Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Simon Wilson, at your service,’ said Mr Creech, ‘and my friend here is Mr William Kerr.’

  ‘Kerr! I have a good friend, Archie Kerr, who resides at Hawick,’ Mr Erskine said. ‘Would he be a kinsman of yours, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mr Halkett said testily. ‘There’s no one of that name related to me.’

  A burst of laughter from a card table nearly drowned out the next exchanges. One of the players looked round, saw John and beckoned him over. Reluctantly, John left his post behind the pillar and went across to him. Without looking at John, or speaking to him, the man took four glasses off the tray and handed them to the other players. John waited politely beside him for a moment, till a wave of the man’s hand dismissed him, then he melted back to his listening post.

  Mr Erskine doesn’t know them. He can’t be one of the traitors, he thought. I don’t know how he comes to be here, but there’s a good reason for it, I’ll bet my life on it.

  ‘I’m interested to hear, Mr Ferguson, that it’s the trade in brandies that brings you to Bordeaux.’ Mr Creech’s voice was silky. ‘I can’t say why, precisely, but I would have put you down for a military man. Possibly even one of our brave naval officers.’

  Mr Erskine laughed.

  ‘Ah, my unfortunate face! Would that I could boast of some death-defying deed of valour in defence of my king and country to explain these horrid scars! But I must disappoint you. My face was ruined by no act of war, but an unfortunate and entirely mundane affair in a warehouse, some years ago. Brandy is damnably inflammable. A clumsy spillage, a dropped match – I was fortunate to lose only my appearance. It could have been far worse. Ten barrels of the best cognac might have been lost to the world forever!’

  The other two laughed.

  ‘Your glass is empty, Mr Ferguson,’ Mr Creech said politely. ‘Let me replenish it for you. There was some fellow about just now . . .’

  He looked round. John tried to shrink against the wall, but Mr Creech had seen him. He was snapping his fingers at him, calling out imperiously, ‘Garçon! Du vin, ici!’

  His heart in his mouth, John stepped forward. Keeping his back to the light, he offered the tray, his eyes cast down. He saw three hands reach out and each take one of the five remaining glasses. Daringly, he looked up and for a fleeting moment Mr Creech met his gaze. No flicker of recognition stirred in the man’s cold eyes.

  Mr Erskine and Mr Halkett had not looked at him at all. They were talking again. John stepped back and resumed his position behind the pillar.

  ‘This war? You are very right, sir. A sorry business indeed,’ Mr Halkett was saying in his precise lawyer’s tones. ‘The sooner it is brought to a satisfactory conclusion, the better it will be for all of us. Trade is most seriously affected. As you have no doubt observed, Bordeaux is in a sad state. The British naval blockade, though no doubt necessary in the grand scheme of things, has ruined the city. When I first came here the river was a forest of masts, ships jostling for space at the quays, the commercial houses hives of activity. You have seen for yourself the rotting hulks of the few ships that remain and the air of dereliction in the warehouses.’

  ‘We should drink to a speedy victory, then,’ Mr Erskine said, dropping his voice to a cautious whisper. ‘To our good King George, and his valiant army and navy.’

  John dared to look round the pillar, curious to see the effect of this on Mr Creech and Mr Halkett. He watched as they exchanged a swift, conspiratorial glance.

  ‘A dangerous sentiment, sir, to express here, surrounded by such a company,’ said Mr Halkett, his voice as dry as parchment. ‘Walls have ears.’

  ‘But French walls have French ears,’ Mr Creech said with a laugh. ‘Look around you, man. There is not a soul in this room could overhear us, in all this hubbub, and even if they did, how many of them could make out our English speech? Tell me, Mr Ferguson, do you have news of home?’

  John felt the sweat break out on his palms. Mr Erskine seemed entirely at ease, relaxing in the company of his fellow countrymen.

  I’ll bet my life he’s here for a good reason, John thought. He’s trying to do what he sent me and Kit ashore for, to sniff out spies. But he can’t know who he’s talking to, or how dangerous they are. One slip, one hint, that he isn’t who he says he is and they’ll uncover him. It’ll be all up with him then.

  What I can I do? I must do something! Now!

  ‘News of home?’ Mr Erskine was saying. ‘My dear sir, I wish I had some myself. It’s so long since I was in England. My home is in Bordeaux now. I have lived here for years.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘That is a splendid coat you are wearing, Mr Ferguson,’ Mr Creech said smoothly. ‘The cut is unmistakable. Made by Scott, I believe? An English coat is impossible to copy. That set of the shoulders – it’s quite a new style, I believe. Now when did you say you were last in London?’

  Mr Erskine laughed, but before he could come up with an answer, John had darted out of his hiding place. A second later he was standing with his back to Mr Creech and Mr Halkett, facing Mr Erskine. He lurched forward, pretending to trip, and the two remaining glasses of wine on his tray shot forwards, spilling their contents down Mr Erskine’s handsome cream silk waistcoat.

  With an exclamation of annoyance, Mr Erskine grasped John’s arm, then looked up. His mouth dropped open as he recognized John’s face under the powdered wig.

  ‘What on earth . . .’ he began.

  The tray had clattered to the floor. John pressed his forefinger to his lips and sent as urgent a warning as he could from his fiercely frowning eyes.

  ‘Clumsy oaf. He should get a whipping for this,’ Mr Creech said furiously, laying a hand on John’s shoulder in an attempt to spin him round.

  John shook him off and bent down to retrieve the tray and the broken glasses.

  ‘He shall indeed receive a whipping, but from my hands,’ Mr Erskine said lightly. ‘Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I am obliged to retire for a moment to repair the damage to what is, I fear, a favourite waistcoat. Can I count on you to remain here for a while? It will be most interesting to me to resume our conversation which this young fool has so rudely interrupted.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the two men bow politely. He glanced up and read fury in Mr Creech’s face and sour frustration in Mr Halkett’s.

  ‘Pardon, messieurs,’ he murmured in his best French. ‘Je regrette beaucoup . . .’

  And then he was gone, leading Mr Erskine as quickly as he dared to the door of the coffee room and out through the ballroom beyond.

  They didn’t stop until they had skirted right round the dancing couples and were standing at the head of the grand staircase, where, a few moments earlier, John had stood with Kit.

  ‘John Barr! It is you!’ exclaimed Mr Erskine. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘It . . . it’s a very long story, sir,’ John said. ‘The Fearless – is all well? She hasn’t been captured, has she? That’s not how you come to be here?’

  ‘No, no. The Fearless is doing her duty as she always does, out on blockade off the coast. I must confess, my dear boy, I am delighted to see you. I was very much put out when you failed to return to the Fearless. I was afraid that I had sent you and young Catherine to your deaths. Or worse.’

  ‘Nearly, sir. I was shot and wounded. I was out of things for a while, but Kit – Catherine – took me to her home. I recovered there. She is here. Have you not seen her?’

  ‘The devil she is! Turning heads, I’ve no doubt. You must point her out to me.’ He chuckled. ‘Imagine the scandal if it was to come out that the noblest of the young French ladies at this elegant occasion was in fact a rascally little powder monkey in His Majesty’s navy!’

  In spite of his anxiety, John couldn’t help an answering grin. It quickly faded.

  ‘No, but listen, sir. Those men you were with just now, I had to get you away from them. They are the very ones in league with Mr Higgins. They gave you f
alse names. I was listening to you behind the pillar all the while. The man who called himself Wilson, he’s Mr Creech, who set Mr Higgins on to get the code book from me. The other one, who says he’s Mr Kerr, is really Mr Halkett, the lawyer from Edinburgh, where the code book first fell into my possession.’

  Mr Erskine’s eyes had widened.

  ‘Are they, by Jove? I wondered why that fellow was so interested in my coat. It was a nasty moment, I must confess. I almost feared that I was about to be caught out. Your intervention was most timely, John. My mission was hanging by a thread.’

  ‘But what is your mission, sir? How do you come to be here?’

  ‘Why, the same as yours was, John, when you came ashore. Captain Bannerman has received an urgent request from London for more information with regard to the spy ring we seem to have uncovered. They queried the names of Creech and Halkett, who, it appears, have friends in high places at home. The authorities are most reluctant to believe that they can be implicated in this matter. The Admiralty is not content, I fear, to accept the evidence of a couple of – pardon me – mere ship’s boys. They wished for more official confirmation.’

  ‘But how did you do it, Mr Erskine? Come ashore, I mean, and get yourself invited to the empress’s ball?’

  ‘You’re a fine one to ask me that, young John. How did you manage it yourself? In fact, it was a great deal easier than one would suppose. There is a surprisingly large British community living here in Bordeaux, and I have a cousin who has been here for more than twenty years and is well known and respected. I was rowed quietly ashore a few nights ago, and found my way to my cousin’s house. A good command of the French language has helped greatly, of course. My cousin received me warmly, and easily procured an invitation to tonight’s party. My intention was to make discreet enquiries. I was on the lookout for Messrs Creech and Halkett. As a matter of fact, I was beginning to suspect those fine gentlemen even before they showed such unwelcome interest in this damned coat.’

  ‘But how will you return to the Fearless, sir, and when will that be?’

  ‘Why, tonight, I hope, on the falling tide. But I have a little more work to do first. I must return to our good gentlemen to find out more, if I can. I shall lay a few small traps for them and see if I can’t get them to damn themselves out of their own mouths.’

  ‘How, sir? Please, you must be careful. They are dangerous, unscrupulous . . .’

  Mr Erskine patted John on the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, my boy. I know what I am about.’

  He moved away towards the ballroom door, but John caught his sleeve.

  ‘Take me with you, sir, when you return to the Fearless.’

  Mr Erskine raised his eyebrows.

  ‘But of course I will. We don’t want you taken up for a deserter, now, do we?’

  ‘A deserter? Me?’ John was indignant.

  ‘Shh, you young hothead. Footmen don’t raise their voices,’ Mr Erskine said reprovingly. ‘I’m glad to know, in any case, that you prefer the privations of life at sea to the career of a liveried footman. Now, wait for me below. Watch the door, and join me as I leave.’

  ‘I’ll have to tell Kit – Catherine, sir,’ said John. ‘I know for a certainty that she wishes to escape Bordeaux too.’

  Mr Erskine shook his head.

  ‘Does she, indeed? That is another matter. Abducting young ladies is not what I have in mind. Don’t tell her of my presence here. The more who know of it, the greater the danger.

  John’s brows snapped together and he felt the ready blush rush to his cheeks.

  ‘You can trust Kit with anything, sir. I’d trust her with my life.’

  Mr Erskine smiled.

  ‘Lost your heart to her, have you? Sailors must learn to leave their lady loves behind, my lad. I’ll see you later. And don’t draw any more attention to yourself. No more glasses of wine down waistcoats, if you please.’

  He disappeared once more into the ballroom.

  It took John a full minute to recover from the confusion that Mr Erskine’s remarks had set up in him, and before he could pull himself together, and hurry off to look for Kit, he was distracted by a stir of activity at the great doors below. A party of late arrivals had caused the bored soldiers to leap to attention. Looking down, John saw an elderly woman, dressed in an old-fashioned hooped ball gown of sombre magnificence, who was treading slowly up the stairs leaning on the arm of an impatient man with pale, restless eyes, whose face wore a forbidding frown.

  They reached the top of the stairs and murmured their names to the magnificent black-clad master of ceremonies who stood at the ballroom door.

  ‘Mme de Jalignac!’ he boomed, ‘and the Marquis de Vaumas!’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The arrival of Kit’s grandmother and uncle sent an audible ripple through the ballroom. John followed the pair inside, desperate to find Kit and warn her. Though he could not understand all the words, he could grasp the gist of the comments flying about as people parted to let them through.

  ‘The old woman fooled us all! Everyone believed that her poor little granddaughter was dead.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s been hiding all this time?’

  ‘Switzerland, I believe. With an old school friend.’

  ‘To fake the death of your own grandchild! Disgraceful!’

  ‘That’s the uncle. He’s after her money, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I’m surprised they dare show their faces after what they’ve done.’

  No one came forward to greet the newcomers. John saw old Mme de Jalignac’s back stiffen in its rigid whalebone corset. He heard the marquis draw in his breath, and say something in a furious undertone to his mother.

  John scanned the crowded room, but when he saw Kit it was too late to reach her. A path had already opened up in front of her grandmother. It led straight to Kit herself. She was standing with her back to the wall, her hands spread out on it as if for support.

  John was taken aback by the sheer panic on her face. He had seen Kit the ship’s boy climb the Fearless’s rigging in a raging gale, take his part with a lion’s courage in a deadly battle at sea, steal a horse in the dead of night and ride helter-skelter through an unknown forest. He had never seen Catherine, or Kit, for that matter, show a fraction of the terror that now seemed to be paralysing her, turning her face so deadly pale that John was afraid she would fall down in a faint.

  Her grandmother reached her. No one in the crowded ballroom seemed unaware now of what was taking place. Everyone was craning their necks to see.

  Mme de Jalignac stopped in her tracks when she saw Kit, and from behind John saw the feathers that crowned her high turban quiver. There was a long moment’s silence, then she gave a theatrical groan and threw out her arms as if in invitation.

  ‘Catherine! Ah, ma petite chérie! My little one! Restored to me from the grave!’

  The sound of her voice seemed to galvanize Kit. She darted sideways, burrowing through the crowd. John, dropping his servile manner, pushed aggressively through the press of people towards her. He came face to face with her. She was wild-eyed and frantic.

  ‘Calm down. Pretend you are unwell. I’m going to take you outside. Try to look normal.’

  She took a deep breath, and nodded.

  ‘De l’air!’ she murmured, for the benefit of those around her. ‘I need some air!’

  The servants’ entrance to the ballroom was only a few steps away. John opened it and pushed her through. A moment later they were leaping down the stairs, then running down the long passageway towards the kitchens.

  They emerged from the maze of corridors and serving rooms at last to find themselves outside, in a side street behind the Château Royal. Kit seemed about to take to her heels and bolt blindly down the nearest alleyway, but John pulled her back.

  ‘Stop! Where are you going?’

  She tried to fight him off.

  ‘I don’t care. Anywhere. I’ve got to get away. You too. They’ll find
out who you really are, and get you taken off as a prisoner.’

  A little of her fear infected him, but he subdued it.

  ‘Stop, Kit. Listen! It’s all arranged. We’re leaving tonight, for the Fearless. I’ve seen Mr Erskine.’

  She stopped struggling and stared at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘Mr Erskine? You can’t have done. Where?’

  ‘Here. He’s at the ball.’

  Quickly he told her what had happened. Then, behind them, someone shouted. He turned round. A watchman with a lantern was bearing down on them. He spoke roughly to John, who didn’t understand, but Kit answered him with a haughty stare. The man grunted and moved away.

  ‘He thought – you were bothering me,’ she said, not looking up. ‘I told him you were my cousin, just returned from the war in Spain. We can’t stay here. We’re too conspicuous. Where are we meeting Mr Erskine? Did you arrange something?’

  ‘He told me to wait at the main entrance and watch for him.’

  ‘I can’t go back there!’ She sounded panicky again. ‘I can’t go where anyone – where they might see me!’

  ‘Listen, Kit.’ He shook her arm. ‘You must be sensible about this. Your grandmother’s an old woman. Your uncle’s a middle-aged man, and not particularly fit, by the look of him. Why are you so frightened? We could both outrun them easily. Anyway, they can’t just kidnap you and carry you off. Even the empress is on your side!’

  ‘You don’t know them, John! They’re capable of anything! And when I’m with them, it’s as if I was a child again. They destroy me!’

  ‘I won’t let them. Now think. We must find Mr Erskine. For all I know, he may already have left the ball. He may be looking for me. If he doesn’t see me, he might give up and leave without us. He has to catch the tide. He can’t row all the way back to the Fearless against it.’

  She nodded reluctantly.

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Finding Mr Erskine – that’s the main thing. You told him I was with you, that I was coming too?’