by C. S. Quinn
‘You’re assuming your friend Lafayette knows what he’s talking about,’ I snort. ‘He may be gifted at inspiring men to charge in, all guns blazing. But his military campaigns have always lacked finesse when it comes to strategic map work.’
Jemmy rolls his eyes. ‘How about here?’ he says, turning on his heel and pointing to the way we came in.
To my annoyance, as Lafayette predicted, there is a large simplified map of the palace, just by the entrance. Above it a long plank holding mounted bells has been placed, each bearing a number.
‘Right where servants could get their bearings,’ says Jemmy. ‘And match it to whichever room is ringing for them.’ He whistles. ‘Most bells I’ve ever seen in one place,’ he adds, letting his eyes run to the end of the array, where the number ‘40’ is etched into the wood.
I glance up at the thick iron bells, then back down to the map.
‘Hard to read,’ I say, trying to form letters from the strange shapes.
‘That’s because it isn’t words,’ says Jemmy. ‘Those are symbols. For staff who can’t read. We have something similar aboard my ship for hanging the rigging.’
Now I know they’re not letters, the shapes transform themselves. There are forks and flags, saucepans and something that could be a bucket.
Each is next to a number – presumably matching the room to the bell.
‘A crown here, and here,’ I say. ‘These could be the King’s chambers.’ I think for a moment. ‘But that can’t be right,’ I add. ‘Those are the rooms we just came from.’
‘State rooms,’ says Jemmy. ‘There’s something like a bed here,’ he adds. ‘Here too.’
I peer over his shoulder. ‘Those are the official bedchambers,’ I say. ‘For the King and Queen. They act more like meeting rooms than private bedrooms. Very public places. I remember the same from Versailles.’
‘I didn’t realise you’d been granted an audience in Versailles.’ Jemmy sounds hurt.
‘Not recently,’ I assure him. ‘I came as a girl with my father. He was outwardly conducting a torrid affair with one of the courtly ladies. Looking back, I suppose he must have been gathering information.’
Jemmy is shaking his head. ‘And I thought my family was mad.’
We spend a few more moments staring at the map, our mutual frustration growing.
‘Whatever meeting Salvatore had planned will be under way by now,’ I say, chewing a finger. ‘If we don’t solve this quickly it will all be over.’
Jemmy brings his face very close to the wall, then far away again.
‘I suppose if it was a secret bedchamber,’ he suggests reasonably, ‘it was kept secret.’
I purse my lips, then something occurs to me, my eyes drifting back up to the study set of bells at the top of the doorway.
‘The bells,’ I say. ‘They match up with all the rooms, don’t they?’
My finger follows the various thin metal strands, leading deep into the bowels of the servant quarters. ‘If one of these doesn’t match,’ I say, ‘that is likely to be our secret room, is it not?’
Without waiting for an answer I begin the complicated process of working through the wires, associating each one with its bell. Matching each bell to its room.
‘They all pair up,’ I say, disappointed. ‘There is something strange, though.’ I point. ‘Here. This bell is for below stairs. The only one, see?’ I look closer at the mysterious match.
The bell itself is no different to the others. But the room is very oddly placed: below stairs, right in what would be one of the darkest and least pleasant parts of the servants’ quarters.
‘This can’t be the secret apartment,’ I say. ‘It’s too small, see? More like a large cupboard.’
‘Doesn’t connect to any other rooms either,’ Jemmy points out. ‘It’s a dead end, with only the one small entrance. A pantry?’
‘That would fit,’ I agree. ‘Or a confectioner’s room to house some delicate pastries or sugar work prior to a feast. But why on earth should it have its own bell? This would be a servants’ place.’
I’m aware of the minutes ticking away, of Salvatore somewhere in the Louvre, plotting, and us missing all of it.
Willing myself to break the code, I look back at the map, trying to imagine myself inside the rooms. A possibility occurs.
‘Above this pantry,’ I say, ‘look. There’s a set of three interconnected rooms. Grand in scale, for they must have the same proportions as these other chambers on the same level. But these have no bell. And no way in.’
We consider this.
‘So we have some grand rooms with no door, no bell, and right beneath them, a mysterious bell where it shouldn’t be.’
‘There must be somewhere in to those rooms from down here,’ I decide. ‘I’m sure of it. The pantry is the secret entrance.’
I concentrate on the map, committing to memory the path we need to take to get there.
‘We can be there in a few minutes,’ I say. ‘We’ve not a moment to lose.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We FOLLOW THE WINDING CORRIDORS, TAKING CARE TO KEEP OUT of sight of servants.
As we near our target, the air changes.
‘Smell that?’ says Jemmy.
‘Roasted game,’ I say. ‘Salvatore’s choice? No kitchens nearby.’ I note the lack of clanging pots and plates, turning spits and woodsmoke characteristic of food preparation.
‘If I remember correctly, the secret room is around this corner.’
We follow the passage through a low archway and into a strange little underground space, a close-walled cave of sorts.
‘This is it,’ I say slowly, hope fading away. ‘It must be. Not what I was expecting.’ I can’t see anything that could lead to the King’s secret apartment. The place seems to have been set for a fabulous dinner. Only everything about it is wrong.
The floor is flagstone, set in a circle. Arranged on top are three highly decorated tables looking so out of place in this dingy cavern, they might have been spirited from another time entirely.
‘What is it for?’ breathes Jemmy, taking in the set tables. ‘Why would someone have a dinner down here?’
The tables are round, with snowy tablecloths, each heaving with gold-rimmed plates of food. The nearest holds roasted bird, steaming sauceboats and bowls of artfully styled fruit. The centrepieces are elaborate works of flowers, fruit and marzipan.
‘It’s like a ghost ship,’ murmurs Jemmy, eyeing a second table, which groans with decoratively arranged fish, meats, cheeses, salads and sweetmeats.
‘Of course,’ I breathe. ‘The tables. The tables that raise themselves. Food fashioned so guests might easily serve themselves.’ I look up. ‘This whole room is devised to deliver the meal without the use of servants.’
The ceiling of the cave-like room is made of overlapping metal plates in a flower-like pattern, starkly more decorative than the unadorned lower chamber.
‘So it was true, then?’ says Jemmy, tilting his head to the ceiling. ‘The King really did engineer some system to bring fully set dinner tables to the room above.’
‘Rather beautiful, isn’t it?’ I say, admiring the complex interlocking structure. Slivers of light show through from the room above, giving the space over our heads the appearance of a large glowing flower. ‘As though two worlds collide at this point.’
‘If that’s the case, we’re in the lower realm,’ says Jemmy. ‘And the only way out is through the roof.’
It’s a good point, and one that needs solving. I had expected this room to allow us a way up into the secret chamber, but it doesn’t.
‘There must be another entrance on the ground floor, not shown on the map,’ I decide morosely.
‘Could work for us, even so, if we want to listen in,’ Jemmy points out. ‘If the secret chamber really is up there.’
‘You’re right. The ceiling must open somehow,’ I decide, ‘the plates.’ I kneel to examine the tables. ‘And these rise,’ I say,
lifting a tablecloth to observe the unusual construction beneath. ‘They revolve upwards, I think. Like a screw.’ I turn my finger in explanation. ‘There. This is the mechanism.’ I walk towards a part of the room in dark shadow, where an elaborate assortment of cogs and levers can be made out.
‘Just be careful you don’t send the tables up,’ says Jemmy nervously.
‘I doubt that’s possible,’ I reply. ‘I imagine this whole configuration is controlled from upstairs.’ I point. ‘Which means they’re likely up there now,’ I add, taking in the distance between the food and the low ceilings.
Carefully I step up on to the nearest table, trying to avoid the close arrangement of plates and food.
‘Attica!’ says Jemmy. ‘What if they summon the tables?’
‘Dinner is not served until midnight in noble houses,’ I tell him. ‘Salvatore is not a man to corrupt decades-old protocol.’
The table wobbles and my foot narrowly misses a cheese sculpted to represent a crown.
‘Hold it steady, would you?’ I ask Jemmy.
Dutifully Jemmy moves to secure the edge, and I pick my way across the table, ducking at the low ceiling. In the centre I straighten. My fingers brush the ceiling.
‘If we could somehow turn this table a little higher,’ I say, ‘I might be able to look into the room above, between the gaps in the metal.’
‘I wouldn’t play around with the cogs,’ advises Jemmy. ‘You’ll serve yourself up to Salvatore and his men on a platter.’
‘Very funny.’ I frown in the direction of the cogs. ‘There must be a way to twist the tables without opening the ceiling. The two things will be different mechanisms. Try turning the table counter-clockwise.’
‘I’ve not had this many orders since I was a deckhand.’
‘Don’t be petulant. You know I understand engineering better than you.’
Frowning, Jemmy leans forward and begins to turn the table, grunting with effort.
‘I don’t think it is meant to turn this way.’ There’s an ominous clang, as though a spring has given way. Then I hear Jemmy’s boots skid beneath him.
‘It’s turning by itself!’ he shouts, grabbing hold of the edge with both hands and stopping the movement with effort.
‘Sounds like a ratchet has been released,’ I say, looking up at the ceiling. Jemmy’s efforts have levitated me half a foot upwards, but I’m still not quite near enough to see. ‘Probably best not to risk any further turns.’
‘And what does the engineering master recommend I do to stop this table spinning?’
I look down distractedly and nudge a golden fork towards him.
‘Wedge the underside with this.’
Jemmy lets go with one hand and takes the fork with bad grace. There’s a scraping of metal on flagstones and some distant muttering about the waste of gold, and then Jemmy re-emerges.
‘I don’t know how well it will hold,’ he says, watching me as I scan the ceiling, trying to work out how to get higher.
‘Might I venture a suggestion?’
‘What?’ I’m still looking up.
‘Only an ignorant pirate idea, you understand, the foolish notion of a humble sailor …’
‘Just tell me.’ Jemmy is insufferable sometimes.
‘Might you just turn that big platter there upside-down?’ he asks with a smirk. ‘Would that not give ye enough height, without all the cogs and levers and table turning?’
I look down at my feet to see he is right. The large silver fruit bowl, if overturned, will close the distance between the table and ceiling sufficiently for me to peer through the plates above.
‘Very good,’ I say, leaning down to dump aside the heavy bunches of grapes and highly polished apples. ‘Quite right.’
‘I cannot claim your book knowledge,’ says Jemmy, picking off a purple grape and tossing it high. He catches it in his open mouth with a smug wink. ‘Only the school of life, your Ladyship.’
‘Just hold the table steady,’ I say. ‘Be certain that fork doesn’t give way.’
I tilt my head to see I now have a sliver-like view directly into the room above. Craning my neck I try to get a better view.
‘I think we were right,’ I call down to Jemmy. ‘This looks very much like a King’s boudoir. All velvet and nude paintings.’
I hear voices now, soft but unmistakable. Then, straining to an unnatural angle, I am suddenly confronted with a pair of familiar and highly decorated shoes.
Salvatore.
My head is only inches from his feet. If he was to look down he would see my eyes. My heart beats faster. If I listen very carefully I can make out a great deal of what is being said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FROM MY UNNATURAL POSITION ON THE TABLETOP, I HAVE to remind myself not to move. The table has not been well secured and any noise could alert the men above to my presence.
I squint upwards to see Salvatore’s silk-clad feet stride away, making clicking sounds. His low voice becomes indistinct. I realise if I move a little backwards I’ve a better view of the entire room.
There is a closed door on the far side. If this is the Sun King’s private apartment, it will have several private rooms joined together. I calculate what that might mean. There might be many guards stationed on the other side of that far door.
‘Have a care,’ says Jemmy. ‘You’re rocking the table.’
I’m only half listening, mesmerised by the spectacle. I see Centime, laid prone on her side, bordered by huge swathes of fruit and flowers. She is naked apart from a torn white toga, arranged artfully across her hips. Her curling hair is loose in a dark cloud and her expression is pained and lost.
‘What is it?’ asks Jemmy, noticing my distress.
‘It’s a tableau vivant with Salvatore’s courtesan,’ I whisper down to him, fighting the instinct to prise apart the ceiling and pull Centime to safety. ‘An aristocratic pastime,’ I explain, catching his confusion. ‘Real-life women mimic classical paintings. Mostly nude ones. This one is The Rape of Persephone, but they haven’t got the bower right. It should be laurel leaf.’
‘Never mind the art,’ growls Jemmy. ‘What else is happening in there?’
I drag my eyes reluctantly from Centime and across the room. The first thing I notice is that this is a very noble gathering. No bourgeois or rich merchants. Only landed men, with dress and manners to match. Different entirely from the gathering of cask wine and gambling sailors who comprised the earlier private event. It seems Salvatore reserves his best trade for nobles.
The Marquis stands towards the centre with a huddle of men, discussing and passing very lethal-looking guns around. One man raises a sleek barrelled weapon and examines a new kind of sighting development with obvious pleasure. Another smiles over a handful of large bullets with the latest detailing to make them twist in the air.
‘Looks like an elite kind of gathering,’ I tell Jemmy, ‘the best weapons, only for nobles.’
Unexpectedly, Salvatore claps his hands. The trade ceases, and the noble guests depart. I frown, trying to get an idea of what’s happening. They pass through the far door and out of sight, leaving only Salvatore and a few men who I assume to be his personal bodyguard.
‘Something’s taking place,’ I whisper to Jemmy. ‘A few of the traders are leaving.’
‘Private meeting?’ suggests Jemmy.
‘I don’t know. It looks like only Salvatore and his guards …’ I peer closer. ‘Perhaps there is some further entertainment in another room of the apartments. Wait … someone is coming in.’
Another set of clipped heels approach my vantage point. A pair of rather plain-looking shoes – albeit immaculately polished with no trace of the usual street dirt – and white stockings of the cheaper kind a bourgeoisie might wear.
Something about the legs seems awfully familiar. I stretch up, trying to get a better look.
‘Attica,’ whispers Jemmy, ‘you’ll give yourself away.’
But I can’t help myself. Somethi
ng about the visitor is compelling.
‘It isn’t a noble,’ I hiss back. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Salvatore is wedded to aristocratic privilege. Why would he give details of his secret meetings to a commoner?’
The mysterious man turns and I catch full sight of his retreating back and neat lawyer’s wig. It isn’t much, but it’s enough.
Robespierre. I knew it!
Shock and triumph factor in equal measure, washed away almost immediately by confusion. Because why should Robespierre want those women dead?
‘It’s Robespierre,’ I tell Jemmy. His face flashes through the exact same emotions I’ve just experienced.
‘What does it mean?’ asks Jemmy.
‘It means I was right all along,’ I say grimly. ‘Robespierre is involved in Salvatore’s sudden predilection for assassination.’
‘Betraying his own cause,’ says Jemmy, shaking his head. ‘I thought better of him. Even a snake like Robespierre.’
‘He never would betray the republican cause,’ I say. ‘If you stuck a knife in Robespierre, he’d bleed red, white and blue. But it doesn’t make sense. They’re politically opposed on every issue.’ I am trying to work it through in my mind. ‘Robespierre is the kind of man Salvatore would kill for sport.’ I think some more. ‘One thing is for certain,’ I decide. ‘If Robespierre is involved, those women were part of a bigger plan.’
A thought occurs to me.
‘Hand me a glass, would you?’ I call down.
‘Don’t make too much noise,’ replies Jemmy, correctly deducing my intention to use it as a listening device, and handing up a stemless crystal drinking glass. I put it to the ceiling gently, avoiding any loud sounds on the metal. As I rest my ear to the base, magically the conversation above becomes audible.
‘I must commend you,’ Salvatore is saying. ‘You truly think it possible?’
I hear his heels walk up and down the room, and switch from listening to watching. There is something in his hand. A piece of paper with what looks to be a drawing. Only I can’t see what it is. I put my ear back to the glass.