Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  They had made it across to the charniers now, the arches which had once been piled high with bones and rotting bodies and which smelt as if they still were. Although the bodies had been cleared, nameless fragments still clung to the brickwork, and murals of the Danse Macabre, dating back to the sixteenth century, still decorated the walls, with Death wielding his scythe as he cavorted around the figures of the doomed.

  ‘Right,’ said Keane, ‘in here. Safest place in Paris, I reckon.’

  They stepped inside one of the arches and instantly both reached for their handkerchiefs, which they tied around their mouths and noses. Then, sliding into the shadows at the back of one of the charniers, they tried to get some rest.

  *

  Keane awoke as the sun was going down, its dying rays casting an eerie orange glow around the walls and monuments of the old cemetery.

  The crowd of visitors did not seem to have thinned out a great deal, although on closer inspection he could see that the proportion of whores to thieves had increased. Scanning the perimeter with military precision, at length, in the distance by the northernmost wall, Keane glimpsed a small patrol of gendarmes. There was no way they could possibly make it out of the cemetery grounds without being spotted. He woke Archer. ‘We need to take cover. How are you with graves?’

  Together, trying to stay as close to the wall as they could, the two men moved from their position. Ahead of them Keane could see an area where the ground had been disturbed and it was towards this that he was heading. He expected to hear at any moment a cry from the gendarmes, but nothing came and it was with huge relief that he threw himself down into one of the holes, conscious that Archer would do the same. Keane landed with a thump that jarred his back. The hole was three inches deep in water and mud. You could not describe it as a grave, although that certainly was how it had started out. Now it was just a hole. And along its sides in the dying light Keane began to make out curious forms. Tree roots, he thought. But if that were so, then where were the trees above? It was only when he reached out to touch one of the forms that he realized what they were. He was surrounded by bones. Human bones.

  He could hear voices up above them now, but this far down, eight feet in the ground, it was hard to understand them properly. They came closer, male voices now, more distinct. He heard a question and made out a few words: ‘criminals . . . soldiers . . . Irish.’

  The Gendarmerie were searching for them, and it seemed had even extended their probings to this place. Keane held his breath, tried to press himself into the side of the hole; to blend into the soil in case anyone should choose to look down. But no one did. Who, they asked themselves, other than a madman, would choose to hide themselves down there, among the stinking, rotting dead?

  After a few minutes the voices drifted away. Keane and Archer lay motionless for a further half an hour, during which time the moon came out, casting a pale light across the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents. It seemed to both of them like an eternity. It struck Keane that this must surely be the worst situation in which he had ever had the misfortune to find himself. Having to cohabit with the dead in a filthy, stagnant pit while above them not one but three sets of enemies hunted them down, determined to take them in dead or alive.

  At length Keane opened his eyes and brushed the dirt from his hair and his clothes. Archer, in his hole, followed suit and then to his horror found himself looking into the ghastly cadaver of a dead woman. She had been young, not more than thirty, and could only have been dead a week. But her flesh was beginning to rot and her eyeballs hung down upon her cheeks above an open mouth outlined by bloodless lips. It was all that he could do to stifle a scream, and in doing so, he almost wretched. Keane scrambled up out of the hole, by using the protruding body parts as supports, denying his knowledge of what they were, and called down to Archer to do the same. The man needed no second telling.

  ‘Christ, sir, let’s get out of this place. You’re quite right. They’re still dumping bodies here.’

  ‘Yes, let’s. But be careful. They may have left someone to stand guard.’

  Together they began to make their way, crouched in the darkness along the border of the graveyard. Eventually they came to the east gate and emerged into the rue Berger.

  Keane turned to Archer. ‘We should make for my aunt’s old house. There are cellars there where we should be able to hide safely for the night. We might even stay longer. Go to ground. Places that no one else ever really knew but me and Sophie. Come on. It’s this way.’

  They moved silently and in the shadows past the old gothic church of Saint-Merri, but it was not until they were walking down the easternmost section of the rue de la Bretonnerie that Keane realized they were being followed.

  This was home ground to Keane now, familiar from his boyhood, the old Jewish quarter of the Marais, with its twisting streets and dead ends. Keane moved fast to the left, taking Archer with him down an alleyway off the rue du Vieille Temple. Then he doubled back along the tiny rue du Trésor and into the rue des Écouffes and the rue des Rosiers. It was a route that only a native of the area would know. A young boy, having stolen a tarte from a patisserie on a dare from a friend, running for his life and the honour of his aunt.

  At the corner they stopped. Keane pushed Archer into a doorway and, wrapping his cloak around himself, waited in the shadows. After five minutes nothing had happened and he wondered whether he might have been mistaken. But a few seconds later a figure moved at the end of the street and began to walk towards them.

  It was a man, but Keane was unable to make out the features. For a few seconds the pursuer paused in the moonlight at the opposite corner of the street and waited as if searching, almost sniffing out something. Then he was off again, eastwards, in the direction of the Place Royale.

  Keane slowly emerged from the shadows and the two men now began to follow their pursuer, turning the tables on him.

  They walked at a discreet distance along the street, ducking to take cover at every chance they could, using every niche and bulwark so that the man would have no inkling of his being followed. The man appeared to be at a loss now, and as they entered the square he stopped and looked about. They were beneath one of Fouché’s celebratedly rare street lights when Keane saw him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and he began to draw it from the scabbard.

  Chef-Inspecteur Jadot stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Captain Williams. No need for your sword, I hope.’

  ‘Jadot, how did you find us?’

  ‘You forget I know something of your past. It was a hunch that you would come here.’

  ‘You were right. Well, now you have found us. What next? Do you intend to take us in?’

  ‘Macpherson was furious when he found out what had happened. Still is. He blames you and you alone for ruining the operation.’

  ‘I guessed that he would. Presumably he wants our heads. What about you?’ His hand went back to his sword hilt.

  Jadot shook his head. ‘Macpherson is deluded, captain. His idea of backing Malet was wrong. There must still be a royalist network maintained in this city, until Bonaparte is defeated, but Macpherson will not be its head. That honour now falls to me.’

  ‘You’re taking over? By force?’

  ‘If needs be. I have the power.’

  ‘By whose authority, I wonder.’

  ‘Since you ask, it is your Major Grant’s. He came to see me directly after visiting you. But that’s not important. It’s worse than that. Macpherson’s betrayed you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To Fouché.’

  ‘Christ, we’re finished.’

  ‘You need to leave Paris, obviously. And you’ve no time to hide where you’re heading.’

  ‘You know about the old house?’

  ‘From Macpherson. And you won’t be safe there. Fouché’s men will be here before you know it.’

 
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. But seeing you just now, in the shadows, something worse has occurred to me.’

  Archer spoke. ‘Sir?’

  ‘That my aunt’s house is now lived in by my cousin.’

  ‘But you said yourself you didn’t know who owned it?’

  ‘Seeing the inspector here reminded me of our encounter with Harrison on these streets. Something he said to me then. Almost in passing. That night when he followed us. Something about knowing who his father’s killer might be and that a woman in Paris might have the answer. He said that he knew where to find her. Don’t you see? It’s Sophie. The woman he meant. She’s here, in Paris, and Harrison has discovered who she is and where she is. And I’m willing to bet that she’s in the old house.’

  He stopped for a moment. ‘And now Macpherson’s told Fouché who I really am. Harrison will have Sophie, and if she knows anything of the truth the bastard will have got it out of her. He may well know that it was my father who killed his own in battle. He’s a clever man, Jadot, isn’t he?’

  ‘Harrison? One of the most brilliant spies I have ever met.’

  Keane was thinking fast. ‘I don’t know what she knows. She certainly doesn’t know who I am now. But if she has told Harrison what he wants to know about her family, about my father, he might have worked out enough to put two and two together. He’s certainly clever enough to do that. And he’ll know that when I realize what he’s done that I’ll come to the old house; that I must save Sophie. But he will assume that for the present I’m occupied with Malet’s plot. He’ll think he has all the time in the world. The last thing he’ll expect is for us to turn up so soon. Come on. We haven’t a second to lose. Inspector?’

  Jadot nodded and together the three of them ran down the street towards the Place des Vosges.

  *

  Entering the square, Keane was surprised to find it little changed from his memories of it as a boy.

  The gardens in the centre were in fine condition. Re-made, he guessed, after having been ruined during the Revolution. But the grand hotels on all four sides were as he recollected them, if somewhat neglected, the slates of their roofs in the moonlight showing great gaps, like missing teeth. His aunt’s house stood on the north side and they made directly for it. Keane could not see any lights in the windows, but given the time of night that proved little. Instead of going to the front door, Keane led the way to the left and through a low service entrance which led to an alleyway down the side of the house. The place seemed well kept and he could only presume that it was being lived in. About halfway along the wall of the house he stopped and began to search around in the gravel under their feet. After a few minutes he looked up at Archer with a grin of satisfaction. ‘Here it is. Look.’

  Below them in the gravel and loose soil Archer saw a weathered iron ring. Keane pulled at it and at first nothing happened. ‘It’s stuck. That’s good. Means they don’t know about it.’

  He pulled again and this time felt movement. One more tug and the ring began to give and with it came a square wooden trapdoor.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Keane, opening the hatch fully and peering inside. The cellar smelt of must and damp. ‘Come on.’ He went in first, lowering himself until his feet found the steps he knew must be there. Then he climbed down and Archer and Jadot followed quickly. ‘Close the trapdoor behind you. Come on.’

  They were in a pitch-black cellar, but gradually their eyes became accustomed to the gloom and, as they looked, a vaulted ceiling began to appear. Keane at once recalled the layout of the vaults.

  ‘We used to play here as children,’ he said softly. ‘I know every square foot of them. Follow me.’

  He walked in silence, checking every footfall in case it might be on a piece of wood or broken glass that would give them away. After going several yards he stopped. By his reckoning they were now directly beneath the old drawing room of the house. Sure enough he was right, for above they suddenly heard voices.

  There were two men and then a woman speaking, high, agitated, but the words were unintelligible. No more than noises. Keane led the others further into the cellars until ahead of them they could see the first few steps of a staircase which appeared to lead upwards directly into the ceiling.

  He turned and spoke in a barely audible whisper. ‘You had better draw your weapons.’ Then without hesitation he began to climb the stairs until his head was touching the ceiling. Reaching up, he fumbled around until his fingers alighted upon a catch. He clicked it and released another trapdoor, which fell down this time, swinging loose. Keane continued to climb the stairs and gradually his body disappeared out of sight. The other two followed, first Archer then Jadot, until at last all three of them were standing in a small room. It was almost as dark as the cellar had at first been, although a small amount of illumination was provided by a line of light in the outline of a square, which penetrated through the wall before them. It was clearly a secret door, and as they watched, Keane put his head close to it and flipped something on the wall. He stood there for some moments before turning to them and speaking in the softest voice he could manage.

  ‘There’s a spyhole here. There are four of them and one of them is a girl. I wonder what she is doing here. We can take them, but we must use our surprise well.’

  Jadot whispered, ‘Who are they? Do you know them?’

  Keane nodded. ‘Harrison and more of Fouché’s men. Fouché’s not there. I have a plan. Wait for my signal, then burst in and take whoever you can. Try to push the girl clear to the floor.’

  Putting his eye back to the hole in the wall, Keane watched and waited. Some minutes later, as one of the men crossed the floor, he saw his chance. With a great heave he threw his weight at the secret door and it flew open, crashing into the man who had been standing directly in front of it and throwing him across the room and to the floor. Their surprise was complete and perfectly executed.

  Keane was first through the gap and running across the room he grabbed the girl by the arm and flung her as far as he could before turning on her captor and plunging his sword through the man’s lower chest. Withdrawing it, he turned and saw that the other two were already engaged. Keane looked to the fourth man, who was Harrison himself, and saw him racing across to where the girl had landed and was now attempting to get to her feet. Just as Harrison was reaching her, Keane slashed at him, catching him a glancing blow on the calf, which made him turn. Harrison had his sword drawn and was facing Keane now, half crouched, ready to defend himself against attack.

  The American hissed at him. ‘You. Fouché was right. You stopped Malet.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘Malet stopped himself. He was never up to it, Harrison. The man’s insane. Deluded.’

  ‘How very British of you. The man’s a republican. He must clearly be insane.’

  It was clear from the noise of steel on steel that Jadot and Archer were still both in the thick of their own fights. Harrison made a jab at Keane, who sidestepped it and replied, but his thrust also missed its mark. He answered Harrison’s jibe.

  ‘That bloody plot never had a chance. I was merely the agent of its failure.’

  ‘You’re very eloquent for a British bastard, Captain Keane. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Keane. I know all about you, and your father. She talked. Eventually.’

  Keane swore and, casting a glance at the girl, recognized Sophie instantly. And at the same time saw the bruises and the blood on her face.

  He shouted at Harrison, ‘You bastard.’

  Keane’s sword shone in the candlelight as he edged towards the American.

  The girl gasped as Harrison lunged and caught Keane on the arm, cutting into his forearm. He winced and riposted with a lunge that took Harrison in the shoulder, making him reel backwards.

  ‘Why should you be angry? I’m the one who suffered. Your father took my father from me. This moment was meant to be, Ke
ane. This is fate.’ He lunged at Keane again, but the attack was wild and with no proper aim.

  Keane parried easily, cutting to the left and pushing Harrison’s sword away. Then he pushed through and cut at Harrison’s head. The sword made contact and took away the lower part of Harrison’s ear. The American fell back, groping at the wound.

  He attacked again and this time his fury won through and his wild slash caught Keane across the abdomen. The pain was intense, but Keane was aware that the wound was not serious. Despite the blood, he came en garde again and for an instant was aware that one of the two fights in the room had ended. Archer was standing, breathing heavily and clutching his side, while Jadot continued to fight the other man. He watched Archer flash across the room and help the Frenchman, just as Harrison made another attack.

  ‘This is for my father.’

  The sword cut an arc through the air above Keane’s head. Instantly Keane saw it and raised his blade. The great cavalry sabre struck the American’s lesser blade with a deafening clamour and deflected the blow. And then Keane was on him, slashing and hacking in a fury born of frustration.

  And quite suddenly a cut took the American deep across the chest and the blade ran on into his upper arm. Harrison stopped in mid-stroke and clutched at his chest, which was running crimson with blood.

  Keane lowered his blade and watched the American sink to the floor. He walked across and, kneeling, cradled the dying man’s shoulders. Archer and Jadot, who together had dealt with the fourth man, walked towards them.

  Harrison smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Keane. I doubt if your father did the same for mine.’ He gasped for breath.