‘Come in, it’s open.’
Sitting on a stool by a high slanted table, writing in a heavy ledger, was the small man that I had seen from a distance every morning. I thrust out my hand.
‘Mr Bennett, I presume.’
He stuttered slightly, clearly discomforted by my appearance.
‘Yes, and what is your business, sir?’
‘My name is William Reeves and I’m looking into the disappearance of a French national, Pierre Le Beau – who I understand was brought into Gravesend by your company on September 17th last year.’
His face registered displeasure at this, like a man who has sucked an under-ripe lemon.
‘I have already spoken to the Excise, and the constabulary, about this issue. My company knows nothing of this person. Now I would bid you good day.’ He got up from his stool and deliberately opened the door to usher me out.
‘I’m sorry Mr Bennett then for wasting your time. You must appreciate that in cases of missing persons, especially when the person is a child, things are sensitive, and I must explore all avenues.’ He seemed to relax slightly at this point and spoke in a more measured tone.
‘I fully understand, and if I could be of help in this matter, I certainly would.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you, if anything comes to mind, here is my card, I am staying at the Eagle. Oh, and here is a poster showing Pierre.’
I slowly eased the poster from my coat pocket and unfolding it, handed it to Bennett. ‘As you can see, he is only young, and his mother is traumatised by his loss.’
Bennett nodded. ‘I quite understand Mr Reeves but I’m a busy man and have much to attend to.’
I also nodded. ‘Of course, you must be. I see one of your ships, the Spirit of Rochester, is in port now. I’m sure there’s plenty of paperwork to be catching up on.’
‘Yes, indeed, I shall be busy.’ I shook his hand and then made to leave. I stopped just before closing the door and turned back to him. ‘I am an old military man Mr Bennett. Your limp, did you get it in service in the Crimea by any chance?’
He looked slightly abashed.
‘No, it was from falling off a horse, I was a trainee jockey and had a bad fall, almost lost the leg.’
I tried to look concerned. ‘Horses, they can be difficult beasts. Do you still ride?’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I live on the outskirts of the town so ride in every day.’
I reached out and shook his hand. ‘Good for you, never let a setback stop you from doing what you want to do, that’s what I say.’
At that I departed and walked back along the gantry. I noted that at the very back of the yard were stables, one housing the massive, magnificent drays, the other workaday horses suitable for riding to and from work. I went down the stairs and left the brewery.
For some reason I decided to go for a long walk to try and get my thoughts together. I had an hour or so to kill until I met Marie again, so I wandered the streets of Gravesend aimlessly. Little did I know that at Chislehurst, events were already starting to unfold.
Eleven
Chislehurst
The French court of Louis Napoleon had moved into Camden Place in Chislehurst, ten miles out from London, in October 1870.
Initially it was the home of Napoleon’s Empress, Eugenie, and her entourage. Then the following March, Napoleon himself had been released from imprisonment in Germany and was able to join her. He brought with him his own people who had shared his imprisonment over winter. So, by the summer of 1871 the Emperor in exile and his wife were living in a large detached mansion in Kent, with a large number of staff with little to do.
Camden Place was a grand affair – with its own spacious grounds and gated driveway framed by ancient elm trees. However, Napoleon was only there because of his wealth and friendship with Queen Victoria – Louis now had only minor importance in French life, and in international politics wielded no power, and had little hope of ever again being Emperor. So, the French court was impotent and pointless, full of too many people trying to justify their existence.
As Marie had not arrived until March, and was forever out of favour with Eugenie, she had lost her position as her Lady-in-Waiting and was now being kept away from helping the Emperor; this role being given to a nurse, as Louis was often ill with his bladder and gallstone problems.
One of the chief taskmasters of this toxic atmosphere was the head of household, Matthew Toulouse – who had Napoleon’s ear. Today, as per usual, he had woken early and with great ceremony walked the rooms of the mansion checking that all was in order and impeccably clean. Camden Place was an old house, recently refurbished and in its style and grandeur, similar to the fine chateaus of his homeland. Toulouse inspected the main hallway and had already noted something that needed addressing. He pointed this out to Elizabeth Bouchard, the chief housekeeper, who had just emerged from the card room.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bouchard. I note that the flowers look a little tired. Can you explain that?’
Bouchard looked back at him, there was no love lost between them.
‘I’m sorry, but flower arranging is done by Marie-Anne. That is her domain.’
Toulouse was having none of this. ‘As you know Marie, along with Antonia, has gone away for a few days’ rest and relaxation.’
Bouchard scoffed. ‘Rest and relaxation? She has done nothing since she came here! Why does she need rest?’ Toulouse disregarded her comment and continued.
‘If you could just get some fresh flowers. That will be all.’
Bouchard slipped away, clearly displeased at this telling off.
Just then there was a knock on the front door. Toulouse, still in a foul humour, walked over to open it. Standing there before him was Monsieur Jerome, head of security.
‘Here is a letter for the Emperor. It was left at the gatehouse by somebody during the night. We think it may have been dropped there by a man on horseback.’
He handed over a bulky envelope. Toulouse looked at it carefully.
‘Very well, leave this to me. That will be all.’
At this, Jerome departed, and the front door was shut. Toulouse gingerly opened the letter and carefully read its contents. Then, without hesitation, he set off up the grand staircase to the first-floor bedroom where Napoleon slept.
Twelve
Things Get Darker
I had walked for over an hour and was now minded getting back to the Eagle to prepare for my afternoon visit to see Marie. It was getting close to three o’clock and I always liked to be ready early for those meetings. Just as I came within sight of the Eagle, I could see Gordon standing outside, presumably waiting to see me. It was strange to see him outside of the fort, in his Royal Engineers’ uniform. He looked like a fish out of water. One thing I noted immediately was how well known and popular he was, virtually everyone bade him good day and other words of respect. I walked up to him and opened the conversation.
‘Are you looking for me?’ He sighed and gently nudged me to the side of the road, out of earshot of passers-by. As usual, he came straight to the point: ’Reeves, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Things are getting serious. One of Napoleon’s security staff at Camden Place at Chislehurst has telegraphed today with information. It appears that this morning a letter was received – it had been left at the gatehouse so there is no postmark to go on. It was addressed to Napoleon himself.’
‘And what were the contents of the letter?’
‘Unfortunately, the envelope contained a message stating that they had the boy, Pierre, and that he was imprisoned at an unspecified location. They would release him if a fee of ten thousand guineas, in gold, was forthcoming. There is no further information on likely drop-off points, or how this exchange is to happen. There was also a lock of Pierre’s hair, which apparently matches their memory of him. It says that should attempts be made to rescue him, he will be killed. The letter fini
shes by stating that further contact will be made shortly to agree terms of the exchange.’
I looked back at Gordon; things were clearly getting serious. ‘So, what are we to do about that?’
‘No idea Reeves, but I think your first duty is to update Marie-Anne on this development.’
‘Very well, I’m due to meet her at three o’clock today so will do so then.’ Gordon nodded assent. ‘Good, but tread carefully. This news will come as a terrible shock to her. I’ll leave it in your hands.’ Gordon then made to walk off back to the fort but within a few paces was stopped by another well-wisher. A man who appeared to be a worker from the brewery.
‘Good afternoon, sir. Sorry for interrupting your walk, but I just thought I would let you know that I am back at the brewery – working as the night watchman. If all goes well I will be back on the drays in a few months.’
Gordon smiled. ‘That is exceptionally good news.’
The man smiled broadly. ‘Thank you sir, sorry to disturb you.’
At that he bowed to Gordon and to myself and walked back into the brewery.
Gordon filled me in with the detail once he was out of earshot.
‘That man is Jessie Armitage. Son died in awful circumstances, so he reached for the bottle. Almost lost his job in the brewery but he seems on the mend now.’ He paused a second. ‘I’ll get back to the fort.’
I nodded and he swiftly strode off.
It was now almost three o’clock, so without delay I walked over to the Clarendon. I had some bad news to impart so wanted to reach Marie before she got to the restaurant.
At the hotel lobby I waited around until I saw Marie and Antonia making their way down the staircase en route to the restaurant. I spoke immediately.
‘Can I take you for a walk alone, Marie? I have some news.’ Marie looked slightly perturbed but agreed without hesitation and sent Antonia away. We walked out into the street and I led her towards the riverside green where benches faced onto the water. She looked at me quizzically as we walked but said nothing.
Having sat down on a bench, she swivelled to look at me full on.
‘What is it William. Why are we here?’
I gathered my strength.
‘Marie, I have to tell you this. Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon received a telegram from the Emperor at Chislehurst this morning. It appears that a letter containing a ransom demand for ten thousand guineas in gold was received overnight. That would be the price of them releasing Pierre. That is all the gist of it. They also included a lock of your boy’s hair.’ Marie gasped and was clearly close to tears. I continued.
‘The letter ends by stating that they will give further information as to the place and time for the exchange of gold, or Pierre, later. The letter writer also threatens to kill Pierre immediately, if the police get involved.’
Marie looked mortified, awfully close to tears. I wished that I had broken the news more gently but what could I say that would bring any comfort? In my heart I just wanted to put my arms around Marie and hug her and tell her it would be alright. She finally found some words.
‘So, what can we do? I have no money. Nobody cares enough to find ten thousand guineas. What can we do?’ Her eyes pleaded with me. I tried my best to seem organised.
‘This is clearly very upsetting but at least we now know that Pierre is probably alive, albeit hidden somewhere. At least this gives us a chance of finding him, of somehow releasing him.’
She just seemed shocked beyond words and just sat there. The wind blew in off the river, her face looked broken; she was utterly disconsolate. ‘What can we do William, what can we do?’
‘Let me speak to Gordon about this to see if he has any further ideas. But please do not upset yourself. We will find your son and he will come back to you safe and sound, I promise this.’
At this she seemed to calm down a little. She reached out and gently held my hand by her fingertips.
‘Thank you, William, without you I would be totally lost.’
I reached down gently and softly kissed her hand.
‘Mademoiselle.’
I took her arm and gently led her back to the hotel. We parted company at the lobby. She was going back to her room to lie down. I desperately wanted to ease her distress but had no idea how. I bade goodbye.
There was no alternative other than to see Gordon again and ask what his thoughts were on this crisis.
Within minutes I was back at the fort, and luckily was able to speak to him immediately. Sadly, our conversation yielded little more. He believed that Napoleon’s court, though probably wealthy, would not wish to be seen to be too involved. It would also be very awkward if news of this reached Queen Victoria. Pierre after all was in any case a ‘bastard’ and not the legitimate son of the Emperor. Napoleon already had a legitimate son, also called Louis, of similar age to Pierre who was living at Camden Place.
We both sat there in Gordon’s spartan office, trawling our brains for any sort of lead as to the whereabouts of the boy. I felt that the only way forward was to go back to the initial deal between the shipping agent and Marie, to bring Pierre to England. That brought the conversation back to John Bennett. Gordon knew something of the man’s business. It appeared that Bennett had got his office on the brewery site when the paddle steamer pleasure boats started taking daytrippers to Margate and Clacton. He had since diversified into flint and chalk shipping, taking these commodities from northern France and the chalk pits around Gravesend. From here they were shipped up north, with his biggest market being the potteries, via the port of Liverpool. So, Bennett probably knew Rouen well, and could have been implicated in organising the abduction. However, we had no proof. No real leads as to where Pierre was being hidden, or even if he was still alive.
Our conversation went on like this for the best part of an hour. Finally, I thanked Gordon for his help and left the fort. I was by now feeling even more downhearted as I walked back to the Eagle. This was a problem that was beating me hands down. I had received little response from the posters, nobody knew anything of Pierre’s whereabouts, and it was almost impossible to pay the ransom demanded. But then I had a lucky break. As I passed the Three Daws I noticed to my left, walking up the high street opposite, the lascar I had seen looking at the poster. I decided to follow him. He seemed unaware of my presence as he walked up the high street before disappearing into the market building behind the courthouse. I followed him into the market and was soon enveloped in the cacophony of noise and colour, as the costermongers bid to outshout each other. The market was a buyer’s dream, with stalls selling everything you could dream of.
I kept the lascar in my sight and could see him buying some vegetables and fruit from one of the costermongers and putting them into a basket. I waited until he retraced his steps and left the market past the courthouse in the high street. I quickened my pace and got in front of him. Then stopped dead, and staring him straight in the eye, confronted him.
‘Excuse me, let me introduce myself, I am William Reeves. Can I speak with you on a matter of some importance?’ At this I could see the colour draining from his face. I pressed him further.
‘Do you speak English?’
He replied in stilted but perfectly understandable English.
‘Yes, sir, certainly sir.’
I responded, ‘I am a private detective, and I’m looking for a lost boy. I believe he may have been picked up on your ship, the Spirit of Rochester, in France. Do you know anything of this?’
He was clearly scared.
‘Yes, sir, I am a seaman from that ship. Sir, I am just buying provisions. I do not know what you are talking about. I am sorry, I cannot help you.’
I could see from his expression that he had a lowly position on the boat and was likely to be subservient in manner to any well-dressed white man. I continued.
‘Look, I know you know more than you’re
telling me. I saw you spending a long time looking at the poster of the lost boy, pinned on the tree in West Street. You recognised the boy in the picture, didn’t you?’
He became even more flustered at this.
‘No sir, I have never seen this boy.’ His awkwardness betrayed him, so I continued to pursue him.
‘The boy Pierre, he got on the boat at Rouen didn’t he – as a stowaway but you knew he was there on board, didn’t you?’
His face was now ashen. ‘I am sorry sir, I know nothing.’
I was not letting him get away.
‘Where are you from and what is your name?’
He stumbled over his words but replied, ‘I am Asif Khan, and my home is in Zanzibar.’ I smiled encouragingly.
‘Now Asif, I’m sure you’re a good man but you also have a secret – you have seen this boy before and if you don’t tell me what you know I am going to stab myself with this knife.’ I pulled a letter opener from my coat pocket. ‘And I will say that you knifed me in a bungled robbery. You know what the Gravesend constabulary will do to you then?’
He clearly believed all this. ‘No, sir.’
I pressed home my advantage.
‘Well you would probably stand trial in the building behind you, and if you were lucky you would end up in one of Her Majesty’s prisons. If you were unlucky you would get the noose. You would certainly never see Zanzibar again.’ He stood looking at me in silence, grabbing his basket of fruit ever closer to his chest. He looked around surreptitiously – then jerked his head indicating I should follow him.
Between the shops, opposite the courthouse, was an alleyway just wide enough for one man to pass through. He walked into it with me behind him, all the time looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us. There were people in the street, but none was taking any notice, and within seconds we were out of eye and earshot of the busy street. Inside the alleyway he seemed to relax.
‘If I tell you what I know, you must please never say I said it, otherwise I will be dead.’
The French Emperor's Woman Page 5