The One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  ‘He was knifed in the back in his own house.’ Georges watched le Bon, and continued rolling papers himself.

  Le Bon was startled. He stiffened and looked up sideways at Georges. ‘Then how can you not know who did it?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t domestic, surely? Not Bernave! I don’t see him as a deceiving lover! Although I’ve been wrong before. In fact probably more often than I’ve been right—or I wouldn’t be crouching here in somebody else’s damn shed. If a toad like Marat can have a mistress, then anyone can.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Georges finished a bundle and tied it as tightly as he could. He wished le Bon would put one on the stove now—he was frozen—but perhaps they were too precious to be used until the last already burning was almost gone. ‘More likely political,’ he went on. ‘Someone thought he was on the wrong side.’

  ‘Interesting you should say that,’ le Bon replied thoughtfully. ‘You aren’t the only one asking about him, you know.’

  Georges stopped what he was doing, his fingers motionless. ‘Someone else is? Who? Commune or royalist?’

  Le Bon was curious. It showed in his eyes and the tilt of his head. ‘You care a lot who killed him. Why? What was he to you?’

  ‘The master behind the only plan which has even the ghost of a chance of working,’ Georges answered. ‘Perhaps “ghost” is the right word now. And yes, you’re right, I care who killed him. And I care even more which side he was on ... or if he was playing both sides, or would come down for whoever wins ... or whoever will pay him the most.’

  Le Bon looked at him gravely. ‘I think that warrants something on the fire,’ he observed, opening the stove door and putting the last completed bundle in, then slamming it shut. He squatted on his heels, regarding Georges curiously. ‘You think he could have betrayed the plan to the Commune?’

  Did he really think that? No ... but the fear of it would not go. It was possible. Perhaps his disbelief was only the slowness of his imagination to grasp what had really happened? He was still finding it hard to accept that Bernave was dead.

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ he admitted, rubbing his hands together to keep the circulation going, then stretching them out to the fire. The warmth was making the cuts and scratches smart as circulation returned. ‘I thought I was certain of him. Now I’ve learned a lot about him I didn’t know ... none of it good. Who else was asking about him, anyway?’

  ‘I can’t tell you because I don’t know,’ le Bon confessed. ‘It was just a question here, a question there, all very discreet, but I got the impression, from the bit I overheard, that it was also pretty angry. Whoever it was, was no friend.’

  George said nothing. His mind raced. Who else suspected Bernave? From which side? How much did any of them really know about St Felix? Could he have been a genuine royalist, and discovered Bernave was using him against his own cause? That would have been the ultimate betrayal, with the bitterest irony laced in.

  How that would hurt Amandine! He could hardly bear to think of it. She had always wanted to believe so much of people. He could see her as a little girl, long ago on the banks of the Loire, listening to the stories of the old man in the long evenings, wide-eyed, taking in every word, slow to realise when she was being teased, and then laughing as hard as anyone.

  But that had been meant in kindness.

  As she had grown up she had been quick to give her friendship, but slow to give her heart. He could remember her first real love—sweet, hesitant, wildly unsuitable. It had ended in an innocent parting. She had told him about it, in whispers, one summer evening in the hay loft. He had ached for her sadness, and smiled in the dark that it had gone so cleanly, with nothing to regret.

  Célie had said Amandine cared very deeply for St Felix, and admired him intensely. This would leave a bitterness behind, something that would not heal over. Amandine was not a fighter, like Célie.

  But he could hardly blame any man for killing someone who used him in such a fashion. But to knife him in the dark, in his own house, was a little cold-blooded, and a little careless of other people’s involvement.

  ‘You don’t know what this questioner discovered?’ he said aloud.

  Le Bon shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was only snatches here and there, a word or two overheard.’ He grimaced. ‘I get to stand on street corners a lot these days, and hanging around alleys in a way I wouldn’t normally choose. I’m a watcher and a listener, because I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘Who does?’ Georges said with a wave of hopelessness. ‘Every time I take a step, the ground moves from under me.’

  ‘Something else about Bernave,’ le Bon said quietly. ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard there was a royalist plan to rescue the King from the Temple prison.’

  Georges looked up. It was a crazy idea. The Temple was an enormous, virtually impregnable building, guarded day and night.

  ‘Surely even they have more sense than to try that!’ He felt a flutter of sharp, sickening fear. ‘Obviously it didn’t succeed—but the very fact that they tried will have warned Marat, the Commune, everyone!’

  Le Bon put out his hand and grasped Georges’ wet sleeve. ‘Don’t worry! They didn’t do anything. The plot was foiled before it got that far. I didn’t learn how—but I did hear by whom.’

  Georges swallowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Victor Bernave.’ A wraith of humour lit le Bon’s lopsided face. ‘I don’t know whether he was preventing the King from escaping, preventing the royalists trying to put him back on the throne, or preventing them all from setting out on a plan which couldn’t possibly succeed, and would forewarn Marat and the Commune, and ruin our chances.’

  Georges shook his head, overwhelmed. It seemed as if every certainty was shifting even as he reached for it.

  ‘Have a piece of bread,’ le Bon offered. ‘At least that doesn’t change. We still have to eat.’

  Georges hesitated. It was not a time to eat another man’s food.

  ‘Go out in style!’ le Bon urged. ‘I’ve a bottle of pretty decent Bordeaux. Its owner won’t need it any more, poor devil. You can feed me tomorrow—if there is a tomorrow.’ And without waiting for Georges’ reply, he straightened up and went over to a ledge in the wall, into the shadows, and took down a dusty bottle, and a loaf of bread wrapped around with a clean towel. There was also a fair size piece of cheese. He divided them scrupulously and offered Georges half.

  ‘Are we still going on?’ he asked after a few moments.

  ‘Yes,’ Georges replied with his mouth full. ‘Just changing it a little. Different places, different people.’ He grimaced. ‘Can’t change the time.’

  Le Bon laughed abruptly. ‘Still want my help?’

  ‘Yes.’ Georges watched le Bon’s face. ‘Discreet place for a gentleman to change his clothes before leaving Paris in a hurry, and privately.’

  Le Bon smiled, turning the corner of his lips down.

  ‘Not for Varennes, I trust?’

  ‘No, not Varennes,’ George agreed quietly, remembering the royal family’s abortive attempt to escape. They had very nearly made it as far as the Austrian border before they were caught and brought back.

  Le Bon looked at Georges steadily. ‘We don’t have much chance, you know. Quite apart from Bernave—’

  ‘I know,’ Georges cut across him, not wanting to hear it. ‘But can you think of anything better?’

  ‘No—not living in this madhouse, anyway. It’ll only get worse.’ He held up the bottle in a salute. ‘What the hell! Here’s to going down in glorious flames—last fire before the darkness. Who needs to live to see that?’

  Chapter Nine

  CÉLIE TIPTOED UP THE attic steps again. She did not like coming here in daylight; she was too likely to be seen and arouse curiosity. Someone would know she did not live here and wonder what she was doing.

  She reached the top and rapped lightly on the door. There was no answer, and she felt a surge of disappointment. This was ridiculous. She had known Georges could not avoid go
ing out in daylight, now that Bernave was dead. She should not stand here with her heart in her throat.

  The door opened and she saw the familiar outline of his head against the thin daylight with a surge of relief.

  ‘Oh! Y-you’re here,’ she stammered.

  ‘Célie! Come in.’ He stepped back to make way for her.

  She went inside and closed the door. She should explain herself. He must have heard the emotion in her voice. ‘I thought perhaps you were still out.’

  He looked at her anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I am,’ she said decisively. She held out the food for him and he took it, thanking her. She launched straight away into what she had come to say. It was embarrassing to give and receive thanks every time she did a small service like bringing bread. He was dependent upon it, and she did not want the reminder any more than he must.

  ‘I found the passes,’ she told him. ‘They are made out in four names, I suppose to cover all possibilities. I gave them to St Felix, in case I am searched again as I go in and out of the house.’

  ‘Good.’ Something in him relaxed; there was a slight easing of his shoulders. With his back to the light she could not see his face clearly except in outline. ‘Did you destroy any of the other papers?’ he asked. ‘What was there?’

  She breathed in deeply and hesitated a second. She was not sure if she had done the right thing or not. ‘We destroyed quite a lot—’

  ‘We?’ he swung round, his body stiffening.

  ‘Madame and I,’ she explained. ‘I was afraid that someone else might have the same ideas for different reasons, and if I were caught it would be the end of everything. They would think I was stealing.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ He was watching her intently, trying to read her face. She found it discomfiting, and yet his indifference would have been worse.

  ‘If she were with me then no one else—’

  ‘I understand,’ he repeated. She heard the edge of the tension in his voice.

  ‘We burned the papers we thought might arouse envy or too much curiosity, and kept only what was necessary to continue the business.’ She met his eyes. ‘That included keeping some of the trade routes and destroying the ones used by the drivers we knew, and records of the property in St-Antoine ... which seems to be still safe, as far as I can judge.’

  ‘You’ve been there this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice dropped: ‘You must be exhausted ... after last night. Have you had any sleep? Anything to eat?’

  ‘Probably as much as you have,’ she replied truthfully, then looked away with a little shrug. ‘And I was warmer. That’s something to thank Bernave for! I wonder how long it will last without him. I don’t think Marie-Jeanne knows or cares anything about the importing or exporting of cloth. So far it is Madame who is looking at the papers.’

  ‘Did she know what you burned?’ he asked. ‘Sit down. Do you want some wine? It isn’t good, but it’s better than it might be.’

  She did, but she should not drink the little he had. It was far easier for her to get more, and Amandine would have hot soup on the stove when she got back home.

  ‘No thank you. I had some coffee in the street,’ she lied. She had spent the money on bread for him, but she did not want him to know that. It would be embarrassing, and he would feel obliged. The last thing she wanted was a sense of debt.

  He did not argue. She hoped he did not see through her.

  ‘I met with St Felix last night,’ she hurried on to fill the silence. ‘We talked for a little while.’ She felt hot now at the remembrance of what she had told him, but there had been no choice if she were to persuade him to trust her. ‘He will do all he can, but of course he can’t leave the house until Menou allows him, and that is hardly likely to be in time to be of any use to us.’ She sat down on the chair, suddenly aware of how very tired she was. Perhaps it was quixotic to have refused the wine, but she would not go back on her refusal now.

  He sat uncomfortably on the mattress opposite her, hunched up, his arms wrapped round his knees. He was cold and tired as well. The grey light on the side of his face towards the window showed the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked older than before, perhaps closer to thirty-five. It woke a sudden sense of intimacy in her, and compassion. Under the handsome face, the ease of manner, he was as vulnerable as she was, as able to be tired and frightened and hurt.

  She did not need the wine.

  ‘He wanted to bring Amandine in as well,’ she said quietly. ‘It was his condition for continuing. I wish it weren’t necessary.’ She saw the quick lighting of his face. She knew he would hate endangering Amandine and although she hated it too, she felt a thin stab of loneliness that he did not care so quickly, so instinctively, that she should not be in danger. ‘She went to find the ship’s captain for the crossing,’ she hurried on, covering the gap. ‘That is, if they go to England. I think it would be better if they didn’t. In a way it is the most obvious route. It’s the shortest.’

  ‘I know,’ he answered, meeting her eyes. ‘It’s a last resort. What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been back yet. What about the other safe houses—St-Honoré and St-Sulpice?’

  ‘They seem good.’

  ‘And the crowd?’

  He nodded very slightly. ‘Working on it. It’s all right, don’t worry about that. We still need to speak with the other drivers. That will have to be you or Amandine.’

  There was something else pressing on her mind with more urgency.

  ‘Without the man to take the King’s place, none of this is any good.’ She watched him as he spoke, not because she wanted to judge or weigh what he said, but more because she needed to believe there was still hope, and that he had some kind of answer beyond the short distance she could see. He had always had a kind of inner belief, a confidence that they would succeed. It was like light, or warmth, and she hungered for it now.

  He looked down at the floor. ‘I know that. I don’t know who Bernave had in mind or where to start looking for him, and I daren’t ask. He could be anywhere.’ He lifted his eyes to hers. ‘And if any of us start searching for him, asking questions, we’ll draw everyone’s attention to him. Even if we could find him in time, we would have sabotaged our own cause.’ He bit his lip. ‘Don’t worry, Célie, I’ll find someone else.’

  ‘In a day and a half?’

  A sudden smile lit his face. ‘It won’t be much good after that!’ Then it vanished. ‘Célie ... I heard something else.’

  ‘What?’ She knew from his voice it could not be good.

  ‘There was a royalist plan to rescue the King from the Temple.’

  ‘That’s stupid!’ she said in amazement. ‘It would never succeed! There are guards everywhere. The rescuers would be more likely to end up inside with him.’ The thought of the royalists in the Temple did not bother her in the slightest, but the warning they would give the guards, the Commune, the Convention, was a nightmare. ‘Georges—’

  ‘They didn’t try it!’ he assured her quickly. ‘They were betrayed before they could ever begin.’

  ‘Thank God!’ she said, engulfed by relief.

  ‘By Bernave,’ he finished.

  ‘Bernave?’ She should have expected it from his voice, but she was stunned. ‘Bernave betrayed them? Are you sure?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But ... that doesn’t make any ...’ She tailed off. It made only too hideous sense.

  ‘You thanked God when you knew they hadn’t tried,’ he reminded her wryly.

  ‘Yes, but ...’ Then she understood. ‘You mean he might have betrayed them because he knew they couldn’t succeed, and would only make our job harder?’

  His smile was twisted. ‘He might have. We’ll never know. There’s no one to ask.’

  She did not know what to say.

  Georges looked up at her, frowning now. ‘Bernave mentioned once that he had a partner in the b
usiness, someone who helped him get started. I don’t know how long ago.’

  She tried to think, but she could not remember Bernave ever speaking of him. ‘Who? What was his name?’

  ‘Henri Renoir,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know if it would be any use finding him, but it might be.’

  ‘At least he would know more of Bernave than we do,’ Célie reasoned. ‘He may be able to tell us where his loyalties really lay. Bernave may have trusted him with the truth. He might even help us!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said dubiously. ‘We still aren’t sure which side Bernave was on, let alone Renoir.’

  Suddenly Célie was aware of how cold she was. There was a dampness in the air, even inside the room, and it ate into the flesh till it seemed to reach the bones. For a moment she had allowed herself to forget that Bernave could have been the enemy. Perhaps she had made herself forget. She did not want to believe St Felix had killed him, not for any reason, not even because he had betrayed them all to the Commune. She could not dismiss her liking for Bernave—it had been too deep and too real. She wanted to think he was loyal to what he desired to be, and that Monsieur Lacoste or Fernand had discovered the plot and ... what? Killed him to prevent it being carried out? Rather than tell the Commune, and risk losing the house, and the business?

  In that case, who was next? St Felix? Amandine? Herself! Everyone in the house knew that she ran Bernave’s errands. Did they think she was innocent because she was the laundress? Not clever enough, not trustworthy enough to be involved, except blindly?

  Did they think the same of Amandine? They would not of St Felix. Or perhaps they thought that without Bernave the plotters would give up anyway. She could not afford to forget, not for an instant. One word could be enough to betray them all.

  ‘I’ll find Renoir,’ she said with determination. ‘Where do I look?’

  ‘The Jacobin Club,’ Georges replied. ‘Apparently he’s there most evenings. He certainly will be now, coming up to the execution.’