by Guy Roberts
The entry hall was crowded with partygoers, the men in dinner suits, the women in a variety of shimmering gowns and dresses – some demure, some provocative. Jack took a glass of champagne and mingled with the crowd, looking around the ornate rooms of Apsley House. The lower floors of the building were a museum to the first Duke of Wellington, and Jack had visited several times as a child. He already suspected what David was hinting at in the poem, but Jack couldn’t resist the opportunity to look around at the various display cabinets he found – each one stocked with the prizes, batons and swords Wellington had won during his European campaigns. Hanging against one wall was a magnificent prize, the Waterloo Shield, fully one metre across, presented to the Duke seven years after the Battle of Waterloo. It was a magnificent silver-gilded piece of artwork, with imagery of Wellington and a group of riders in the centre of the disc and ten friezes of his major peninsular battles around the edge. Jack reluctantly pulled himself away from the small museum and gently made his way deeper into the building. The party was heating up and the buzz of conversation had reached deafening levels. Each room was filled with a riot of colour and perfumes that flooded the senses. Andrew’s tuxedo fitted Jack well and he was able to move easily through the crush. It was not long before he had reached the foot of the main staircase of the building. The centrepiece of the entire house loomed over him, a huge statue of Napoleon, over three metres tall and carved from a single block of white marble. The statue dominated the stairwell and landing, nude but for a single fig leaf. Every eye in the room was drawn to the idealised physique of the carved image. A broad staircase wound up the wall behind the colossus and there were steady lines of men and women parading up and down in their black tie elegance. Jack glanced upward, then did a double take. He had found Cleo Draycott.
She stood at the top of the staircase, a tall, elegant figure pausing for a moment as the crush of people in front of her slowly gave way. A moment later she had vanished out of view onto the upper floor. Jack took in a sharp breath then released it slowly. He had been right. She was here after all. This was another chance to find out what she knew.
Jack followed the stairs upward and Cleo quickly came back into view amid the churn of people milling around a doorway. Eyes sharp, Jack followed her into a grand drawing room on the left hand side of the stairwell. The chandeliers overhead shed a gentle light over a chamber lined with yellow silks and gold tracery. Walls groaned with painting after painting, each encased within a heavy, gilt-lined frame. Jack quickly scanned the crowd from the doorway. She had vanished.
‘I was wondering when you were going to arrive,’ a voice whispered into his ear and suddenly Cleo had hooked an arm through his and was leading him like a lover through the ornate room. Momentarily off balance, Jack could do nothing but accompany her. She was wearing a trailing blue dress that showed off her strong curves to mesmerising effect. A small evening bag was held in one hand, while her hair flowed down her back in a tumble of golden curls. A chunky bracelet of smooth round stones set off the tan of her arms nicely.
‘Better late than never,’ Jack smiled at her through gritted teeth. ‘Having fun?’
‘Oh, as much you, I suspect,’ she smiled. ‘Trying to find the next clue?’
‘Who says I haven’t already?’ Jack parried.
‘Why would you hang around if you had? Face it, I saw you ogling that giant Napoleon downstairs. Rather closely. I would like to think you were searching for clues.’
‘But you’re here looking for something too.’ Jack felt as if he were scrabbling just to keep up.
‘Perhaps.’ Cleo turned her face toward him. ‘But David had already invited me here – he said he was going to show me the location of the second clue. So at least I didn’t have to steal an invitation from the floor of a girl’s car.’
‘Oh, well, sorry about that, I’m sure.’ Jack grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a moody swig.
‘Ha. Indeed, so I can see.’ Cleo squeezed his arm affectionately and an alluring perfume swept up into his face. ‘But tell me where the next clue is and all is forgiven.’
‘So you really don’t know where it is?’ Jack raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she didn’t, at that. Perhaps David had been waiting till this evening to reveal the clue to her. Jack still wasn’t quite sure of the relationship between Cleo and his brother – was it purely about the gold and her criminal record? She was breathtakingly attractive, though Jack did not want to comment on it. Who knew what David might have said to her in an effort to impress?
Cleo turned to look at him, green eyes sending a bolt of electricity through him that he tried unsuccessfully to ignore.
‘I’ll find it,’ she spoke coolly. ‘You’ll tell me eventually.’ Jack’s eyes flickered away in contempt, then widened in surprise. Napoleon was staring at him. It took him a moment to realise it was a lifelike portrait of the Emperor himself, hanging at eye level on the other side of the room. Cleo followed his gaze then looked back at Jack and smiled. ‘See, told you you’d tell me.’ She sounded pleased. Before Jack could say another word she had turned and walked across the room to the portrait. Jack followed closely, happy to see where her mistake would lead.
‘So the first clue was Wellington’s statue.’ She spoke to him casually, as if there was no competition between them to find the gold. ‘So it makes sense that the second clue is Napoleon – and who would have thought it would be a portrait right here in Wellington’s house!’ She leaned forward to inspect the frame of the picture, while Jack stepped back and looked at the face of Napoleon himself. The Emperor gazed back at him enigmatically and Jack felt a shiver down his spine.
‘Look,’ Cleo darted out a finger to the bottom of the portrait where a little label was positioned on the frame. Jack leaned forward and inspected it.
‘Napoleon Bonapart (1769-1821)
Robert Lefevre (1756-1830)
W.M. 1515-1848.’
Cleo repeated the last line to herself and Jack realised she was memorising it as she had the words on the Wellington Statue the night before. ‘W.M. 1515-1848’. She repeated the lines to Jack. ‘Another grid coordinate.’
‘And WM?’ Jack asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not sure yet. Incomplete data. Like the letter A from before – part of the overall puzzle, I suppose.’
‘Or it could stand for Wellington Museum,’ Jack broke it to her gently, ‘and the numbers are a storage code.’ She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Jack suddenly wondered why he had revealed the truth about the painting.
‘You’ve got the poem, haven’t you?’ Her words startled him completely. ‘David told me he was writing a poem. It looks like you’ve got it.’
‘What poem?’ Jack sounded unconvincing even to himself.
‘The poem.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘The poem with the clues. He wrote it for you. He told me you would understand it, that it would help you find the gold.’
Cleo smiled suddenly, back in control. Jack just could not keep up with her lightning fast thinking. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, leaned against a nearby windowsill and took a sip, look him up and down in approval. ‘This morning I received a letter from your brother, directing me to the British Library, where he had a private room for secret research. I found out exactly what is going on – why you’re here, why you have the poem, all of it.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Jack glared at her belligerently. ‘So why haven’t you found the gold yourself?’
‘I didn’t say I found the poem – I said I found out why you have it.’
‘And?’
‘And David trusted you.’ The simple words brought Jack up short.
‘Why would he trust me after…’ Jack frowned, feeling as if he were being outflanked in some strange combat. He did not want to talk to her about the fraught history of the Starling brothers. He forced his attention back to the issue at hand.
‘Trusted me to do what?’
‘To understand the poem.’<
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Jack stared at her, clearly still behind the eight-ball.
‘Ok.’ Cleo took a big sigh. ‘I’ll start at the beginning. About two months ago, David started doing some private research for an academic book he was writing about the French response to Napoleon’s return to power.’
Jack nodded, understanding this piece of European history at least – after crowning himself Emperor and fighting Europe and Britain for over ten years, Napoleon had finally been defeated at the Battle of Leipzig in 1813 and exiled to the tiny Mediterranean island of Elba, before escaping to the French mainland and quickly returning to power, only to be defeated by Wellington in June 1815. No doubt searching through old papers from the time was David Starling’s idea of a good night in.
‘So what happened then?’
‘Well,’ Cleo leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘David discovered something interesting – records showing that Napoleon’s brother, Joseph, had tried to deliver over a tonne of gold to Napoleon just before the Battle of Waterloo.’
Jack nodded sagely, then blinked. ‘So?’
‘So the Battle of Waterloo took place and it was Wellington’s men that captured the gold. After years of warfare, Wellington knew the treasure could have upset the alliance of nations that defeated Napoleon – with a peace treaty being written in Paris, Wellington didn’t want any upsets or arguments about the spoils of war and he didn’t trust London to agree with him.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He hand-picked four of his most trusted officers, who hid the gold on his orders. The longitude and latitude of the hiding place was kept as a special secret by those four and by Wellington himself.’
‘Ok,’ Jack nodded. ‘So now we’re tracking down the secrets kept by Wellington and his men?’
‘No,’ Cleo grinned, ‘David did that already.’
‘Then what are we looking for?’
Cleo smiled. ‘I’m trying to explain that! So David told me that the secret clues reveal the longitude and latitude – the string of numbers on a map – of the location of the gold. The clues were divided among the five, who used their influence to ensure the secrets were etched onto various landmarks around London – things like the Wellington Statue. David was tracking down each location when he realised Deschamps was also on the trail of the gold. I was sent to Paris to investigate, but David soon realised how dangerous Deschamps was and that his own life was in danger – but he could not risk Deschamps getting his hands on the information that David had already found. So, to cut a long story short, David destroyed all the evidence he had found, but wrote you a poem which would lead you to find each of the hidden clues.’
‘What?’
Cleo smiled. ‘David had already tracked down the secrets himself – he’s left you the poem so you can find them for yourself.’
‘But I still don’t understand,’ Jack sighed in exasperation. ‘If he wanted my help, why not just post the clues to me, instead of sending me here on this wild goose chase?’
‘Well, he could have,’ Cleo nodded, ‘except for Deschamps.’
‘Deschamps.’ Jack latched desperately onto the name. ‘Ok, what about him, how does he fit into this?’
‘Well,’ Cleo’s green eyes looked up at him, ‘it turns out that he also came across a story about the gold in the French military archives at the Service Historique de la Défense. He started his own hunt and David soon realised he had competition – and that anything he sent to you by telephone, email or the post might fall into Deschamps hands. Instead, David left a poem for you to find if anything happened to him.’
‘Yes,’ Jack nodded, ‘I found the poem all right. David was right about that.’ He clenched his jaw for a moment, the image of his slain brother flashing through his mind.
Jack pushed the image away, focusing on her. ‘So let me get this straight. Wellington and his men hide the gold and leave some clues. David finds the clues himself, but then writes more clues to find them and now you and I are here at Apsley House, using David’s clues to find Wellington’s clues that will lead us to Napoleon’s gold? Please tell me that’s where it finishes.’
‘You tell me.’ Cleo smiled. ‘You’re the one with the poem.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Jack heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Nothing’s simple in this world anymore.’
Cleo sighed. ‘Let me boil it down for you. Your brother knows about a pile of gold hidden in Europe and has left a string of clues to follow – all built into a mysterious poem. I’ve never seen the poem, but apparently you have. Simple enough?’
‘Simple enough,’ Jack nodded. ‘But let’s face it, if all of this is true… then why do I need you?’
Cleo blinked. ‘Come again?’
Jack tilted his head, looking at her expectantly. ‘If I’ve got this poem, which I have, then why do I need your help to find the gold? David wrote the poem for me, so how can you possibly help me anymore?’
Cleo grinned at him impishly. ‘Because otherwise I’ll scream, right now, as loud and as long as I can and you’ll get arrested before you can take another step.’
Jack looked at her in surprise. A wicked smile was playing around her lips, but her eyes were serious.
‘Every policeman in London would be looking for you, I’m sure,’ she warned. ‘And if I can’t find the gold, then I’ll make sure you can’t either… unless…’
She took a long draught from the flute, watching him speculatively. Jack looked back at her in trapped frustration.
She emptied her glass and set it down on the windowsill, before leaning forward and gripping at his arm with both hands.
‘I’m talking about a deal, Jack.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘We find the rest of the clues together and we decipher them - together. Trust me, because working together is the only way we find the gold!’
Jack felt a crease of annoyance form on his forehead, but somehow he knew she would follow through on her threat without a moment’s hesitation. Creating such a scene in Apsley House would be enough to bring his quest to a crashing end.
‘But there’s no way I can trust you.’ He looked at her solidly. ‘You ran for it two nights ago at David’s home and vanished last night as well, the moment I got out of the car.’
‘Oh, come on – I didn’t vanish last night, I dropped you off in the city and then drove home like a good little girl. I saw you grab the invitation to this party; I was sure I’d see you again and look, I was right, here we are now.’
Jack shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not enough. I just don’t trust you.’
‘Then we have a problem.’ She leaned back against the window as she weighed her options.
‘Come on, Jack,’ she sighed. ‘David trusted me, why not take a chance and trust me too? I can tell you want to, even if you try to hide it by being as grumpy as possible.’ Jack felt his eyebrows crease again. ‘Yes, just like that.’ Cleo smiled, a twinkle in her eye. He smiled despite himself, then made a conscious effort to push his frustration away. He needed to stay focused, no matter how much Cleo tried to manipulate him.
‘Well,’ Cleo stood up from the window, took his arm and led him onward through the throngs of party goers. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to change your mind straight away. So let’s talk a little more and see how you feel after we find the next clue.’
‘We?’ Jack left the word hanging in the air for a moment. ‘What makes you so sure it’s here?’ Despite himself, Jack was keenly aware of the warmth of her body pressing against his arm.
‘Because you’re here,’ she declared patiently. ‘Not even I could be so arrogant as to think you’d risk coming here just to say hi to a girl you met climbing through a window.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Jack smiled, allowing himself to enjoy her easy confidence. ‘There was the statue incident, don’t sell that short!’
‘Oh, true,’ Cleo nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’ll always have the statue and that car park kiss as well.’ She smiled. �
�The night air, the watching policeman…’ the smile turned into a mischievous grin. ‘Stop trying to distract me, Jack Starling, I have a secret to uncover. This way.’
Before he could say a word Cleo had entwined an arm through his and pulled him into the next room. They stopped for a moment at the threshold, taking in the sight before them. The chamber was huge, a long gallery stretching nearly the full length of the building. A pair of massive black candelabra dominated either end of the room, while all four walls were covered with scores of paintings, each masterpiece set in a heavily ornate frame. The room was filled with people and a small platform had been built on one side, where an MC was preparing to address the crowd.
‘The Waterloo Gallery,’ Cleo exclaimed, pulling Jack close to a wall to examine some of the pictures hanging there. ‘Correggio… Velazquez… Steen…’ She reeled off the names of painters as though they were old friends, rapturing over each one.
‘Do you know what these paintings are, Jack?’ she asked with a smile. Jack shrugged, admitting to her that he had no idea. ‘They’re the Spanish Royal Collection. They were seized by the French when Napoleon invaded Spain in 1808, but won back by Wellington at the Battle of Vitoria in 1813.’ She gestured around the room in wonder. ‘They were kept in carts to be taken back to Paris if the battle was lost. Some of the paintings had been cut out of their frames and used as canvas sheeting on the backs of donkeys.’ She shook her head. ‘But Wellington rescued them in time – and the Spanish King, Ferdinand VII, gave them to the Duke as thanks in 1816.’ Her eyes were sparkling as she looked around the room. ‘This room is the proof of Napoleon’s gold. He stole these Spanish paintings, but they were recovered. He stole Spanish gold as well, and that’s what we’re looking for right now. Napoleon’s Gold. Our gold… it’s still out there, waiting to be found!’
2130 hrs 15 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
The COBRA analysts watched silently as the video of Cleo Draycott leaping down the side of the British Library’s Reading Room was played back to them one more time. Grainy CCTV footage had captured the entire scene, from the oblivious academics on the ground floor to the image of Michelle Highgrove waving her arms and shouting from the balcony as Cleo escaped.