“But thirty-five thousand pounds,” the count said hoarsely.
“It seemed a gamble that carried few risks. I have not taken many risks in my life. This seemed like the moment to do so.” She looked over at her husband. “I knew you had met Mr. Pentwater in the past. You spoke highly of his business acumen.”
The count put his head in his hands. “Wir lagen falsch.”
“When did you learn you had lost everything?” Higgins asked her.
“In July. I hoped after my father died this year, there might be a bequest for his only daughter. Instead, everything went to Richard.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clara said, although the countess only sneered in reply.
Richard shook his head at his sister. “You should have told me.”
“I saw no reason to publicize my folly.”
“Did you speak to Pentwater about the money when he was here?” Ramsey asked.
“No. I feared he might recall my name as being one of his investors.” She reached for her water goblet and took a long sip. “But so many of us handed our money over to him, we were probably nothing more than numbers in a ledger. I was appalled to learn my husband had invited him here on business. There was no way to disinvite him without revealing what I had done.”
The atmosphere in the dining room had turned gloomy, despite the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Suddenly a loud rumbling met their ears. It sounded like Philippe’s aeroplane, but he still sat at the table.
“Mon Dieu, she is here!” With a jubilant smile, the aviator sprang to his feet. “Nathalie has arrived!”
“Your sweetheart from France?” Eliza asked.
“Oui. The other day on the telephone, I call Nathalie and my friend Jean-Paul. I ask him to fly Nathalie to me here, in secret. This way she will not have to marry the deputy minister, and we can be married. Maybe in Scotland.” He looked so happy, Eliza thought he might able to take flight without the aid of his flying machine.
Clara clapped her hands. “You’re eloping! How romantic.”
The aeroplane’s rumbling grew louder, as if landing nearby. His eyes welled up. “Wait until you meet Nathalie. I wish you to meet Jean-Paul, but he must fly on to York today.”
He raced out of the room.
Everyone sat in stunned silence before the countess erupted in laughter. Eliza half-wondered if she’d grow hysterical before long.
“What is so amusing, countess?” Higgins asked.
“It appears we have come full circle. On our first night, we had thirteen for dinner. Of course, that was before our guest list was reduced to eleven. And now. . .”
“With Detective Ramsey and Nathalie, we will have thirteen once again,” Eliza finished.
The countess sat back, as if exhausted. “I doubt things can get any worse.”
Eliza hoped she was right. But until the murderer was caught, she feared yet another disaster lay ahead.
21
Higgins shoved a leather-bound book back onto the shelf. “Damnation, but I’m sick of looking for any personal details left by Napoléon’s secretary. Bourrienne was too much of a diplomat regarding his battle reports.”
Colin Ramsey glanced up from a stack of books. “Probably wanted to make his boss look good. Happens all the time at the Yard. An easy road to promotion.”
“He did write that a small gold cross had been brought to Napoleon during the Battle of Arcole, which ended in victory against the Austrians. The battle hadn’t gone well for the general. Not until a French sympathizer presented him with this cross said to have been given to Charlemagne by the pope.” Higgins shrugged. “I guess it did the trick. Still doesn’t give us any history on the cross, though.”
“Seems to have worked for the Corsican.” Ramsey held up a book. “According to this, Napoleon fought sixty battles, and only lost eight. Most of them at the end of his career. Maybe he’d lost the cross by that time.” He laughed. “Or the British just outfought him. Hey, maybe the cross fell into Wellington’s hands. Was the Duke an admirer of Charlemagne?”
“Any sensible man would admire him.” Higgins plucked another gilt-edged volume from the shelf. “Certainly, Napoleon idolized Charlemagne, along with Caesar and Hannibal. Studying their methods, learning how artillery was the key to success. I found one mention of the Charlemagne cross in a letter he wrote to Joséphine. Lucky break, that.”
“Wasn’t Joséphine his wife?” Eliza asked, curled up on the sofa with a box of daguerreotypes. She held up a magnifying glass to one grainy specimen and then tossed it aside.
“One of them. He divorced her in order to get an heir with his second wife.”
Eliza muttered something churlish under her breath about men. Colin grinned. Higgins skimmed through the pages of his book. He felt hampered by his injured arm and the little amount of information they had uncovered so far.
After luncheon, Higgins, Eliza and Ramsey agreed that their best opportunity to learn about the cross of Charlemagne was in the Ashmore library. Only they didn’t want anyone to know what they were doing. The clock had just struck ten when Higgins met Ramsey at the front door to let him in. Mercifully, the other guests retired early due to tomorrow’s fox hunt. For the past few hours, the three of them had closeted themselves in the library, searching through every history book pertaining to Charlemagne, the late Middle Ages, and France.
“Too bad we can’t ask Madame Evangeline’s spirit guide about the cross,” Eliza said.
Ramsey slouched further in one of the library’s armchairs and yawned. “By the way, I haven’t told you what I learned about your medium. Her real name was Esther Bezier Campbell. Born in the capital of French Algiers in 1886. The Beziers were French colonists who worked for the government. They’ve been there for decades. A lot of intermarriage with the locals, too. Her grandmother was a Moorish woman from one of the desert tribes.”
“That makes sense,” Eliza said. “She mentioned the Sahara, and how peaceful the desert was. What about the father? Madame Evangeline claimed he was Scottish.”
“Angus Campbell, a lawyer from Glasgow. An expert on deeds and property law. A wealthy émigré family asked for his help concerning a land dispute. They paid for his passage to Algiers, where he settled the dispute, then fell in love with Sidonie Bezier, the daughter of a government clerk.” Ramsey yawned again. “Sidonie made quite an impression on the Scotsman. He married her and made French Algiers his home until he died nine years ago.”
“What about Evangeline’s mother?” Higgins rifled the pages of a new volume.
“Alive and well in Paris, along with one of her sons. She moved there after Angus died.”
Eliza sighed. “We should contact her family and tell them the tragic news.”
“That’s not our job,” Higgins said gently. “After all, she had a husband. If anyone should inform them, it is Zoltan Batur.” He paused. “Or more likely the police.”
“What about the Frenchman who resembled Philippe Corbet?” Eliza asked. “That Aristide fellow who drowned. Who exactly was he?”
Ramsey picked up another book. “I’m guessing he was a member of the French colony in Algiers. He must have drowned in the Chelif River. Around this time, Esther had a nervous breakdown. After she recovered, she told people that Aristide’s death had made her spiritualist ‘gifts’ stronger. That’s also when she started to call herself Madame Evangeline.”
“When did she marry Zoltan Batur? And who was the chap anyway?” Higgins asked.
“Not a lot of information on him. It’s not even clear if that’s his real name. He spent a lot of time in Turkey and Egypt. Algiers, too. Batur acted as a strong man for important people. When he met Evangeline, she was still known as Esther Bezier. He worked as a bodyguard for a rich family in Algiers. Probably had his eye on her. And after this Frenchman died. . . ”
Eliza picked up another daguerreotype. “He loved her from afar. Then after her heart was broken due to Aristide’s death, Batur picked up the pieces. It’s act
ually quite romantic.”
Higgins and Ramsey exchanged skeptical glances. “Don’t know about that,” Ramsey said with a chuckle. “They married in France, shortly after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle attended one of her first séances. That séance convinced him of her talents. Doyle urged his famous and wealthy friends to seek her out. His recommendation soon made her a popular favorite in the drawing rooms of Europe.”
“Probably when Batur was introduced as her bodyguard, not her husband,” Eliza said. “I know how snobbish the upper classes are. They wouldn’t have welcomed someone like Batur into their homes as her husband. At least he made a convincing bodyguard.”
“An even more convincing spy,” Ramsey told her. “It’s why she was successful. He paid off the servants of her rich clients for all the secrets Evangeline needed before going into those trances. Batur had contacts in Europe and America, who funneled information to him.”
“Whereupon she pretended her spirit guide told her all that rot,” Higgins said with disdain. “I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’, Eliza, but I told you so.”
“What about the things she couldn’t have known? Like the black motorcar.” Eliza remained stubborn. “I never told anyone about that, except the Colonel. And don’t forget her warning to us the day we arrived. She was right about the death and disaster.”
“I spoke to a few people who believed Madame Evangeline did slip into an authentic trance on occasion,” Ramsey added. “These trances reportedly were not under her control, coming upon her at unexpected times. She claimed to never recall what she said.”
“Exactly.” Eliza turned to Higgins. “And she also told us about the cross of Charlemagne during the séance.”
He waved a hand. “Well, she cannot tell us anything more, being dead. No doubt killed for what she did learn, either from her spy or the spirit world.”
Eliza looked down at the box of daguerreotypes. “There’s nothing of use in here.”
“Don’t give up. Keep at it, you might find something.”
Higgins jotted down a few notes from one book and then buried himself in the next for another half hour. The wind moaned against the mullioned windows while he read. He checked the time. Long past midnight.
Colin stood, stretching his back. “Has anyone found anything else about this cross? Who owned it before Napoleon? And where does the legend come from about its power?”
“Nothing beyond the letter to Joséphine, which mentioned how he always carried the cross but forgot to tuck it into his pocket during the second battle of Bassano,” Higgins said. “His first defeat, in fact. He held onto it for years, according to his journals. As you said, his battle record is outstanding until Wellington defeated him at Waterloo. Maybe Napoléon no longer possessed Charlemagne’s cross at that time. Not that I believe any of this nonsense about the its power. But Napoleon certainly did.”
“The cross could have been stolen.” Ramsey held out a book to him. “The Duke of Wellington had his headquarters at Waterloo. Napoléon was quartered far to the south.”
Higgins looked up with interest. “Ah, you found the French account of the battle.”
“This passage tells how locals pried out the teeth of dead soldiers and sold them to denture makers. And here it reads, ‘Napoléon was in despair after the battle, pacing back and forth, pockets empty, until he regained his coolness.”
Eliza rose and walked over to Ramsey. He pointed the passage out to her.
“Quite true about the Waterloo teeth, from what I heard,” Higgins said, “and that’s an interesting note about his empty pockets. It could be a deliberate reference that he no longer had the cross. If only we could find a definitive source.”
“Was the cross something Charlemagne wore on a chain around his neck?” Eliza asked. “Or on a rosary? Maybe it was part of his crown.”
“We only have to go through several hundred books to answer that,” Higgins said.
Everyone went back to the bookshelves amid yawns and grumbles.
After another thirty minutes, Eliza announced, “I found something.” She held out a book. “Charlemagne’s crown was destroyed during the French revolution. Here’s an illustration.”
Higgins peered closely at it. “Hmmm. A simple circlet, four rectangular plates with jewels, and four fleur-de-lis. No cross on it at all.” He snatched up a book that he’d set aside with a strip of paper to mark the page. “This is a drawing of Charles the Bald, grandson of Charlemagne. It shows him holding a scepter, passed down from his great-great-grandfather Charles Martel, who defeated Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi at the Battle of Tours—”
“Hold on.” Ramsey thumbed through a third book. “The cross on that scepter looks exactly like this one, carried by Philip the Bold.” He pointed at the illustrated page.
Higgins drew the cross from its leather pouch. An unprepossessing item, despite its history. The gold had a dull glow, making the small red stones appear black against the metal. He once more examined the Latin inscription, then glanced again at Philip the Bold’s scepter.
“They could be the same. Difficult to tell, but possible.”
“‘Woe to the conquered’, didn’t it say?” Ramsey picked up the last hefty volume of Bourrienne’s Memoirs. “Napoléon talked about that phrase often, according to this.”
“And I read that Charles the Mad struck the cross off the scepter during one of his rampages after 1392. Nearly killed his brother one time,” Higgins said.
Eliza rolled her eyes. “And I thought my family was crazy.”
“Historians have no idea why Charles suffered his bouts of insanity. The scepter was passed on to the next ruler. And so on, we must assume, until Louis the Sixteenth.”
“So perhaps the cross was a talisman of sorts,” Eliza said.
“I read earlier that Louis the fifteenth carried a cross at the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745. Also a French victory.” Higgins rummaged through the pile of books. “Here, this volume. The cross can be traced forward from Charles Martel to Charlemagne and on to the last ruler before the Reign of Terror. It’s no surprise the revolutionaries destroyed some of the royal regalia. But Charlemagne’s cross survived. Napoléon could have come upon it at that time.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t use the cross when he had his own crown made.” Ramsey thumbed through another book. “Look.”
Higgins noted the simple cross atop the bejeweled gold crown, with its antique cameos – the center one of Bonaparte himself. “Ah, that is not the same cross. I doubt Napoléon would have entrusted such a precious item to any goldsmith, for one thing. And he needed to keep it with him at all times to ensure success in his doings. But it must have been stolen from him before Waterloo. He’d never have parted with it willingly.”
“But how did the cross fall into Pentwater’s hands?” Eliza asked.
“That, Eliza, is a question that may never be answered.” Higgins frowned. “I suppose Pentwater ran across it during one of his business ventures here in Europe.”
Ramsey scratched his chin. “I was in Paris once and visited a flea market. They had lots of valuable antiques there. Books, jewelry from the French nobility.”
“Close to the Porte de Clignancourt station? Founded in the late seventeenth century from what I’ve heard. I found several treasured first editions there,” Higgins said, recalling the place with fondness. “It’s possible the cross ended up there, or a facsimile of it. Who can say if the cross is the one Napoléon had, or a fake?”
“That flea market sounds as good a place as any for someone to stumble upon Charlemagne’s cross,” Eliza observed. “When I sold flowers at Covent Garden, I watched all kinds of things being sold. If the seller spins a good yarn, he or she can make the buyer believe they were buying not only Charlemagne’s cross, but every blooming thing he ever owned.”
Higgins grinned. “Especially if the price was right.”
“Pentwater certainly thought he could profit from it,” Ramsey added.
“Yes, but perhaps
no one in the States was interested,” Higgins said. “Whatever the case, Pentwater wasn’t about to lose it. When the authorities closed in, he must have chosen to hide the cross in the motorcar. That way Pentwater knew it would make it here to England.”
Eliza nodded. “I’ll bet he already had a buyer here.”
“I think you’re right.” Higgins said. “And he tried damned hard to recover it.”
“Pentwater was the driver in the black motorcar, wasn’t he?” Eliza looked grim. “The one driving past our house on Wimpole Street, probably looking for the roadster. And he drove the black car that followed you.”
Higgins adjusted his sling, wishing he no longer needed the prop, but his arm ached badly. “Undoubtedly. But we have no way of figuring out who else Pentwater might have told about the cross. Its history of bringing success to whoever possessed it seems a good draw for anyone with ambition. Especially knowing Napoléon’s victories.”
“Who wanted the cross badly enough to murder for it?” Ramsey mused.
“Someone who knew it would fetch a high price,” Eliza suggested. “A person just like Pentwater. Someone greedy.”
“Or patriotic.” Higgins held up the cross. “A man determined to acquire the cross of Charlemagne to help his country. A man who wants his king – or his Kaiser – to hold the key to world power.” He grimaced. “Especially with the drums of war growing louder each day.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Sounds like Count Rudolf to me. He never stops bragging about anything Austrian and German. And every time he says the Kaiser’s name, he bows his head, like he just mentioned Jesus. I’ve never seen a person go on about their country so much.”
A memory stirred Higgins. “When I spoke with Pentwater the morning he was shot, he called the count a fabulist.”
“What’s that?” Ramsey and Eliza both asked.
“It refers to a person who invents fables, or one who makes up complicated stories.” Higgins nodded. “Or maybe someone who believes in such stories.”
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