“At any rate, I was ambushed and seized before the ship put in at Ostend, and compelled to complete the journey to Antwerp as a prisoner. My friends could do nothing, and were left behind. From Antwerp, I was taken overland to Brussels, and then to Liège–with all due haste, thank God. Liège is not a city where a vehm could normally be convened, but the word had already gone out from Central Westphalia bidding members of the society from Maastricht, Aachen and Bonn to make their way there with all possible speed for a special convention. That was no coincidence, of course–the reason for the command was a message received from the widowed Sarah Boehm, appealing for help in the recovery of her kidnapped son.
“The convoluted politics of the vehmgerichte are of little relevance to outsiders, but you will understand that a certain tension existed between the vehm–which had seen two of its strongest and bravest members assassinated in the persons of Friedrich Boehm’s older brothers–and the Irish widow of the enfeebled heir to their fortune. There was no evident enmity, but relations had been a trifle cold. Her appeal for help was, in its way, a small godsend, promising that the relationship would be much warmer in future–and, more importantly, ensuring that young Friedrich would be committed to the society from his earliest youth, to be educated in its traditions and ambitions.
“As you will imagine, the assembly was not grateful to be interrupted by the delivery of a prisoner it had not time to try, but when I explained to them that I was not George Palmer at present, but the similarly dead Comte Henri de Belcamp, and thus intimately familiar with Miremont and its surroundings–I might have stretched the truth slightly in that regard–and also the father of one of the other kidnapped children, their attitude changed dramatically. I was immediately recruited to their cause.
“We had already wasted too much time to be able to reach Miremont ahead of you, so we did not arrive in time to discover what was happening on Little Switzerland, but we did contrive to pick up the trail of Ned Knob, who was attempting to follow the tracks of the man who had given the message to that poltroon Besnard. Ned had picked up the trail–and was in too much of a hurry to cover up his own. We were able to track him, and were close behind him when he walked into the trap that had been set for him. We followed his captors easily enough to an ancient convent in the middle of nowhere. At first, I thought it a mere shell serving as a temporary refuge for common bandits, but as we watched it I guessed–much to my astonishment–that we might actually be dealing with something far more exotic. Although there were no documents of any kind, I was amazed to discover evidence once we got inside that we really were dealing with an echo of the Civitas Solis.”
“Of which I have never heard,” Temple put in.
“That’s not surprising, even for a secret policeman–Scotland Yard’s records can hardly go back that far. The society has rarely had much success in its dealings in England since it recruited Roger Bacon, and the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII was greatly to its disadvantage. Rumor has it that it was prevented from recruiting Leonard Digges thereafter, despite Mary’s accession to the throne, and failed to recruit his colleague John Dee–although it punished him for it, and would not forgive him when he begged for reconsideration during his journey to the heart of the Empire. How they would have loved to snare Isaac Newton! I dare say they feel the same now about Faraday–but that’s by the by. The significant point is that, although they used to consider themselves above the Papal Throne, they always operated more far comfortably in Catholic countries than Protestant ones–including France, despite what they call the Great Catastrophe.”
“The man who called himself Giuseppe Balsamo mentioned that,” Temple remembered.
“Balsamo? You meant Count Cagliostro?”
“No–that was merely the name he gave me. They seem to imagine themselves to be real alchemists, cleverly hiding themselves by masquerading as charlatans–but they might well be charlatans themselves.”
“They might–but the alternative is the more exciting prospect, wouldn’t you agree? Everything I knew about them until today is ancient hearsay, implying that they no longer exist–but if they are still active, even as bandits, that would be a wonder of sorts.”
“Civitas Solis means city of the sun,” Temple said. “Was that really the name of their society?”
“Societies of that sort always have several names,” John Devil replied. “But yes–that is the one by which it is most commonly known to those who have heard of it. It was formed at much the same time as Augustine published his Civitas Dei, which argued that Christendom need not regret the fall of Rome too much, because the city of God was an idea contained in the hearts of men, not a mere place. The Civitas Solis aspired to be a city in the same sense: a city of enlightenment, located in the hearts and minds of scholar monks.”
“And the Great Catastrophe?” Temple queried.
“Pride goeth before destruction, the Bible warns,” John Devil observed. “The Civitas should have heeded that warning, no matter how much of the scriptures it had set aside. When the organization was at the very height of its power and wealth, its militant and commercial arm–almost the whole of its corporate body, in fact–was rudely and brutally excised by Philippe le Bel of France, who was in dire need of its money.”
“The Knights Templar?” Temple said, incredulously. “You’re saying that these clowns in death’s-head masks are the relic of the Templars.”
“No, I’m telling you that the Templars were an extension of the Civitas Solis, whose humbled brain survived the murder of its extended body for a while–longer than a while, it seems. They struggled afterwards, of course–such stored wealth as they contrived to save was gradually expended in order to secure the remnants of the order. They must have sunk to a very low level–almost as low, perhaps, as the relics of the vehms–but if they still have secrets to keep... did they interrogate you?”
“Yes,” Temple replied, “but not brutally.”
“But they believed you when you explained that you knew less that they had hoped?”
“Yes,” Temple repeated. “They seemed particularly bitter about my inability to tell them where they might find you.”
“Did they, indeed? Well, to resume my story, we thought at first that the children must be held in the convent to which they took Ned Knob. While my tempestuous allies were making plans to attack it, though, we saw a substantial number of men ride out, mostly leaving in ones and twos at intervals of several minutes. I had not confided my suspicions regarding the Civitas Solis to my companions, but they deduced immediately that the monks must be heading for a conventicle at some other abbey.
“When the exodus was complete it was a much simpler business to invade the building and release Ned Knob. There was little resistance, and no one was badly hurt. As I told you, I took the opportunity to look for evidence as to the true nature of the convent’s tenants, and found enough to interest me. When Ned had told us what he could, we sent him back to Miremont to tell Sarah that we would do what we could to rescue the remaining children. He wanted to go with us, but my new friends were suspicious enough of me and did not want a second outsider in their midst.
“The convent where you were held seemed a much tougher nut to crack, and we had not even begun to conceive a sensible plan of campaign when a company rode out–keeping tightly together, this time–with a child in their midst. The boy was wrapped up too well to be identifiable, but what Ned had told me allowed me to deduce that the three children must now be in three different places–one in Miremont, one on the road to Miremont and one still in the convent.
“Our company was not large enough to split into two, and it seemed best to let the second exchange take place while we secured the child who remained in the convent, if that were possible. Again, the task became much easier in short order as the pattern of the first exodus was reversed; monks again began to leave in ones and twos, presumably dispersing before returning to the base we had already sacked.
“My inclina
tion was to forsake the ransom payments, but my companions were differently minded. They wanted to seize the one already paid, and then make plans to ambush the men returning with the second. I suppose that I shall be given no alternative but to join them in the second project–but they will take due care to make sure that you and young Friedrich are not exposed to any risk. They will return you to Miremont with an escort of two or three riders. If I can, I shall rejoin you there in a matter of hours, and face the various accusations and resentments that are my just desserts. You have, I suppose, informed my widow that my death was more apparent than physical?”
“I could not lie to her, even by omission,” Temple said.
“Of course not. I did not ask you to do so. You have always been an honest man.”
“Unlike you, Mr. Brown,” Temple pointed out.
“Unlike Tom Brown, and unlike Henri de Belcamp,” John Devil agreed, readily enough. “But they are dead and gone now–one hanged, one shot. I have made a fresh start, not for the first time. I suppose that I should not have brought George Palmer back to life, even as a temporary flag of convenience–but it worked out for the best, I think... and it was, after all, Tom Brown, not George Palmer, who murdered Maurice O’Brien and Constance Bartolozzi.”
“I can see why the members of the Civitas Solis are so interested in you,” Temple observed. “That one mere body can contain so many different persons, alive and dead, is a remarkable natural phenomenon.”
“So it is,” John Devil, agreed. “I should not have been tempted to wear a Quaker hat in London, either–but the weather was so cold and the hat so warm! I wish I had it now. Does it seem to you to be getting darker outside rather than light?”
The hut’s only window was shuttered, but the shutters were as ill-fitting as the door, and the texture of the darkness was evident through the cracks.”
“The Moon has set and the mist is getting thicker,” Temple judged. “The starlight is so feeble now that one would need to be a cat to make much of it. I think there may be hint of twilight in the east, though–dawn surely can’t be more than a few minutes away.”
“Let’s hope that it illuminates more than freezing fog,” John Devil said. “I suppose our alliance is almost at an end. That’s a pity, in a way.”
“Is it?” Temple queried, archly. Then, suddenly recalling the portrait hanging in the drawing-room at the Chateau de Belcamp, he said: “How did you know, in Newgate, about the locket I wore around my neck? Did Suzanne tell you?”
John Devil was sitting in such a fashion as to keep his facial expression shadowed from the candlelight, but the voice that answered seemed surprised. “Is that what you thought?” the bandit asked. “If I were you, I’d have had more faith in the loyalty of a daughter such as her, even though I had succeeded in blackmailing her for lesser favors. No, I saw it when I was James Davy, and took a closer look when I once found you asleep, after an exceedingly hard night’s work. I was struck by the lady’s resemblance to my mother, and the coincidence of the initials. Indeed, I half-convinced myself that the lady must actually have been my mother, and took such great amusement in the thought that she might once have seduced you, while you were a married man... but I never had the chance to ask her, and I doubt that it was possible. It was a fine story, though, was it not? My hidden ace... almost, but not quite, good enough to complete the slam. I knew when I left you, though, that you wouldn’t die, and wouldn’t be driven permanently mad. It’s strange, I know, but I couldn’t entirely regret it. I had always admired you, Mr. Temple–I wanted to believe that you could endure the worst that John Devil could do to you, and survive to fight another day, even against me. Is that odd, do you think?”
“Insane,” Temple judged.
“Perhaps, Mr. Temple, ours is a folie à deux,” John Devil said. “We bring out the worst in one another... or the most bizarre, at least. You were wrong to think that Suzanne might be to blame, though, and I hope you’ll beg her pardon for entertaining the suspicion.”
“If it’s James Davy I must blame,” Temple said, “then it’s James Davy I shall hunt down. Or is he dead too?”
“As a doornail, I fear. A pity, in a way–he’d have been well-placed to intercept the news when Lord Liverpool’s agents figure out where Mortdieu took the Outremort. A ship and company of that sort can’t escape the eagle eyes of the ruler of the seven seas for long, can she?”
“You’ll never bring your reanimated Napoleon to heel,” Temple opined. “Nor would you ever have been able to use him as you hoped had you actually succeeded in freeing him from St. Helena before he died.”
“Perhaps not,” John Devil agreed. “But he has grey men with him who might have far more in common with me than with him, if they only had a choice of tutors. Sawney Ross and poor re-embodied John are not his kind at all–nor is Germain Patou, in spite of his desertion at Greenhithe.”
“What do you mean, exactly, by re-embodied John?” Temple wanted to know.
“Exactly what I say,” was John Devil’s infuriating reply. “As the Civitas Solis must have discovered, life can be hard for a sound brain in an irreparably damaged body–but as my Swiss predecessor found out, the vital principle contained in electricity can do more than renew life in pre-existent corpses. I was only at the beginning of my studies, you know–there was so much more to discover, so much more too attempt. Germain is brilliant, but he lacks my imagination. He and Mortdieu do not realize how much they need me...
“You were right about that hint of twilight, I think–but the Sun isn’t making much impact on the mist as yet, and I don’t hear any riders approaching, singing German drinking-songs as they come–as they would be, if they’d won a victory with their swords and seized a fortune in gold.”
“It wasn’t such a vast fortune,” Temple said, almost absent-mindedly, as his eyes followed John Devil’s to the cracks in the shutters. It was definitely brighter now, but there seemed to be a wall of mist surrounding the hut, which would reduce visibility to a matter of a few yards even though the Sun had unmistakably risen.
John Devil did not reply to Temple’s remark. Instead, he went to the door and opened it. He looked out, and cursed. He called out in German, but received no reply. He drew his rapier.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Temple,” John Devil said, softly. “It seems that the sequence of traps had one more layer than I anticipated.”
Temple cursed himself for not having taken time to think about that possibility, even though he knew that it was Comte Henri de Belcamp, and not the not-so-vast ransom, who had been the true objective of the tangled plot.
First, Temple moved instinctively to stand astride the sleeping boy. Then unable to tolerate the thought of not being able to see what was happening, he picked him up and went to the door,
Black figures were appearing in the mist, on every side of the hut but the one backed by the wall of rock. It was not obvious, at first, that their hoods were the hoods of monastic habits rather than traveling cloaks, but their faces stood out more clearly in the grey mist than anything else: the faces of leering, fleshless skulls. There were at least eight of them, all on foot and all armed–some with swords, and some with pistols. The horse on which Temple had arrived was still tethered to a tree nearby, but there was no sign of the German sentry.
“They read the vehm more accurately than I did,” John Devil murmured, mournfully. “Whether the brave knights were taken prisoner or whether they’ve simply sold us out, the result’s the same–but we’re not taken yet.”
Chapter Eight
Friedrich Boehm’s Return
“Put down your sword, Monsieur de Belcamp,” a soft voice said, in French. “We mean you no harm.” As in the council meeting, it was difficult to determined which of the masked men had spoken.
“Why, there do not seem to be more than a dozen of you,” John Devil retorted, lightly. “Cyrano de Bergerac put a hundred to flight, so legend has it–and they were authentic bravos, while you are mere scholars in fancy dres
s. You might shoot me, of course–but what use would I be to you dead or mortally wounded? I, on the other hand, do not care in the least how many of you I hurt.” While he spoke he placed himself en garde, taking up a protective position in front of Gregory Temple, which the detective did not like at all.
“Don’t be a fool, man,” he murmured. “Drop your weapon.”
“I’m delighted that it will distress you to see me killed, Mr. Temple,” John Devil said, in a voice far louder than a murmur, which must have been audible to everyone present. “Please don’t worry too much about the fate of my soul,”
“There is no need for anyone to be hurt, Monsieur de Belcamp,” said the soft voice. “None of your German friends has been killed, nor any of our people. We have no wish to harm you, and you have no reason to wish harm to us. Would it not be best to bring this matter to a peaceful conclusion?”
Temple was strongly reminded of the awkward situation that had developed aboard the Outremort, when little Ned Knob had made John Devil and Mortdieu see sense–but Ned Knob was not here now.
“That’s not my way,” John Devil said. “I was born reckless–sired by Satan, I wrote in my autobiography, although I’ll allow that there was a certain satirical self-aggrandisement in that. I’ll make you a bargain, though, if you wish it–I’ve always had a fondness for diabolical pacts.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre Page 37