The French Emperor's Woman

by David Bissenden

  We walked on regardless and arrived just before midnight in sleepy Gravesend.

  I had some concerns we might be followed so decided to seek sanctuary within the walls of New Tavern Fort. Whoever the men in the chalk pit were, they had taken some casualties. They might be after revenge. Asif knew the backdoor way into the fort, so we were able to get in and bed down without fuss.

  For the first time I felt relaxed enough to think back on our day. Oddly, although we had not seen Pierre, I felt some satisfaction that we had managed to injure at least one of the kidnappers and escape unhurt. So, there was some sense of relief but also the painful realisation that we had failed to find Pierre and at some stage I would have to break this news to Marie.

  Twenty-Eight

  Deadman’s Creek

  I awoke next morning; my first thought was to tell Gordon about last night’s efforts, but he had been sent away to advise on another coastal fortification. I was soon glad that I had stayed within the walls of the fort. Gravesend was abuzz with gossip about gunshots heard at the Swanscombe quarries. It was no surprise to find out that those quarries were owned by the Tibbalds brothers, and that they were now searching for the culprits.

  That same morning, I saw the Spirit of Rochester sailing down the river towards the estuary. The Excise office confirmed they were bound for Liverpool with a cargo of flint. This must have been a great disappointment to Lynch, who would have been expecting some gold bars hidden amongst it.

  Without Gordon, I had no idea what my next move was. I had not heard from Marie, so I assumed she was probably still in Chislehurst. I thought about her a lot. Her absence left a gaping hole in my life.

  So, I just pottered about the fort, knowing that my mission might well be coming to an end. There was no more money to support my detective work, no Marie, and still no sign of Pierre. I had reached my nadir. Waves of sadness and disappointment filled my thoughts. Worse, my time with Marie now felt like history, or a dream that had happened to someone else.

  A week passed like this. On the seventh day I was sitting by the drill yard inside the fort drinking tea. It was a hot, sunny day but I could not enjoy it. I felt utterly useless and sorry for myself.

  Luckily at that moment the fort gate opened. It was Gordon, back from wherever he had been, departing from a hansom cab and as usual making haste to his office. I strode over to greet him.

  ‘Gordon, so good to see you back. Good trip?’

  He looked at me without a flicker of emotion. ‘Yes, thank you. I will see you in my office in ten minutes.’ At that he left me standing on the hot cobbles. Not one for idle gossip was Gordon. It was now the eighth day after the chalk pit fiasco, and I expected Gordon would chastise me for wasting that time. I arrived at his office exactly ten minutes later.

  Entering that sparse, cool room, I could see Gordon standing over his desk. As per usual, he got straight to the point.

  ‘Come in Reeves, take a seat, I have some news for you.’

  ‘I must apologise Gordon for what had happened last week at the Swanscombe pits, I thought we had a real chance of making an exchange and getting Pierre back into safe hands.’

  Gordon was clearly not that concerned. ‘That is all history now. I do not intend to question you on it further. I assume you acted in good faith and any injuries to the Tibbalds gang were self-defence on your part. Am I right?’

  I was relieved. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you for your understanding.’

  ‘I have received some interesting, but perhaps also worrying, news this morning from the Gravesend police. They have been informed a body of a boy has been washed up at Deadman’s Creek, on the way to Cliffe, three miles from here. There is a small chance it could be Pierre, so I thought you might like to take a look with me?’

  I answered in the affirmative. This is what I had been dreading. Perhaps the kidnappers in their anger had just killed him and dumped the body in the river. Gordon, pragmatic as ever, had already put things in motion.

  ‘Very well Reeves, I have my horse and trap waiting by the main gate. Let us get going before the body is moved.’ At that we departed his office and left the fort.

  We headed east from Gravesend along the Rochester road, past the village of Chalk; we were out in the sticks, just farmland with the occasional cottage tucked in by the side of the road. At a junction, we pulled off in the direction of Lower Higham. The countryside here was flat and you could see right over the marshlands to the Thames beyond. We passed Queens Farm, and then took a left in the direction of Shornmead Fort, then crossed over the railway and canal. At that point we reached open windswept marshland and left the main track and headed east across the Shorne marshes. The road to Deadman’s Creek was poor, in fact it was scarcely a road at all. Gordon had taken the reins himself but the constant jolting as we made our way down the rutted track made it an unpleasant experience. The creek was out on the marshes, where the land met the river. It was a warm day and above us the seagulls flew towards the estuary. There was no cultivation on this stretch of marshes, just pasture for wandering sheep and cows. The ground itself was very uneven and had probably been salting’s till a few years back. The horse had to skirt around the fleets and stagnant ponds, which were overgrown with sedge and bulrush, and of dubious depths. The track meandered over the sections of raised ground where you could safely take a horse and carriage. The higher ground was little more than raised earth mounding alongside water-filled ditches, which perhaps were ancient river defences, long forgotten. A single mistake in your steering and you would be wheel deep in one of those ditches and facing a long delay in retrieving the carriage. Even travelling short distances took time and patience. To our left we could see the Thames and the myriad of shipping which used it every day. As always, it was the barges, with their blood-red sails billowing in the light winds, which stole the show.

  Finally, we could see Deadman’s Creek in front of us. There was already a pair of policemen there; standing solemnly over something draped in canvas sheeting. The creek was notorious for catching dead bodies. These could be the result of accidents, suicides, or murders. Almost everyone who fell into the river upstream ended up here for some reason. It was an inauspicious place, just mud running out into the river, and a mean shingle beach. There were also the remains of a jetty with its rotting timber posts covered in green moss and seaweed, sticking up vertically out of the mud. Perhaps the jetty was once used as an embarkation point for convicts arriving at the old prison hulks that were moored all around here? What must have those places been like for the convicts during the cold winters? I shivered at the thought.

  There was not a single dwelling anywhere near here, just marshland with few trees, and these survivors were bent and strained into contorted shapes by the constant winter winds off the estuary. Despite the heat of the day, this place had a dark, foreboding, feel about it.

  Gordon pulled the horse to a stop about a chain away from where the police were standing. He then stepped out onto the shingle beach with me close behind, our boots on the pebbles making a crunching sound as we walked over to the police officers. The policemen seemed unperturbed by our arrival, clearly Gordon was well respected and known by the Gravesend constabulary.

  ‘Hello sir, we were just about to move the body. Can I ask what your interest is in this matter?’

  Gordon stood upright. ‘Thank you constable for your work in finding the body. This is my associate, William Reeves. He is looking into the disappearance of a thirteen-year-old boy and was concerned that the said body might be that very person. May we have a look at the deceased?’

  The constable looked slightly awkward at this request but given Gordon’s stature in the town, agreed to it.

  ‘Very well, sir.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Bates, lift up the canvas.’ The covering was removed and exposed a body, lying in a foetal position, covered in mud. It was a naked boy, who already had signs of rigor mortis t
hat had left his face strangely contorted. There were signs of heavy bruising to his face – these might have been caused by an attack or just the body bumping into objects on its way down the Thames. The mud and detritus picked up from the river also obscured much of his face and body. The policeman clearly felt the need to say something.

  ‘Poor lad. Been dead a good few hours by the look of it, could have come from anywhere. You know what the tides are like round here.’

  I stepped closer.

  ‘Can I have a closer look at him?’ The policeman nodded. I gently wiped some mud off his face and carefully inspected his facial features. Although approximately the same age and build as Pierre, it was almost impossible to decide if it was the French boy. My only image of him was the photograph that Marie had provided. My gut feeling was that it probably was not him, but I could not be sure. I walked away, then gestured to Gordon that I wanted to be out of the policeman’s earshot.

  I called over to the officers. ‘Can you excuse me – I just need to discuss this with Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon.’ The policemen nodded. We walked back to the horse and trap and stood alongside it.

  ‘What do you think Reeves?’

  I shrugged. ‘I do not think it is Pierre, but I only have one photograph to base this judgement upon. Perhaps once the boy is cleaned up and awaiting the coroner, we could contact Marie-Anne to see if she is willing to visit the mortuary to formally identify the boy?’

  Gordon thought for a while. ‘Such an action will bring great unhappiness and trepidation to the lady. Are you sure you want to put her through that?’

  I replied without hesitation. ‘Yes, I think that is necessary.’

  Gordon sighed again. ‘So be it.’ We returned to the policemen and he spoke to them. ‘Mr Reeves believes there is a chance that the boy is the son of his client, so we will be requesting that the mother views the body. Where will you be taking him?’

  ‘The deceased will be taken to the temporary mortuary by the assizes on the high street in Gravesend.’ Gordon conveyed our thanks for the police’s cooperation, and we climbed back onto the trap. We cautiously made our way back towards the fort, the horse and trap wriggling over the winding bunds above the marsh.

  He was silent for a while, but then Gordon turned to me. ‘You don’t really think that boy is Pierre, do you?’

  I replied honestly. ‘No, on balance I don’t think the corpse is Pierre, but I cannot be sure. Perhaps only his mother can confirm his identity – one way or another.’

  ‘I hope Reeves that this is not just a ruse for you to get Marie back in Gravesend? I fear this woman has a hold on you. A dangerous hold, and it is a very worrying game that you are playing.’ At that, no more words were spoken. We returned to the fort in silence.

  Twenty-Nine

  The Mortuary

  Later that morning I visited Gravesend police station and requested that they telegram Marie; this was on the basis that I believed that the dead boy could be her missing son, Pierre. The police agreed to my request and by the evening I had received a telegram in response stating that Marie would be arriving the next morning at 9 a.m. to identify the body.

  The night would give time for the mortuary technician to make the body look half respectable so as not to upset the mother. I had a plan on what I wanted to do when Marie arrived at the mortuary. I spoke to Gordon about this. He was clearly discomforted by my approach but agreed to the course of action. He also knew the officer in charge of the court’s cells, which were acting as the temporary mortuary – Jacob Scarfe. He was a good fellow who might be able to help me – if I was discreet.

  I did not sleep well that night. I knew I had just one chance to talk with Marie. It would either be when she first arrived at the mortuary, or when she was leaving it after the formal identification. My feelings were that it should be when she left. That would hopefully allow her to see the body and realise it was not Pierre. Obviously if it were Pierre, she would be too distraught to engage in a meaningful conversation. I had no great plan of action but hoped that at this point myself and Asif could find a way of secreting her out of the building.

  Asif and I arrived in the high street early, just after eight o’clock, and took our places in the alleyway opposite the court building. Even at this time in the morning the street was busy with people going to and from the market, which was located at the rear of the courts. We waited patiently and just before nine I caught sight of a particularly fine carriage; all my instincts told me that this had come from the French court at Chislehurst. It had come up from West Street, where it turned right onto the high street. It slowly moved uphill towards us. I knew straight away that the carriage belonged to Napoleon because of its stylish livery. I could see Toulouse himself, dressed up to the nines, alongside the driver on top. I assumed Marie was inside the carriage. They must have left Chislehurst at the crack of dawn to get here this early. Clearly Toulouse had decided not to use the train. Whether this was for security reasons, or because arriving in their grandiose carriage was a sign of social status, I do not know. But knowing his character I suspected the latter.

  Toulouse stepped down from the driver’s seat and went to open the carriage door. As you would expect, he did this with a theatrical flourish. Clearly he thought his presence in Gravesend was an important event for the town.

  Little did he know that his day was going to be ruined! At this moment, while Toulouse was blindsided by the coach, I slipped out of the alley and crossed the road in front of the carriage heading for the market. The Frenchman was too engaged in opening the door to notice me. I grabbed a quick glance back. Yes, there she was – Marie, dressed in black, stepping down gracefully from the carriage, with Toulouse holding her hand to make safe her step.

  I carried on towards the market, but then instead of walking in, entered the side door of the court building. This had been left unlocked for my convenience. In the foyer of the building stood Jacob Scarfe. From his features and demeanour, I could see he was a very decent man. He gestured for me to take the stairs down to the cells, which I did without delay. I was just in time, as I could hear the front door opening and the arrival of Marie and Toulouse. At the bottom of the stairs I came upon a short corridor. The basement was a spartan affair; on the left were three cells, and the door of the middle one was open. Glancing in, I could see a body, lying on a slab in the centre of the room. The cellblock was cold, almost perfect conditions for a dead body but horrible for the living. Luckily, there were no other people there. I noted the lavatory at the far end of the corridor, and swiftly secreted myself inside it. After a few seconds’ wait, I could hear voices, albeit indistinctly and the sound of the footsteps. I guessed that Scarfe, Marie and Toulouse were coming down the stairs.

  I could just make out some indistinct chatter, so I assumed that the three of them were walking along the corridor. After a pause, Marie was led into the cell containing the body. Luckily, they left the cell door open so I could hear what was being said. There was a long pause. Then I clearly heard Marie’s voice. ‘It is not Pierre. Praise be to God.’ Simple as that. Toulouse then spoke in his usual pretentious, authoritative voice. ‘Very well, thank you for your time Mr Scarfe, but it appears we have been on a wasted trip.’

  Scarfe replied. ‘No problem at all sir if I can be of anymore—’

  He stopped mid-sentence. Suddenly his hushed, kindly tones were drowned out by noise from outside. It sounded as if there was a kafuffle in the street.

  Toulouse urgently broke into the conversation. ‘I think our carriage is being attacked, can you excuse me, while I sort this out?’

  I could hear his heavy footsteps running up the stairs. I knew what was occurring. As per the plan Asif had jumped onto the coach, pushed off the driver and was attempting to steal the carriage. The ensuing noise and hullaballoo had reached Toulouse’s ears. I took my chance. I threw open the door of the privy and stood in front of Scarfe and M
arie. She looked shocked beyond measure.

  Scarfe knew of my intentions so took it in his stride. Marie spoke first. ‘What are you doing here, what is going on?’

  Scarfe said knowingly, ‘I will leave you to it then, you know the back way out Mr Reeves.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, thanks.’ Scarfe walked up the stairs leaving us alone. I looked at Marie, I was now so close. ‘Marie, please we have no time. Follow me, out of here, and I’ll tell you what you need to know.’

  Marie’s response was not what I expected, not at all. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on.’

  I felt desperation. ‘Please Marie, Toulouse will be back soon, we only have seconds.’

  She stood her ground. ‘Have you done this? Brought me here to Gravesend on a wild goose chase? You knew that boy was not my Pierre, you have seen his photograph, yet you still did this. How could you? I have lain awake all night, my stomach twisted in pain, thinking my boy was dead. How could you be so cruel?’

  I was now at my wits’ end, I continued unabashed. ‘But how else could I get you out of Chislehurst? How could I get you back with me? Look we can run, we can get out the back of this building, find somewhere to hide, then when the coast is clear, start a new life.’

  Her face said it all, I did not need her words – but they came anyway. ‘You are a fool William, my allegiance is with the Emperor, he is my rock, not you. When he has recovered from his operation he will see how important I am to him, and I will take my place as the true Empress. I cannot risk all that and live like a fugitive, with a man who has no prospects.’

  I stood dumbfounded. A sword through my heart would have hurt less. ‘I’m sorry Marie, I thought we had something special. Please forgive me for this subterfuge. I just hoped that we could be together.’