Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  Marinus allows himself to relax a little. And I am so weary of the worry. ‘Your confidence is infectious.’

  Arnim spreads his hand towards his guest in show of generosity, and continues the movement to reach for a grape. He holds the pose a moment longer, until their eyes meet. ‘But what of the British?’

  ‘You worry about them more than the French?’

  ‘I am ignorant of them more than of the French. The French are desperate, and living from hour to hour, and I may buy any ten of them according to my mood. But the British play a longer game. They would rather we were all equally weak.’

  ‘We monitor some of their communications now. We can bring pressure. You are not satisfied?’

  A sniff, and a shake of the head. ‘They may fail and fail again behind that sea of theirs, and yet flourish. While we . . . ’ The face twists: dissatisfaction rather than discomfort. ‘We must press them. We must shake them out. We must learn them and weaken them.’

  ‘You could hardly be more ruthless in that direction than you have already been.’

  There’s real surprise on Arnim’s face. And again the little smile. ‘My dear friend: I have not begun to be ruthless.’

  A goose and a bottle of wine unevenly shared between them, and their business concluded, Arnim escorts his guest to the door. He takes Marinus’s hand, as so often: holds it flat between his own palms, not to press but somehow to sense, to draw out.

  Pieter Marinus bends forward, vulnerable. And Arnim places a kiss on the top of his forehead; it seems like a benediction, but it is held too long for that.

  Marinus lifts his head, breathes in his host’s confidence, looks him hard in the eyes. ‘If you will permit an impertinence, my friend: depend on your brilliance, not your bravado.’

  Arnim considers it soberly, and nods. ‘I will live long enough to do my duty, and I will die when I choose.’

  Marinus touches the elaborate ring on his host’s finger. ‘And the bitter drops in here shall be your choice. A hard choice.’

  ‘Not at all. If the moment ever comes, it will be a very simple choice.’ His hand lands firm on his guest’s shoulder; grand smile. ‘I will see Paris fall first.’

  Over the mantlepiece in Edward Pinsent’s living room – his only room, in truth; it beat calling it the dying room, though it might yet serve for that also – was an ink portrait. A girl of – fifteen, was it? – with a much younger girl – five, say? – perched uncomfortably on her knee. The discomfort was shared between the face of the older girl and the limited skill of the artist.

  The knock at the door came hard, and Pinsent was startled; had he been looking at the portrait? Not sure. Lost the thread of . . .

  Ned’s Angels, Raph called them. Or sometimes Ned’s Consciences. Ha bloody ha.

  Another knock.

  Landlord?

  Not due. Surprising. Always seemed due.

  Pinsent took the pistol from its string on the back of the door, and cocked it. Boot and knee braced to stop it opening more than a crack, he opened the door.

  Dark eyes watching him. Dark eyes, bony head. Pale. A fleshless, bloodless head.

  ‘Mr Edward Pinsent?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Very dark eyes, the fellow had.

  They looked at him. Blank. ‘My name is Kinnaird.’

  ‘Jolly good. Now who are you?’

  The stranger glanced down and up the minimal gap of the door. ‘I’m a friend of Henry Greene.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  The stranger frowned. ‘I didn’t expect so.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Could I come in, Mr Pinsent?’

  Spur of the moment. Pinsent couldn’t think of any reason not.

  He stepped back, and the stranger waited a moment and then stepped forwards. He hesitated on the threshold, and looked around the room before coming any further. As he stepped around the door he saw the pistol in Pinsent’s hand, and his eyes widened.

  ‘Oh. Beg pardon.’ Grin. He uncocked the piece and rehung it on the back of the door.

  The stranger’s glance followed the pistol onto the door, and then up Pinsent’s arm to his face. ‘A man must go carefully.’

  ‘Right.’ Pinsent threw out a hand to suggest welcome. ‘Will you take a drink, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Kinnaird. Thank you no.’

  ‘Kinnaird; right. Er – a man must go carefully, eh?’

  The stranger smiled. The smile was even more unsettling. ‘Quite so, Mr Pinsent.’

  ‘You’d better sit.’ The stranger – this Kinnaird – took the wooden chair – he looked a fellow for a wooden chair – and Pinsent slumped on the burst sofa.

  ‘Friend of old Greene, you said.’

  ‘Indeed. He invited me to visit him for a while. We worked together in the past. I think he’d an idea we might do so again.’ The stranger’s voice didn’t seem to vary, not in pace or volume.

  ‘What sort of work might that be? Pardon my asking. Curiosity, you know?’

  The stranger shrugged slightly. ‘Merchantry.’

  ‘Trade, eh?’

  The stranger caught the edge in it. His glance sharpened. Then it moved away from Pinsent, and around the room: wooden chair and table, the bed ill-made and the pot beneath it, the torn wall-paper and the solitary item of decoration; two girls looking rather austerely from the mantlepiece onto their threadbare surroundings. Pinsent saw the glance as it travelled. ‘Well now! Trade’s the thing in these times, eh?’

  The stranger’s glance came back to Pinsent. ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘Fellow must shift as best he can, eh?’

  A briefer glance at the room, and back. ‘Indeed.’

  Queer, prickly little fellow.

  ‘No one seems to have seen Henry recently. I don’t suppose you . . . ’ Pinsent shook his head. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pinsent: do you mean merely that you happen not to have seen him, or would you say that he was . . . missing?’

  Pinsent got the distinction, and his face opened in thought. ‘Worried for him, are you? Fair enough; fair enough. Odd times these, Mr – er – Kinnaird. Would I say he was missing? I don’t rightly know. Week or more. Perhaps.’

  ‘You must pardon my probing. Were you intimates? Would you often see him? To notice him absent, or to hear of his plans?’

  Pinsent gave a big shrug. ‘We were close enough, you might say. For company, or a bit of sport.’ He ran a big hand through his hair; it felt long, and he knew his wig wouldn’t sit well. ‘He was a close one, though, old Greene.’

  The stranger absorbed this. ‘Yes. Yes, he could be that. Was he often away?’

  Shrug. ‘Sometimes. Few days. Hard to say.’

  ‘This long?’

  Shrug. The stranger’s lip twitched.

  Pinsent took a second look at him. Tidy fellow; neat. A tradesman would have to be, of course. Impress the ladies; clean shirt and a bit of affected humility. Gods, what a life. Comfy with it, no doubt. Every third penny saved and no excess, dear me no; life all buttoned up, spick and span.

  But what a damned queer object to wash up in revolutionary Paris. Fellow was lucky he hadn’t been turned insides-out half a dozen times on the journey. And now bumbling around asking his questions. Pinsent smiled faintly.

  The stranger said: ‘It must be a strange life: an Englishman – here – now.’

  Pinsent smiled. ‘’Tis rather.’

  The stranger glanced at the room again. ‘Lonely, I mean to say.’ He nodded to the pistol on its string. ‘And insecure. The English community must be pretty close-knit.’

  Impertinence. Pinsent’s words came with the suggestion of a sneer: ‘We have our diversions. And our duties.’

  ‘Did you and Henry Greene – ’

  A wooden slap and the door swung open, there was a figure in the opening and a hand that reached around for the pistol and swung it down and cocked it and had it pointing, and a voice that said ‘Don’t shoot!’ – and then roared at its own wit.

  Pinsent was halfway
to his feet and half-reaching for the pistol himself and bewildered. ‘Don’t – ? Oh, damn you, Raph.’ Raphael Benjamin watched his face, and chuckled again.

  Now he saw the second man in the room properly. ‘You must forgive me, sir. A bit of sport with a friend.’ The stranger, stiff in his chair, was still startled. ‘You must tell me if I intrude.’ Benjamin was already striding the short distance to the cupboard and pulling out a bottle and a glass. He poured and drank, and then looked up. ‘Well that ain’t right, Ned,’ he said softly, and he poured out two more measures – one into the only other glass and the second into a beaker.

  ‘Fellow don’t want – ’ Pinsent began, but the stranger had stood and it seemed that under the force of Raphael Benjamin’s momentum he did want. He sipped, and Benjamin took another swig and considered him carefully.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ he said without obvious concern. ‘Benjamin. Raphael Benjamin, at your service.’

  ‘Your servant, sir.’ Quiet; still a little overwhelmed. ‘My name is Kinnaird.’

  Benjamin seemed to consider this. ‘You must excuse a discourtesy, my dear fellow; but what with revolutionaries cutting every throat they can get their dirty paws on, a fellow gets a little wary around a stranger.’

  ‘Mr – er – Kinnaird is a friend of old Greene’s,’ Pinsent said. ‘He was just asking – ’

  ‘I’m sure he was. Asking; yes.’ Benjamin grinned, and there was no life in it. ‘A friend; of course.’

  Pinsent started to speak, but Benjamin’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, and the blue eyes were gazing at the stranger.

  The stranger gathered himself. ‘Indeed. Very naturally your friend is cautious, Mr Pinsent.’ The eyes came up. ‘Very naturally. I have a letter from Henry – ’

  ‘A letter!’ Hard amusement; Benjamin slapped Pinsent on the shoulder. ‘Think of that, Ned! A letter.’

  Silence. It waited there between them.

  The stranger stood.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Pinsent,’ he said; but his eyes were on Sir Raphael Benjamin.

  ‘Oh! You off, old fe-? Yes. But – ’

  But the stranger was out of the door, and it closed silently behind him.

  Benjamin started to laugh quietly; after a moment, Pinsent joined in.

  But Benjamin’s hand was still on his shoulder. ‘Careful, Ned.’ He looked to the door. ‘What a specimen!’

  ‘Fellow’s in trade, Raph.’ He glanced up. ‘So he said, any rate.’

  ‘Trade . . . ’ Benjamin said quietly. ‘But what, Ned? What does he trade? The damnedest things are getting valuable these days.’

  After their supper, Marinus and Arnim in the doorway of the latter’s lodging. His lodging gives onto a side-street; almost an alley, really – a carriage would fill it. Open to larger streets at both ends: exits; options. Marinus glances around. With evening, the shadows are filling the angles of the street; the grime on the cobbles is dulled.

  ‘I thank you for your company, as ever. It is a treasure to me.’ Arnim’s words are steady; sincere.

  Boisterous laughter from the end of the street; Marinus glances to it, and back. ‘I trust that you do not take me for granted.’

  Arnim’s face is expressionless. The Dutchman wonders if he’s gone too far. ‘I will ask everything of you that I possibly can,’ Arnim says. ‘But I will take your refusal on any point as the prudent judgement of an intelligent and not unbrave man.’ Pause. Thin smile. ‘There. Can you ask more than – ’

  ‘Prussians!’ Both men freeze. ‘You’re Prussians!’ Three or four men are gathered close by. Arnim turns to face them slowly. Cheap clothes. Workers, or worse. Scum. ‘You was speaking German.’

  The spokesman is shorter than his comrades. He stands forward, head thrust out, a big nose seeming to sniff at his quarry, while the others shuffle with interested hungry faces. ‘You zpeak zee Djar-man!’ – a silly parody of the accent.

  Marinus sees the distaste in Arnim’s eyes, and speaks quickly, and quietly. ‘You are mistaken,’ he says, turning to the man. ‘We spoke Dutch.’

  The spokesman looks scornful, but Marinus is unwavering. More shuffling from the companions. Polite smile from Marinus, almost commiseration. A companion jogs the spokesman’s arm and they slouch off down the street.

  Another smile from the Dutchman, uncomfortable relief. ‘French, I think, in the street.’ Arnim’s lip twists, but he doesn’t disagree. He accompanies his companion down the street a few paces. ‘No. To answer your question, no, I ask no more than that.’

  ‘It is for you to judge,’ Arnim says, speaking stolid correct French.

  ‘It is getting riskier.’ Arnim says nothing. ‘The revolutionaries grow feverish in their fears. Always new papers, new checks, new impositions.’ They’re at the end of the street; he glances back. ‘Even to be thought a Prussian could kill you. If they knew . . . ’

  He lets it hang. Arnim’s face sours a moment, then recomposes. ‘I will play the game as long as I am able.’ Formal dismissal: ‘Again, my thanks for your company.’

  Marinus smiles, turns and walks away into the evening.

  ‘I knew it! You are Prussian.’ The voice comes from the shadow where the facade of the building projects forward. ‘He just said so.’

  Karl Arnim scans the street in front of him. A few walkers; one carriage. Dusk is falling.

  Now he turns to face the voice. It is the spokesman, from before, alone now. The eyes are wide with excitement. He too looks around, the bully seeking supporters. Arnim smiles. He nods over his shoulder, beckoning the man back into the side street.

  ‘Like to see you all strung up! A stretch from the lantern’d suit you.’ Again he looks round for support.

  Arnim seems to consider this. ‘Mm. If you find friends, you’ll have to share your good fortune with them.’ The French feels slippery, clumsy in his mouth. He beckons again, and turns and begins to walk back into the side street.

  ‘Hey! You wait for – ’ But the man is following now instinctively, and as he stares at Arnim’s back he sees a hand appear over the shoulder with a flash of gold in it.

  Again Arnim looks ahead down the side-street, to the other street beyond, empty in the gloom. Now he turns, the coin still held high, and he sees the eyes of the beast in front of him following it. And with his other hand he drives the knife up into the man’s chest. He catches him as he starts to drop, glances around again, drags the body across to the other side of the alley and lets it fall, then stoops and repositions it in a drunk’s slouch.

  Up, a last glance around him, and back into his lodgings. His servant has seen nothing and would say nothing in any case. The body will not be found until morning, and it will not be remarked.

  In the second week of September, while the inhabitants of the prisons waited to see if there would be more informal trials and more informal executions, and while the inhabitants of Paris waited for the Prussians, a curious ripple began to spread from the north of the city. It was the stranger, the man who called himself Kinnaird; and he was willing to sit for many hours in a tavern, or to tramp for many hours through the streets and lanes, in his search.

  At first he was felt only in the little circle of the Tambour; felt, and then forgotten, as his presence near the counter became routine. A drink carefully guarded; a simple meal; payment prompt with a satisfactory tip. Sometimes a polite conversation with an old lag, or with a stranger, and always the situation of foreigners in France would come up, and thence by degrees Henry Greene, and Henry Greene’s affairs. Fessy, of the Tambour, had found reason not only to tolerate but to facilitate this inoffensive habit.

  Then the stranger’s presence began to spread: through St-Denis, to its few shops, to the conversations of the serious tradesmen, to the squalid rooms where the pedlars and market-boys drank. Then to the lanes around. He might be a wayside conversation; he might happen to be walking and stop at a farm for a glass of milk. Quiet civilities, and eventually the conversation would tak
e the same turn.

  Sometimes the conversation was easy. The stranger was a quiet, vulnerable sort of man, and the tavern men were quick to roll out their prejudices about foreigners, and merchants found it easy to correct his mistakes – about Henry Greene’s business, for example. Sometimes the conversation was hard. The stranger was an unwarm, indefinable sort of man, and everyone was alert for spies and police agents. Doors slammed shut. Stones, dung, were thrown. These are the times.

  The ripples continued to spread; and at last the stranger, the man who called himself Kinnaird, made his first journey into Paris.

  Emma Lavalier’s coterie this September evening in St-Denis: three Frenchmen of diverse quality and eccentricity; an Italian singer; a beautiful Spanish boy, arguing with an American; her two favourite Englishmen; a Dutchman; the women all French, with the exception of Maria Halász, who was rumoured to have shot her husband back in Buda.

  And now her Belgian was here and wanting to pay his respects, bouncing like a bladder at the edge of her vision, and Raph was murmuring something charming and forgettable in her ear and drifting away, and she was beaming at the Belgian and he bounced at her and she let herself enjoy the effusive, elaborate, not-to-say-madame-exquisite compliments that made him such an . . . effervescent guest; and then she managed to direct him in some other appealing direction, and off he went and for a blessed breath of a moment Emma Lavalier found herself alone at the centre of her circle; the eye of the storm; her little world.

  The door to the front hall ahead of her, guarded by a servant. The certainty of the small door to her private salon behind her.

  The salon pleasant; simply elegant; thrift carefully deployed by taste. The transformative power of a curtain; the decoration on one panel of a screen instead of every wall; the mischievous beauty of candles.