Spies and Subterfuge

by Christopher Hoare

  The occupants of the interior consisted of old women with their hair done up in papers and strong aromas of anise to their breath, several weasel-like tradesmen whose eyes flitted from one person to another as if they were judging the most promising victim to rob, two buxom girls who could be milkmaids, and a pair of stout gentlemen, dressed in suits that glistened from long use, whose trembling hands held pomanders that frequently passed beneath their red noses.

  The family she had seen in the hostelry in Neuzen the afternoon before were also passengers but the parents rode behind in the rotonde while the youngsters clung to the baggage piled upon the roof. Whenever the noise outside lessened—the clatter of hooves, the screaming of the postilions plying their whips, and the incessant jingle of harness bells—Roberta could catch snatches of conversation between her husband, seated in the imperiale, and the bolder of the two girls. He had cautioned her against speaking with other passengers for fear that one or two police informers would be aboard and her words would be reported to Fouché, but clearly he eschewed his own advice.

  She wondered if it was only an extravagant fear to imagine that the conversation inside a diligence would be reported to Napoleon’s Chief of Police, but everyone seemed aghast at her doubts when she whispered them at the breakfast table. Lord Bond had walked with her on the quayside before departure and assured her that Fouché was known to read his Prefete’s reports from the whole of France, and only their speed in accomplishing their task would ensure they might leave the country before he received any that might incriminate them.

  The only respite from the jolting of wheels on rutted roads were the short stops at villages along the way, Axel, Hulst, and at long last at Beveren, where the horses were changed and the weary passengers had a short rest to refresh themselves. Roberta and her husband walked slowly up and down the road outside while they awaited Annie’s return with the wine they had ordered.

  As they were about to retrace their steps toward the hostelry, Lord Bond stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Is that not one of the old women from the coach?”

  Roberta looked where he indicated. “I believe you are correct. Where is she going?”

  He smiled. “Watch. That is the prefecture on the corner.”

  They watched until the woman disappeared inside, when Roberta was surprised to see another passenger from the coach, the most weasel-like tradesman, emerge from an alley between two buildings and likewise enter the prefecture.

  “We have two informers with us,” Lord Bond said with a smile. “The prefete de police in Antwerp will know of our arrival tomorrow morning. It is very fortunate that America is not at war with France.”

  “Will they question us?”

  “I do not think so. It only happened once to me before. But you may be assured that they will watch us.”

  “But how will we complete our task under such observation?”

  Lord Bond smiled again. “The police pay their informers with sous. The wise spy will bribe the informers with francs to look the other way.”

  The next morning, in Antwerp, Lord Bond rose early and left his wife at her dressing. “I will be back within the hour, but I must go to fetch Mr. Holmes’ letter from the Poste Restante.”

  Roberta looked at him doubtfully. “But if the real Mr. Paine received the communication that sent him from Antwerp in haste, would he not have also received other letters addressed to him?”

  Bond shrugged. “We do not know it was a letter that called him away with such dispatch. Besides, he may not have recognised the writing or the sender of Mr. Holmes’ letter and declined to pay for it.”

  He left the Hotel du Parc and crossed the market square, bustling with merchants setting up their stalls, and walked briskly to the Poste Restante. The traffic here was much less, since those persons with money to pay for postage were likely still abed, or else taking a croissant and a glass of wine.

  The lad behind the counter seemed surprised when asked for Mr. Paine’s mail, but went away to the pigeonholes and duly arrived with the envelope adorned with Symington Holmes’ handwriting. “Five francs, Monsieur.”

  “Five? Where has it come from?”

  “I cannot say, Monsieur, but it has been refused the once.”

  Bond eyed the lad carefully as he reached for his money purse. This was clearly a demand for a bribe, which would be acceptable if it meant the strange circumstance would not be reported to the police. “The other gentleman paid for his letter, I expect?”

  The lad shrugged. “An official seal. From Paris.”

  Bond risked a question. “And he left no message for me to tell me where he was going?”

  The lad smiled as he took the francs and slid the letter across the counter. “He said if any more letters like this were sent he would refuse them.”

  “What will you do with them? I may expect one in a lady’s hand.”

  The lad jingled the francs. “I do not mind . . . if they are paid for.”

  Bond left the building and hurried back to the Hotel du Parc without pausing to open the letter. He watched to see if he were followed but did not catch anyone suspicious.

  When he reached their room he found Roberta at the dressing table with Annie rolling her hair into ringlets. “When you have finished that, Annie, you might go to the kitchen and ask for our petit déjeuner to be sent up.”

  Roberta eyed him in the mirror. “You have the letter?”

  “That I do, and I also have an understanding with the fellow at the counter to ensure I am the recipient of future letters and not some other American claiming to be Mr. Paine.”

  Roberta’s eyes narrowed. “Is that perfectly safe, Husband? Will that not suggest some subterfuge worth more than a few francs next time? Perhaps even worth arranging for some Gendarme to be waiting for the customer?”

  Bond smiled his most reassuring smile. “Do not fret, Dearest. This is my business—as yours is shipbuilding. As soon as you might quit that seat I suggest you read Symington’s letter and ascertain whether it be the answer to your queries or no.” Roberta’s expression relaxed slightly at his words.

  Annie rolled two more ringlets before Roberta dismissed her to the kitchens. When the girl left they bent their heads over the contents. He let Roberta read while he looked over her shoulder.

  “It would seem that Mr. Holmes was able to inspect three barge cargoes at a dock outside Ghent,” she said. “One a consignment of manufactured firebox parts to be assembled at the shipyard, was of iron to the thickness of ten millimetres. That would compare closely to our manufacture of half an inch plate.”

  “Does he say how many fireboxes the cargo would carry?”

  “Hmm. He says they appear to be a battery of fireboxes to fit a single boiler. Not a practice we favour.”

  “And the next load?”

  “Angle irons and rods. I would suppose that to be all material to secure the machinery within the ships.”

  “Come on, Symington. We need to learn the thickness of the armour plate.”

  “That would appear to be the iron carried on the third barge,” Roberta said as she turned the page. “Yes. Here we are. Three stacks of heavy iron, about two feet by one, and an inch and three quarters in thickness. Not very thick for armour plate, but here he reports a fact that seems to explain further. The edges of the plates, he says, were grooved and shaped as if they were to be secured together when installed.”

  “So their armour would be three and a half inches thick?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But they could even affix three plates together?”

  “I would need to see the form of the grooving to tell if that were feasible—oh, here we are—he has a diagram of the plates on the next page.”

  She read the writing and studied the diagram awhile.

  “Well? Could they have more than four inches of armour?”

  “It does not appear impossible, but my experiments at Woolwich tell me that made up plates are far inferior to solid pla
te of the same thickness. Perhaps I could fabricate some iron to the same description as this and have our friends the gunners test them at the Artillery Depot.”

  They discussed the information in the letter over breakfast and came to the conclusion that it was a good contribution to their mission but didn’t rule out the need for Roberta to actually see the pyroscaphes in action and at least a glimpse at the ironclad battleship on the slipway. They needed to wait for Nederlander to arrive at Antwerp to provide back-up and a possible escape route before they stuck their necks out that far.

  Bond re-fastened his cravat in preparation to going out again. “I need to contact the French Royalists to learn if they have any information about Mr. Holmes and Captain McNab. I will also have to inform them of my actions before I take the American letter to the authorities, or else they may suspect me of acting as a double agent.”

  “I see. Can I come with you to help? I feel like a supernumerary waiting here in the hotel.”

  “No. You must act as my second line of defence. If I am detained for any reason you must go to a wine shop called ‘Le Canard Noyade’ and ask for a Monsieur LaGarde. This is just a code name for the Royalists, but I think they would be the most trustworthy party to help you escape the city.”

  He watched a play of emotions cross her face before she nodded and spoke in a level, unemotional tone. “Very well. But you must give me more description and instructions before you leave.”

  He smiled as he turned once more to attend to dressing. He had told her much, but could not mention that he also needed to contact the Dutch Resistance to find out where Elise had gone. He hoped a letter from her may yet arrive in Antwerp but contact her he must—it was dangerous to visit the French authorities while he knew nothing of Mr. Paine’s whereabouts and actions. The Nederlander should arrive in Antwerp in the morning with the cargo of tobacco, but he could not use the shipment as a bona fide without being sure the real owner would not arrive during the auction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Information for Diamonds

  Lord Bond walked about a kilometre, a measurement in the new revolutionary French nomenclature, with the morning sun in his eyes until he reached the district near the city wall where the diamond dealers and cutters had their premises. The arrondissement seemed uncharacteristically run down—no doubt a product of England’s naval blockade that hampered the flow of diamonds into the city.

  He stopped before a small bottle-glass window that displayed a few small gems . . . this should be the place he had been told about. The shop door opened to his touch and he went inside.

  “How may I help you, Monsieur?” an old man in the dark behind the counter asked.

  “I need to speak with the owner of the gems.”

  In the light from a single oil lamp, the old man’s eyes glinted in his shadowed face. His head bowed, showing the yarmulke on the back of his head. “The owner is not in. He does not meet clients.”

  “He will meet me. I will wait until a message can be sent.”

  “You claim to be acquainted with the owner?”

  “I mean the Christian gentleman . . . who usually lives in Vienna.”

  “Ah.” The old man struggled to his feet. “I do not know the man of whom you speak, but I will send a boy with a message. What name shall I say?”

  “The boy must say—the owner of the Nederlander must speak with him.”

  “Nederlander?”

  “He will know what I mean.”

  The old man opened a door behind him, letting a faint glimmer of light to enter the shop. “Very well. Please wait here.”

  While the old man was gone, Lord Bond peered at the gemstones in a glass showcase at the end of the counter. He couldn’t tell much in the dim light—they might be cut glass for all he knew—but they gave him an idea. Women liked gems—and a nice diamond might do something to sweeten his wife’s ill temper at his husbandly rights. He had never had to account for his love-making actions before, and he did not like to suffer the necessity now.

  The return of the old man surprised him peering into the case. “You wish to buy a diamond, Monsieur?”

  Bond looked up. “I was contemplating buying something for my wife.”

  “If zat is your intent you would be better served to look at these.” The old man opened a hidden door in a wall behind him and brought out a velvet covered tray. He removed the cloth and then raised the wick on the oil lamp at the end of the counter and brought it closer.

  In the flickering yellowish light the gems seemed to coruscate and dance on the tray. Lord Bond’s eyes were drawn to the largest in the centre of the display surrounded by a dozen gems slightly smaller. Unlike those in the glass case, these were unmounted, waiting for a purchaser to decide on the jewelry they would adorn. Lord Bond pointed. “How much is that one?”

  The old man chuckled. “Monsieur has a very good eye for quality. That is the rarest diamond in all of Antwerp. It is irreplaceable since the English blockade has prevented more cargo from the East.”

  “Hmm. But, how much?”

  “I could not let it go for less than ten thousand francs, but I would include a very charming setting in a gold ring for that.”

  Lord Bond held his face expressionless. Were this peacetime and he merely visiting the city for pleasure, the equivalent of five hundred pounds sterling would not be out of reach—no more than a year’s income for the captain of a First Rate ship of the Line. Unfortunately, the sum was far beyond the specie he had received for this mission—even if he included the total sum of the gold sovereigns sewn into the lining of his jacket.

  “I have a cargo yet to sell,” he said as if totaling the amount in his head. “But perhaps prudence would suggest something worth closer to one thousand francs.”

  The old man shrugged and reached down for a much smaller stone. “This one has a very fine clarity and shade, Monsieur,” he said holding the gem so Lord Bond could see the light shining through it. “With a very pretty 22 carat ring I might let this one go for twelve hundred.”

  “What would that be in English pounds?” Bond asked quietly.

  The man looked about guiltily. “Alor! Such is forbidden, Monsieur.”

  Bond shrugged. “But I am an American. It is not illegal to pay a debt with sovereigns there, even if we are at war with the British.”

  The old man made a great show of walking to the door to look out. When he returned he smiled briefly and said, “Fifty English pounds.”

  Bond took the gem from the man’s hand and turned it this way and that in the lamplight. “Forty.”

  “Ach. Impossible.”

  “The franc loses its worth with every year of war. Forty seems very fair to me.”

  “But unfortunately I cannot accept so little. I have workmen to pay—goldsmiths, diamond cutters, even my wife and children could go hungry if I were to be such a poor businessman.”

  Bond took out a few sovereigns from his inner pocket and rolled them in his hand. “I can let you check them to see they are good and not clipped. Forty?”

  The old man took the diamond from Lord Bond’s other hand, and shook his head. “Oy. You drive such a hard bargain.”

  The door to the shop opened behind them and Bond quickly pocketed the coins while the old man dropped the stone into the tray and covered it again. They turned to see a coachman in simple livery in the doorway. “Monsieur LaGarde is waiting.”

  The old man turned to the newcomer. “Can you not see we are talking business? Wait outside.”

  “Monsieur LaGarde does not wait.”

  Bond shrugged. “We must discuss this more at another time. I would like to see a neutral jeweler to verify the quality of the merchandise.”

  “You call me a cheat? After I have risked so much already for you? Give me some coin in deposit to honour your intent. Two hundred francs, and I will have the gem verified.”

  Bond set four gold sovereigns on the counter. “I will leave these and visit you again soon.” Then he
bowed and left the shop with the coachman.

  Outside stood a drab two-wheeled chaise with a single horse and a light closed canopy. The coachman stopped beside it before climbing into his seat. “If you will enter, Monsieur, I will take you to your meeting.”

  “Monsieur LaGarde is not within?”

  “We must ensure you are not followed before we can meet him.”

  Bond climbed in and the carriage moved off. They continued in a south-easterly direction for several streets and then entered the gates of a park. The coachman whipped up his little horse and joined several more conveyances engaged in a circuit of the park drives. They circulated several times before turning away to stop beside an ornamental lake. A man sitting in a seat facing the pond looked up and nodded. The coachman then continued to a small stone building at the end of the lake. They were met by two men in long overcoats who asked Bond to dismount and led him to a door at the far end of the structure. Outside, the Comte de la Marck stood waiting for him under the trees. “Let us walk, My Lord. You need something from me?”

  “Good day, Monsieur le Comte. I hope you can inform me what has happened to the two men who were entrusted to your care.”

  The Comte shrugged. “I arranged safe accommodation for them—nothing more.”

  “It seems anything but safe. I am told it has been bricked up.”

  “Surely no more than a rumour.”

  “I had a trusted agent inspect it. The entrance to the room is now a brick wall.”

  The Comte shrugged. “If you say so. The men have left—do you not know where they have gone?”

  “I have just returned from another location. I believe it is possible they have been arrested. Someone must have betrayed them.”

  “Not one of my people.”