It was now just past six o’clock so the compartment I was in only had suited gentlemen with bowler hats on board, presumably coming home from their desk jobs in the City. I sat down by the window and watched the scenery as the train moved forward through the cutting under the streets of Gravesend. The light came and went as roads overhead crossed the trainline. Then we were out into more open country, I could see the open marshes leading north to the Thames from my window. The other passengers seemed to have no interest in me, which suited me fine. Then we went into a long tunnel. The smoke from the train engine could now be smelt quite strongly; I had opened the carriage window and was not going to shut it till I had caught sight of my prey, much to the annoyance of the other passengers. Finally, we emerged from the tunnel and I could see Strood station ahead. The train slowed, then finally came to a standstill on the platform. I sneaked a look out; yes, there was John Bennett, with his characteristic limp and walking stick, disembarking. I waited until the train was ready to leave then jumped off, much to the annoyance of the station master who clearly prided himself on passenger safety. By now Bennett had left the station so I was able to follow on at a discreet distance. For a man with a walking stick he made great pace. Leaving the station, I could see him heading down the street towards the River Medway. I kept back. Luckily, there were a few other souls going my way, so I was not too noticeable, even if Bennett had turned around.
At the bottom of the street he turned left. I noted the name of the street on a road sign – Canal Street. I paused awhile on the corner to get my bearings. I was virtually on the riverside, surrounded by wharves and businesses connected to the shipping industry. Straight ahead was the Medway itself, and to my right, perhaps a mile distant, was the majestic Rochester Bridge. I looked left along the waterfront and there I saw what I had been half expecting. It was the Spirit of Rochester, about half a mile distant, berthed by the riverside at what looked like a shipyard.
Between the shipyard and myself was the remaining section of Canal Street and a riverside inn, the Frying Pan, which faced out over the river. At the end of Canal Street was a canal lock, with a narrow path over it leading to a coal yard and cement works. I could see to my left the massive black heaps of coal stored alongside the quay. Beyond that was a cement factory, with its grey and white dust covering everything close to it. Then there was just open foreshore, with flat marshy land behind it, until you reached the shipyard and the Spirit.
After Bennett had crossed the lock gate and disappeared into the alleyway that went through the cement works, I walked up Canal Street as far as the inn. It was a place with windows overlooking the river. Guessing that I would be very exposed if I took the foreshore path to the shipyard, I decided to take sanctuary there.
I walked in; it was a friendly enough place, so I bought a beer and settled myself down by the window. I was soon able to see Bennett’s hurrying figure emerge from behind the cement works. Within a minute he was walking the gangplank onto the Spirit. My hunch had been correct – he was seeking an emergency meeting with Lynch.
It was now a waiting game. To appear less conspicuous, I got out my notebook and pen and started sketching the riverfront. That way, my staring out of the window would not look that odd. Though the pub was full of working men and was loud at times, they did not bother me. Nevertheless, it was difficult to kill the time without drawing attention to myself. I also had to be careful not to drink too much too soon. I might need a clear head later.
On my second pint the landlord, a well-rounded, middle-aged man with a large purple nose, wandered over to me and spoke warmly. ‘The river’s beautiful, ain’t it sir? Half the people in this beer house don’t notice it, but I do.’
I smiled and replied, ‘Thank you for that, it restores my faith in human nature. My name’s William by the way.’
We shook hands. ‘I’m Roy Strong, been the publican here for twenty years. We don’t often get artists here, occasionally people come to draw the Rochester Bridge, but not that often.’
The conversation was cut short by some locals clearly wanting service. He went off to see to them while I resumed my seat by the window. It was close to midsummer, so the light was still fine. I sat there for almost two hours. Then finally I saw him, Bennett was leaving the ship and heading back. I bade farewell to Roy and set off down Canal Street to the lock gate. I could see now more detail of the wharves and docks. The lock led to a large basin surrounded by coal yards. A sign proclaimed that this was the coal depot for the South Eastern Rail Company, and I could see beyond the stacks of coal the numerous branch lines joining onto the main Strood to Gravesend Railway. The tide was low, no boats were entering the lock at this time, so the narrow pathway across the lock gates was open for pedestrians.
I secreted myself behind a nearby wall and stared at the lock gate, and alleyway beyond that led to it. I did not have to wait long. Bennett was coming. Scurrying along the alleyway, oblivious to all around him. He reached the lock and slowed at this point as the walkway was narrow and being timber, might be slippery. At this point I darted out from behind the wall. He carried on a few steps before he realised the man in front of him was me. I was the man from Gravesend who asked awkward questions. I stood at one end of the lock gates. He stood at the other end. The passageway was only perhaps thirty inches wide with a steep drop to the canal below us. He glared at me.
‘What do you want? Out of my way,’ he spat.
‘Well Mr Bennett, fancy meeting you here, just after another meeting with your friend Captain Lynch, I presume?’
He stared back.
‘What is it to you? Out of my way.’
I stood firm. ‘Not till you tell me the whereabouts of Pierre Le Beau.’
He gulped a little at this point; there was fear in his eyes but also grim determination, he was not going to be easily beaten.
‘Never heard of him.’
I stood stock still, blocking his path.
‘Oh, I think you have. It is the French boy you arranged with Lynch to bring from Rouen to London. But he never made it there. He was taken ashore in Gravesend. Where is he now? Hidden no doubt. I want to know where ?’
At this point all pretence was forgotten. He moved towards me and clutching the body of his walking stick, he drew out a sword that had been concealed within it. It was about two feet long and narrow with a vicious-looking tip. Before I had a chance to think of another plan of action, he was at me. He thrust with the sword, aiming at my body. Instinctively I managed to protect my chest by holding my hand across my heart. The sword tip plunged into my wrist, drawing blood. The shock of this made me fall to my knees. He brought the sword out and made ready to thrust it again. There was murder in his eyes. At that moment, a man nearby shouted out, ‘What’s going on?’
Bennett was literally put off his stroke; he quickly put his sword back into the swordstick and jumped over my semi-prostate figure. He then scurried off down Canal Street. I was still in a state of shock. While the pain was bearable, the blood loss was worrying. I was lucky that within seconds a man arrived – followed by another. I did not know if they were lockkeepers, or just workers passing by, but they probably saved me. The pair dragged me off the lock gate, then lifted me to my feet. With both men holding me up from under my arms, they helped me stumble into the Frying Pan, which was the nearest building. Roy was still there, and seeing my distress, immediately came out from behind the bar. I was sat down, and he called for his wife, who swiftly applied a makeshift tourniquet to stop the blood loss in my arm. I was laid down on one of the benches and a doctor was called. One arrived shortly and quickly stitched up the wound. A member of the Kent constabulary also arrived, but I lied and said that I had been attacked by persons unknown. I was now alright really, the blood loss had stopped and so had the shock of the event. Though I felt a little silly that I had not recognised Bennett’s walking stick as a swordstick.
I stayed that nig
ht at the Frying Pan, as luckily they had a spare bedroom. I slept fitfully; the pain from my arm was a problem and I distinctly remember being awake at 3 a.m., awoken I presume by the throbbing pain. My thoughts turned to Marie, alone in her bed at Chislehurst and I was warmed by the memories of yesterday. I dozed off again and awoke at eight.
I was immeasurably grateful to Roy and his wife and was happy to pay for the room, and the doctor’s bill. My arm was now in a sling. Roy showed me one more act of kindness by persuading the brewer’s drayman to give me a lift back to Strood station. The kindness of strangers.
I caught the train back to Gravesend. It was now 10 a.m. I walked slowly back to the Eagle; it had been a long night.
Twenty-Five
Back to Chislehurst
Marie had arrived back at Chislehurst at seven o’clock the preceding evening, having been picked up from Sidcup station by one of Napoleon’s staff. Back at the house the atmosphere seemed strange. Louis had taken to his bed with another round of his interminable illnesses, mostly painful kidney stones, and it appeared that Antonia was now in charge of his comfort. Marie could not really care less. She had had enough of this dreadful fiasco of living with an emperor with no empire. She was an exile in a foreign land without any real position at the Emperor’s court.
The only thing that made her feel good about herself was William. With him, for the first time in years, she felt like someone desirable, not just a chattel to be used on demand. But her daydreaming made no difference to her day-to-day life, and that night, as always, she went to bed alone.
Her sleep was broken in the middle of the night. She awoke with a start. She could hear Toulouse outside the front door talking loudly to somebody. Marie leapt out of bed and went to the window. Clearly something had occurred. She could hear his voice saying, ‘So you didn’t catch sight of the horseman?’
The other man replied, ‘No sir, he just dropped this by the gates and rode off. He was too fast for us.’
Toulouse grunted. ‘Very well, get back to your post.’ At that he came back into the house and disappeared off to his bedroom.
Was this another letter from the kidnappers, another ransom demand? Marie glanced at the clock in her bedroom; it was three o’clock. In normal circumstances she would have banged on his bedroom door and demanded to see the letter, but the atmosphere at the house was so toxic now, she hesitated. Matthew hated her,if she demanded to see the letter he might refuse outright. The protocol was that Louis Napoleon would see it first if it were addressed to him. Marie closed the bedroom door and went back to her bed. She would have to wait until morning, then things would become clearer.
She woke at seven and went down to the servants’ quarters kitchen to see what needed to be done. Matthew Toulouse was already there. He was a bald man with a silly pointed moustache, much as the Emperor had in past years. He was about forty years of age. He was a creep of the first order, always politicking and feeding poisonous rumours to Louis Napoleon.
‘Good morning Marie, so good for you to condescend to spend some time with us, fulfilling your duties to the house.’ Marie felt belittled but stood her ground.
‘Louis gave me express permission to go to Gravesend to see what I could find out about my missing son. You know that.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Indeed, finding your missing son. That seems to have somewhat taken over your life. Luckily for us, Antonia is perfectly capable of fulfilling all your roles and will wake and breakfast our Emperor today.’
‘I am perfectly willing and capable of providing for all of his needs.’
Toulouse twiddled his moustache. ‘Indeed, I’m sure you are. However, things are changing. Perhaps we need to discuss your position further? If you could meet me in the drawing room at 10 a.m., we can talk through things in private.’ He smiled again, even his smile seemed like a snake’s hiss.
‘Very well, I will meet you then. Before that can I enquire about a letter delivered here last night, about three o’clock, by a horse rider?’
His smile had now disappeared. ‘A letter addressed to the Emperor was delivered. I will be discussing its contents with Louis later this morning before I meet you. Now can I get on with business?’ It was clearly the end of the discussion. Marie nodded and went back to her room.
At 10 a.m. prompt Marie took her seat in the drawing room. She was alone in the fine room with its tapestry-style wallpaper and velvet curtains. Ten minutes later Matthew Toulouse appeared. He looked as pretentious and pompous as Marie had ever seen him. He closed the door behind him. Marie stood up and curtseyed. Matthew nodded and bade her to sit down. He fiddled with his moustache and smoothed down his suit before speaking.
‘Marie, I have been speaking to Louis about your predicament. We are both obviously saddened by the kidnap of little Pierre but have some concerns that this matter is overwhelming your ability to do your duties here at the house.’ Marie was stunned.
‘Let me speak to Louis, he will understand if I explain things to him.’
Matthew sighed. ‘I’m afraid it has gone beyond that. I believe that you would benefit from returning to Paris, obviously with a new identity. That way you could start a new, and better, life for yourself.’ Marie could not believe her ears; she felt her whole world crumbling before her.
She tried to interrupt but to no avail.
‘Of course, you would be paid a small allowance to help you start your new life.’
Her shock now turned to anger. ‘But Pierre is the son of the Emperor. All my efforts to find him are for Louis as well.’
Matthew’s smile was almost sickening.
‘I am sorry, but the Emperor is not a well man, also he is not convinced that Pierre is his child, so his interest in this matter is purely academic.’
Marie was now crestfallen; this was a hammer blow. She fought back as best she could.
‘I demand to see Louis. I demand it.’
Matthew was unmoved and becoming smugger by the minute. ‘I am afraid that is totally impossible. He is going into one of London’s finest hospitals, later today, to have gallstones removed. He is not fit enough to see you. The decision is made. However, as a sign of my compassion for your predicament, we will allow you to remain at the house until you can settle your affairs here. That time you should remain in your bedroom. Your meals will be left outside the door, as will a fresh chamber pot.’
This was it then, the final humiliation. She knew Toulouse must not destroy her. Marie recovered her composure.
‘That horse rider in the night, did he bring another ransom demand? Is that what has upset Louis?’
Matthew spoke slowly. ‘The contents of the letter are private, but I intend to convey them to the relevant authority, who I believe is Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon, based at Gravesend.’
Marie was unhappy at Matthew even knowing this. ‘How do you know Gordon is involved?’
He smiled thinly. ‘I have sources in Gravesend. I also believe you have. In fact, rumours have reached my ears that you have been indiscreet, with some tuppenny ha’penny journalist, by the name of William Reeves.’ Marie felt denuded by this. ‘Of course, I have not given Louis all the details, as he is a sick man and has always held you in high regard. Your fealty to him has always been something he valued highly, so I have not mentioned this matter. Yet. I hope you appreciate my discretion in this matter.’
Marie was broken by this; her fifteen-year relationship with Napoleon, albeit for the last few years just a friendship, was the reason she had followed him into exile in London.
‘I think that brings our little conversation to an end Marie. Now if you could return to your room I can continue with business.’
Marie stood up as best she could, her legs had turned to jelly but she managed a cursory curtsey. Toulouse had not heard the last of this. When Louis was well enough she would get things changed, but for now she had to accept her fate. S
he stood tall, then walked out of the room and back up the stairs to her lonely bedroom. It felt as if her life were over, but she would never let Toulouse think that she was weak or broken.
Part 3
Dark places for dark deeds
Twenty-Six
The Fort
I had some concerns about the sword wound. It was hurting like hell and badly bruised. I was also beginning to feel feverish which might have been a reaction to the wound or sign of an infection. I was too unwell to sleep so around noon decided to go and see the medical officer at the fort.
My face was well-known there now, and I was able to speak to the medical officer. He looked at my wound with some concern but seemed to conclude it was not infected. The fever was probably just a reaction to the shock and pain.
Happy with this diagnosis I wondered off from his room and out into the small parade ground at the centre of the fort.
The sun was shining, and I took advantage of this to try and relax and let nature do the healing. Within a few minutes Asif appeared. He had been doing some construction work on the ramparts and was now taking his lunchbreak. He was clearly pleased to see me.
‘Mr Reeves, you look unwell. What is the matter with your arm?’
I tried to raise a brave smile. ‘Just a flesh wound. Had a fallout with John Bennett, and he got the knife in first.’
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