Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “You spent a good deal of time criticizing my use of the term,” Temple told him, “but I confess that I still do not know exactly what you mean by it. Somehow, having sat through your star chamber as well as your subtle interrogation on the coach, I cannot see you as Godwinian Utopians committed to the ideals of universal liberty, equality and fraternity.”

  “No, Mr. Temple, we are not Utopians. We are, I suppose, dedicated Malthusians–although we have less affection for the negative checks than you might have supposed, on seeing our costumes. We believe in liberty and fraternity for the few and discipline for the many, and in a strictly ordered social hierarchy.”

  “Did you tell Radical Ned Knob that before he swore eternal loyalty to your cause?”

  “I was not present, but I dare say that my comrades mentioned immortality for the few and mortality for the many, and pointed out the logic that would lead any other situation to hellish chaos.”

  “I would have to give that matter a great deal of thought,” Temple said. “Even Ned Knob, I think, might hesitate to jump to that conclusion too readily.”

  “I agree entirely that you should give the matter a great deal of thought, Mr. Temple–and I trust your logic to reach the right conclusion in the end. We really are men of science nowadays, you know, even though we retain certain attitudes and rituals that were more appropriate to the alchemists, astrologers and diviners we once were. There was a time our organization included the only true men of science in Europe–but that was before the invention of the printing press. We underestimated its danger–perhaps the worst of all our many miscalculations, the Great Catastrophe notwithstanding. Attempting to manage history is a direly difficult business, as you can imagine.”

  “If history was ever manageable,” Temple retorted, “it is no longer. Any attempts you have made in recent times must have demonstrated the hopelessness of the task.”

  “A fair comment,” the other admitted, equably. “Even if one sets aside such irrelevancies as wars, empires and nations, we have not done well. We kept the telescope, the microscope and the principles of optics secret for 300 years, but they escaped us in the end. Steam we thought unlikely to make a vast social impact, for want of fuel, but we failed to anticipate the extent of the coal measures waiting to be excavated. The real tragedy, though, has been our failure to usurp the secrets of electricity. That genie was out of the bottle before we even had a chance to attempt its containment. No matter how many Faradays we might be able to draw into the fold, there will be many more–and the reanimators are already proliferating in their wake. This is our final challenge, Mr. Temple–our last throw of the dice. You may be able to understand our desperation.”

  “May I?” Temple counted. “You’re talking to me face-to-face now, but you’re hardly less a phantom than your 30 comrades. I don’t know who you are, and don’t expect to find out. I can’t see the least reason to think that the secret of resurrecting the dead would be any safer in your hands than anyone else’s, or that you have any moral claim to it whatsoever.”

  “It would be safer in our hands–especially if it could remain our monopoly for a while–because we would not use it to make slaves or soldiers. It would be safer in our hands because we would use it to preserve intellect and creativity, not brute force and greed. It would be safer in our hands because we would be deaf to the wailing of the multitude who want their loved ones restored but cannot see beyond the horizons of their own petty affections and lusts. It would be safer in our hands, Mr. Temple, because we are not radicals but conservationists, enthusiastic to maintain the order of the world irrespective of the ambitions and bloodthirst of empire-builders. Yes, we are a self-selected and self-appointed elite who believe that we have the right to determine the fates of our fellow men, irrespective of what they may think or believe–and we are proud of that fact, just as we are proud of the fact that our order began within the confines of monachism, not on a battlefield. Whether you will support our cause or not is up to you, Mr. Temple–but if you set yourself against us, you will be taking the side of violent and brutal men, of tyrants and terrorists, of the avaricious and the envious. You cannot begin to think about that, of course, until young Friedrich is safe once again in the bosom of the vehmgerichte, who are searching for him as we speak and will doubtless storm the convent without a second thought, with guns blazing and swords red-tipped, if they contrive to locate us and think us too weak to resist. But when you can think of it, Mr. Temple, think about the kind of world that is nowadays in the making, and whether you believe the message that General Mortdieu asked Ned Knob to deliver on his behalf, forswearing any desire to make war upon the living.”

  Temple no longer had any retorts ready for delivery, and fell silent for a while. Eventually, he said: “Who are you, really?”

  “I cannot tell you any more than I have already told you,” the false Balsamo replied. “Should we ever meet again, in the outer world, you will recognize me, and will doubtless discover the name by which I am more generally known–but even then, Mr. Temple, you will know no more about who I really am than you know at this moment. I will have Friedrich Boehm brought into your cell, so that he might feel a little safer–but his best guarantee of safety is not your presence but his mother’s temperance, Suzanne Thompson did no harm by appealing to you for help, but Sarah Boehm was unwise in the extreme to turn to her husband’s former comrades for assistance. Whether they achieve anything or not, she is theirs now, and always will be–they will have her child far more securely and permanently in their grip than he is now in ours, and they will not make him the kind of man that you or I could admire.”

  “What do you want from me, Signor Balsamo?” Temple demanded.

  “Nothing, at present,” Balsamo replied, “since you have made it abundantly clear that you are unwilling to give anything. You know as well as I, though, that this will not be over when the last child is exchanged, no matter what we obtain in return. The Empire of the Necromancers is only just begun, and there will be a titanic struggle to determine the form of its hegemony. You are caught up in that struggle whether you like it or not, and you will have to take sides in situations far more complex than this one. You have met Mortdieu and you know Henri de Belcamp of old. It is for you to decide which of the players so far engaged offers the least of several evils. Personally, I still think that you are a natural ally rather than our enemy–but only you can decide. That is what I came to say to you. Goodbye, Mr. Temple–I am leaving the convent now, and it may be some time before we meet again.”

  After finishing this farewell speech, the false Balsamo rapped on the door, to signal the masked man outside to remove the bar. Then he went to Friedrich Boehm’s cell, and brought the boy to Temple’s, as he had promised.

  It was not until the bar had fallen back into place, and the corridor was silent again, that Temple realized that he had not the slightest idea how to hold a conversation with a three-year-old boy–especially one whose first language was German.

  “You must not be afraid,” he hazarded, in limping German. “You must be strong.”

  The child drew himself up to his full height–which was unimpressive, even for a child of his age–and said: “I am a Boehm. I am not afraid.”

  Temple could imagine the other Friedrich–the recently-dead father–saying exactly the same thing, in exactly the same fashion, in frank defiance of his own lack of height and health.

  “You are a Boehm,” Temple agreed. “You and I shall befriend and protect one another, as good men should.”

  The little boy nodded his head, and Temple turned away from him, in order not to see his tears.

  Chapter Seven

  The Vehmgerichte’s Rescue

  When Friedrich Boehm had gone to sleep, lying on the bed and wrapped in a blanket, Gregory Temple sat down on the floor of the cell with his back against the wall, facing the door. He became gradually drowsy, but did not go to sleep. He drew up his knees and folded his arms upon them in order to let his
head slump forward, but he lifted his head again whenever his ears caught muffled sounds from the side or above–which they often did, as the convent’s inhabitants went about their mysterious business.

  Because his watch had been removed and he had been unable to observe the alternation of day and night Temple had no reliable means of knowing what time it was, but suspected that it must be the early hours of the morning when he heard the bar being removed from the outside of the door, in what seemed to him to be a stealthy fashion. The peephole had not been opened.

  Temple came to his feet, ready to act. He was poised for action by the time the door swung inwards to reveal a man in the customary black habit–with the hood up–and death’s-head mask. The only unusual thing about him was that he was holding a sabre in his right hand. Temple could not possibly recognize the man–but he started as he recognized the weapon as a German duelling-blade. The newcomer raised the upraised forefinger of his left hand to his lips; Temple nodded his head to signify that he understood.

  The newcomer looked down at the dark-haired boy on the bed, and nodded his head slightly in apparent satisfaction. Then he knelt down, and pushed the mask on to the top of his head before putting out a gnarled hand to wake the child. Temple did not recognize the man, but he was unsurprised to see duelling-scars on his cheek and forehead.

  When the boy opened his eyes, the knight of the vehm whispered to him in German, so rapidly that Temple could not catch the full significance of what was said. It included a reassurance, and an instruction to be very quiet.

  The child seemed reassured to hear his native tongue. Although there must have been some among his captors who spoke it fluently, this was obviously a different sort of man, more closely akin to the servants who had looked after him in his infancy.

  When the child had signified his consent, the rescuer brought him to his feet and wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. Then he signaled to Temple, indicating that he must pick the boy up. Temple nodded to signify that he understood, and assented to the request. Friedrich Boehm made no objection to being picked up, and seemed perfectly ready to play the game required of him.

  The German readjusted his disguise. He had not brought a light of his own, but he picked up the candle from the night-stand to light his way back along the corridor. He moved through the bowels of the convent confidently, apparently having no doubt as to the route he must take. The way was tortuous, involving three flights of stone stairs and numerous turnings, but in the end they came to a small door that let them out into a small chapel. From there, they made their way into the nave of a larger church. There were other men waiting in the shadows of the church, all of them wearing death’s-head masks–but they were obviously allied with Temple’s companion, for they returned his silent salute–which must have included a private signal of some sort–and moved off into the chapel from which he had come. They were not dressed in the same fashion as Temple’s earlier interrogators–they wore ordinary traveling-cloaks over secular costumes–but Temple supposed that the convent’s residents must dress is a similar fashion when they went abroad, and that the death’s-heads would protect them from instant recognition as invaders,

  The rescuer and his two charges made their exit from the church through the vestry, and continued to move very carefully until they were clear of its surrounding buildings. The German blew out the candle then, although the moonlight and starlight were very hazy and it was difficult to see their way in the neat-total darkness. They went forward carefully, eventually reaching a clump of trees 200 paces further on, beyond a fallow meadow. There were at least a dozen horses tethered in the gloom within the copse. So far as Temple could tell, there was only one man guarding the horses, who uttered a whispered challenge in German, and was immediately satisfied by the password their guide returned.

  “Is that Friedrich?” the sentry asked, suggesting to Temple that the agents of the vehmergichte had not been certain until now which child had been taken to the second exchange.

  “It’s Count Boehm, alive and well,” the other replied, again pushing his mask up to the top of his head so that he might see a little better. Temple’s German was not good enough to follow exactly what the man went on to say, but it was something along the lines of: “Herr Temple and I will take him to the meeting-point and guard him until dawn. We’ll gather then to take the Pontoise Road as a company, whether we have the gold or not. Is that understood?”

  The sentry nodded.

  “Are you able to ride with the boy?” the German asked Temple, in slurred English.

  “I can hold him securely enough,” Temple replied, in the same language, “and keep him warm–but we’d best proceed slowly.”

  The other nodded, and they did indeed proceed very slowly across open country, for two miles or more, until they reached a wall of thorn-bushes. Their rescuer led Temple and Friedrich Boehm into a clearing within the bushes, to which the crag formed a rear wall, and where there was a small hut. There was smoke belching from the chimney, promising a good fire within.

  “You will be safe here,” the German said, still speaking English. “I will stand guard outside.”

  “You’d be warmer inside,” Temple said–but a knight of the vehm was too proud to be intimidated by mere autumnal cold.

  Temple carried the boy indoors. There was a candle already lit within, and a man sitting on a stool beside the hearth.

  “I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Temple,” John Devil said, in English. “I wanted to rescue you myself, of course, to seal our new alliance, but our friends would not hear of it. It’s not so much that they don’t trust me, but they have their own priorities. They would never have found you without my help, mind–I knew the country well enough to set them on the trail, although not as well as I imagined. Who would have imagined that it might be possible, in 1821, to find not one but two priories of the Civitas Solis so close to Pontoise? Is that my son you’re carrying?”

  “Temple answered the last question first. “It’s Friedrich Boehm,” he said. “Armand was taken to Miremont some hours ago. The second exchange should be complete by now, and your son should be safe at home.”

  John Devil frowned, perhaps in disappointment that he was not to meet his son, and perhaps partly in puzzlement, having expected a different order of exchange.

  “I suppose that I would have been less surprised had you appeared in my cell yourself than I am to find you sitting out the action here,” Temple said, setting his burden down with great care. “Would it not be better if our entire company were to set off immediately, without waiting for dawn?”

  “It might,” John Devil agreed, “but it’s difficult and exceedingly uncomfortable traveling by night in weather like this, and it’s less than an hour till dawn. I’m not in a position to give orders–my position is slightly delicate, as you’ll readily understand–and my friends were determined to search for the gold while the convent was so lightly defended, even though that very fact suggested that it had been removed in the course of the general exodus.”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t understand your position at all,” Temple told him, as he persuaded Friedrich to lie down on the hearth, still wrapped in the blanket. “I have no idea what is going on. Your German is presumably far better than mine–can you explain to Friedrich that he is safe?”

  John Devil knelt down to talk to the boy, and did so in such a soothing fashion that the child seemed completely reassured. When he stood up again, he turned to face Temple and said: “I’m sorry that I didn’t join you in Dover as we arranged, Mr. Temple, but an opportunity turned up that seemed too good to miss. It led me into unexpected trouble, but I’ve always had a knack of turning trouble to my advantage. The situation remains delicate, as I say, but it seems that all three children are safe now–which was our primary objective. I assume that Jeanne will be able to produce the required ransom?”

  “I believe so,” Temple confirmed.

  John Devil nodded, and sat down on his stool again
, pointing Temple towards an identical one. “I’ll tell you my story, in brief,” the blond man said. “When Ned Knob brought me Suzanne’s letter, I was in company with a few old friends–Tom Brown’s friends, I fear–who immediately volunteered to help. I sent one to the river shore to inquire as to the disposition and sailing plans of any vessels that might be useful, and another to procure horses for a ride to Dover. When I returned, I discovered that there was a vessel moored not far from Southwark Bridge which intended to sail for Antwerp via Ostend before dawn. She had no engine, but the weather reports promised a favorable tide and a brisk northerly wind. It seemed likely to be the safer course, given the difficulties that might arise in riding to Dover on winter ground, so I hastened to beg a passage, along with two of my friends.

  “The tide and the wind were exactly as anticipated, and the captain of the vessel assured me that I would have no trouble making my way from Ostend to Calais by sea or land–or, if it seemed preferable, going directly from there to Paris. Because my friends were so obviously English, I thought it best not to travel as Henri Moreau, and it happened that I had papers on me that I had used several years before, when I traveled regularly via Ostend and Antwerp on my way to and from the university where I studied in Germany. They were in the name of George Palmer–which is, of course, familiar to you, although I recklessly assumed that everyone else would have forgotten it. Not so–there were Germans in the crew who had exotic connections and long memories. George Palmer, it seems, was wanted for questioning in Germany–not by the authorities, but by one of the relics of the old vehms, which refused to die when Napoleon’s minion was supposed to have killed them off.”

  “So the murder of Maurice O’Brien has not been entirely forgotten,” Temple observed.

  “That was hardly a crime, in the reckoning of the vehms,” John Devil told him. “No matter how much favor he had accumulated, O’Brien had been a mercenary officer in Napoleon’s army, and was not considered a man of honor. What had not been forgotten was the abduction of his daughter, Sarah O’Brien, who was a ward of the Emperor Francis I, and thus had a significantly different status. In itself, that might not have been afforded any great importance, but the efforts made by Count Boehm to trace her–in advance of his fateful meeting with you in London–had not only placed the members of his own society on the alert but had sent signals to every port from Le Havre to Copenhagen. The police and customs knew nothing of it, but George Palmer has been a hunted man since 1814. The fact that George Palmer had ceased to exist in 1813 confounded the search–but the years that had elapsed before his abrupt resurrection was not time enough for the name to be forgotten, and Count Boehm had never thought to call it off when he found the object of his desire.