The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  Again de Brinevillers did as he was told. Roger came up behind him, loosened the gag and said, ‘It may be that your man sleeps in the closet. If so, as I open the door you’ll immediately order him to remain silent. Should he not, I’ll have to kill you both. And you will be the first, for I’ll drive my knife through your back.’ He then thrust his hand past the Ambassador’s waist, gripped the door-knob, turned it and pushed the door open.

  The room was in darkness and there was no sound. Roger tightened the gag again and retied the knot.

  Turning away, he lit a second candle from the first, kneed de Brinevillers in the backside, which made him stagger forward, and followed him into the closet.

  The window was at one end of the long, narrow room; at the other there was a mahogany commode with, on one side of it, a washstand carrying a basin and ewer and, on the other, a small table on which there were a writing pad and a crayon for making notes. Both sides of the room were lined with hanging cupboards and presses. One after the other Roger opened them and took out undergarments, a coat and waistcoat of fine blue cloth, a pair of white buckskin breeches, silk stockings, a frilled lawn shirt, a gold-laced hat, leather riding gloves, a pair of tall boots, spurs and a grey, triple-collared cloak. Stripping to the buff, he threw the dirty, ragged garments he had been wearing on to the floor.

  Having dressed himself in his purloined finery, he took a good look at the row of various shaped bottles on a shelf above the washstand. He had no intention of harming de Brinevillers unless it proved necessary, but was determined to humilate him, and decided that the commode and the items on the shelf provided an adequate means of doing so.

  The Ambassador had continued to stand near the door in resigned misery. Roger gave him a push towards the commode then pulled off the pointed nightcap he was wearing, opened it up and put it point downwards in the china receptacle. Tipping only a little water from the ewer into the basin he proceeded to lather his hands well with soap. Having rinsed them he poured the soapy water into a large tooth glass. Swallowing it would, he felt sure, cause anyone to be sick, but he had a mind to make a thorough job of his project; so from various bottles on the shelf he added spoonfuls or a dash of Macassar hair-oil, eau-de-Cologne, hand lotion, bath essence, laxative and insect repellent, until the tumbler was full. Setting the glass down, he made de Brinevillers kneel in front of the commode, then undid his gag and said to him harshly:

  ‘You will now drink this concoction. Should you refuse or attempt to spit it out, I’ll slice your ears off.’ As he spoke, he picked up the tumbler and held it to the Ambassador’s lips.

  The wretched man’s hands were still bound behind his back, so he could put up no effective resistance. Muttering a curse, he took a sip of the repulsive mixture, screwed up his face and shied away.

  With a swift flick of his wrist Roger drew the point of his knife across his victim’s right cheek, and snapped, ‘Come now! No nonsense! Drink it down or it will be the worse for you.’

  The cut was barely skin deep but blood began to ooze from it and it had been painful enough for renewed terror to cause sweat again to break out on de Brinevillers’ forehead. Leaning forward he took a gulp from the glass. As he swallowed he made a hideous grimace and his eyes bulged.

  Roger grinned. ‘That’s better, now another.’ But the kneeling man violently shook his head and spat out what little of the filthy mixture there remained in his mouth.

  ‘So little Brinne means to be naughty eh?’ Roger was frowning now. ‘Then nannie must help him take his meddie.’ Having laid his knife down on the washstand, he suddenly shot out his free hand and seized the Ambassador by the nose. As he opened his mouth to gasp for breath, Roger lifted the glass against his lower lip and poured half its contents down his gullet.

  Still held firmly by the nose, he writhed in agony. His eyes started from his head and sweat, mingling with the blood on his cheek, poured down his face. After a good, long minute, Roger let go of him. His stomach heaved, he gave a great belch and jerking forward his head was violently sick into the nightcap-lined commode.

  For several minutes he remained there vomiting and retching. When he lifted his head he was gasping desperately for breath and tears were streaming from his eyes. But Roger still had no mercy on him. Seizing his nose again tightly between finger and thumb, he poured the remaining contents of the glass down de Brinevillers’ throat. There followed an agonised gurgle, another great belch and, a moment later, the callous diplomat who had left Roger to die was again being as sick as a poisoned dog.

  For minutes on end, with only brief intervals between, violent internal explosions caused the contents of the Ambassador’s stomach to spurt up out of his mouth and down his nostrils, while pressure on his bowels caused their muscles to give way. When his stomach had become as empty as a drum his tormented retching still continued and, from breathlessness and agony, he was near fainting.

  Roger, meanwhile, had not been idle. With some more lengths of cord he lashed his victim firmly to the commode, so that his head was held down immediately above the china receptacle that held his vomit. The closet now stank to high heaven and, knowing that it would continue to do so until it was opened and aired, Roger fired his parting shot. Turning to the small table on the far side of the commode, he wrote in clear letters on the notepad.

  Perfume suited to the character of M. de Brinevillers with the compliments of M. le Colonel Comte de Breuc.

  As it was now some twenty-four hours since Roger had escaped, the hunt for him would already be up; so having left his ‘card’ at the Embassy would not increase his danger of being recaptured. But de Brinevillers’ valet would find his master in the morning, and it was most unlikely that the man could refrain from telling his fellow servants such a juicy story; so all the odds were that before nightfall half of Berlin would learn who had inflicted this terrible indignity on the hated French Ambassador, and be laughing their heads off about it.

  Without another word to his victim, Roger left him, snuffed the candles and descended the ladder into the garden. Ten minutes later, he was over the wall and walking gaily down a still-silent street, as though he were a gallant who had just spent a few hours with his mistress.

  For the remainder of the night he again sat on a bench in the deserted Tiergarten. Soon after dawn he left it and walked out into the street. Swaggering into a nearby inn that had just opened, he enjoyed a hearty breakfast. As he paid his score, he asked the whereabouts of the nearest horse-dealer. De Brinevillers would not yet have been found; but even so time was now precious, as he could describe the clothes Roger had taken. At the horsedealer’s, he bought with the Ambassador’s thalers the best mare available and saddlery for her. By eight o’clock he was riding out of Berlin in the direction of Stettin, which lay to the north. Having laid this false trail for ten miles, he turned west and, by byroads, got on to the main road for Hamburg. Stopping only to snatch four meals at way side inns and to doze in the parlours of two of them for a couple of hours, he reached Hamburg in the afternoon on the 12th.

  During his long ride he had had ample time to think out what would be best for him to do when he got there. It was certain that von Haugwitz would have been informed of his escape and do his utmost to have him recaptured. The Minister’s writ ran only in Prussia, but he could request the authorities in neighbouring States to have Roger looked for and, if found, apply for his extradition; so to get out of north Germany as speedily as possible was imperative.

  Even in such a large port, to find a smuggler to put him across the North Sea might take several days, so he had decided to risk a big gamble. There was little Bourrienne did not know about the illicit trade carried on with England, and he had frankly told Roger that he was making a fortune by winking his eye at it. Roger had, therefore, made up his mind to throw himself on the mercy of his old friend.

  On arriving at the Palace, he did not dare send up his own name. However, apart from the private apartments, such places were open to anyone who cared
to walk into them. So, having handed over his horse, he walked boldly upstairs to the ante-room beyond which Bourrienne’s office was situated. As Bourrienne was not a military commander, there was no sentry on the door, but several people were standing about there. Mingling with them, Roger waited his chance. Then, as a portly German came out, he thrust aside a footman, stepped through the door and dammed it behind him.

  Bourrienne was seated at a big desk near the window. Beside him a secretary was standing taking dictation. As Roger entered, they both looked across at him. Bourrienne’s mouth dropped open in amazement. Before he could speak, Roger put his finger to his lips, enjoining silence. With a little nod of understanding, Bourrienne told the secretary to leave the room. Immediately the door had closed behind him, Roger’s old friend exclaimed:

  ‘Mon Dieu! Can it really be you? I thought you dead these three months gone.’

  Roger shook his head. ‘No Davout succeeded in getting my sentence reduced to ten years’ imprisonment. Did he not tell you?’

  ‘No. He said not a word of it. But both of us are fully occupied by our duties, so we see very little of each other. Mon vieux, I am delighted. Yes, delighted.’

  With a feeble smile, Roger said, ‘Alas, I am far from out of the wood yet. A student riot when I was being transferred from one prison to another enabled me to escape. But I stole the clothes I wear, so could be identified by them if my enemy, von Haugwitz, asks the assistance of the Hanoverian police.’

  Bourrienne laughed. ‘My dear fellow, perhaps in prison you did not learn of it, but Hanover is now part of France. I am no longer Ambassador here, but Civil Administrator. No-one dare touch you, and whenever you wish I can send you back to Paris.’

  Roger had not realised that this would be one of the effects of the changed state of Hanover; and, while he had been confident that his old friend would not give him up, he had felt that for him, as an Ambassador, to agree to compromise himself by getting a wanted criminal out of north Germany was quite another matter. After a moment, he said:

  ‘Of course, I should have known that. But ’tis not to France though that I wish to go. You have yourself experienced the Emperor’s ingratitude to those who have served him. In my case he could not be bothered to save me from a firing squad, and in any event I am sickened unto death of his eternal wars; so I do not mean to return to him. As you know, I was born in Strasbourg; but my mother was English and I have numerous English relations. When I have been over there secretly on the Emperor’s business, little suspecting my perfidy, they have treated me most kindly. If I can possibly get there I have decided to forswear war for the future and make England my home.’ In making that statement he knew that he was maligning Napoleon but it was essential for him to win Bourrienne’s sympathy.

  His friend considered for a moment, then smiled. ‘To get you across should not be difficult. I have many contacts with merchant Captains who keep me supplied with coffee and other luxuries. I am certain that, in the course of a few days, I can arrange matters. But, my poor friend, you look sadly worn.’

  Fingering the stubble on his chin, Roger replied, ‘I am indeed. I rode desperate hard from Berlin and am in great need of sleep. If you can, as you think, get me to England, I’ll be for ever grateful, but at the moment I’d bless you for a bed.’

  One side of the room was lined with book-shelves. Bourrienne pressed a secret spring and a section of them swung forward, revealing a narrow passage. Beckoning to Roger, he led the way along it, up a flight of stairs to his private apartments. Showing Roger into a bedroom, he said:

  ‘No-one will disturb you here. Later I will call you in time to shave and wash before we sup together. I have a dinner engagement that I cannot break; but I shall be back by nine o’clock.’

  With a nod of thanks, Roger began to pull his clothes off. In no time he had tumbled into bed and was sound asleep. Five hours later he was still sleeping when Bourrienne’s valet woke him. The man had already brushed his clothes and lit a fire in the room. In front of it Roger was soon lathering himself in a hip bath. Greatly refreshed, and infinitely relieved to know that he had nothing more to fear, he joined Bourrienne in a room along the corridor where, before setting out for Berlin, he had dined with him.

  Over the meal Roger gave an account of his trial, the miserable months he had spent in prison, his escape and how he had avenged himself on de Brinevillers. At the thought of the haughty, ci-devant Marquis in the position in which Roger had left him, Bourrienne laughed uproariously; then he said:

  ‘And all this while I believed you dead. No doubt about that crossed my mind, because I saw an account of your execution in a Berlin news sheet. At least, one which appeared on the day it should have taken place. The affair had created such a stir that three whole columns were devoted to it, and the article ended with the gleeful statement that the fiendish French murderer, Breuc, had met a death too good for him in front of a firing squad that morning.’

  Roger nodded. ‘The article must have been written the previous day and printed during my night in the condemned cell. But tell me, did you receive the two letters I sent you, and forward them to England?’

  ‘Yes; and by a safe hand. The captain who took them has since returned and reported to me having despatched them in Harwich. They reached me on the same morning as the article, so I enclosed it in the letter for the Lord Edward Fitz-Deverel.’

  Bourrienne then gave Roger an interesting piece of news. Toward the end of August, Marshal Jean Baptiste Bernadotte had been invited by the Swedish Diet to become their Crown Prince.

  Roger had at one time been sent by Mr. Pitt on a mission to Sweden, so he knew the history of its royal dynasty. The Vasas had, at one time, ruled over a great part of the Baltic lands, including Finland in the north and German Pomerania to the east. The able and warlike King, Gustavus III, had fought Catherine the Great of Russia and, being fanatically opposed to the French Revolution, had enthusiastically joined the First Coalition, in the hope of crushing this new People’s State. But, in March ’92, he had been assassinated by masked intruders at a ball, and that had brought to an end Sweden’s era as a great power.

  He had been succeeded by young Gustavas Adolphus IV, another fanatical champion of legitimacy, but having an unbalanced mind. After launching a disastrous assault on Bernadotte, who was then commanding in northern Germany, he had, against the advice of his generals and nobility, sent his army against that of Russia in Finland, whilst himself remaining in Stockholm and directing it in such a crazy fashion that it had been defeated piecemeal. By March 1809, his people had become so angered that they had supported his leading men in deposing him.

  The autocratic powers of the Crown had then been greatly reduced, so that Sweden had become a constitutional Monarchy, with a Diet to be re-elected every five years, and Gustavus’ uncle had ascended the throne as Charles XIII. Having no son, he had recognised as his heir a Danish connection, Prince Christian Augustus, and made peace with Russia by ceding Finland. But in the following year, which was the present one, Prince Christian had died as a result of a fit of apoplexy.

  That much Roger knew, and from there Bourrienne took up the story. Charles XIII being old and feeble, and it having become apparent that inbreeding had brought madness into the Vasa strain, the Swedish magnates had decided to invite some healthy and vigorous man to become heir to the throne.

  For several years past Napoleon had been gobbling up Europe, so what better insurance could there be against his deciding to swallow Sweden than to ask one of his Marshals to become their Prince Royal? Their choice had fallen upon Bernadotte for the following reasons:

  He was not only a general of the first rank. When, as Napoleon’s Viceroy, he had governed north Germany, he had shown himself to be a brilliant, humane and just ruler. Moreover, during the later stages of the Franco-Prussian war, when he had driven a Swedish army from Pomerania, he had captured one of their crack cavalry regiments in Lübeck, invited its officers to dinner and given them some very
sound advice on the policy that should be pursued in the best interests of their country.

  When approached, Napoleon, who had always been jealous of Bernadotte, had been loath to agree to his aggrandisement, and endeavoured to fob off the Swedes with one of his lesser Marshals. But they would not have it. They had sent direct to Bernadotte a deputation consisting of their veteran Field Marshal, Count Hans Henrik von Essen, and several of the officers with whom Bernadotte had talked in Lübeck. And he had accepted.

  To the Emperor’s fury, when summoned by him Bernadotte had arrived in the uniform of a Swedish Field Marshal, and a most acrimonious discussion had followed. Bernadotte had asked to be relieved of his Princedom of Ponte Corvo, his rank as a Marshal of the Empire and, above all, his French citizenship. Napoleon could not believe his ears. He had made three of his brothers and his brother-in-law Kings of foreign countries; but they had all remained Frenchmen and subservient to him. He expected Bernadotte, like Murat, to remain a Marshal, govern as he, Napoleon, directed and, whenever called upon, leave his Kingdom to command an army in his wars.

  But Bernadotte remained adamant. Courageously he insisted that, if he was to be Prince Royal of Sweden, he must become a Swede. At length, Napoleon gave way but demanded that Sweden should become his ally and place her army at his disposal in any future war. To that, too, Bernadotte refused to agree, maintaining that peace or war was a matter to be decided solely by the will of the Swedish people. Angry, bewildered and not knowing what to reply, the Emperor had succumbed and, in September, Bernadotte had left France to become not, like Napoleon’s brothers, a puppet King forced upon a hostile people, but a Royal Prince elected by the will of a nation.