The French Emperor's Woman

by David Bissenden

  He smiled. ‘That’s alright sir, he’s a good bloke. We would do anything for him.’

  I nodded in agreement. ‘I would just like to pick your brains one more time, if I may?’

  ‘Very well sir, but I don’t think you’ll find much more up there.’

  ‘You know the brewery in West Street. Does it have an entrance round the back facing onto the river?’

  Fred did not hesitate. ‘Of course it does sir, that is where they unload stuff off boats and barges, instead of at the front.’

  That is what I wanted to hear.

  ‘Would it be easy to break into the brewery from the river side at night do you think?’

  Fred nodded. ‘Piece of cake sir. You can get into the building by jemmying open the back door to the river. Only trouble is they has a night watchman, Jessie Armitage, we know him because his son was one of us for a while, till he passed away. God bless his soul.’

  I thanked Fred for his help, then let him get back to his work. I then walked into New Tavern Fort and was able to meet Gordon straight away. I broached the subject of the brewery and asked him about the night watchman, Mr Armitage.

  ‘Yes, Jessie Armitage, we bumped into him on West Street. His wife died in childbirth and he developed a serious alcohol problem, lost his son as well. The poor boy had to live on the streets because Jessie could not look after him, or himself for that matter. Rumour is that he was murdered. Between you and me, there was also an inference that he had been used by sailors drinking at the King’s Arms, for unspeakable practices. But the coroner had no evidence. So, it was death by drowning. Often happens to those mud larkers, they take silly risks to get stuff from the river bottom. Anyway, with God’s help, we managed to get Jessie off the drink – and now he’s back at the brewery, on probation, as a night watchman.’

  I was taken aback by that story but could say nothing apart from how sorry I was for Armitage. I then told Gordon my plans for a midnight foray into Bennett’s office. He thought for a moment, then replied briskly, ‘Alright Reeves, you have my blessing. Be discreet though and no damage to the brewery. I will tip off Armitage that you are coming and recommend that he keeps his head down. Obviously if it all goes wrong, I know nothing. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ I replied. At that our meeting finished, I bade farewell and left Gordon’s office, clear in my plans for that night.

  I swiftly strode back towards the Eagle. As I rounded the corner into West Street I could see Asif standing by the streetlight looking a bit lost. ‘Hello Asif, everything alright?’

  He looked down at his feet and replied, ‘I don’t know Mr Reeves, sir, I’m used to being part of a crew, taking orders. I don’t know what to do with myself without a ship.’

  I could see he was a little distressed.

  ‘Don’t worry Asif, I have a little job you can help me out with tonight. Then tomorrow, I will see about finding a new boat for you to crew on. Is that alright with you?’

  ‘That would be wonderful, Mr Reeves.’

  I could see he was perfect for what I had in mind.

  ‘This work does require you to do something a little illegal. I want to break into the brewery tonight to have a look around; is that alright with you?’

  He looked more concerned at first, then said, ‘That is fine with me Mr Reeves. Just tell me what I have to do.’

  I reached into my pocket and brought out some florins and shillings.

  ‘Can you go into town and buy a gemmy and anything else you can think of for opening doors, perhaps hair clips that can be bent into key shapes, things like that. Also, a bag to put them in?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right then. Meet me down by the river at midnight… Just behind the Eagle is an alleyway which goes down to the river’s edge, it will be low tide tonight. Make sure you are on time.’

  Asif was clearly happy at this new adventure and scurried off into town with the silver coins plunged deep into his pockets.

  Twenty

  Night Work

  I met him as arranged at midnight. All was quiet, and the tools of the trade were in his workman’s bag. I had also procured a Davey lamp from Gordon’s quartermaster.

  ‘Ready,’ I said.

  We set off down the narrow alleyway that led to the foreshore. All was silent here, on this strip of shingle between the town and the great river. With nothing to see my sense of smell became more acute and I took in the mix of odours coming from the river – salt and seaweed and great age – this river had flowed past here forever.

  It was low tide, and there was just enough moonlight to enable us to pick a route across the mud and shingle beach up to the brewery’s external iron staircase. The noise of our footsteps on the shingle was our only company. The staircase was probably used in the past for deliveries by barges, now it was covered in slimy green weed, so I assumed it was no longer in use. We quietly one step at a time ascended the stairs and arrived at the back door of the building. All was quiet. I took the gemmy from Asif and started trying to work the door open, with little success. He gestured for me to let him have a go. Immediately he made an impression, working the corner of the door with the edge of his jemmy. Slowly but surely the door started to loosen out of its frame. Finally, with a discernible crunch, the timber frame was broken, and the door opened. We had made some noise, so both of us stood in silence for a short while, waiting to see if our presence had disturbed anyone. We could see a dim light inside the brewery, but no noise or movement. Asif touched his ear with a cupped hand. I listened more intently. Nothing, Jessie Armitage must have been in the porter’s office but was turning a blind eye to us. I cautiously opened the door. We were now at the back of the cooperage and could smell horses nearby, probably in an adjoining stable, but they seemed to be undisturbed by our efforts. We crept through the cooperage, being careful not to trip over the tools or timber pieces on the floor and emerged in the main warehouse area. This was where the drays would be loaded with barrels every day, and I noted numbered bays which I assumed they used.

  A dim light was coming from a small porter’s office, which was located by the main double-height solid timber gates on the brewery’s frontage to West Street. We crept up to the office and looked in. Yes, there he was – the watchman Jessie, reading a book, pretending to be unaware of our presence. We swiftly moved towards the foot of the iron staircase leading to John Bennett’s office. By walking slowly, and with soft footsteps, we managed to make little noise and were soon at the top and facing the office door. Asif took the lead and started to pick the lock. He was clearly an expert and within seconds the door was open. I had brought with me the Davey lamp, and this gave off more than enough light to read any paperwork we might find.

  While Asif kept guard I studiously studied the spines of the big leather-bound ledgers, stacked neatly on the high wooden shelves. The contents were written on the ledgers’ spines, and I soon found one relating to keg purchases and sales. I hauled the heavy ledger off the shelf and gently placed it on the desk. I then carefully opened it and after some leafing through, found the right page. Yes, my theory was probably right. Written in ornate black script was the information I wanted, they had received a big delivery of new barrels from Tommy Tibbalds on the 22nd September 1870, exactly when I would have expected. Emboldened by this I carefully lifted the ledger back onto its shelf and turned to Bennett’s desk. Without any delay Asif opened the desk drawers with his trusty hairpin. Holding the Davey lamp above, I carefully went through the drawer contents.

  The items inside the desk were not surprising at first. Lots of paperwork that had little meaning to my investigation. One oddity was in the bottom drawer, where there seemed to be a good supply of bread and cheese. Who knows why, perhaps Bennett was so mean he bought in bulk and pigged out on it during the day? One other thing caught my eye. It looked unremarkable at first, but something told me to look further.
It was a large, foolscap-size, sealed envelope with no writing on its cover. I gently opened it, so it could be resealed later. I expected to find some more documents related to shipping, or brewing, but instead to my surprise there were photographs. Dozens of them – dirty pictures, pornography. This was quite a shock. I showed them to Asif. We both had to stifle a giggle. However, as we looked at the individual pictures our humour was spent. This was not normal cheeky pictures of naked women, but overwhelmingly photographs of naked men and boys! These were shocking but then we realised that finding these photographs could be potentially good news for us. However, he had obtained these pictures, Bennett must in some way have broken decency laws in handling them. This could be the handle, the hook I needed to get information extracted from him.

  Then, just as I was about to put the pictures back into the envelope, a hand-written invoice fell out. I put the lamp close to it and read the name: Bussell Portraiture Studio, Harmer Street, Gravesend. More luck. I now knew where these had originated from. It had been stupid of Bennett to retain the invoice but he no doubt thought his office desk was an impregnable castle where all his dirty little secrets could be hidden safely. I took a number of the most incriminating prints from the envelope, and the invoice, and then carefully replaced the remainder back in the envelope and placed it in the bottom of the drawer.

  We then set about repairing our handiwork – closing the desk, tidying the ledgers, and leaving quietly through the office door – making sure it was shut behind us. We crept down the staircase. I could see Jessie in the office, so felt obliged to quietly put him in the picture. I softly knocked on the door and he stood up and slightly opened it.

  ‘Did you get into the office without doing any damage?’

  ‘Yes, no problems.’

  Jessie seemed calmed by this. ‘So, the story is: I heard a sound at the river door of it being forced open. I went to see what was happening, and the burglars must have heard me and run off without stealing anything?’

  ‘Exactly. That way you will be in the clear Jessie.’

  ‘That’s a relief, I need to keep sweet with the brewery bosses. I still hope I can get back on the drays. I hate sitting here on my own all night.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Now we will bid you goodnight. You never saw us. We never saw you.’ He nodded and we made our way towards the river door. We then retraced our steps, exiting through the back door out into the cool moonlit night. We had done it! I shook Asif’s hand and bade him to depart. It was a job well done. Asif wandered off into the night and I quietly returned to my hotel room making sure I did not leave muddy footprints everywhere. We had achieved what I had wanted and, by chance, a lot more. I had the evidence I needed; that Bennett was probably connected to Pierre’s disappearance, and instrumental in moving him around in a beer barrel. As a bonus, the pictures of boys showed he was rotten to the core and probably one of Lynch’s inner circle. Despite the night’s excitement, I slept well.

  Twenty-One

  Gordon

  Next day I went to see Gordon at the fort. I now had all this information to share but was uncertain what to do with it. In normal circumstances I might have taken it direct to the constabulary, fingering both Bennett and the photographer, but my job was to find Pierre, simple as that.

  Gordon saw me immediately. On walking in I could see his desk had a copy of the local paper on it; for once he seemed in a cheerful mood.

  ‘Hello Reeves. Good news. The Gravesend Chronicle have run with the story I leaked to them.’ He handed me the paper on whose front page was an article about the fire on board the Spirit. I read it quickly and could see the gist of it was that the blaze had been an accident – caused by over-adventurous, unknown kids, swimming out to the boat and accidentally knocking over a lantern. I smiled. He was clearly incredibly pleased and continued.

  ‘That has killed off the French spies rumour – without putting Fred and his mud larkers in the dock. A good day’s work, don’t you think?’

  I was pleased as well and thought I might take advantage of his obvious good mood.

  ‘Does this mean, that as the French connection is now discounted, I can bring Marie back to Gravesend to help with my enquiries?’

  Gordon’s mood changed quickly. He scoffed, ‘I did not do this to help your love life Reeves! This was all about politics and the need to avoid an international embarrassing incident.’ I could see he meant what he said, so left it at that.

  ‘So, Reeves, what else have you to impart today?’

  I paused then, came clean about last night’s events.

  ‘I needed to gather more information and try to prove my theory about the beer barrels was plausible. So, I visited the brewery late last night and managed to enter John Bennett’s office. I then went through his paperwork and found some things of interest in his desk.’

  ‘This is what I found in his desk.’ I took the photographs out and laid them on the desk in front of him.

  ‘There are just a few here. I left the rest in the hope he does not know they are missing.’

  Gordon looked at the photographs with total dismay and disgust. In front of him were pictures of naked boys.

  ‘My God Reeves, this is filth, debauchery – I cannot look at them.’ At that he turned the pictures over and sat back down in his chair, obviously shaken. He sat like that for a few seconds then carefully chose his words.

  ‘So, Reeves we now know that Mr Bennett is a wicked man. Almost certainly with ungodly homosexual tendencies. A truly disgusting individual.’

  I concurred with him and offered some more information.

  ‘Also, the pictures were taken at a local studio, in Harmer Street. There was an invoice in the box. So, the photographer is also guilty of horrendous practices.’ Gordon was still red-faced with anger. ‘Don’t worry Reeves, by the time this affair is over the photographer will never work again unless it is in a prison workshop. This is filthy business to be involved in.’ I agreed with him and continued.

  ‘Yes, it is truly disgusting, but I have to ask you Gordon. Do you recognise any of the boys? Might they have gone to your school or used the night shelter at some time?’ Gordon picked up the photographs again, as if handling turds, and put them picture-side up. He looked through the stack.

  ‘No Reeves, I don’t. My guess is that they have been brought in from London. In some ways I hope they are boys used to this lifestyle and not good God-fearing boys dragged off the streets against their will.’

  We sat in silence for a while, which Gordon finally broke.

  ‘So, what do you want to do next? Shall we take this information to the Kent constabulary?’

  I looked him in the eye.

  ‘No, I would rather not at this time. I need this information as leverage on Bennett, and perhaps the photographer as well, to find Pierre and bring him back safe and sound.’

  Gordon seemed to agree with this. ‘Very well, I’ll leave it to you as to how to proceed but keep me informed.’ I carefully put the photographs back into the envelope and bade farewell to Gordon.

  I then scurried down to the post office to send a telegram to Marie asking her to come back to Gravesend immediately.

  Twenty-Two

  Marie Comes Back

  The next morning, I received the information I wanted. Marie would be arriving on the two o’clock train from London. I set off in good time and strode up the high street towards the station.

  Oddly, the busy streets full of shoppers and workers of all kinds made me feel lonely. Perhaps the photographs had upset me more than I knew. I thought back on my life and all the changes that had ensued since I was a boy. Back then there were no trains, no telegraph, few factories, and people relied on candles for light. Most folk were born and died in the same village. Now everything had changed, and was still changing, fast.

  This inner soul-searching was making me think more about M
arie. I knew I was highly attracted to her, maybe even in love, but where did I stand? It would have been clearly wrong to have such feelings for a married woman, but what of a mistress? I had heard that in France every man of means has a mistress and often these women were highly educated and loyal to their married lovers. Was it morally wrong to have lust for another man’s mistress? In any case Napoleon’s health was now so bad I assume that Marie was mistress in name only. So, would it be morally right for me to take this further? I was still pondering these thoughts when I arrived at the station, at the top end of the high street, and bought a platform ticket.

  The station was a good size and heavily used with some people travelling to London every day for work. The railway had been built fifteen feet under the level of the streets, so the trains emerged through a chalk cutting into the station. This clever planning made the railway almost invisible to the town above.

  I stood on the platform and awaited the train from London. It soon arrived, dead on time, in a cloud of smoke. The train gently slowed to a halt. I waited for the passengers to open their compartment doors and it was with much relief and joy that I saw Marie standing at the carriage door. She seemed to be on her own and had no luggage, no Antonia this time, thank goodness! I swiftly strode over to her and holding her hand gently, but firmly, helped her down the train step onto the platform. It felt like I was half of a married couple, meeting after a separation.

  ‘I’m so glad you could make it, Marie.’

  She smiled. ‘No, it is you I must thank for keeping me informed and not giving up. Can we go to a tearoom?’

  I smiled. ‘Of course. There is one just over the street.’

  At that we walked side by side through the station barrier onto the high street, and across the road into the tearooms. Although not as luxurious as the Clarendon, it was more than adequate, with clean tablecloths and waitress service.