“That sounds useful,” I said.
“It was. Sometimes we needed to know more, though, and then we sent out people like Thomas to fill in the gaps. He’d get himself up in some unlikely fashion and vanish, then turn up a few days later with just the information we needed. Until San Sebastián.”
“San Sebastián?”
James didn’t seem to hear me. “After we took the port, Soult retreated into the Pyrenees. Thomas went off for a look at the defenses of the star fort on the Bidassoa River, by the Pass of Vera. He was gone nearly two weeks. Then a fellow showed up—a thoroughly disreputable-looking cutthroat of a Spaniard—claiming to be a courier from Thomas. With a lot of information and a note saying the French had taken him for a local and pressed him into their army, but that—”
“—nobody was to worry, he would manage it all himself,” I finished. James gave me a startled look. “Kate has told me all about Thomas’s appalling tendency to overconfidence.”
James snorted. “It’s not overconfidence, my girl; it’s a dislike of making fusses. And of being caught at a disadvantage.”
“Yes, that does sound like him,” I said, nodding. “And knowing that, of course you went after him.”
“Somebody had to,” James said. “As soon as he left the French army, they’d consider him a deserter, and they shot deserters on sight. So I waxed persuasive and got leave to track him down.
“It was easier than I’d expected. He’d dropped enough hints, one way and another. He’d gone to ground with a supposedly respectable French widow in Bayonne. I’d thought she was a friend of his mother’s, so I was expecting someone older and … more sedate. But I hadn’t met Lady Sylvia then, of course.”
“The Lady in Blue!” I said. “That’s who it was, wasn’t it?”
James nodded. “I never did find out her real name. She didn’t tell me then, of course, in case the Frenchies caught us on the way back. She’d managed to hide Thomas, but she was low on funds. Naturally, Thomas had had to abandon most of what he’d taken with him when he realized he was about to be caught in the press sweep. I gave her most of what I’d brought, and slipped Thomas out the back ahead of the search party, so she could safely let them search the house and wax indignant over their suspicions.”
“James, are you telling me that you managed to sneak past the French?” I demanded. For James is terrible at sneaking; I’ve seen him try.
“Not exactly.” James looked embarrassed. “I, er, borrowed a coat from a French officer we’d taken prisoner. I thought nobody would question a wounded officer with a dispatch case, so I put my left arm in a sling. And limped. Well, when I remembered. I think that’s what gave us away in the end, actually.”
“You should have put a pebble in your boot,” I said severely. “Then you wouldn’t have forgotten to limp, and you wouldn’t have been shot.”
“Oh, that wasn’t when I was shot,” James said with revolting cheerfulness. “That was just when Thomas and I had to run for it. I didn’t get shot until we were back in Spain. I was still wearing the officer’s coat, and with Thomas in tow … well, a Spanish guerrilla took me for just what I’d been playing, a French courier escorting a prisoner, and he took a couple of potshots at us. We rode for it, but I took a ball in the thigh. Nearly spent, fortunately; it didn’t take much to dig it out. But it was three weeks before the sawbones would certify me fit for duty, and I missed taking the fort at the Bidassoa.”
Men are extremely odd. I hope I am properly conscious of my duty to my country, but I do not think that in similar circumstances I would have been at all sorry to have missed the chance of being shot at for several hours together.
“And it was all Thomas’s fault,” James finished, smothering a yawn.
“Are you too tired to continue talking?” I asked carefully.
“What?”
“If you aren’t too tired, I have a few questions,” I said. “I follow the general outline of your adventure, but there are a few gaps …”
“Cecy, I—“ An enormous yawn interrupted him. He blinked at me, frowning slightly. Then his expression cleared. “Yes, I think I could do with a nap.”
“I’ll be here if you want something,” I assured him.
James smiled, lay back, and closed his eyes. It was not many minutes before his pretense of sleep became the real thing. I stayed where I was until his breathing deepened and I was quite sure he would not awake; then I slipped out. Direct tactics are not always the most effective with James.
From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield
17 August 1817
St. Denis
At the Lion d’Or
Things have been quiet, blessedly quiet. We have had two solid days of rain, but we are comfortable enough here at the Lion d’Or. Two days of utter quiet have done wonders for James. James’s improvement has done wonders for Cecy, who permitted herself an unbroken rest only after James spent an entire night in undisturbed slumber.
This morning the weather improved. At breakfast, the day looked as if it would be fair and fine. I was glad of Thomas’s suggestion that I accompany him to the Basilica of St. Denis. After all, it is one of the ancient sites Uncle Arthur will be sure to ask us about. Hundreds of years of history have accumulated there, century upon century, kings and queens drifting in like leaves in autumn.
Very suited to my mood it turned out to be, too, since the whole place was wrecked during the Revolution. Fifty-seven royal tombs have been desecrated, the stained-glass windows broken, even the leading torn from the roof. Hard work in the years since had made a start at putting the ruin back to rights, but to me it seemed a dreadful place—gloomy, chill, and damp despite the fine weather outside.
Only one place in St. Denis seemed free of the despair of the past. Someone has displayed good common sense and converted the old buildings of the abbey into a free school. We were told it is for the daughters of officers of the Legion of Honor. The signs of school life make a welcome contrast to the maimed old abbey church. There is hope for the future if more such outworn monuments of antiquity could be put to good use.
21 August 1817
St. Denis
At the Lion d’Or
The physician has pronounced James fit to rise from his bed. I suspect James may have been doing a bit of rising on his own, but certainly today was the first time he was officially up and around. Not that he did much. Cecy was at his side to prevent any untoward exertion. She is looking a thousand times better.
So it was that our second council of war took place in the rooms James and Cecy shared, and this time it was James who had a rug over his knees as he sat beside the fire.
The five of us made ourselves comfortable in close quarters, and Lady Sylvia began. “First I must ask a very simple question. Given the circumstances, do you wish to change your plans and return home?”
“Home?” Cecy was seated on a footstool beside James’s chair. This permitted her to lean against James’s knee. “We can’t go home. We haven’t even reached Paris yet. How will we ever find out what this is all about if we go home now?”
“Lady Sylvia is offering us an alternative,” James answered. He let one fingertip touch Cecy’s shoulder, as if to reassure himself that she was safely within his reach. “We need to be very clear about things if we choose to go on.”
“Fine. I’m very clear. I want to go on. Don’t you?” Cecy’s customary air of decision was firmly in place.
James smiled at her.
“Before anyone else answers,” Lady Sylvia said, “I must clarify matters. I have enlisted help from friends in Paris. I intend to stay there and make inquiries, whether you stay or go. So you needn’t feel that going home now will deprive you of the eventual solution to this mystery. We will find out what this is all about, I promise.”
Thomas met my eyes and nodded slightly. I said, “If you’re staying, we’re staying.”
James said, “We’re all staying. Or to be more precise, we’re all going with you to
Paris. Moreover, we’ll all work together to puzzle this out.”
“Good.” I could tell Lady Sylvia was pleased, even though she immediately turned a severe gaze upon Thomas. “But we will have no more foolhardy tricks, is that clear?”
For a wonder, Thomas only nodded meekly and made no other reply at all.
“Very good. Then we may turn our attention to the matter at hand.” From her reticule, Lady Sylvia produced an untidy bit of knitting done in gray yarn. “I have received a reply to the message I sent ahead to Paris along with an article of clothing discarded by one of our attackers. This tells me there is more news for us than can be conveyed in this fashion. In addition, my friends wish to show me something that may be of particular interest to you, Thomas.”
“I trust your friends will have no objection if we join you?” Thomas asked.
“They will not object in the least.” Lady Sylvia showed us the gray knitting. “But see? The last four stitches are purled, meaning time is of the essence. Do you think you will feel well enough to travel tomorrow, James?”
“Of course.” James seemed to have no doubts at all, but Cecy looked concerned.
“How far will we need to travel?” Cecy asked. “It’s only a few miles to Paris, but I have always understood Paris to be a rather large city.”
“We go just to my house in the Rue des Capucines,” Lady Sylvia replied. “As soon as we’re settled comfortably there, I’ll send for my friends. We’ll see just what they have to tell us.”
“To Paris, then,” said James. “At last.”
Paris
From the commonplace book of Judy Schofield
23 August 1817
Paris
At Lady Sylvia’s house
WE TOOK OUR TIME about leaving the Lion d’Or yesterday. James was in fine spirits and in as good health as might be expected, but since the journey was to be so short, we made it a very leisurely one. Even so, by the end of the afternoon I was very glad to be settled at last in Lady Sylvia’s Paris house. It is an elegant place of considerable age, not far from the Madeleine, the new church they’re building to look like a Greek temple. However noble the architectural history that went into its design, Uncle Arthur would still be scandalized by the sight. Its stone is raw and glaringly new. In fact, everything about it looks new. Even when it is finished, I expect it will keep that jarring effect. I would not have thought I had an opinion in the matter, but I find I am not in any doubt. A Greek temple should not look new.
Lady Sylvia was as good as her word. At dinner, we were joined by her friends, Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon. Both men are far closer in age to Thomas and James than to any of Lady Sylvia’s friends we’ve met so far. Initially, I assumed from their names that Mr. Lennox was Scottish and Mr. Reardon was Irish, but there was nothing in their speech or manner to betray any provincial origin at all. Mr. Lennox is more wiry than Mr. Reardon, but they are of a height and share similarly nondescript coloring. Indeed, I had a difficult time remembering which was which. I finally settled myself to remember that Mr. Reardon’s neckcloth was a thought more elegant. Heaven help me when I meet them again. They will have changed clothes. I’ll have to start all over.
Both the short notice of the invitation and the state of James’s health—although he made light of the exertions of the day’s travel—made informality desirable. After dinner, we all repaired to the drawing room, where Lady Sylvia and Thomas made sure that our meeting was protected from all other eyes and ears.
When the protection spell was set, Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon brought forth a map of Paris and a sheaf of papers, all of which they deposited on the mahogany table in front of Lady Sylvia.
“We used the cap you sent us, Lady Sylvia,” Mr. Lennox said, “and for the first three days it worked very well.”
“Simple directional spell,” Mr. Reardon added. “Good thing it was an old cap. Plenty of sympathetic vibrations to work with.”
“By the third day we had located the owner of the cap to within a few hundred yards, at a lodging house in a down-at-heels part of town. It didn’t seem wise to press matters further. We just kept an eye on things at that distance.” Mr. Lennox tapped the map. “That night there was a disturbance.”
“Quite an embarrassment,” said Mr. Reardon. “We should have realized we weren’t the only ones keeping a watch on the place.”
“We did our best with limited resources,” Mr. Lennox told him. It sounded to me as if they’d had the same discussion several times before. “We did what we could.”
Mr. Reardon gave Mr. Lennox a small shrug that might have been agreement.
Mr. Lennox continued. “We lost all sympathetic vibrations through the cap. Fortunately, the owner of the place raised a hue and cry when he discovered the disturbance. We rushed in but it was too late. The man who owned the cap was dead. The intruders, whoever they were, got away.”
“On the floor beside our man was another corpse, a gentleman of considerable means, to judge from his clothing.” Mr. Reardon selected a sheet of paper from the sheaf on the table and held it out to Thomas. “This was in his pocket.”
Thomas took the sheet. As he read it, his jaw tightened and his eyes grew cold. “My God. Is this genuine? Do you have anything to corroborate the identification?”
Mr. Lennox looked regretful. “He’d been robbed, of course. If he had letters of credit with him, or anything else that would have identified him beyond a doubt, they were gone by the time we got there.”
Thomas held out the paper to Lady Sylvia. “It’s a letter to Sir Hilary Bedrick.” While Lady Sylvia read the letter, Thomas turned back to Lennox and Reardon. “I want to see the body.”
Mr. Reardon winced. “Ah. I thought you might. Unfortunately, the weather has been rather warm for the time of year. Both bodies were buried Friday. We’ve encountered similar situations and have found that it sometimes helps to sketch the victim as well as the crime scene. I am no hand with a pencil, but I did the best likeness I could under the circumstances.” Mr. Reardon handed Thomas another sheet of paper.
We all craned forward to see. I perceived Mr. Reardon had underestimated his artistic abilities. Though rough, the unfinished likeness was unmistakably that of Sir Hilary. A grim silence fell over the room as we absorbed this news.
Sir Hilary Bedrick had caused Lady Sylvia and Thomas great grief. He had intended further misdeeds. He’d planned to murder James and to send Cecy mad. He was a man of ability, authority, strength, and learning. He had misused all of that in every possible way. Because he was stripped of his magic and sent into exile, perhaps it was inevitable he would come to a bad end. Still, that made it no less shocking to be presented with evidence of his involvement in our current puzzle.
Cecy was the first to break the silence. “How on earth did Sir Hilary reach Paris so quickly? Mr. Brummell said he hadn’t arrived in Calais.”
“There are other Channel ports.” Lady Sylvia folded the letter and put it back. “Sir Hilary’s correspondent, who signs his letter most discreetly with the mere letter X, promises help in a project of Sir Hilary’s, and urges him to make haste to the room he’d hired for him. A room where he met our attacker, presumably. I assume the address is the same?”
Mr. Lennox nodded. “No one remembers who engaged the room. It’s the sort of place no one remembers anything unless they are compelled to.”
“Not that we didn’t try to compel them.” Mr. Reardon unfolded his sketch of the crime scene. “The table had been overturned, but from the number of broken mugs and the position of the freshest stains on the table, four men sat around having drinks.”
“How do you know they were men?” Cecy asked.
Slowly Mr. Reardon’s ears turned a deep yet delicate shade of pink. “I… I…”
Mr. Lennox attempted a rescue. “We surmise that they were men, as the nature of the place makes it unlikely that any of the women who might frequent the premises would be invited to—” Confronted by Cecy’s expression of candid inter
est, Mr. Lennox cleared his throat and fell silent.
“They are fallen women, you mean? Soiled doves?” Cecy prompted. “I know just what you mean—”
James had mercy on Mr. Lennox and interrupted her. “He means, I gather, that it is most likely to have been a man who sat at that table to talk on terms of equality with Sir Hilary and our subject.”
“More likely, perhaps—” Cecy broke off. “James, you look so tired. Are you quite sure you are not—”
James was gentle, yet firm. “I am entirely positive. I’m quite all right.”
Cecy subsided.
“Neatly phrased, James, but Sir Hilary never deemed anyone to be on terms of equality with him,” said Thomas. “If we accept this reading of the situation, it wasn’t a straightforward attack, was it?”
“By no means,” Mr. Lennox answered. “More likely a case of thieves falling out. From the injuries inflicted on our subject, we believe that Sir Hilary had a knife. Someone else had a blunt instrument, but he took it away with him once he used it on Sir Hilary.”
“Four men, you said.” James looked thoughtful. “Sir Hilary killed our footpad, possibly in self-defense. Someone else killed Sir Hilary. What of the fourth?”
“From the nature of Sir Hilary’s injuries,” said Mr. Lennox, “the fourth man was involved in rendering him immobile.”
“One held him down,” Mr. Reardon summed up, “while the other killed him.”
The blunt words rendered us all silent for some time. I would not dare to guess what was going through anyone else’s mind. To me, however, it seemed not unjust that Sir Hilary, who had sacrificed so many to his thirst for power, had died like an animal in the slaughterhouse.
Mr. Lennox broke the mood at last. “By the time we arrived, there were no valuables of any kind at the scene. The Sainte Ampoule was gone.”
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