‘Good God. I shall alert the Prime Minister; and we must keep the King at Windsor or further away.’
‘I have already enacted the usual precautions, My Lord. But we think the assassin may be aiming at a military or naval target.’
‘Horse Guards? The Commander-in-Chief? Or—’
‘Or yourself, My Lord.’
Inspector Gabin was always irritable around soldiers – especially around large numbers of them. Their clumsy, mechanistic procedures for the simplest activity were too crude, for his taste; and the way men’s faces and characters were swallowed into their uniforms and structures made them, as individuals, frustrating to deal with. It was like trying to negotiate with a landslide.
Gabin was standing in the welcome shade of a tree by the side of the road from Paris to the coast, watching the turgid proceedings of a military checkpoint. The Corporal who was with him was a cocky Parisian, who was both bored with the idea of mundane police business and convinced that an Inspector of Police was his social inferior. Vive la Révolution, Gabin was thinking sourly. He didn’t mind the égalité at all – on the contrary, he thrived in it – but men ten years his junior calling him ‘mate’, and treating the hunt for a traitor to France as if it was an old woman missing a cow, got up his nose. For his part, the Corporal clearly thought he had better things to be doing – someone to screw or shout at, no doubt – so all in all it was not an agreeable meeting of professions.
Two middle-aged women shuffled up to the soldier stopping the road. There was mumbled chatter between the three, the soldier grumbling out instructions. The older of the two women said something louder and ribald to the soldier, but he was too hot in uniform and noon sun to respond with any liveliness. He prodded inside the sacks they carried, a gesture of thoroughness presumably for the Corporal’s benefit, and then nodded them dully on their way. Beyond him, on the other side of the road, three or four other soldiers were slouching in the shade, throwing occasional glances towards their colleague to check he wasn’t being overwhelmed by a Royalist horde or warning of the approach of someone in authority.
Gabin felt the sluggishness of the morning like a stifling constriction on his whole investigation. As he had had, uncomfortably, to explain to the Minister the previous day, a manhunt was a crude and chancy affair. He’d chased down every possible connection to Joseph Dax – the Count’s family whom he’d served were all dead or fled, the rest of the servants vanished into the chaos. He had acted with vigour and ruthlessness – and in the middle of yesterday’s painful interview, he’d been grateful for having killed the old mother. He had used the whole resources of the state strongly and intelligently; and militarized France, with identity papers and ubiquitous soldiers and permanent state of alarm, was a powerful tool. But it only took a moment’s ill-luck or incompetence – like the lapse by the imbecilic sentry outside the old woman’s house – for a fleck of dust like this Joseph Dax to sneak through the efficient machine. And one slaughtered crone was hardly much return on all the effort, was it?
‘I shouldn’t worry, mate,’ the Corporal was drawling in his ear. ‘This sort of business’ll all be overtaken by the war in the end, won’t it?’ He wanted to get on with his march to the coast, to join the all-conquering army poised on the beaches. ‘Expect we’ll turn up your suspect sometime.’
‘That’s immensely reassuring,’ Gabin retorted, not taking his eyes from the road and the shifting, sweating sentry. ‘You must come and advise the Minister.’ He half-hoped that the Corporal would foul up in some way, so that he could relieve his frustrations by destroying him. Once he’d been back inside the old woman’s house, seen the traces of Joseph’s presence, he’d part-throttled the lax sentry, who would now spend the rest of his brief military career digging latrines until claimed by a fatal dose of dysentery.
If Joseph Dax was to shift from being an embarrassment to a danger, he had to reach England with whatever papers he’d stolen. Realistically, that meant the English Channel, and realistically that meant only half a dozen possible roads. Gabin now had series of checkpoints on each of them, with skirmishers deployed to stop anyone sneaking past through fields or down rivers. The fugitive could make himself hard to find, but in any case Gabin would bottle him up in France.
A man was walking slowly towards the sentry, battered hat pulled low and a satchel over his shoulder. The clothes were torn and poor, the movements sluggish in the face of heat and authority.
Gabin’s eyes narrowed. It was obviously foolish to expect that he would happen to be on the spot when a sentry happened to pick up the hunted spy; but vigilance and intelligence had their rewards, and he’d relish demonstrating the realities of the world to the Corporal. He wished he’d paid attention to the servant on his first visit to the Minister.
The tattered man showed some identification to the sentry and passed on his way, hardly breaking step.
Gabin spun to the Corporal. ‘What the hell is this? That’s the right kind of man, travelling the right way at the right time, and your lump out there doesn’t even check his bag!’
The Corporal sighed low under his breath. ‘Let’s go and find out, shall we?’
Five yards beyond the sentry, Joseph was in the middle of a titanic struggle with his failing heart and hysterical legs, which screamed to be running. The sweat was stinging his neck, and his eyes were rigid on the stones a few yards ahead of him as he fought to place his feet one heavy tread at a time. At the last moment, just before he reached the soldier, he’d seen the two men lurking in the shadows beside the road, and something in the face of the taller was immediately recognizable as the merciless Inspector from the house of the Minister. Step. Step. Step. From the corner of his eyes he’d seen movement, the Inspector and the other man coming for him. Run: he must run! Step. Step. Step.
Gabin and the Corporal were by the sentry, the former fighting down his frustration and allowing the Corporal to question his man. ‘Soldier, that man: what papers did he present that you chose to ignore his bag?’
The sentry had stiffened to attention as the Corporal and the damn policeman had approached. He spoke precisely and formally; he recognized the posture that the Corporal was obliged to adopt for the sake of the outsider. ‘Yes, Corporal; Corporal, he is an officer’s servant. He travels with the army. He has the correct pass – I checked very particularly.’
‘There you go, mate. You can rely on our procedures.’
Gabin scowled, watched the back of the departing servant, and turned away. Not today after all, then. He returned to the shade.
Twenty yards beyond the sentry, Joseph plodded onwards, an affiliate of the Emperor’s army with several hours’ seniority and the most precious secrets in Europe over his shoulder. ‘Move with the machine,’ the young Master had once said. ‘Don’t try to resist it.’ Officers, even revolutionary ones, were always needing servants. His young Major was pleasant enough, and Joseph would make good time to the coast, and get a reasonable meal or two on the way.
Step. Step. Step.
Roscarrock and Jessel rode into Bury St Edmunds with the last of the day’s sun. The hours in the saddle had been warm and sourly silent, and both men dropped heavily into the roadway, glad to move their legs and glad to move apart.
The Fox had a large, bland frontage that promised quality but not warmth. Jessel strode into the inn; Roscarrock stayed outside to exercise his legs and get a feel for the character of a new place. He wanted action, something simple and strong, and he wondered whether this comfortable market town would offer much chance of it.
He also wanted a cold drink. Inside the Fox, among a heaving scrum of people, he found Jessel sitting with another man: a tall, good-looking officer in the uniform of the dragoons, fair-haired like Jessel but with breeding in the lazy eyelids and well-cut bones.
The chance to stretch and something to drink had, as usual, mellowed Jessel.
‘This is Ralph Royce, Roscarrock. Unusually for our business, he is actually entitled to the unif
orm he wears.’ The old warmth was returning. ‘Major Ralph very kindly arranges little bits of military assistance for us.’ He turned to the pleasant face waiting politely beside him. ‘Ralph, this is Tom Roscarrock. Well-known revolutionary firebrand. Top man for whoever’s disposed to pay him this week.’
The Major seemed ready to take it as a joke, so Roscarrock did the same. He liked the look of Royce. ‘Don’t let the aristo manners fool you, Tom,’ Jessel was saying as they all sat again. ‘Ralph’s a first-class hooligan and he’s only interrupted his social engagements because he fancies some sport tonight.’
They exchanged the polite, non-committal chat of men too used to lies. A woman brought stew, and all three watched her slender body sway away before starting on it.
‘How many do you have, Ralph?’ Jessel spoke through a hot mouthful of vegetable.
‘Fifty men. Enough for your lowlife purposes.’ Royce was exploring the stew with a warier spoon. ‘Did she say exactly what animal was supposed to have contributed to this?’
‘Any sign of our big meeting tonight?’
Royce abandoned his spoon. ‘Oh, it’s happening right enough.’ The other two looked up. ‘People have been coming in all day. Labourers from all the villages in the area, mostly, but a smattering of the better sort as well. They’ve been loafing through town – there’ll be no free beds for you tonight – and all afternoon they’ve been heading out to a large meadow south of town.’
‘Trouble?’
‘None so far.’
‘How many?’ Roscarrock asked.
Royce shook his head. ‘Thousands. No way of telling. We’ve been trawling for Gabriel Chance, tailor, like you asked but he’s probably not that stupid. If he’s coming at all, he’s coming from out of town or he’s coming with a different name.’
‘But – assuming he makes himself known during the meeting – makes a speech, perhaps – we’ve got him.’
Again the Major shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. I’ve seen a couple of these great mob meetings. A thousand – five thousand – men in the darkness, yes? A great scrum of men, gathered round the speakers. In the middle, you’ll find a ring of picked men who’ll be quietly keeping strangers away from the speakers. Even if I threw my troop at them full tilt, sabres level and damn the consequences, by the time we’d cut our way through, the ones we wanted would have disappeared.’
The inn room was heaving with men, some in the clothes they’d worn in the workshop, some in their Sunday smart, the orchestra of voices set in the constant clatter of plates and mugs. The inn would take more money tonight than in the ensuing month, but they’d be cleaning up for most of it.
Roscarrock watched the crowd, the varieties of coats and faces bunched around him, and wondered at the motives. He turned to Jessel. ‘Hodge – the orator. Is he hunted?’
Jessel shook his head. ‘So far he’s been careful not to get carried away.’
‘So maybe he wouldn’t be travelling secretly?’
‘Maybe.’
Roscarrock stood, and dropped a coin on the table. ‘I’ll try something. See you later.’
‘You’ll be able to find us?’
‘A mob of five thousand and a troop of dragoons next to them? I should be able to pick you out.’
Roscarrock was a minute at the bar before he got a negative answer, and then he pushed his way back across the inn and out into the sudden peace of the evening. The street was busy enough, a steady stream of people even more diverse than those back in the Fox drifting southwards out of town, but the contrast with the crush and din he’d left was dramatic.
The chances of this little bet coming off were slight – Hodge only had to be late, coming in from elsewhere, lodging privately, or more cautious than Jessel gave him credit for – but it was easy enough to try. Roscarrock just walked from inn to inn asking if Hodge was staying there. The dragoons didn’t think Hodge was worth searching for, and if the man himself agreed, then there was a chance he could be found.
Henry Hodge was staying at the Rose and Crown. It was the fourth place Roscarrock tried, and the immediate affirmative from the clerk came so easily that he couldn’t keep the surprise out of his reply. ‘That’s good. Thank you.’ Now what? If he saw Hodge, what could he possibly say to him that would get access to the tailor? ‘Please tell him that an acquaintance from London is here at his suggestion. Grey – Thomas Grey.’
The clerk was down the stairs again a minute later, and he was alone. Hodge had already left, or he wasn’t falling for the surprise arrival of someone who was effectively a complete stranger.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Hodge is not receiving guests. He is resting.’
What else? Confront Hodge? Of course not. Follow him? But that wouldn’t get him through the mob.
‘He asked me to give you this, sir, with his compliments.’
Roscarrock took the small sheet of paper politely and as if expecting nothing else, and left. Outside, he examined it under the door lamp.
Clever. For a moment he couldn’t register what it was, it being so clearly not what he’d expected. Not an invitation, not a bill advertising the meeting. Instead, it was a page torn from the Bible – and it would be one of a known sequence of page numbers too.
As Roscarrock slipped back into the Fox, Jessel and Royce were just sitting down at a different table. He hesitated, wondering at the shift, until Jessel beckoned.
Roscarrock wasn’t looking forward to the banter and Jessel’s lack of interest in his movements came as a pleasant surprise. ‘Tragedy for you, young Tom,’ he said as Roscarrock sat, and then lunged physically at a serving woman to get her attention and order more drinks. Roscarrock waited. ‘Love of your life drops in from the heavens, and the good Major and I had to entertain her in your absence.’
‘I’m happy you’re happy, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Lady Virginia Strong is what I’m talking about.’
‘What? She’s here?’ It came out too strong and too surprised, and Jessel and the dragoon laughed in gross delight. Roscarrock smiled, rolled with the swell. ‘She was distraught at missing me, of course.’
‘Not sure your name came up, actually.’
‘She’s a hell of a way from Seldon and the salons, isn’t she?’ The graceful hand, the neck, the eyes were flashing and gliding in front of him again, and away.
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Jessel was more serious, and he stopped talking while three mugs of beer were placed on the table without finesse. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to find a few of the Seldon crowd here, or those we met at the Frenchie lady’s. Not actually going to the meeting; not talking to anyone, no funny business. But just fancying the idea of being in the vicinity of something a little rebellious.’ He leant forwards slightly. ‘Then again, perhaps one or two of them might be trying to do a little business.’
‘And her?’
‘See, that’s what impresses me, Ralph.’ Jessel had grabbed the Major’s arm but was still staring happily at Roscarrock. ‘Here we are: Government in peril, assassin on the loose, Napoleon at the gate; and Tom’s got his balls in his hand and the picture of a woman he’s met for no more than ten seconds in his head. I think she fancies a little radical flirtation, Tom. Wants to see what real men are like. She knows I’m with the Admiral, and she started swooning as soon as she saw London’s most handsome dragoon, so she invited me into her parlour so I could tell her a little of what’s happening, and then I had to invite Ralph in so he could stare into her eyes.’
Roscarrock shook his head. ‘Like I said to the Admiral: it’s a damned strange world.’
‘You’re just jealous.’ He took down the beer in one extended mouthful. ‘Drink up. We’ve a rebellion to join.’
The evening was clear and light and warm, summer’s gracious gift to farmers and to lovers, and to the organizers of radical protest meetings. The moon was up already, pale and solitary, a guest arrived too early at a party. Under the satin sky, the meadow spre
ad peaceful and fertile from the crest of hills on the horizon, down across the river, and up again towards the outskirts of the town.
It was a time and a place for stillness and for reflection and, because it was this, the vast hive of protesters bunched dark and unruly in the middle of the plain glowered the more obscenely. On the fringes, close to, the crowd was individual men with clothes that told their trades, and faces that told their attitudes. Seen from the shelter of the trees, those people became one vast pumping organ of foreboding, a mass that shifted and hummed and threatened like some weird pregnant beast.
The troop of dragoons lurked in the edge of the woodland, occasionally lifting an indifferent eye to the mob and otherwise muttering bored boasts to each other and watching down the necks of their horses as they grazed among the roots. In the gloom, the horsemen were shadows, bodies of darkness distorting the lines of the tree trunks, indeterminate flashes winking from spurs and helmets and swords.
The crowd knew they were there. Those on the near edge would throw wary glances towards the fringe of trees, and pull them back again. Some moved away to the other side of the crowd. Neither the average protester nor the average dragoon knew precisely how the law stood – they did not know exactly what protest was legal and they did not know exactly what intervention was legal. In that uncertainty a soldier might find some relief from his boredom, and a tradesman might be crippled for life. There was no reason why the evening should not pass in complete peace; there was always the possibility of a massacre. As Roscarrock watched, there was a constant furtive movement of protesters from this side of the crowd to less exposed places.
He was squatting against a tree, back straight against its clean trunk, shifting his eyes between the vague, glimmering dragoons and the human cattle in the meadow. Jessel stood nearby, stroking his horse’s mane and chatting to Major Royce.
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