeper. The code is more challenging than the last. This pleases him. Though immediately he is able to discern that the correspondence concerns Gaspard de Mayenne.

  He reads again, turns the unfolded paper, taps it. Crumbs of sealing wax fall free. He frowns and sweeps them into a tidy pile.

  Gaspard de Mayenne’s daughter has a position at the Palace of Versailles. He believes this to be significant, but as yet he is not sure why. This makes him unhappy. He has the strangest feeling he is missing something important. That someone is laughing at him.

  Robespierre stands and draws out a sheet of legal paper, written in a neat hand, from a fastidiously organized bookcase. It’s his own report. A document he has been steadily adding to, following the English involvement in France. He has plans for how the future of France will be. It doesn’t include interference.

  His thoughts drift back to Grace Elliott, running like a little mouse through the dark streets of Paris. With no idea she was being toyed with.

  She was seen getting into a carriage and Robespierre should have little difficulty discovering where the vehicle went. Regrettably, Grace will have to die. Someone always does.

  Now Robespierre turns over some more papers. Amongst them is Gaspard’s sketch brought to him by Janssen. A tall woman holding a knife. It disturbs him greatly, in a way he cannot define.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE VULCAN DRIFTS GENTLY ON THE SWELL AS I CONSIDER the implications of Lord Pole’s words. In the creaking dark wood-panelled cabin, the rest of the ship feels far away.

  ‘I think I’ve made sufficiently clear what is at stake,’ concludes Lord Pole. ‘Safest to leave Grace where she is and hope the necklace disappears with her.’

  I tap the whisky glass against my lips. ‘Find Grace and you could inadvertently fling some priceless reward into the hands of this mysterious organization. The Society of Friends are inhumanly careful,’ he admits. ‘I’ve never come across anyone more adept at covering their tracks. If they have a leader, he isn’t inured with sentiment or mortal weaknesses. They seem to know everything and have ears everywhere. We simply cannot risk it.’

  ‘You mean to just abandon her? It’s wrong.’

&n
bsp; ‘Valour is a privilege of the young,’ says Lord Pole. ‘I keep people alive by making hard decisions, not right ones. Your talents are more usefully deployed in the safe confines of a useful marriage. I have always said so.’

  ‘How generous of you to let a girl die so I might infiltrate bedchambers the rest of you can’t,’ I say, anger getting the better of my judgement.

  ‘It is the curse of men like me to play the longer game,’ says Lord Pole, sounding tired. ‘You might not understand it, Attica, but I have the greater good in mind. France is split. If the wrong people get those diamonds the death of every English resident in France won’t be the half of it.’

  ‘Don’t pretend that is your principle concern,’ I say bitterly. ‘You hope to depose the French King and see someone more amenable to your politics on the throne.’

  ‘This latest Louis is the silliest excuse for a king that ever lived,’ says Lord Pole, annoyance surfacing suddenly. ‘His people are starving, badly, awfully so.’ He scowls at some distant image and I wonder if there is a glimmer of humanity at the heart of him after all. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like untidiness.

  ‘Louis and his idiot Austrian Queen are taking bread from the mouths of their own subjects,’ he goes on, ‘to buy guns for rebels in the colonies.’

  Aha. So we come to the real reason. England losing America.

  ‘The people are close to hanging their chubby King and gilded Queen from the nearest lamp-post,’ concludes Lord Pole, his hand is stretched out as though to grasp the possibility.

  ‘At the expense of my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin will be irrelevant in days,’ he says. ‘Certainly, she’ll no longer be marriage material. Save your emotions.’

  My fingers move to my hidden Mangbetu blade. His eyes register the gesture with mild interest.

  ‘Irrelevant?’ I feel anger rise.

  He has the decency to look away.

  ‘Would you have made the same assessment had Grace Elliott been noble born?’ I say, my voice brimming with scorn. ‘If my aunt hadn’t made the unfortunate choices she had, would Grace be so dispensable?’

  Lord Pole’s lips press thin. ‘You have so many unbecoming qualities for a woman,’ he says. ‘I remember being angry, as you are now,’ he says. ‘Life taught me not to rage against the things I cannot control. I advise you to learn the same lesson.’ The ringed fingers roll his whisky glass. ‘C’est la vie,’ he says in expert French, without smiling.

  There’s a weighed-down look about Lord Pole, I think, as though he hasn’t slept well in a long time.

  ‘This is a good opportunity for you, Attica,’ he says. ‘Far better than I might have hoped. Your duties to the Sealed Knot as Godwin’s wife would be minor. You could live almost a normal life.’

  Our eyes meet and I see something of his own hopes and disappointments reflected back.

  ‘And if I don’t wish to lead a normal life?’ I ask.

  ‘Marriage might agree with you.’ He waves a finger infuriatingly. ‘You won’t be the first little shrew to be tamed by wedlock.’

  I hurl myself at him, launching full force across the table. He is quicker than I would expect, turning sideways and slamming my outstretched arm to the wall. I twist away, breaking the hold, and grab a fistful of his fur collar. I feel the oily material in my hands, inhale a breath of Lord Pole’s leather and animal tang. Then there is something at my throat. A knife. I look down to see him holding the blade. His face is hard, calculating.

  ‘So you learned more at the Sicilian Assassins’ Academy than the hardened steel formula,’ he says. ‘I always wondered.’

  He withdraws his hand and seats himself, rearranging his ruffled furs. I’m breathing fast.

  I wonder what Lord Pole assumes of my training. If he knows my hand still sometimes twitches in my sleep for want of a weapon. How I learned in an abattoir of beef carcasses – jugular, aorta, radial, femoral – like a mantra. That I can pick up a blade with my feet, fight left-handed and I still own a man-shaped sandbag, lacerated with practice marks.

  Lord Pole looks up at me and there’s something unexpectedly compassionate in his dark eyes.

  ‘No matter how good you are,’ he says, ‘you will only ever be a woman. It was cruel of Atherton to set you up for defeat.’ He exhales hard. ‘War will always have casualties,’ he says. ‘A woman’s usefulness is different to a man’s. One day you will see. It’s a noble thing I require of you, Attica, even if you do not see it now.’

  ‘You are wicked,’ I say quietly.

  Lord Pole nods as if expecting this. He straightens his clothing and makes for the door.

  ‘Your future husband is a sensible, measured man,’ he replies, ‘in many ways your exact opposite. I think you will make a good marriage.

  ‘It’s too late to dock back in Dover now,’ he says. ‘We’ll sail in the morning. You’ll be brought dinner here, wine if you like. I’ll be sure you’re comfortable.’ He hesitates in the doorway. ‘I shan’t attend your wedding if you do not wish it,’ he says. ‘I’m not a monster.’

  I sit very still. He looks as though he might say more then thinks better of it. He shuts the heavy door. It’s only when I hear the key turn I permit myself a small smile of victory.

  Whilst I was pretending to let him restrain me, I stole back my lock-pick, right from inside his coat.

  CHAPTER 22

  IT’S DARK, WITH ONLY A LITTLE MOONLIGHT, AND I’M CLIMBING with difficulty up the side of the Esmeralda. I’m sopping wet from my short swim between the two ships to a mooring rope. I pull up, hand over hand, willing my burning muscles to last. There’s a lot of black water below.

  A shadow appears above suddenly and looms over me. Then a hand extends from the dark.

  ‘Let me lend you a hand there, Attica,’ says a familiar voice. ‘I was wonderin’ when you’d join us.’

  Dumbstruck I take the hand and let Jemmy pull me up on deck.

  ‘If you mean to stowaway,’ he says helpfully, ‘the best way is to get in amongst the cargo. Have the dockers load you up and slip them a few coins if they spot yer.’ He winks at me. ‘Less conspicuous than scaling a rope.’

  I straighten my clothes, trying to reinstate some semblance of dignity.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ he adds, enjoying himself, ‘a lot of women have been fooled by the way a ship is arranged.’

  ‘I imagine Lord Pole has spoken with you—’ I begin. Jemmy holds up a hand.

  ‘He’s a very persuasive man,’ he says. ‘Met a few like him in my time. Don’t take no for an answer. Wrote the book on bribes and threats. Best not to tell ’em no, in my experience.’

  I realize I’m holding my breath.

  ‘Lucky for you,’ he says, ‘I’m not easily persuaded. And you seem an interesting sort of character to have aboard.’

  He frowns at me. ‘How d’yer get so a man like that is chasin’ you?’

  I hesitate. ‘Lord Pole is my uncle,’ I admit.

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘Is he so?’ Jemmy is enormously amused by this. ‘Your uncle.’ He whistles. ‘Determined kinda fellow.’ He looks to the starlit horizon. ‘Wouldn’t put it past him to search my ship,’ he decides.

  I nod, not daring to speak.

  ‘Best we raise anchor now, then,’ he says.

  ‘You can do that?’ I ask. ‘I thought sailing in the dark was dangerous.’

  Jemmy grins his white-toothed grin. ‘We’re pirates,’ he says, ‘we love a little danger. And my men and this ship can go anywhere there’s water.’

  I like his strange accent now I’m not trying to decipher its origins. A hotchpotch of everything, I think: a bit of Irish, an American colonial twang and a few others besides. I suppose he must have travelled widely. And then I think, it’s not his accent I like, it’s him. Which is not necessarily good. People I like have a habit of getting themselves killed.

  ‘Jemmy,’ I say, ‘Lord Pole isn’t a man to annoy. If he discovers you’ve aided my e
scape, he could retract your licence.’

  ‘You think I became a pirate because I love doing what fine men say?’ asks Jemmy. ‘I told your man Atherton I’d get you into Paris. So long as you want to go there, our arrangement holds, no matter what your uncle has to say on it.’

  He considers for a moment. ‘My only condition,’ he adds, ‘is that you tell me your real reason for travelling to France.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Very well, you can start now.’ He puts his fingers into his mouth and whistles. The bulky figure of Bailey rises up from somewhere in the gloom.

  ‘Rouse the men,’ he says. ‘We’re sailing by night.’

  Bailey watches me, but he says nothing, only vanishes below deck. In moments there are sleepy men everywhere, pulling ropes, trimming sails. They seem to know not to make noise and the whole business has the eerie feel of a ghost ship.

  As the yardarm turns, wind bites the sail and pushes us slowly away from the slumbering Vulcan, still bobbing limply on the water.

  CHAPTER 23

  DAWN IS BREAKING AS WE BEGIN SAILING UP THE SEINE. I’m watching the countryside from the deck, enjoying the different shapes to the haystacks and till of the fields. I let the rising sun warm my face. People are beginning to emerge from their homes now, fires are being lit, food prepared for a day’s farming. There is a morning chill, so it surprises me to see so many bare legs and arms. I look closer and see the truth. The farmers wear rags. Less than rags. And their meagre clothing hangs on limbs no broader than broomsticks. Their eyes are too large for their pinched faces, their ribs pressed through paper-thin skin.

  Jemmy is at my side suddenly.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he says, pushing a ship’s biscuit into my hand. I mutter thanks, realizing I’m starving hungry and he follows the line of my gaze.

  ‘You’ve not been to France recently?’ he asks after a moment.

  ‘Not for seven years.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I notice my hands are gripping the prow, the hard biscuit digging into my palm. It’s a nightmare vision, all these poor people. I feel black anger rise. In England, Marie Antoinette’s frivolity is a joke, how she sends for a fresh ten yards of ribbon a day for her shoes. But there’s nothing funny about this.