He was gathering a few personal possessions that Pender hadn’t already packed, wondering whether he should take some memento of Hyacinthe. He glanced at the portrait at the top of the bed. It was too large for his cabin, but there would be a place for it at Cheyne Court, his house in Kent, or even in the drawing-room in London.
‘Take that picture out of its frame, Pender. I will want to take it with us when we leave.’
As Harry turned away, to go back to the desk, his servant climbed onto the bed and lifted the frame clear. The bottom section, where it had been hidden by the bedhead, was covered in dust, which flew up in the air. Using the coverlet to wipe it clean, he had to suppress a sneeze as he laid the portrait face down on the floor. His knife sliced at the canvas, as close as possible to the point where it joined the wooden frame. Once free he rolled it up. Looking around he saw the leather case that contained the other pictures, the ones from the Gauchos. Quickly he unbuckled it and slipped Hyacinthe’s portrait inside. He knew his Captain wouldn’t want the others, but this was too painful a moment to ask him what he should do about them. When he went back into the salon, Harry was at the desk writing a note.
‘Do you remember where McGillivray’s house is located?’
‘I reckon I do.’
‘I want you to deliver this note.’
‘You think he’s back, then?’
‘If he’s not, Pender, he won’t be far behind.’
‘D’you mind if I ask what you’re sayin’ to him?’
‘No. I’m thanking him for his assistance.’ Pender produced a small grunt, half humorous, half disapproving. ‘I’ve also pointed out to him my need to stay out of de Carondelet’s clutches. Details of what happened on my journey north would be as damaging to him as they are to me.’
‘In other words, steer clear.’
‘Precisely.’
Harry had to admire the way that Saraille controlled his excitement. The story of his trip upriver, and what he thought had happened in his absence, would set the whole of New Orleans on its ears. But the editor scribbled the details as though Harry was describing a christening. He asked several questions to check the details, each slight change notated. Finally he looked up.
‘This is an extraordinary tale, almost unbelievable. You realise, Captain Ludlow, that you’re saying that someone close to de Carondelet is a murderer, who has killed both at sea, and here in the city.’
Harry nodded. ‘And a thief, Monsieur Saraille, albeit a failed one.’
‘I’m not sure I can print either without ending up in a cell.’
‘But if you had proof you could.’
The editor shook his fat pink jowls. ‘How to find it?’
Harry put as much conviction into his voice as he could, hoping that Saraille wouldn’t detect his uncertainty. ‘I intend to find it, and when I do it will be yours to use as you see fit. Can you get in to see Charpentier?’
‘Why?’
‘Hyacinthe Feraud went to see him while I was away, saying that they had been lovers. She had to have another reason.’
‘Other than the one she gave?’
That produced a grim smile. ‘She made no secret of her past, Monsieur. Made no attempt to disguise her attachment to Thankful Tucker, or anyone else. The excuse she gave when she went to visit Charpentier was a lie. What makes me curious is why.’
‘De Carondelet might not agree. He and I don’t often see eye to eye.’
‘The one thing he fears is trouble on the streets. Tell him that a statement from Charpentier might avoid that. The last words of a Frenchman condemned to die.’
Saraille sat, his hands under his knees for a full minute, his bland face betraying nothing. ‘I can’t blackmail him, not with what you told me regarding the gold and silver. To do so would only see my presses smashed and me in gaol. My only hope is that if he refuses I could threaten to write Charpentier’s last testament myself, and hint that it could be so inflammatory he’d have another riot on his hands.’
‘It’s good of you to do this for me.’
The pale blue eyes fixed on him, and Harry thought he saw just a trace of pain.
‘It’s not for you, Monsieur. They call people like Hyacinthe Feraud free people of colour. To me, she was merely a French Creole, and that is a far better title.’
‘I understand,’ Harry replied. Then he remembered that, as well as being enamoured of Hyacinthe, the newspaperman had, locally, many sources of information.
‘Hyacinthe behaved very oddly these last weeks. Bernard said that she made several trips to the city alone. Do you think it possible to trace her movements?’
‘Possible, but difficult. You have no idea what she was doing?’
‘None that exceed speculation.’
‘That is better than nothing, Monsieur. To a man in my profession it is usually where one starts.’
‘Find out what she asked Charpentier and perhaps we’ll know.’
Pender, wearing a huge straw hat to keep off the searing late August sun, pushed the handcart along the jetty towards Bucephalas. He was carrying Harry’s instructions as well as the family luggage. The picket by the downriver bollard, all that remained of the original guards, were busy playing cards under an awning. They didn’t even look at him, and the hard glare he gave the men on deck stopped them from giving him too overt a greeting. He picked up the case containing the portraits, along with James Ludlow’s easel and paints, without any sign of haste. Coming aboard he noted that he was going down the gangplank, instead of up, clear evidence of how much the river had dropped in their absence. It was like a furnace on the deck, the levee seeming to create an enclosed area where the heat was trapped. Dreaver, alerted by one of the crew, sauntered up the companionway and approached Pender, his manner and carriage almost a caricature of innocence. Harry’s servant dropped the things he was carrying behind a gun carriage.
‘What’s the state of play in the cabin?’
‘Where’s the bloody Captain, Pious?’
‘Safe and sound, mate, and getting ready to shift out of here.’
‘Thank Christ.’
‘So tell me what’s been goin’ on.’
‘We’ve been going stark crazy, that’s what’s happenin’. What with the heat and hardly a word for weeks, except the odd note from Mr Ludlow. Then there’s rumours growing by the day that war is in the offing, all topped off by the Captain’s lady bein’ done in.’
Pender was sympathetic, but this wasn’t the time to show it. His voice, when he replied, had gravel in it. ‘Then it’s time to stop gabbling and put our minds to what matters. Tell me about the way you’re guarded.’
Dreaver looked as though he was about to put Pender in his place, but clearly thought better of it.
‘There’s always a sentry on that gun platform above the gatehouse, but you can’t see him unless you go right to the starboard rail. Not that he pays much heed to us any more, he can’t really see much since the river went down. He’s more interested in keeping an eye out for officers. The lot on the jetty rely on him. He tips them the wink when there’s someone important about, otherwise they could be asleep for all the heed they pay to guarding us.’
‘So I noticed, mate. They didn’t even spare me a look.’ Pender called softly to two men to fetch the rest of the luggage then turned back to Dreaver. ‘How do you go for gettin’ off the ship?’
‘Come and go as we please now. That’s what’s kept us sane, though a few of the men have taken to the bottle and women in a way that the Captain won’t like.’
‘And the cabin?’
‘Fernandez sleeps there. He’s out most of the day – don’t ask me what he’s up to, ’cause I don’t know, but he’s usually had a drink or two on his return. You can hear the bastard snorin’ from the heads.’
‘Right. I’ll have to speak to the lads, but I want you to get hold of anything cloth on the boat that’s red, white, and blue, Captain’s orders. Take it to the sailmaker and I’ll tell him what to do wi
th it.’
‘When are we goin’?’
‘Soon, mate, very soon.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PENDER went below in the dark interior of the ship and was immediately surrounded by an eager crew, dying to know what, if anything, was happening. He stood by an open scuttle to take advantage of what little breeze prevailed, and put a man at the bottom of each companionway so that he could explain Harry Ludlow’s orders without being disturbed.
‘You got them guards the way you want ’em. But that won’t stay so if you start doin’ anything different. You’ve got to carry on in a like manner or they might sniff somethin’ is up. The Captain ain’t told no one he’s back, and is walking around in a hat like mine which is big enough to keep sun and pryin’ eyes off his face. But you’ll notice how low the water is, which is what he’s been waitin’ for. Now, one at a time, I need you to report.’
It was only the leading hands who did so, with the rest nodding as they confirmed the way they’d carried out Pender’s previous instructions. Dreaver had kept the stores topped up, excepting wood and water, all paid for by James Ludlow. Every day they loosened the sails, still on the yards, their excuse being to air them, so that men aloft would excite no interest. At sundown they took them in to keep them free from the evening dew or sudden night-time showers. With the guards growing lax, they’d raised extra sail, insisting this was necessary to avoid mildew in the locker. The need to keep a perfect deck had stood as sufficient reason continually to move the guns, thus ensuring that all the breechings operated properly. Rust wasn’t a serious problem on a fresh-water river, but all the shot had been shifted and kept chipped and round. Blocks were greased in rotation and every rope that needed tar had its full measure.
The gunner had kept everything up to the mark, wads ready and pouches filled, with a dumb show on the gun-deck so that the hands could keep their gun-laying skills honed by constant practice. The rafts he’d made to carry powder barrels were stacked ready for use, though he had balked at drilling a hole in perfectly good casks of dry powder to make them effective.
‘Do it now,’ said Pender. ‘And refill the turpentine bottles.’
He had a quick word with Dreaver, who got the praise he deserved, then he made his way to where the cook was minding his coppers.
‘It’s been hard, Pious,’ said Willerby, ‘what with the lads not knowin’ what was goin’ on. They’re full of grub and drink, but I wouldn’t say they was right up to scratch. This heat’s sapped their backbone.’
‘Bread and biscuit?’ said Pender.
‘Now that is to the mark, just like the rum.’
‘Right, then. I can tell the Captain we’re ready for the off. There’s just the sailmaker.’
‘I heard about the red, white, and blue. That bastard Dreaver swiped two of my clean aprons. What they for?’
‘You’ll see, old mate.’
‘They asked me to take charge of their property and ship it upriver. If it is convenient, my servant will come and collect the two chests in the next few hours.’
The Mother Superior gave Harry the kind of benign smile that was part of the clerical armoury. Her aged skin was translucent, evidence of a sparse, indoor existence, with brown patches on the backs of her hands, but her eyes were still youthful.
‘You may come when you like, Monsieur.’
‘You will not be closed if it’s after dark?’
‘Our cathedral, the Church of St Louis the Martyr, was damaged in the last fire. Until it is fully repaired we have added responsibility for the bishop’s flock here in New Orleans. Day or night there is always someone awake. I will tell the doorkeepers to admit you to the storerooms.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harry, reaching for his money. ‘If I may be permitted to make a personal request of you … I myself am not of your faith, but I had a high regard for someone who was. Hyacinthe Feraud.’
The eyes first registered surprise, then dropped discreetly.
‘I’ve been informed that burial above ground in a specially constructed sarcophagus avoids certain risks.’
‘That is so, Monsieur. If the river rises and floods the surrounding countryside, the coffins float to the surface. The stones we use to weight them down do not always suffice.’
‘I wouldn’t want that to happen to her. Would your order take responsibility for her remains and see them re-interred above ground?’
‘If you leave us the means to do so.’
‘The nature of my business keeps me moving. I would also want her grave to be attended on a regular basis.’
‘And prayers, Monsieur. She must have prayers for her soul.’
‘Of course.’ The lump in his throat was so big he couldn’t continue for a moment. He held out a very heavy purse, full of gold coins. ‘I would be grateful for your advice on what is required.’
‘Above the cost of the sarcophagus, nothing is required, my son. The lady you mentioned was kind to us when still alive and has more than earned a call upon our good offices.’
‘I knew her to be a Catholic, but I never suspected piety.’
‘Hyacinthe Feraud was not pious, Monsieur. I had reason to chide her often for not attending mass as regularly as she should. My remonstrances bore fruit these last few weeks. Perhaps she had a premonition of her terrible fate and wished to make her peace with God. She was here on the night before she was killed, to take the sacrament and say confession. For all the life she led it is pleasing to know that she died, as near as is possible, in a state of grace.’
‘Confession!’ said Harry. ‘Who took it?’
‘The priest who attends to our needs.’ She must have spotted the look in his eye and guessed at his next question. ‘You will be aware that such things are sacrosanct.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, slightly crestfallen. ‘You said she came to mass more frequently. How many times?’
‘Three or four.’
‘Would it be breaching a confidence to ask when?’
‘No. She certainly came on the last three Fridays. That is a day of high attendance.’ The Mother Superior put her fingertips together and closed her eyes. ‘Indeed, a constancy on Fridays can lead to ultimate salvation.’
‘And when she attended mass, she would, like all the ladies, wear a veil.’
‘Of course.’
Harry recalled the first night they’d met, and Saraille’s comment about the dinner he’d just attended with de Carondelet and his officers and magistrates, delivered across a crushed pillow. ‘They hate each other. The only time you’d find them together would be in church.’
‘Does the Barón de Carondelet worship here?’
‘With the cathedral under repair, everyone does.’
‘His officers?’
‘All the leading citizens of the town, French and Spanish.’
Harry stood up, leaving the purse on the table. ‘I will leave you this. If you do not need all of it for Hyacinthe, please use the rest for the poor.’
‘May God go with you.’
Harry walked out into the street, to find James waiting for him.
‘Did you ask Bernard which days Hyacinthe went out in her veil?’
‘Fridays.’
Harry nodded and moved off. James waited to make sure no one was following him before setting off after him.
‘Noticing someone in church is like seeing a person eat,’ said Saraille, quite upset at the way Harry had berated him for not mentioning it. ‘Even Hyacinthe. So commonplace that it does not justify a remark.’
‘But she didn’t go to church regularly?’
‘Nor, I’m afraid, do I.’
‘But you were there last Friday?’
‘Yes. I said so, didn’t I?’
‘Did Hyacinthe talk to you?’
Saraille’s eyes dropped, making it unnecessary to answer the question. Harry wondered if he knew how much she’d disliked him, or the steps she took to avoid him.
‘She was busy elsewhere.’
‘Who with?’
‘Everyone. That particular mass is a very social occasion, a place to gossip.’
‘Think.’
Saraille needed to pause. For his own self-esteem he couldn’t give the impression that if he had taken his eyes off her it wasn’t for long. Nor could he bring himself to say, too overtly, that she hadn’t spoken to him.
‘The officers, de Chigny, de Coburrabias, even San Lucar de Barrameda. She had a few words with the magistrate de Lovio.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘A couple of ship’s Captains.’
‘Which ones?’
‘You wouldn’t know them,’ Saraille snapped. Then he obviously had a thought, since he snapped his fingers. ‘You might, though. They were the masters of the troop transports that you ran into off Balize.’
‘Are they still here?’
‘They’ve been to Havana and come back again, more than once. It’s their regular route. Normally they carry cargo, not men.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘I saw her help that Cuban, Fernandez.’
‘Help him?’
‘He was drunk, which was a bad idea with de Carondelet around. The Governor was doing his greetings at the main entrance. Hyacinthe took him out through the transept.’
‘Thank you. Now what about Charpentier?’
‘I was given twenty minutes with the poor fellow. He is very cast down, and cannot understand the reason why they want to garrotte him. He had hoped for freedom. It is all the doing of San Lucar de Barrameda, who wants to use his execution as an example. De Carondelet is, I think, less bloodthirsty.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Saraille replied sadly.
‘Did you ask him about Hyacinthe’s visit?’
‘It was difficult. They had a guard with us all the time. It seems she asked him about the way he was captured.’
‘San Lucar de Barrameda?’
The Scent of Betrayal Page 38