‘There’s scant doubt it’s infiltrated.’
‘Of course it is. Cambacérès had already exposed the Parisian conspirators. We were sent on our way to flush out the rest – perhaps not all, but certainly a major part – and, no doubt, to shut down a means by which the conspirators can communicate with England. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole plot that brought us to France originated in Gravelines.’
Pearce wondered, in the ensuing silence, if Oliphant was doing the same as he, reprising the whole escapade from the outset. The contrived capture; code words that would allow them to make contact with people who claimed to have the ability to bring about the fall of the Jacobins. And there waiting for them was Régis de Cambacérès, a regicide as well as a survivor of the Terror, still whole when many of those who had voted to guillotine King Louis had themselves fallen to the blade.
Pearce had been fooled into believing Cambacérès had a soft spot for him: not only a physical attraction, given he was an open pederast, but a degree of sympathy for the way his father had perished.
Oliphant, obviously experienced in the game of duplicity, he had met for the first time in Whitehall as the man who would accompany and guide him. It had been an occasionally fractured relationship in getting to where they were advised they needed to be and that had not diminished. Pearce could not forget that Cambacérès had identified his companion too, and named him as Bertrand, which had Pearce demanding to know if that was his real name. He was still waiting for an answer.
‘Dundas and Pitt were equally deceived, then?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Do you not mean obviously so?’ All that query got was a smile. ‘I look forward to telling them.’
A man who’d been calm, and not short on being smug, barked at him with real venom. ‘I’ve already pointed out that is the wrong message to deliver. There is opposition to the Jacobins, extensive opposition, we have just been in their hands. That is what Pitt and Dundas must be told.’
‘Would that be because your future depends on it?’
‘Are your prospects so rosy that you can comment upon mine? Do you think I failed to ask about you before we set out, to seek a reason why you were being groomed for a task such as that we have been part of? If I wanted to know, all I was required to do was find a naval officer and mention your name. So perhaps, my ever-so-lofty friend in misfortune, your future depends on it too.’
If Oliphant had wanted to make Pearce miserable, he could not have touched on a more sensitive spot. But before he could brood on that, he got a shock, as his companion put forward another proposition.
‘I wonder if, in extremis, they might have killed us rather than let us fall into Jacobin hands?’
‘That I cannot even countenance.’
‘Why ever not? For them the fate of their country is paramount. They are people with a cause for which they will willingly sacrifice their own lives. What makes you think, if that cause was in peril, they would spare us? Beware those who put an ideology above their own well-being, Pearce, for they will care naught for yours.’
The tone of his voice changed from morbid speculation to one of cheer. ‘If you look ahead, you will see the walls of Calais plain now.’
The spire of the cathedral had been in sight for some time. Now they could see the walls through which they would have to progress, at which point Pearce posed a question he had been dying to ask since they set out.
‘I’m bound to ask you, why did you not mention this as a possible route to escape until we were abandoned to our own fate?’
‘Given what I have just been telling you, I invite you to speculate?’
If the conclusion was not long in coming, it was far from a warming one when arrived at. ‘You would have left me to my fate, if I had been captured?’
‘I would, and given you have no idea of this means of getting out of France, you would have been unable to betray it and me.’
‘It does not occur that I would have remained silent?’
‘Easily said, Pearce, when no one has a knife at your eye, with one already gouged out.’
‘You have said you have been seeking to educate me. I thank providence I have the character to stay an ignoramus.’
Oliphant threw back his head and laughed, before dropping his pannier packed with provisions. ‘By all means sacrifice yourself for me, Pearce, just don’t expect it to be returned. Now, let us at least praise our conspirators for being generous with the means to assuage our bellies.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Fortified since time immemorial, the town of Calais had long spread beyond the old medieval walls, thus entry to the outer environs came without difficulty. The problem, Oliphant explained, would arise in trying to get through the gates and into the old town, without which there would be no access to the waterfront and harbour.
‘It’s still seen as a way out of the country for those at odds with the regime. There are watchers on the gates, keeping an eye out for known agitators or unfamiliar faces in a town where the same people make their way in and out regularly.’
They were heading towards one of those now, obscured from authority by a crowd gathered at the entrance, presumably queuing for permission to pass through, something that would appear to be taking time, which was quickly referred to.
‘That does not speak of guards who will just let pass two unfamiliar fishermen. For certain, these panniers we’re carrying will invite search. Not only do we have those uniforms, but each one contains a pistol.’
Oliphant took a firm grip on Pearce’s arm and hauled him off the roadway into a narrow alley, one devoid of humanity and hemmed in by low, windowless buildings, where he began to outline how they were to proceed.
‘I have a contact, one who has aided me in the past when I was on my own. I must warn you, us being together may complicate matters.’ He waited in vain for Pearce to speak; the man should be demanding more. ‘You’re silent, I find.’
‘You’re still husbanding information it would do no harm to share.’
‘Has everything I have said to you previously been wasted? If I’m to make an approach, it has to be done without you.’ Oliphant looked hard at a less-than-happy companion. ‘If I can sometimes carry concealment to excess, it is the only safe way to act in order to protect others, in this case a person I hope is still able to provide assistance.’
‘How?’
‘One bridge to cross at a time. We must part company for a while. I wonder how that sits with you.’
‘I’ve had a need to be cautious in this country before,’ Pearce snapped, sick of the endless condescension. ‘And I have been content to depend on my own wits.’
If he’d hoped his tone would check Oliphant, he was disappointed; the man spoke with more than studied calm. ‘I suggest we dispose of the rod.’
With that he threw it so high it landed, to get embedded, on the thatch of a low roof. From a pocket he extracted some of the coins left over from the sale of Pearce’s clothing, a couple of Dutch guilders.
‘More than enough for a bottle of wine and some food.’
‘There is no danger in using such currency?’
‘They will be welcome in these parts. The whole of France trades in what coinage they can acquire, anything to avoid useless paper money. Calais is a port like Gravelines and they are accustomed to foreign coinage, just as they are adept at giving less for it than its true value.’
Oliphant moved on, Pearce following, until they came to a small square and the destination: a tavern with a low doorway and tables outside. Pearce didn’t need anyone to tell him inside was best. Food pannier in hand – Oliphant would take the second one – he entered and sought the darkest corner, a table deep in the interior of the low-ceilinged room, much scarred on its top where previous customers had carved their names.
He sat well away from the doorway, a favoured spot and occupied by chattering customers, men who had barely spared him a glance on entry. Approached by a buxom mademoiselle,
he ordered wine, bread and sausage in a gruff manner, designed to prevent any attempt at conversation. With that delivered he was alone again with his thoughts and recollections.
It had been a place not dissimilar to this from which he’d been pressed into the navy by Ralph Barclay. The images of that night, of a mass of sailors rushing in wielding clubs, had him ease open the catch on his pannier, which exposed the butt of his pistol. It had been jammed into the rolled-up boat cloak in a way that allowed it to stay primed and loaded. If anything threatened him, as it had in the Pelican Tavern, he was determined he would not go quietly.
The outside of Newgate Prison had been designed to intimidate, with its reinforced walls and few windows, giving it an air of deliberate and brutal vulgarity. There had been one attempt to soften the outline of the more comfortable part, the State House, with statues in alcoves of various famous lawgivers. But since they all wore grim expressions, it hardly moderated the whole.
The carved chains over the entrance to the Common Gaol were designed to instil terror into those who, about to be incarcerated, saw it for the first time. For a visitor, entry presented no such fears; nevertheless Emily, having coached from Harley Street, with Tom Whetton as an escort and companion, took a deep breath before descending and making to cross the threshold.
‘Stay close, Tom.’
She imparted this to a man trying to hide his own reservations. Newgate was known to all in his hometown. It was likely, when named, to induce a feeling of fear in a place much given to rioting over these last decades. This had occurred several times when the price of wool, the main staple of trade in the county, fell so far as to make starvation for those on the lower rungs of the community a real danger.
Houses were torched, storerooms sacked and those seen as hoarders and exploiters forced to flee. Such disturbances inevitably led to broken heads and, on the odd occasion, much worse – violence enough to bring in the soldiery to impose law and order. Thus, some of the most vicious offenders of Frome had ended up here, awaiting judgement for their crimes at the nearby Old Bailey.
Well supplied with warders at the gate, it was mandatory, according to Heinrich Lutyens, who often visited for the purpose of study, they be slipped a small coin for the trouble to which they did not go. This, once the name was given and the location of the prisoner identified, consisted of calling to a boy and telling him to lead the lady to the common cells of the Men’s Quadrangle.
‘Which are occupied by many more than one prisoner, surely?’
‘Have to be, ma’am.’
‘Would it be possible for me to see the man I’m visiting in private?’
She might look young, sweet and naïve, and certainly pretty, but Emily Barclay had seen and done things at which this fellow could only guess. As John Pearce knew, there was a core of steel within that delightful frame. So when the doorkeeper said, with a deeply worried expression and an insincere manner, that he ‘should’ ask the warden, Emily was certain the answer was in his gift. The next words he imparted confirmed his purpose.
‘An’ he ain’t here, as of this moment, ma’am. Saw him out this very gate not an hour past.’
She did crestfallen well, but the simultaneous slipping of her hand into a decent-sized purse was what drew his eye. When a hint of silver appeared, it produced an expression that had Emily register she was in the presence of an accomplished performer. His face went through various expressions from an inability to oblige, a query as to the cruelty of the fact, to finally arrive at what was in his mind.
‘Warden likes, for special privileges, that visitor’s show a bit of charity to the unfortunates under his care. Now it ain’t my duty to press his desires but …’
Emily’s hand came fully out of the purse, producing a shilling, which would be half a week’s wage to this fellow. His expression went from concern, through to the almost beatific, before the coin was taken, this as if it was the Papist host, though it disappeared into a pocket, not his mouth to check the metal. Emily knew that to laugh would not serve, but it was hard in the face of such hypocrisy to keep her features straight. Thankfully the warder had looked away to loudly repeat his instructions to the limping youngster previously called forth.
‘Take this sainted lady to the State House and the warden’s anteroom, then have someone fetch the prisoner Gherson to that place as well.’
‘He’d have done it for two pence, Mrs Barclay,’ Tom whispered, as they were led away.
‘I know, Tom, and I doubt the prisoners will see any of the so-called charity.’
‘Happen the wrong people are given the rope.’
They followed the lad to a first-floor landing, he hobbling through corridors of closed cell doors, all studded, with unopened and barred viewing panels. The sound of an indifferently played violin came from behind one, but that soon faded and silence reigned. The door to the anteroom was different; made of heavy, varnished and much-carved oak, panelled and with nothing of the prison cell about it.
It opened onto a room that was comfortable, if not very well appointed, with a long table bounded by several leather-covered chairs, with heavily barred windows overlooking noisy Newgate Street. The wait was uncomfortable; Emily might have steeled herself to face Cornelius Gherson, but it had never been a pleasant experience in the past – quite the reverse. With it now imminent, the feeling in her chest of a dubious enterprise embarked upon became oppressive.
When he did arrive, he was accompanied by another warder and dragged by a set of shackles, his escort a burly, heavily bearded fellow with a club. The feeling of dread evaporated at once: never had she seen anyone so diminished. His clothing, normally something in which he took excessive pride, consisted of tattered rags. The blonde hair was unkempt, matted and long and, where it joined his forehead, showed the blueish remains of several bruises. Below that, even with his head part bowed and eyes cast down, she could see tangled and wispy blonde growth on a previously close-shaved chin.
‘I wish to speak with the prisoner only in the company of my servant.’ As the warder looked set to protest, Emily added quickly, ‘I made the arrangement with the fellow at the gate that this was to be a private visit.’
The burly warder’s eyes narrowed under a beetle brow; it was as if he sensed money had changed hands and he might be in for a share. Yet he was concerned to leave a prisoner alone with just a slip of a lady.
‘Your man there a’stayin?’
‘He is.’
The warder looked past Emily to Tom, who had good broad shoulders. ‘Then he’ll be no trouble, an’ if he is, you’se my permission to bruise him a bit more than he is already, for he’s a mouthy sod, saving your presence, ma’am.’ The shackles got a shake as he stuck his face to within an inch of Gherson’s. ‘You heard that?’
A meek nod, with eyes still downcast. ‘Right ’en, ma’am. I be outwith the door.’
The head came up slowly as the warder exited, and there it was: a look of defiance which was more like the Gherson she knew. She sent Tom as far away as the room would allow, to stand by the window, before addressing him.
‘Do you wish to sit?’
‘Do you think I require your permission?’
‘Should I call the warder back and tell him you lack manners?’ As he sunk timidly into a chair, Emily did likewise, pulling from inside her bag the grubby missive he had sent. ‘I require you to explain this.’
‘Does it not say enough? Captain Barclay was systematically dunned for a percentage of his dividends and some of the investments made on his behalf are speculative to a less than sound degree.’
‘All carried out by you.’
‘I merely ensured they attracted little attention. The actions were contrived at by the agents supposedly working on his behalf.’
‘People I take to be as wretched as you.’
‘Come, Mrs Barclay, I suspect you have either been to see them, or have been in correspondence, perhaps on the subject of my letter.’
She was not going to
answer his enquiry: that it might be her next port of call was for her alone to know. ‘What a sorry specimen you are.’
‘Fit to see to your husband’s affairs, by his estimation. I am bound to ask you what took you so long to come.’
‘You will want for an answer.’
Sudden passion was muted; he dared not shout for fear of the warder, so it came out as a snake-like hiss. ‘Do you know what I’ve sacrificed to get that note to you, every stich of decent clothing I possessed? I have been living like a pig in a sty for two weeks.’
‘If the courts were in session, Gherson, you would have been hanged by now and I would have been spared this interview.’
Gherson could not contain himself. Spittle flew from his mouth and there was no more hiss; this was a shout. ‘For a crime I did not commit!’
The door swung open and Gherson, who had been sitting forward, his face contorted, suddenly shrank into a ball, like a threatened hedgehog. The warder, his club swinging in his hand, looked at Emily, who shook her head to say there was no need for him to stay. As the door closed once more Gherson sobbed.
‘Please believe me, you must believe me.’
‘You say you can prove both your innocence and what you assert in this letter?’
‘You have been robbed and I can get back for you every missing guinea.’
‘And what do you want from me in return?’
‘My freedom. A search for proof that I’m not a beast.’
‘The first is not in my gift. As to the second, who am I to say?’
Suddenly he was gabbling, about the night Catherine Carruthers died. First, her unexpected arrival at the Covent Garden bagnio in which he was taking his pleasure, a woman whom he had not seen for years and one far from pleased, indeed furious, to note both his inebriated state and the company he was keeping.
A Close Run Thing Page 4