by Laura London
If you had seen Jupiter that afternoon it would have rid you forever of any notion that horses are four-legged creatures. I’ll swear I went half the way to Dyle with the cursed animal on his two hind legs. If only I had paid more heed to Christopher’s lecture on What To Do If Your Horse Rears. I remember when he had tried to teach me that, I had told him that if he ever so much as put me near a horse that reared it would be the worse for him.
To my great relief, Jupiter stopped his fidgets as quickly as he had started them. He broke into a crisp, steady trot that jarred me to pieces as I couldn’t post fast enough, but at least we were moving forward. In fact, suddenly we were moving forward too fast. We cantered around one sharp curve and there was the produce cart disappearing around the bend. I could imagine myself turning to wave airily at Monsieur Sacre Bleu as the stupid horse carried me thundering past. I closed my eyes, dug in my knees and pulled back on the reins with all my might. Jupiter stopped so suddenly that I flew into his neck, and got a mouthful of mane and a stunning blow on the nose. Well, at least we were stopped. And we were stopped. The horse refused to budge another inch.
“Come on, Jupiter. He must have gone on a mile by now. What are you standing here for? Do you think a sculptor is going to come and carve your image in marble?” He turned to regard me balefully. Then, as I despaired of ever moving from the spot, Jupiter lifted his shapely hooves and set forward at a fast raking trot. And thus we traveled to Dyle. Stop and start. Turn and twist. Bolt and duck. Christopher says that eventually they are going to replace horses with steam-engine traveling machines. It won’t come one day too soon for me.
Mile after exhausting mile we plowed on. Twice I was thrown by some sudden start of Jupiter’s, but both times the stallion returned to me, standing restlessly as I made a slow, painful climb into the saddle. He did have an occasional gentlemanly impulse. It seemed like forever until I began to feel the salty breath of the sea. I was staying in the saddle only by clutching tightly to Jupiter’s mane and leaning my head wearily against his muscular neck. The ox wasn’t even sweating. I knew we had almost reached Dyle when we splashed through a shallow tidal creek and the salt water stung some feeling into my numbed legs. A breeze rustled the salt-marsh cordgrass which stood in tall narrow strips pointing toward the pouting heavens. I eyed the sky uneasily; it looked like it was considering raining. To distract myself I listened for the sound of the timid marsh rail and was rewarded with a fleeting “kek-kek-kek” as the rail went about its feeding. “Bon appétit!” I called softly.
When I came to the outlying cottages of Dyle, I decided that it would be better to take the hilly bridle path that skirted the city; if I went through Dyle I would risk being recognized by some of Mrs. Goodbody’s Dyle relations. Having come this far, I had no intention of letting anyone steal my adventure. I had seen no evidence of the produce cart for a while now but I knew, without any doubt, that he was heading for the basement crypt. There could be no more perfect place for spies or smugglers. The narrow track was dusty, and set with sharp pebbles that Jupiter’s hooves sent sailing into the narrow margins of salt hay. For a while the path climbed and then threaded its way down a steep, chalky cliff. There, on its rocky ledge below, was the church, in all its dour medieval pomp.
I slid off Jupiter’s back and patted the velvet muzzle. “Well, at least you didn’t murder me, you rascal.” I fumbled with the well-cared-for cinches and the saddle came off easily, though I left on the small saddle blanket. Using the ripped and dirty flounce that I had torn off my gown, I rubbed down the stallion, the while plotting my next move. You can plot and plot, but quite frankly, it’s not worth it sometimes. For all my thinking, it came down to this—there was nothing to plot until I learned more about what was going forward and so I would just have to creep around the churchyard and research.
Creeping around wasn’t as easy as I had thought it would be; mainly because I could hardly walk. Whatever skin there had been on the inside of my thighs was gone and I wouldn’t sit down for a month. The lacy go-visiting gloves that I had worn were no protection for a day of leather assault. My palms looked like overcooked mutton. In truth there was not one part of my entire body that did not throb or torment me.
I considered the merits of waiting for the cover of dusk to begin my prowl but finally rejected the idea, deeming it a time-wasting precaution; the area was spotted with bushes that would be an effective enough shield. I circled cautiously around the austere stonework supports of the church. The only eyes that followed my movements were the glum orbs of the squatting gargoyles that someone had once added to the structure under the misapprehension that they were decorative. Now what? To enter the church, walk down the long aisle, then penetrate the mysteries of the macabre basement crypt?
So it seemed. There was no sign of the produce cart with my box of maps. I wondered if it was hidden off in the nearby trees or if, despite all, I had beaten Monsieur Sacre Bleu here by taking the high path instead of coming through Dyle. I dragged open the heavy oak door which groaned like a grandpa with gout. The atmosphere of ancient gloom was exaggerated by the shadowed twilight of the interior. More clouds had shrouded the sun so only the thinnest reeds of light filtered through the high windows. Off, far out to sea, I could hear the crotchets of a thunderhead.
I tiptoed across the time-worn flagstones to the passage leading below. There were oil lamps on the table as before, but I boldly opted for darkness. Many times I’ve heard Joe Hawkins say that if you are ever trying to hide at night, never take a lamp; it will make you an easy target. Sometimes it is better to curse the darkness than to light a single candle. So, cursing the darkness, I began to descend into the perpetual night of the crypt.
I felt my way slowly down the uneven steps, my heart taking up an uncomfortably large portion of my chest. One step at a time, one heartbeat at a time, I found that my exploring toes could discover no more ledges ahead. I must be in the crypt.
It was not even the tick of a timepiece later that I heard the door swing open at the stair head and the sound of rapid footfalls. It took me a few seconds to react, then I ran; no, I flew along the rough perpendicular of the wall, scratching my arms as I brushed its jagged surface. One thing only was important—to get as far away from those invading footsteps as was possible in the moment before they reached the cavern. As soon as I saw the light from the passage, I stopped dead. I could only press myself desperately against the wall and wait with my heart playing a rapid tattoo against my rib cage.
Two men had entered the clammy vault and their voices reached me as clearly as a crystal chime.
“No, don’t speak to me in French, Pierre. You will never learn English if you do not persist in practicing it!” His voice was filled with the exasperated patience with which one explains things to a slow-witted child. “I am so busy keeping you and Thomas out of trouble that I have had no time to complete my own work. Oh, why can they not send me men who have been properly trained?”
“Ah, you are the smart one always, eh? At least give the boy credit. It stands to reason that if the mansion was burning to the ground then the so-conscientious Milord would move his precious documents to a place of safety.”
“Imbecile! Is a place of safety the care of a child? Surely the fact alone that she possessed it should indicate that the contents of the box were valueless.” The speaker had his back to me but I knew who it was without a single doubt.
“Not necessarily so, my fine buck. Milord is a very subtle man. How do you know that he wouldn’t do just that thing to throw us off the scent?”
“Because Milord has real operatives to use. He does not have to work with fools like I do,” the familiar voice snapped. “I don’t know who is more stupid, Thomas with his midnight flittings and mansion burnings or you with your wild duck chases. You have deserted your post watching the marquis, wasted the afternoon, and risked exposure for a box of useless old maps. How many times must I tell you two to do nothing, no-thing, without my prior consent. This has b
een the most inefficient assignment I have ever undertaken in England, and all due to the blunderings of two oafs. Napoleon will know why this mission has been a failure. I promise you.”
“If you want your missions not to fail then you must tell the general to give you the permission to assassinate Monsieur le Marquis. It is he that destroys all the plans. When I would bribe, then I find he is there first. When I would steal, then I find it has already been removed. He is the devil and smarter than you, though you will not admit it and blame all on your comrades.”
“Oaf! Foolish oaf! We are looking for a list of English operatives in France, not a packet of obsolete sea charts. I know there is such a list. Henri saw it with his own eyes once, when he cooked in the Warrington household. We would have had it that night we broke into Warrington Place had not you been such a fool and shot the old man before we could force it out of him. A messy business! And you and Thomas with your ridiculous playing with fireworks, like children on Bastille Day. If you would stay away from young Warrington, he would not recognize you—there is no need to kill him. Now Henri, he had to die. He was a good cook and a patriotic Frenchman, and he wasn’t too proud to take my money for his services, but he wanted too much, he threatened to expose the whole operation to the marquis and I had to kill him with my own hands. A most disgusting business, but necessary.”
“Ha!” said Sacre Bleu. “What a hypocrite you are! Killing is necessary only to save your own worthless neck, but everyone else can just hang.”
A circle of light from the area of the steps revealed that a third person was joining them.
“I agree with Pierre one hundred percent!” said the new arrival.
“You oafs stick together, right, Thomas?” the other man replied to the newcomer—Thomas the groom!
“We’ll see who’s an oaf,” said Thomas. “You two bloody winners are in here jawing like old women and left it up to me to find Dearborne’s Jupiter tied up in the wood outside. And I found this next to it.” He held up the flounce I had torn from my dress.
“Do you think she saw you?” said Thomas. “Did the girl see you?”
“Merde,” said Sacre Bleu. “I hope not.”
I realized in that instant that the combined light of the two lanterns would make me visible to any of the men happening to look in my direction. I frantically wished myself invisible, and stood stock-still against the wall.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” said the other man, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “She’s standing right behind you.” Involuntarily, I let out a gasp of fright.
“Sacre bleu, so she is!”
“How could she ride the stallion—my God, he is a killer,” gasped Thomas. They were all looking at me with speculative eyes. “She can’t stay on the tamest nag in the stable.”
“She’s tougher than she looks.” The lantern was brought closer. “Aren’t you, Elizabeth dear? If you had stayed in bed a few days longer, you would not now be in a great deal of trouble,” said Dr. Brent.
Chapter Seventeen
I stood painfully, quietly numbed with fright. Dr. Brent; Thomas the groom. It would have been shock enough to learn these men were spies if I were standing in the town square with the noonday sun streaming down, but here in a dripping subterranean chamber, it was macabre. Spies? They were murderers! And now I knew and they knew that I knew. And I was at their mercy.
The man I called Sacre Bleu grabbed my arm aggressively, his calloused fingers pressing hard. “Where is the marquis, eh? You will not lie to me or I will make you regret it.”
“My dear Pierre,” purred Dr. Brent, “if you had not disobeyed orders, and left your watch, then you would know where the marquis is. And if you had any intelligence, then you would guess.” Pierre Sacre Bleu gave a crude curse and released me.
“All right, smart one, where is the marquis?” snarled Pierre.
“Probably, he is out searching for the mademoiselle here, which is why, Thomas, you will take the stallion and lose it somewhere in the countryside. I don’t want the nag found around here. Someone might have seen the girl riding it.” Dr. Brent took one step closer to me, gathered a lock of my hair between his fingers, and rubbed it slowly with his thumb. “When one knows a little of Miss Cordell, all becomes clear. You see, Pierre, she must have seen you in Mudbury and followed you here—it’s obvious that the marquis knows nothing of her presence here or he would not have allowed it. Ah well, good enough. To search for this little one will keep His Lordship’s mind away from us tonight.” Dr. Brent turned to Thomas. “Go now, Thomas, take the horse.” Into the patter of Thomas’s retreating footsteps, Brent called, “And take him far!”
Brent turned back to me. “So, Elizabeth, you have fallen into my lap, if I may be so bold, like a red, juicy little plum. Pray do not cower so. I have no thought of injuring you.”
The cruelty in his voice was as unyielding as a granite wall, but I pulled myself up with what I hoped would pass for dignity.
“That’s better, although I see you are still as stiff as a corpse, pardon the expression.”
I swallowed. “I would rather not pardon the expression, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish.” He released my hair after giving it a sharp, admonishing tug. “You are an unexpected guest here and it is my place to show you hospitality. I had not expected this pleasure, but I am not too surprised. You have seemed fascinated for some time with Pierre; so much so that you follow him every time you cross his path, like a friendless pup. I myself cannot fathom the attraction, for to me he is ugly. But—to each his own. I apologize for the chloroform last month in the woods, but it was necessary, you see. I was trying to break you of an unseemly infatuation with my homely partner.”
In the lamplight, Sacre Bleu was glaring daggers at Dr. Brent.
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. My voice quivered hollowly in the chamber.
“What are we going to do with you? Pierre and I have often asked ourselves that. Before now, we really had no use for you. You have been so closely guarded that it was difficult to see if you had any say in the matter. But here you are,” he spread his hands expansively, “a gift of Lord Dearborne’s underestimation of your disobedience.”
“That does not answer my question.” I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Pardon me. There are two alternatives. One, I could kill you—but what a waste of très jolie femme, you are quite a work of art, n’est-ce pas?” I wondered if I was going to be sick. It was a possibility, the way my insides were behaving. “Yes, killing would be the easy way out; I am an important operative for His Majesty Napoleon Bonaparte and I really cannot risk being identified. But I am returning to France tonight. I have overstayed my welcome and my adopted motherland awaits me with open arms. So I shall take you with me.”
“France? No! Why? Oh, why? If you are leaving England tonight, surely it can’t matter to you that I have seen you. I mean, you will have left England. If you leave me here I give you my word that I will say nothing to anyone until you are gone. I swear it.” I prided myself on being a much better liar these days. Evidently, Dr. Brent didn’t think so.
“My word, what a child,” he sneered. “Sometimes, little cherry, you are too disingenuous for belief. There will be other trips to England for me. Napoleon will have more need of information before France has brought England under her heel. France cannot afford to leave alive anyone who could put me out of business, or the only operatives that would remain are clumsy fellows like Thomas and Pierre.”
I wondered with surprising dispassion if I was going to be killed instead of merely kidnapped.
“And perhaps Monsieur the Marquis will not be so cool toward us when I hold you in the, er, palm of my hand. Ah, don’t look so dismayed, petite. Life need not be so bleak for you, I can be a charming fellow and I will teach you how to please me, eh?” He turned to Pierre and ordered him to tie my hands behind my back. “We go to the tower now, such a useful view from there. One can signal to ship
s far at sea.”
I assumed I was to be taken then. To the clock tower, the one I had always found so forbidding, standing like a sentinel gazing for Napoleon’s troops.
“Do you have to tie them so tightly?” I said through clenched teeth.
“Pain is good for the soul,” said Dr. Brent.
Pierre pushed me roughly in front of him as Dr. Brent led the way. We went deeper into the crypt, round an absolutely black corner, and ducked to the left. We were walking on stone no longer, but on hard-packed dirt. I realized that we were in an ancient smuggler’s passageway. We walked in silence for a few moments, the monotonous blackness of the surroundings broken only by the thin circle of light from the lamp and an occasional skittering rat. I began to hear a dull, wooden roar.
“The surf, my dear,” said Dr. Brent. “Pierre will steady you from behind; we are about to ascend a ladder.” Rather than steady me, Sacre Bleu grabbed me bodily round the waist and lifted me up the ladder.
Suddenly, we were inside the tower and the light from the lamp was superfluous. The thin rays of the late-afternoon sun were attempting to stream through the dusty stained-glass windows.
“Be so kind as to follow with us up the stairs,” Brent said. “The view from the top is stunning.” I always wanted to see the clock room, but I had never had the nerve to climb up the spiral staircase which wound up the inside of the tower. Now the problem of nerve was taken care of and I would get my wish. One should always try to look on the bright side. I tried not to look down and followed my captors up the steps and through the small doorway into the clock room.
The heat of the place made me feel faint and it was some moments before I could get my breath. The clockworks clanked and whirred noisily in the golden light. There was a thick covering of dust. I could see a drop of sweat run down Dr. Brent’s cheek, leaving a trail behind it.