‘Really?’ I could tell Bailly did not believe me. ‘We have no record of a young Englishman leaving by any of the city gates. My impression is that he is still in Paris – gone to ground because he knows we have his parents and sister in custody. What I want to know is where is he and what did he have to do with the king’s flight?’
‘Nothing, I’m sure, monsieur,’ I said answering the second part of his question.
Bailly’s eyes narrowed. ‘How can you be so certain?’
‘We got lost on arrival and spent most of that night trying to find my lodgings.’
‘So what was your coach doing by the palace? You were seen by General Lafayette’s attendants when they were doing their inspection. We’ve questioned the driver and he has only a suspiciously hazy recollection of events, but he told us enough to know that you were nowhere near the Opera quarter.’
‘Precisely, monsieur.’ My hands were fluttering so I clasped them behind my back. ‘We were lost.’ My most vacuous smile wreathed my lips.
‘Hmm.’ The mayor tapped a pen on a piece of parchment thoughtfully as he looked at me. I could tell he was trying to work me out.
Please think I’m just an empty-headed ballerina, I urged him silently.
‘I have here a warrant for the young man’s arrest.’ The mayor dipped his quill in the inkpot and signed it. ‘I am giving you the benefit of the doubt, mademoiselle. Whatever your companion was up to that night, I judge that you were ignorant of it.’ He handed the paper to his secretary. ‘However, you should think of yourself as under suspicion. Your behaviour must be exemplary or you will be expelled from France. And if I find you have been hiding anything from me – protecting the young lord for whatever reason – you will be prosecuted. Do you understand?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘That’s all. You may go.’
I turned, half expecting to be escorted off the premises, but not one of them bothered to follow me. Thinking this odd, I made my own way downstairs. I paused in the foyer, hoping my friends had come to fetch me, but there was no one there. I wasn’t sure what to do; it was foolhardy to walk the streets of a city at night, especially a foreign one. Before I had made up my mind, someone collided with me from behind, making me stumble.
‘I’m very sorry, mademoiselle.’ It was Pedro, acting as if he didn’t know me. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No harm done, sir,’ I said stiffly, trying for disdainful but not sure I carried it off.
‘I believe you dropped this.’ He handed me a piece of folded paper, bowed and walked on out of the building.
Taking a seat in a secluded corner to give the impression I was waiting for someone, I carefully opened the note.
Catkin,
Your remarkable friend J-F says there is a reward out for Frank. He thinks that they called you in with the hope that you’ll lead them to him as you rush to alert him to the danger. It is therefore highly likely that you will be followed – as will anyone you are seen with. We decided it was best that my connection with you was not too publicly demonstrated so I’m sorry that I have not come to fetch you as I said I would. J-F will see you home safely – but from afar, as he says he has a natural antipathy for officialdom and does not want to be brought to their notice. Leave the building and look for him. Keep your distance and he’ll make sure that anyone on your tail soon loses you.
Send me a note with Pedro to say you have got home safely. He’ll wait with Renard for your return.
Johnny.
I folded the note again and tucked it into my bodice. So that was why no one had escorted me to the door: they had wanted me to believe I was free to go and of no further interest. Well, if they wished to follow me that was their lookout. They didn’t stand a chance. J-F and I were about to lead them on a merry dance.
Giving a histrionic sigh, as if giving up waiting on my friends, I walked to the door. Once back on the square, I looked about me, not finding it difficult to play the confused tourist seeking her bearings. My survey revealed J-F waiting in the same doorway. As soon as he saw me, he set off, heading north. Hesitating slightly, trying to seem as if I was having difficulty deciding my route, I followed him. If my pursuers had any decency they would prevent a lone stranger heading off in completely the wrong direction, but it seemed that decency was in short supply in Paris at the moment. And if I was being tailed, I could not tell it. They were good at their job, whoever they were.
J-F turned left, then right, leading us into a warren of alleyways. They stank of the familiar scents of piss and dung, intermixed with the acrid odour of rotting fish and garlic – something the streets of London lacked and, in my opinion, it did nothing to improve the bouquet. Thinking it would look suspicious if I seemed too obvious in my attempt to lose my pursuers, I stood at the corner of the street indecisively, trying to make out the sign. A gaggle of rouged women pushed past me, giving me a dirty look. This was clearly their spot and they thought I was invading. I quickly started walking again but, in that short interval, I had lost sight of J-F. It was no laughing matter to lose one’s guide in such a neighbourhood. I stopped again, this time because I really was undecided as to where to go next. An arm reached out from a doorway and yanked me inside, smothering my cry.
‘Quiet,’ whispered J-F. ‘You have two trackers. Let’s give them a little time to realize they’ve lost you.’
Taking my hand, he led me under the wooden stairwell and out of sight. We crouched together in the dark, saying nothing as we listened to the sounds outside. I heard feet running past and then back again. Shouts. Curses. I was shivering but J-F was unconcerned. He played with my old pink ribbon, knotting, unknotting, and reknotting it into increasingly complicated patterns.
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered. ‘What if they start searching the buildings?’
‘They won’t. Just about now, Annette should be appearing at the end of the street dressed in a cloak like yours. She’s going to lead them into the Marais and then turn back so they can see they’ve been chasing the wrong goose.’ He flicked the ribbon into the air, letting it fall back into his lap. ‘You were in there for hours. Did they give you a hard time?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it was just very boring. They kept me waiting.’
J-F frowned. ‘See, I told you: rich men, rulers – they’re all the same. They all keep the common folk waiting.’ He ducked his head around the staircase. The sounds had died down. ‘Come on, Cat, time to go. I don’t like hanging around here longer than is strictly necessary.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, following him out into the passageway. Suddenly J-F stiffened.
‘Because, mademoiselle,’ said a man’s voice, ‘this is not his patch and he knows it. Our rules say that he should ask permission from our bishop before setting a foot here.’ The speaker stepped into sight, blocking the route to the courtyard. He was a young man of about twenty, the length of his face marked by a scar that pulled one eyelid down. Quick as an eel, J-F spun round to bolt for the door but three men dropped lightly over the banisters from above, sealing off that exit. J-F grabbed my arm.
‘We have a slight complication, Cat,’ he whispered.
Complication! I knew an ambush when I saw one.
‘Keep quiet. This is not about you – it’s about me,’ J-F warned.
‘Who’s the bishop?’ I asked.
‘The bishop, Mademoiselle Anglaise,’ declared the scarred man, ‘is the leader of the Worshipful Company of the Notre Dame Thieves.’ He pulled me away from J-F. ‘Your friend here is the King of the Vagabonds of the Tuileries and Palais Royal.’ He gave a nod to his men and they pinned J-F’s arms to his side, slipping a hood over his head. ‘And right now, the bishop wants to have a few spiritual words with the king.’
‘You’re not going to harm him, are you?’ I asked anxiously as they dragged J-F into the street.
Scarface gave me a bitter smile. ‘No, mademoiselle, we have you for that.’
‘What!’
He produced a sec
ond hood and whipped it over my head before I could cry out. Next he threw me over his shoulder and jogged off after his mates, taking so little care that I was thrown against the doorpost with a stunning blow. Dazed and half suffocated, I bumped up and down on his shoulder. Only now did I regret that I had been so eager to throw off my government followers: surely even they would have intervened to stop this? Scarface had indicated that I was there only as leverage on J-F and I did not relish a role that pitted the amount of pain the little thief king could bear to see me suffer against whatever business it was they wanted to conduct.
After what seemed like hours of this treatment, though it was probably only minutes, I was bounced down a flight of stairs and thrown to the floor. Bruised and humiliated, I reached to pull off my hood.
‘Don’t touch it!’ said Scarface brutally. ‘No one sees the bishop face to face unless he says so!’
I wasn’t going to stand for this – I was going to breathe at least. I freed my nose and mouth. ‘Why? What’s wrong with him? Has he got a particularly ugly face? Warts? Snout like a pig?’ Scarface aimed a kick at me but I heard it coming and flinched out of the way. ‘You should tell him that good cosmetics can do a lot for even the most hopeless cases.’ I scrambled to take cover behind something. ‘Then the rest of us might be able to breathe in his oh-so-holy presence.’
‘Firecracker, this is not a good time to go off!’ hissed J-F somewhere on my right.
Someone came to stand before me, two brown boots in line with my knees. A hand reached down and took off my hood. I blinked in the light.
‘You’d like to give me beauty tips, would you, little redhead?’ said a man’s voice. The accent wasn’t Parisian – it reminded me of an Egyptian snake charmer who’d once performed at Drury Lane.
Still on my knees, I looked up at six foot of brightly coloured person towering over me. A coat hung with ribbons and silk handkerchiefs like some kind of robe draped from his shoulders to the floor. A mane of shaggy black hair hung down his back. I stood up, straightening my skirts, gaining little advantage as I still did not rise above his chest. A pair of shrewd dark eyes in an olive-skinned face inspected me. He had the cruel beauty of a bird of prey. I had no doubt he had killed before and would again.
‘Well, Monsieur Bishop, with a face like yours, you really don’t need any advice from me,’ I said, seeing what flattery would do for me, ‘but neither do I understand why you would want to deprive anyone of the pleasure of looking at you.’ I glanced to my right and saw that J-F was strapped to a post. We were in some kind of underground cellar with a vaulted ceiling, surrounded by barrels of wine. J-F looked worried. Not a promising sign.
‘You are too kind, mademoiselle,’ the bishop replied, taking my arm and leading me to sit on the step up to his chair. He moved with powerful grace like a lion pacing his domain. ‘But if you live like us, you will understand that the fewer who can identify you, the safer you are. I don’t like having too many people running around Paris knowing what I look like.’
I gulped, working out that I had now joined that endangered group. ‘I suppose it’s not too late to put the hood back on?’ I asked. ‘I have a terrible memory for faces.’
‘Unfortunately, mademoiselle, you strike me as just the kind of person to have an acute memory and besides, we all want to see you – J-F, I have no doubt, wants to have a clear view of you as we conduct . . . our business. It will help concentrate his mind.’
If concentrating his mind involved putting me in distress I wasn’t planning to stay any longer than I must. I knew I was in the presence of a very formidable person and his intentions towards me did not appear benign. Escape seemed the best option. Continuing to listen hard, I looked for some way out. The cellar was crowded with at least eight of the bishop’s men, three of the burliest standing by the door. No escape through them. I’d have to do this by my wits and not by hoping to make a lucky dash for it.
‘Well, Petit Roi, I am delighted you could make time to come to confession,’ said the bishop glibly, settling down on his chair.
‘I’m pleased you are pleased,’ said J-F with an attempt at his old bravado.
‘So, tell me, why were you in my territory?’
‘I was showing my friend here the sights of Paris.’
‘Indeed. And giving Bailly’s bulldogs the slip into the bargain.’
J-F smiled nervously. ‘That too, your eminence.’
‘You know I have the right to slit your throat for being out of bounds,’ said the bishop in a friendly tone, putting his feet up – on my shoulder. ‘But I like you and don’t want to do away with such an adversary for so slight a thing.’
‘Adversary?’ queried J-F quickly. ‘I always looked on us as business associates occasionally in competition with each other.’
‘In that case I have a business proposition for you. I understand that a foreign traitor has gone to ground in your patch – possibly with your connivance, but I can’t believe that of you, good citizen that you are.’ J-F bowed. ‘I am minded to pick up the reward for him to help tide me over some temporary monetary difficulties I’m experiencing. Send him along to me and we’ll forget about today’s little incursion.’
‘You are most kind. But what makes you think that once out of here I will hand anyone over to you?’ J-F’s eyes glinted with a hardness to match the bishop.
The bishop smiled. ‘I thought we would get to that – and I think you know the answer.’
J-F glanced at me.
‘That’s right. Your little friend will pay the penalty you should’ve paid for your trespass.’
J-F shrugged. ‘So be it. She’s nothing to me.’
I wasn’t sure if he was lying. It’s always best to deny the value of a thing if someone else has it. On the other hand, perhaps I really was of no matter to the mercurial J-F – a sigh of regret, a frown and then he’d forget me.
‘In that case, you can collect her body from the Seine when we’ve finished with her. You have until midnight tomorrow to decide just how much she’s worth to you.’
This wasn’t good – not good at all. My life for Frank? Or would J-F just abandon me, hand Frank over to the authorities himself and pocket the money? I mean, what did I really know about the king of thieves except that he was good at stealing?
‘Cut him loose and boot him out the back door,’ said the bishop.
Scarface seized J-F by the scruff of the neck, but he twisted free and scrambled to stand in the space before the Bishop.
‘Ibrahim, think!’ J-F said breathlessly, sweeping a hand at me. ‘Where’s your gallantry to a female? She’s nothing to do with us. It’s not fair to use her like this.’
He must be on very shaky ground if he was appealing to a rival’s better nature. My heart sank a fraction deeper.
‘First names, J-F? We must be desperate,’ chuckled the bishop, stretching lazily in his chair, dislodging me from my step with his boot. ‘And I’m sure she’s everything to do with the business or why was Bailly having her followed? I was intending to have a little discussion with her about this while we were waiting for you to decide what to do. Hurry along now.’
J-F cast me one last anxious look before he was unceremoniously bundled back up the stairs. His expression was too close to an apology for my liking. It seemed I was on my own.
Silence fell in the room as the bishop and I listened to the sounds of J-F being escorted from the premises.
‘So, mademoiselle,’ said the bishop at length, ‘how are you enjoying Paris?’ He stroked the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. It looked as though it had been broken several times.
I took off my shoe to rub my blistered feet. ‘Oh, it’s just delightful. Every crowd I meet tries to hang me and every villain to rob me. And as for the night life, I’ve never been so entertained with threats to my own person since . . . well, I can’t remember when.’
The bishop laughed. ‘You have spirit, mademoiselle. What is your name?’
There seemed little
point in hiding it from him. ‘Cat Royal.’
‘Well, Mademoiselle Cat, it is late and I’ve some work to do. If you would do me the honour of breaking your fast with me, we can postpone our little discussion until then.’
I shrugged. ‘As you wish. I hardly have any say in the matter.’
He stood up, taking off his ridiculous cloak and folding it. ‘Come, come, we must keep up appearances. You are my guest. I invite you to eat with me – I do not command.’
‘And where am I to wait for this much-to-be-anticipated tête-à-tête?’ I wondered if I was managing to convey sarcasm speaking in a foreign language. It was the only power left to me.
‘Here, of course, mademoiselle. I will have my men bring you some blankets. Is there anything else I can get you?’
‘Apart from the key out of here?’
His smile was thin – I was sailing dangerously close to annoying him. I buttoned up my tongue.
‘Thank you, monsieur. I would appreciate pen and paper. If tomorrow’s to be my last, I’ve letters I’d like to write.’
‘Of course, mademoiselle. And I’ll promise to deliver them whatever happens to their fair writer.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘You see, gallantry is not dead, even if you will be.’
Interlude – Set to solemn music by Handel
Paris, 23rd June 1791
My dear Patron,
I am writing what might turn out to be my last letter to you. I thought it best to complete it to earn another guinea as it might at least help pay my funeral expenses. That was meant to be a joke but unfortunately it is too close to the truth to seem funny even to me.
Here are the facts as I understand them: our friends from Grosvenor Square are still enjoying French hospitality; one sprig of the tree is at large but under threat; a bunch of cutthroats are holding me to ransom in the hopes of claiming the reward for turning him in.
Den of Thieves Page 17