A Set of Lies

by Carolyn McCrae

  “I have no idea. I tried to open it last night but it seems to be locked, though I couldn’t find a keyhole, and anyway I’ve no idea where a key could be.”

  Fergal examined the trunk. It was made of wood, darkened and stained after its years in the cavity in the wall. The corners were banded with a metal that could once have been decorative. There was a lid that should lift but there were no obvious means of freeing it.

  “It’s a soldier’s travelling chest,” he said carefully, “and I think you’ll find it’s not actually locked, well, not in the conventional European way.”

  Skye watched Fergal’s fingers moving fast over the screen of his phone and realised he was making notes or perhaps sending texts. “Men in the military were very clever in the late eighteenth century, they knew that a traditional key would be easily lost on campaign. There will be a piece of wood somewhere, something that will move and allow the lid to be opened.”

  “Like a secret drawer?”

  “Exactly. Somewhere in that carving there will be a piece that moves,” Fergal said confidently. “The carving looks like interlocking leaves, like a chain of creeper, ivy perhaps. I wonder why only parts have been decorated in this way.” Fergal put his phone down “It has got to be here somewhere,” he said patiently as he ran his fingers over the carving, gently testing every part of it.

  “You’ve seen a box like this before, haven’t you?” Skye guessed.

  “Funnily enough, I have. My old professor had one. He was very proud of it and liked to challenge his students to open it. But then his hadn’t been holed up in a wall for a couple of hundred years.”

  “Did you ever manage to open his?”

  “Only after he’d shown us what the trick was.”

  “Where did he get his trunk?”

  “He was, is, an historian. He was given it when he was filming a television series on the Peninsular Wars in Portugal.”

  “Of course. You did history. I’d forgotten.”

  “The professor was quite well known in his day, on television and the radio,” Fergal continued. “His specialist field is Wellington and there is nothing he does not know about the Duke’s role in India and in the French Revolutionary Wars.”

  “So that was your period too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I loved history. I wanted to do it at university but, well, I had to look after Audrey so I couldn’t go.”

  “Maybe you can now?”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about it. I’m twenty-one and I haven’t even got any A Levels. Audrey’s fall was in the middle of my exam year. I never took them.”

  “You shouldn’t give up you know. If you really want to do something there’s always a way, it’s simply a question of finding out what that way is.” As Fergal talked he had been working on the panelling. He smiled broadly and his voice changed. “Ah! There! Now all I’ve got to do is slide this… and this… and hey presto, it opens!”

  After a few seconds Fergal very carefully closed the lid and the two looked at each other.

  They had both seen the portrait and the writing on the card.

  “Do you mind if I call Carl? I really think he’s the best person to see this. And I should send him those photos, these texts haven’t gone anywhere. Where can we get a signal?”

  “Carl?”

  “The professor with the trunk.”

  “What do you think he’ll make of it? I mean it’s pretty unambiguous isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. One of his favourite sayings is History is a set of lies agreed upon, and he loves debunking established thought whenever he can so he might see this as a wonderful opportunity, but then, on the other hand, it might mean that much of what he has taught and written has been wrong.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It looks like the Lacey family history might just be a lot more interesting than I thought. But first I need to get these photos to Carl.”

  “Come on then, there’s usually a decent signal in the kitchen.”

  Five minutes after Fergal’s messages had gone a buzzing sound indicated that there was a reply. Skye watched in silence as he read the text and answered it with rapid thumb movements. A few seconds later there was another buzz.

  “Would you mind awfully if you had another visitor?” he asked after several texts had been sent and received.

  Skye thought for a moment before shrugging her consent.

  Fergal tapped his answer and the response came immediately. “He’ll be here this afternoon, ferries permitting.”

  “He thinks it’s something important then?”

  “I told him it was.”

  “And he believed you?”

  “He seemed to.”

  “He seems like a nice man, I mean, just dropping everything.”

  Fergal smiled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t describe him as ‘nice’. Brilliant, perhaps, an exceptional teacher certainly, but ‘nice’? Probably not.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Absolutely aged. He was pretty much near retirement when he taught me fifteen years ago but he seems to carry on forever.”

  “Like my father, well past his sell-by date?”

  “He’s nothing like your father. He’s a democrat and believes that an educated electorate is the best controller of politicians and the best preserver of all liberties.”

  “So he wouldn’t be part of Sir Arthur’s cabal?”

  “Certainly not! If there was anything Carl could do to stop Sir Arthur he would do it.”

  “Just as your mum would?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “And you?”

  Fergal nodded.

  “And you think this might help?” Skye asked tentatively.

  The look on Fergal’s face told her he thought it might.

  Chapter 3

  1815 to 1821

  The circumstances of the two middle-aged gentlemen standing on the deck of the packet as it sailed the last miles up the river Medina towards Newport had changed beyond recognition in the months since they had left France.

  Bernard Lacey, intelligence agent and sometime confidant of the Duke of Wellington, had become Sir Bernard Lacey, First Baronet of Oakridge on the Isle of Wight in the County of Hampshire. He had been granted the estate of Oakridge Court and instead of travelling the world on his department’s business was to live the life of an English country gentleman.

  Where Sir Bernard had risen in the world his companion, a somewhat younger man, had fallen. No longer a public figure with immeasurable power and responsibility he had been given the name Claude Olivierre and was to play the role of an émigré from the island of Jersey.

  “You will find The Lodge very comfortable.” Sir Bernard spoke after a long period of silence.

  “The Lodge does not have the sound of a property with grandeur.”

  “It has been prepared to the highest possible level of luxury.” When he received no reply Sir Bernard continued, “I will use the rest of our journey to tell you of its history.”

  “If you must.”

  “The Lodge dates back to when Elizabeth was on the throne, when England was at war with much of Europe, and to a time when piracy was as efficient a method of acquiring wealth as any.”

  “Then there is not much that has changed in two hundred years.”

  “A privateer, William Caul, a native of Newport where we will soon be arriving, returned from the Caribbean and invested his new wealth in building a substantial house now named Oakridge Court.”

  “I have heard of Newport. I believe the French destroyed it.”

  “More than once I believe, though not more recently than the fifteenth century.”

  “And this Oakridge Court, that is where you are now to live?”

  Sir Bernard lowered his head in acknowledgement before continuing. “The lands of this estate were rich with deer so a lodge was built on the edge of the forest for the greater convenience of hunting parties.”


  “I am to live in a hunting lodge?” Sir Bernard’s companion made no effort to keep the distaste from his voice.

  “No, Olivierre, it is no longer a hunting lodge. The Caul family thrived at Oakridge Court but they were loyal Royalists and their fortune was lost in the fight against the enemies of King Charles. They retained Oakridge Court but were forced to sell much of their estate including the forest and the hunting lodge. The purchaser promptly abandoned the original building as being unfit and he spared no expense as a new house was constructed on the ridge with a fine view over the north of the island towards the Solent, and to what I believe the islanders refer to as the North Island.”

  “It is an impressive house then?”

  “It was then and since its original construction it has been extended and the rooms redesigned. You will find a substantial property built in the modern fashion, with generous proportions. It is far grander than Oakridge Court which was built in the old style with small windows and low beamed ceilings. The Lodge was acquired for your use in the early years of this century and has since been remodelled and redecorated in the style fashionable in the highest London society. The gardens have been rescued from the encroaching woodland and the ruin of the original lodge has been rebuilt and consecrated as a private chapel.”

  “No doubt that work has taken some time,” Monsieur Olivierre said thoughtfully and after a long pause asked, “In what year did you say the property was acquired?”

  Sir Bernard answered honestly, a policy he had held to in all his many recent conversations with the man now called Claude Olivierre. “In 1807.”

  “1807. You have had this scheme organised for eight years?”

  “Longer. We began the process in 1802.”

  “You were so confident of your victory and my defeat?”

  Sir Bernard could not answer. He shrugged and turned the conversation to safer ground.

  “The port is a busy one and the society active but your participation must be delayed for some considerable time, certainly until your appearance has altered sufficiently and your new identity is well established.”

  “Not too long a time I trust. I am unused to being alone.”

  “You will not be alone, Monsieur, you will have more servants—”

  “No doubt your spies.”

  “Not all. You will recognise your valet and your secretary from your entourage at La Rochelle, and there are others who have avoided exile just as you have. Every member of your staff understands the importance of keeping your identity from becoming common knowledge.”

  “And you will, no doubt, be a frequent visitor?”

  “You will have me with you as often as you have had these last few months. We will certainly have much to do together.”

  “But I will be able to live my own life?”

  “In time, certainly, in time.”

  There was again a period of silence after which Sir Bernard resumed the conversation in a lighter tone. “The gossips and idle chatterers in the many inns in Newport and in the surrounding villages have seen the scale of activity around the estates and have speculated on our identities.”

  “You have your agents in the towns and villages as well as around me?”

  Sir Bernard ignored his companion’s question. They both knew he would have been derelict in his duties if he had not deployed agents widely on the island. “They have decided that we are important and wealthy men. There have been rumours of a French general captured at Waterloo granted parole.”

  “A rumour which has some truth in it.”

  Sir Bernard nodded and smiled briefly.

  “They say the occupants of Oakridge Court and The Lodge are friends.”

  “It was true that we are acquainted, though is it possible to describe our connection as one of friendship?”

  Again Sir Bernard smiled briefly, but he did not nod in response to that question.

  “They say that one of us is a foreigner.”

  “That much is true.”

  Claude Olivierre, as a man purported to be from the island of Jersey near France, certainly counted as one, but Sir Bernard knew the rumour to be inaccurate as he was no Englishman either.

  “And they say that we will not settle on the island and that before much time has passed The Lodge and Oakridge Court will be empty again.”

  “That, Sir Bernard, is in the hands of God.”

  *

  It was several hours before their coach swept through the impressive gates of The Lodge and along its tree-lined drive. Claude Olivierre was able to see glimpses of his new home through the trees and as they came to a halt he admitted that his future home was not as he had feared.

  A wide sweep of shallow steps led up to the front door. Stone-mullioned windows flanked the door with a symmetry he found pleasing. The windows on the floor above were hardly smaller and on the floor above that barely smaller still. It was, as Sir Bernard had said, a substantial property.

  Turning away from the house he was able to take in the view across the well-laid-out formal gardens and a small area of parkland to the ridge edge, beyond which he could see the sparkle off the Solent and the dark line of the mainland beyond.

  “A very fine position Sir Bernard. But no rose garden. I would like a rose garden,” Claude commented as he descended from the coach.

  Sir Bernard was encouraged, he had been prepared for protests and complaints but there were none.

  Olivierre acknowledged with a slight angling of his head the considerable complement of staff standing to attention in welcome. He paid particular attention to those who knew him best and was pleased that these men, at least, had escaped exile to the South Atlantic.

  They were ushered into the drawing room where they were served warming jugs of mulled wine by a butler Olivierre did not recognise.

  “I believe I will be comfortable here,” Claude said as he looked at the fire burning brightly in the stylish grate.

  “That is our wish.”

  “You have found me a fine house, it appears well appointed. In many ways it reminds me of Malmaison. It is considerably smaller of course, but the rooms appear well proportioned.”

  “I understand that the architects knew of your château when they made their designs.”

  “And you are a walk away?”

  “Oakridge Court is a brisk quarter-of-an-hour’s walk or a half-hour’s stroll.”

  “And you will be comfortable there?”

  “Whereas you will find this somewhat smaller than the residences to which you are accustomed, Oakridge Court is far grander than anything I have been used to.”

  “Then we will assist each other in adjusting to our new lives, shall we not?”

  *

  The lives of the two gentlemen took on a regular pattern.

  Every morning they would meet and talk as Sir Bernard continued the task of obtaining information from the man who was learning to be Claude Olivierre. Every afternoon Sir Bernard would repair to his study and record all that he had learned and Claude Olivierre would spend the afternoons in his library with his trusted secretary writing his memoirs.

  On the first Wednesday of each month Sir Bernard rode to the harbour at Newport where he took the ferryboat to Portsmouth for the coach to London. There he would pass on his reports detailing the information he had obtained from Claude Olivierre and there he would receive the list of new questions that required an answer. There he would deliver the pages of the memoir his neighbour was writing. There he would deliver the letters his charge had been required to write that would be transported to the South Atlantic and thence back to Europe as the charade developed.

  *

  The personal lives of the two neighbours were determined in a conversation conducted in early 1816 as they walked along the forest ridge that bordered their two estates.

  “I am grateful to you Sir Bernard.” Claude had initially baulked at his interrogator having a higher status than his own, but had accepted the situation with rare pragmatism. “I
astound myself at the ease with which I am settling into life as an English country gentleman. I must admit to harbouring no thought of escape or of return to my previous life.”

  “You understand the consequences, should you break the terms agreed.” It was a warning Sir Bernard repeated on many occasions.

  “I tell you, Sir Bernard, I am comfortable. I have done much in my life that has required energy and the taking of decisions. Since I was a young man I have been driven by the demands made on a soldier and a servant of his country. Perhaps I am getting old as I feel content simply to enjoy living the life of a recluse.”

  “Especially now there is Patience.”

  Within three months of their arrival on the island, Lady Frances Frensham, an old and valued friend of Sir Bernard’s, had introduced them to Colonel Shaw and his two widowed daughters. The family had been informed by Lady Frances, in the strictest confidence, that Claude Olivierre was distantly related to the defeated Bonaparte and had been given parole in exchange for the valuable assistance he had offered the British, and that Sir Bernard had been a close aide of the Duke of Wellington. The Shaw family had no reason to disbelieve the word of Lady Frensham and her husband, Sir Robert.

  “Is it wrong for me to enjoy the company of women?”

  “We would prefer you to have the company of one woman only.” Sir Bernard smiled as he added, “And I cannot deny Patience has her attractions.”

  “It is an enjoyable and interesting experience to be courting without concern for dynasty and the demands of state. Patience is no flighty young innocent and has more steadiness than some I have known.”

  “Surely you mean steadfastness?”

  In their earliest conversations they had spoken in French but he had not been on the Isle of Wight long before Claude expressed his determination to learn the language of his new home. Increasingly they spoke in English and Sir Bernard never hesitated to correct every slight error of grammar or vocabulary.

  “No my friend, I mean steadiness. She has control, calmness and composure. You see, Doctor Roget has been a most helpful tutor.”