by Roy Lewis
‘I was never involved with him in that way!’ I burst out, even as I shivered at the memory of the fraudulent identification I had given in the Dead House five years earlier.
We were near my chambers. Gully hurried me along again. ‘It doesn’t matter what the involvement was. What’s important is that O’Neill and the men he has with him are of the opinion you were tied to Sadleir in some way. And they want to talk to you about it. Such a discussion would not have been a pleasant experience, if I know such men.’
We were at the door to my chambers. I stood at the foot of the steps and glared in frustration at Ben Gully. ‘O’Neill, O’Neill – what about him? I know no such man! Was that him back there? What does he intend? Those men, they were your friends—’
‘Listen. Patrick O’Neill intended to question you closely and he had a knife as a persuader. Yes, that was him back there. But don’t worry. He’ll now be dealt with,’ Gully said softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘With luck it’ll be days before his body will be dredged out of the river.’
‘What?’ I was shocked even though relieved. ‘You’re getting rid of him? I don’t understand! This man—’
Gully pushed me towards the steps. ‘He’s a danger to you, Mr James. He’s been dealt with, now. But he’s not alone. The whispers in St Giles are that there’s a small group of them, these Irish thugs. You can’t be sure he’s not passed on his suspicions to his brothers in the society. They’ll be after talking to you, particularly once they realize Patrick O’Neill himself has disappeared. It’s my view you need to lie low, Mr James. I don’t know what this is all about, and I don’t want to know. But it’s dangerous! Ordinary thuggery it’s not – these men believe they have a cause! That makes their determination absolute and uncaring. It’s my opinion you have only a short time to do as James Sadleir has done. Disappear. Get out of the country. Place yourself beyond the reach of O’Neill’s associates: beware of the Cork Revengers! Get out of London!’
After the scene at the alley, I was quickly persuaded. I dashed up the steps into my chambers. Ben Gully was still standing guard at the entrance in the lane when I emerged some ten minutes later, shaken, sweating, carrying a miserable bundle of possessions and the last of the money from my sadly depleted war chest, the chest that John Sadleir had once filled to the brim. As we hurried together down to the dark riverside and the Temple Stairs where he had a wherry waiting, Gully was silent. As I stepped into the boat, he held out his hand. I could not see his face but there was a hint of regret in his voice as he gripped my hand in farewell.
‘I think this will be goodbye, Mr James. I wish you well. It’s a sad way for our association to end, but . . . now, you need to hurry. I’ve made all the necessary arrangements for you.’
‘Gully,’ I said, my throat dry and rasping. ‘I don’t understand . . . I can’t thank you enough. . . .’
His voice also sounded odd. He was affected in a surprising way. ‘No need, Mr James. We’ve done a lot of work together. It’s been a privilege for me. But now you need to go. I’ll be getting out of London myself, after this charivari, for a while at least. Now, good luck!’
We shook hands for the last time. I can still remember the touch of his hand, the scarred knuckles, the hard grasp. The firm grip of a friend.
At midnight I was on board the ferry to Boulogne.
4
During the following weeks, no news reached me from England regarding the inquiry by the Benchers of the Inner Temple. All had fallen silent, it seemed; no announcement was made by the Benchers after my abrupt retreat from Inner Temple Hall, though there was some speculation in the newspapers as to my whereabouts.
At Boulogne, I found lodgings near the port and spent a few days relaxing in the cafés along the waterfront while I considered what next I should do to retrieve my fortunes. Ben Gully’s warnings had been strictly phrased: the Cork Revengers had singled me out because of my suspected links with John Sadleir; O’Neill and his compatriots had been entrusted with a mission of violence. He had paid the penalty for his probing but there would be others like him, thirsting for revenge. For the moment, England was an impossible location for me. As for Boulogne, it was a suitable staging post, I decided. There was quite a group of English people here, seeking a haven from debt, and a considerable group of English army officers on half-pay.
It was that thought that brought back to me the memory of the brief letter Marianne Hilliard had sent me. I checked the address, and thought about it for a while, sipping a few glasses of wine before deciding I had nothing to lose: she had intimated there was some business she would like to discuss. I decided I would visit her and discover what proposition she had in mind for me.
Marianne’s eight-room cottage stood in the Haute Ville, behind the thirteenth-century ramparts of Boulogne, overlooking the river Liane. It was a handsome building with a gravelled courtyard and fine views across the sea, close by to the fashionable promenade, the law courts and administrative buildings, but secluded enough to offer a desired privacy. I had hired a carriage to take me up into the Old Town, and I sent in my card.
She was at home.
I was shown into a somewhat faded reception room by a maid and was requested politely to wait: Madame would be there shortly. The maid withdrew and I wandered around the room looking at the French lithographs on the wall and noting some books thrown carelessly upon the settee under the tall window. They were schoolbooks, I was surprised to note. I was slightly puzzled. As I recalled, Marianne and Crosier Hilliard had produced a girl and two boys rather early in their marriage: they would be beyond school age now. And the marriage had ended with the separation of the parents some years ago. Then, in 1852 Crosier Hilliard had drunk himself to death.
I was still mulling this over in my mind when the door opened behind me and Marianne entered the room.
You know, Joe, every time I’d seen her I was struck with the same thought: she was a handsome woman. Not a conventional beauty perhaps, and certainly not your fluttery kind, but a woman with a full, mature figure, intelligent eyes of a startling violet and slender hands. Her bosom was of the kind that could instil raptures in a man; I was always somewhat appreciative of the fuller figure in a woman, and partial to bosoms: they were the key to other intimate delights. Her afternoon gown had an interesting décolletage and she still had a bold eye, and the pressure of her fingers as she took mine was positive and welcoming. She gestured me to take a seat on the settle while she placed herself on the Louis XIV chair facing me, her hands folded demurely in her lap.
I looked about me in the brief silence that followed. Marianne had surrounded herself with furniture of taste, but then, I knew she could afford the luxuries of life. Her father had left her a wealthy woman, and her marriage had caused little depletion in her fortune as a result of a carefully drawn settlement. Crosier Hilliard could have made scanty inroads into that fortune before they separated.
My hostess watched me for a few moments, a slight smile upon her lips. ‘I have ordered coffee for us both, Mr James. I hope that this will suit you.’
‘Immeasurably.’
She held my glance, one hand now rising to lightly touch her left breast; I caught a glimpse of pale, swelling flesh. ‘You have recently arrived in Boulogne?’
‘Three days ago. I received your note in London. In view of its contents, I thought it polite to see you soon.’
She nodded gravely. ‘It is always pleasant to receive old friends. Of course, I do not lack for visitors – there is quite a community of English people residing here in Boulogne, many, like me, spending most of their time here.’
‘Like Colonel Wheatley?’ I ventured. ‘He is retired, I imagine.’
She raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘Indeed. He has been on half-pay for some years.’ She paused, reflecting. ‘He told me he had seen you in Paris recently. He did not say precisely in what circumstances.’
I was hardly surprised. But I was curious: the gallant Co
lonel had been ogling a collection of Parisian grisettes when he would surely have had better opportunities here in the seaport. Unless Marianne’s presence would have inhibited him in pursuit of such pleasures.
‘Apart from that brief moment in Paris, it is some time since last we met, Mr James.’ There was a challenge in her eyes and I knew she was recalling that occasion in a manner that was provocative. After all, she had been in a state of undress at her bedroom door and I had been about to enter the candlelit dimness of the room until the amatory Viscount Palmerston had disturbed us, inadvertently, in his quest for his own expectant prey.
‘And much has happened in the interim,’ I admitted.
‘Indeed. I have followed your career, you know; I have observed with great interest your . . . rise over the years. An acknowledged leader at the Bar; a representative of the greatest constituency in England; darling of the Radicals and rumoured to become, very soon, a Law Officer of the Crown.’
I managed a rueful smile. ‘That, I fear, is now nothing more than a vaporized cloud. Things have changed.’
She observed me silently for a little while, then nodded gravely. ‘I receive the English newspapers here. I have noted the . . . speculation. It seems, Mr James, you have made many enemies.’
‘It is perhaps inevitable when one succeeds in one’s profession.’
I felt that we were somehow engaged in some kind of fencing, a careful circling of each other, a courtly, polite, elegant dance avoiding subjects which were of greatest interest to both of us. And my pulse had quickened. I had always had that sort of feeling in Marianne’s presence: somehow a spark always seemed to flicker between us, an urge that was difficult to qualify. A challenge, almost. I was a little relieved when the door opened and the maid came in with a tray on which she bore a coffee dispenser and cups. Her arrival slackened the tension. We remained silent after the maid had poured the coffee and withdrawn, each keeping our own counsel. I waited. She had invited me to her home for a reason. She would get around to explaining herself soon: I was disinclined to bring up the subject before she was ready to do so.
We continued with politely aimless conversation for a while, about the city and seaport, the famous people that could be met while strolling along the promenade. We talked of mutual acquaintances, her life in Boulogne and Paris, the cotérie of retired army officers in the town, the death of her mother some years ago, but I still felt we were circling, wary, uncertain. But at last, she took a deep breath which drew my attention once more to that magnificent bosom, and she came to the point.
‘My husband, Lieutenant Crosier Hilliard, died in a state of delirium tremens, as you know, some years ago. I was estranged from him by that time, of course, and had already left England when the event occurred. Society is somewhat indifferent to an individual where broken marriages are concerned: few houses in England open their doors to the woman involved. Here in France, things are different. And I am a wealthy woman, I can choose the life I wish, do what I want. Boulogne has suited me well during these last years, but there comes a time when it is important to move on.’ She fixed me with her glance. ‘As I believe you have now found, Mr James.’
I wondered how much she had believed of the gossip that was swirling in the newspapers about my name. The journals speculated, but published facts were few even though rumours abounded.
‘Yes,’ I replied slowly, ‘I think I must make a decision to – as you say – move on.’
‘In what direction?’ she asked, smiling slightly.
I shrugged. ‘England has become . . . uncomfortable to live in. But I have skills, talent, and a reputation which I think could serve me well in a different environment.’
‘Such as?’
‘Canada, possibly. I have thought of the West Indies also. But aristocratic malevolence can travel far in our English possessions. So, perhaps I should set my sights on the land of the free, where I will not be subjected to aristocratic prejudice and envious rivals. I think I could do well in America: lawyers and politicians can rise to the top in that unencumbered society.’
‘So I understand,’ she murmured, and her hand was at her swelling breast again. She was nervous, tense. I waited, caught the sparkle of the diamond ring on her finger.
‘If you were to go to America there would be certain expenses you would have to face, I imagine. To establish an office, to obtain entry to a local Bar Association, living expenses . . . all these matters would have to be taken into account. It would take you time to make your mark.’ Her level gaze held mine. ‘But from what Dame Rumour suggests you are not in a sound position financially to attempt such a Great Adventure.’
‘I have friends,’ I murmured evasively. ‘Friends, and acquaintances who would be prepared to assist me. And I am not without funds entirely. . . .’
‘Of course, and your present debts could not be called in if you were beyond the jurisdiction of the English courts. Even so. . . .’
I was still uncertain what she had in mind. Numerous women over the years had been prepared to lend me money – which they knew they would never see returned – but as I waited for Marianne to continue, I confess I was puzzled. We had seen so little of each other over the years, and though I was convinced that a certain attraction drew us together, I was yet unable to guess what she was about to propose. And I knew some sort of business proposal was coming.
‘The status of widowhood can be lonely,’ she murmured finally.
‘I thought you had a friend in Colonel Wheatley,’ I ventured.
Marianne frowned. ‘He . . . he has been a companion of mine and a good friend for some years,’ she admitted. ‘But he has become . . . shall we say, possessive? He watches over me a little too carefully.’
‘Perhaps he is contemplating marriage.’
‘There is a problem in that respect.’
He was already married, I guessed. Or maybe she believed he was interested mainly in her fortune.
Her glance was steady and purposeful. ‘You have long been a bachelor, Mr James . . . have you never contemplated marriage?’
Garibaldi’s advice came back to me and my pulse quickened even further. I hesitated, before replying. ‘There have been occasions over the years when I have been tempted, but work, politics, ambition, the pleasures of a bachelor existence have intervened. And I have never truly been in love.’
She sighed theatrically. ‘Come, Mr James, we are in our forties. Dreams of young love must have long since departed. We are experienced individuals; we know how the world works, and we know that more can be attained by way of business propositions than heartfelt sighing and posturing. There, I have said it. A business proposition.’ She paused, watching me carefully. ‘You are in financial difficulties. You need to make a new start. I . . . I also wish to make a new beginning. I believe . . . I believe we could sensibly do this together. Hand in hand, as it were.’
I smiled openly. ‘You know, I have never had a woman propose marriage to me before. If that is what you are now doing.’
A flash of annoyance sparkled in her eye. ‘Need I spell it out further? Yes, Mr James I am proposing a marriage . . . and alliance, after which we can go forward together. You wish to make a new start in America. I have money. I am prepared to . . . not to make over my fortune to you, but certainly to reach an agreement to support you financially until you can reach the heights you have already attained in England!’
I stared at her, somewhat taken aback by her outspokenness, but excited also. She was still a handsome woman, she was wealthy – and I was virtually penniless, burdened by crippling debts. I would perhaps have preferred some insincere, languorous sighs and professions of long-held attraction, but I was nevertheless intrigued and greatly tempted.
‘A business proposition,’ I murmured. ‘I must confess that I am moved. I am sure we could . . . do well together. And as you say, we have known each other for many years. . . .’ I hesitated, watching her carefully. ‘Marrying you offers me great advantages, I see that. But
you . . . what advantages would you obtain from such a union?’
She frowned. She slowly finished her coffee and we sat in silence for a little while. In the garden outside, a blackbird was singing lustily. I waited, puzzled. Finally, Marianne raised her head, looked me in the eye and reached for a little handbell which lay on the table at her side. She rang it, and then we both waited.
A little while later the door opened quietly and a middle-aged woman entered. She was followed by a girl whom I took to be of ten years or so. She was flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, but somewhat sallow, and she seemed of a certain sullen disposition. She did not meet my glance; indeed, she seemed wilfully to avoid it. I gained the impression she did not want to know me. It was an impression that never left me thereafter.
‘This is my daughter, Blanche-Marie. My love, this is Mr Edwin James, of whom I have spoken from time to time.’
There was a brief flicker of the fair eyelashes as the girl glanced at me. She curtseyed briefly, but said nothing. Marianne watched her for a few moments, then looked up to the woman who attended her. ‘That will do, Madame Dupuit.’
The woman nodded, turned away, ushering the girl from the room.
Marianne turned back to me, calmly. ‘You needed to know about Blanche-Marie.’
I did indeed. But I needed to ask no further questions. Marianne Hilliard had left her drunken hussar husband, Crosier, about the year 1848. He had died of delirium tremens in 1852. I had heard that he had retained control of their children, born in the early 1840s. Blanche-Marie could be no more than ten or twelve years old. She was not the product of Marianne’s marriage to her hussar husband. She had been conceived out of wedlock. Probably here in Boulogne, for no whisper of her existence had reached polite society in London.