Ned made sure that Guido had no other weapons about his person before allowing him to get up. He gathered both knives and the stolen letter in his left hand in the meantime, then used his right to strike a match and light the candle by the bed. When he stood up, Guido towered over Ned by an entire foot. He was no weakling, despite his leanness, but he made no attempt to renew their brief struggle.
Given his black hair, olive complexion and pointed beard, Guido could easily have been taken for an Italian or a Spaniard, but Ned suspected that he might be from somewhere further east, perhaps as far as the bounds of the Ottoman Empire.
“What do you know that I do not?” Ned demanded, expecting that he might get a few nuggets of information by way of inducement to enter into a compact.
“I know all about the boat,” Guido replied, shortly.
Ned knew better than to confess ignorance by saying: “What boat?” Instead, he said: “I know all about the Bolivar’s movements.” In fact, all he knew was that Bolivar was the name of Byron’s yacht, and that it sometime docked in Spezia.
“Not the Bolivar,” Guido countered. “The Don Juan. She set out from Genoa on May 10, but was not delivered to Lerici until May 12, having been driven back by bad weather. Shelley and Williams sailed out to the Isola del Tino on May 18. Byron brought the Bolivar to Lerici to meet the Don Juan on the June 13, and fired six cannon-shots by way of salute. Both vessels then set sail for Leghorn, where the Don Juan was put in for modifications, including a false stem and stern. She was brought to San Terenzo today, very discreetly; she is moored within 100 yards of Casa Magni at this moment.”
“All that may be true,” Ned conceded, “but I cannot see its relevance.”
“Can you not?” Guido asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “I don’t know exactly how the boat has been modified, or for what purpose, but I do not think that Monsieur Shelley is any common smuggler. I would dearly like to know what cargo it is intended to carry, and to what destination–you might be better able to find that out than I am. In order to ascertain all this, I had to leave you to watch Walton’s house by yourself for a considerable period. Only you can tell me if anything significant occurred during that time.”
“Indeed,” said Ned, in a neutral tone. “What, exactly, are you proposing?”
“I speak Italian better than you do, and I am far better equipped to obtain information from Walton’s neighbors and anyone making deliveries to his house. You, on the other hand, speak English better than I do, and are thus better equipped to obtain information from the wives and servants Shelley and Williams brought with them. Shelley’s wife is confined to her bed, having fallen victim to a fever in the wake of a miscarriage; Madame Williams and the servants are in state of anguish. If Shelley and Williams are planning another expedition, I suspect that they will not be able to depart without an argument. What I propose is that I prowl around the Walton house for the next day or two, while you make inquiries at Casa Magni, and that we pool the information we glean.”
This fitted in very well with the plan Ned had already made, but he was careful to give the appearance of being dubious. “I have been ordered to keep close watch on Walton’s house,” he said. “I need to find out more about his guest.”
“I know that,” Guido retorted. “I know, too, that you have been given Trelawny’s name. You know that the conspiracy in which Walton, Shelley and Trelawny are involved extends much further than Spezia. One or other of your masters might send help, once they know that–but one, at least, will not receive your report in good time. I am already here–also alone, for the time being. Why should we not help one another?”
“That depends who your master is,” Ned said, bluntly.
“Have I asked you to name yours?” the other retorted. “What does it matter? Neither of us is a common soldier, and if either of us is bound by oath to a nation, he is not the kind of man to offer oaths with any great sincerity.”
Ned did not bother to complain about that unflattering estimation. “You mentioned bomb-making,” he said. “Is that what you imagine Walton and his companion to be doing in their laboratory?”
“If they are working for the Carbonari,” Guido said, “that is what they are highly likely to be doing. Infernal machines have become an important, if direly unreliable, instrument of modern politics. There is a new chemistry in the making, thanks to Messieurs Lavoisier and Priestley, and a new science of electricity too, thanks to Messieurs Galvani and Volta. Masters of artillery and ordnance all over Europe are taking a very keen interest in these new sciences. There are revolutions in progress in Spain and Portugal, while wars of unification are bubbling up in Germany and Italy. The Ottoman Empire will likely unravel completely if the Greeks win their independence, and the Americas are already in turmoil. Any man who can manufacture a more powerful explosive, or one subject to safer and more reliable detonation, is in a position to make a vast fortune.”
“And that is what Walton’s companion is doing with his apparatus, in your opinion?”
“I do not pretend to know the composition of all the compounds he has been importing by the barrel,” Guido said, “but I know that your Monsieur Davy has used electricity to isolate new elements, and that some of them are so volatile that they explode in sudden contact with water. As you must know, Monsieur Walton’s friend has a great many Voltaic piles at his disposal.”
“Do you know his name?” Ned asked.
“Perhaps,” was the guarded reply. “Do you?”
“Not for certain,” Ned parried.
“Well?” the other demanded, abruptly. “What do you have to say to my proposition?”
Ned shrugged his shoulders. “I say yes,” he said, “while reserving my judgment as to what you might have done had I not disarmed you as you drew nigh to my bed.”
“You did not stab me,” was Guido’s response to that, “for which I am duly grateful. You have my word that I shall not attempt any violence against you, and will defend you vigorously if anyone should attack us while we go about our work. I will swear a blood oath to that effect if you require it.”
Ned handed back the stiletto, but kept the stolen letter. “I’ll go to Casa Magni tomorrow,” he said, “while you keep watch on Walton. I’ll find you when I have information to exchange–but you had best have something solid to offer me, for everything you’ve told me thus far is mere vapor.”
“Agreed,” said the rival spy, promptly, apparently having no suspicion of the fact that he had received no concession at all. “Bonsoir, mon ami.” He moved swiftly back to the window, and made his exit the same way he had come in.
Ned closed the shutter and went back to bed, even though he knew that he would not find sleep again before it was time to rise.
Henri will not be pleased when he finds out that his courier has been robbed, he thought, as he began turning this way and that on his pillow for a second time. That will serve to arouse his interest more fully than the actual message I had sent. I shall wait until the next scheduled rendezvous to repeat the information–by which time I might have a great deal more to say... or a great deal less.
Chapter Three
At Casa Magni
The first thing Ned Knob did on reaching San Terenzo was to make his way down to the shoreline so that he might approach Casa Magni along the strand, on the lookout for the Don Juan. There were dozens of small boats pulled up on to the shore, some with masts and some without, and a great many small huts built to contain fishing-tackle and apparatus for repairing timbers and canvas. These afforded him abundant cover as he approached the house that Shelley and Williams had rented.
Casa Magni was somewhat dilapidated, like many of the larger houses on the once-prosperous shore that had lost their former occupants to the effects of Napoleon’s war. There had been no major battles fought in the vicinity, so Spezia and San Terenzo were unmarked by the scars of cannon-fire, which now pockmarked so many European towns and villages, but the lingering effects of the war were not entirely
hidden beneath the surface. The absence of violent defacement only meant that the subtler ravages of long neglect became more evident, putting a face to the dispirited quality of post-war existence. Seven years after Bonaparte’s fall, this region was still stunned, its convalescence hardly begun. The mere sight of Casa Magni would have made that obvious to the discerning eye, even had the mind behind the eye not known that the house had been rented to the English, whose tourist swarms had returned to their old haunts in greater numbers than before, exerting their strange cultural pressure with renewed force.
Ned had no difficulty at all identifying the Don Juan among the other boats berthed close to the house, although a tarpaulin had been placed to mask the place on her hull where the name had been painted. She was the only brand-new vessel to be seen on this relatively quiet stretch of shore. It was obvious that corrective work had been carried out on her hull, in spite of the fact that her timbers had scarcely been exposed to the sea. Even more remarkably, a large piece of canvas had been cut out of her brand new sail and replaced. Ned guessed that her name had been painted there by the boat-builder, but that Shelley had demanded its removal. If Guido knew that, it must have greatly increased his suspicion regarding the purpose for which the vessel was intended.
As Ned came close to the boat, moved by curiosity, three men emerged from her cabin on to the aft deck. Ned immediately recognized one of the three as Robert Walton, and took even greater care to remain hidden thereafter; he knew that Walton had had numerous opportunities to catch sight of him while he was watching the house through the olive grove. The second man in clear view was unknown to Ned, and the third man was partly obscured by the mast. Ned had seen Shelley in London more than once, but only from a moderate distance; he had to creep even closer and find a better angle before he could be sure that the third man was, indeed, the celebrated poet.
To judge by their gestures, the three were arguing, though not very violently. Their body language suggested that Shelley, at least might have raised his voice to emphasize his case, but the other two seemed very anxious that he should keep his voice as low as theirs–this despite the fact that they were in a land where few would understand them if they shouted in English, which was certainly their native tongue.
Ned could only make out fragmentary phrases, but he gathered quickly enough that Walton and the other man were allied against Shelley, but more in sorrow than in anger. They were, apparently, intent on rejecting some proposal he had put to them or some demand that he had made that was contrary to a previous agreement, but they seemed to be doing so on someone else’s behalf rather than their own. They seemed sympathetic to his distress, but were nevertheless unable or undisposed to make concessions to his request. The poet seemed to be on the brink of losing his temper, although he was struggling to control himself. He made more than one reference to his wife being ill, but Ned was unable to judge the exact relevance of that fact to the argument. His opponents were quite obdurate, though, despite their determination to soothe him with apologies and sincere regrets. In the end, they appeared to win his reluctant consent to whatever it was had previously been agreed.
Shelley evidently felt badly enough about the outcome of the argument to remain on the boat when his two companions jumped down to the shore and marched off, although their triumph in their petty victory was distinctly muted. At first, the poet stood in the stern watching them go, but then he stepped back towards the mast, apparently feeling very weary. He reached out a hand and managed to support himself for a minute or so, while the other two Englishmen passed out of sight. Then he slowly folded to his knees, eventually collapsing entirely, out of Ned’s sight.
Ned had been instructed by Gregory Temple not to reveal himself to Robert Walton and his companion, but he had received no specific order in respect of Percy Shelley. Even if he had, it would not have stopped him going to the poet’s aid. He did not hesitate for a second before running forward. He clambered up on to the Don Juan’s deck and dropped to his knees beside the stricken man.
Shelley was still breathing, but he was unconscious. He had fallen face-forwards, and Ned could see that the scab on an old wound on the back of his head had been breached by internal pressure. The fluid leaking from the breach had more yellow in it than red. Ned felt the poet’s neck, and found the flesh hot. Then he measured Shelley’s pulse, which was rapid.
The argument upset him more than he would consent to reveal to his friends, Ned thought, but he must already have been ill, and was striving to conceal that too. Is this the wound he sustained in the brawl in which Masi was hurt? If so, it should have healed long ago–but if it ever did, it has now taken a turn for the worse and has begun to fester.
Ned put his arms under Shelley’s body and braced himself. The poet would have been a featherweight to Ned’s once-beloved Pretty Molly, but was quite a burden to a man of his own size. Even so, he lifted the inert body up and carried it to the side of the boat. It was not easy to maneuver it down to the ground, but he managed to do it, and then set off towards the house at a steady walk. He managed to ring the bell without having to set his burden down.
The door was opened soon enough by a female servant. The look of astonishment that crossed her face when she looked down at the top of Ned’s battered hat turned to horror when she saw what the little man was carrying. She let loose a little scream, and cried for help.
The only help that arrived was a sullen manservant; Walton and his companion obviously had not come into the house.
“We need to get him to bed immediately,” Ned declared, authoritatively. “If one of you will show me the way, the other must fetch a doctor. If you have a kettle on the boil, you might fill a bowl with hot water and bring it to me, with some carbolic soap. An old wound on his head has opened, and it needs cleaning.”
The manservant immediately stiffened, resentful of Ned’s commanding tone, but he could obviously see the necessity of following Ned’s advice. “Show the boy where the master’s bedroom is, Jenny,” he said to the maidservant. “I’ll saddle a horse and ride to Pisa to fetch Dr. Todd.”
“Yes, Mr. Gregory,” Jenny replied.
“Is there no one closer?” Ned was quick to ask. “Surely there’s a doctor in Spezia, if there’s none in San Terenzo itself–the matter may be too urgent to allow you to prefer an Englishman.”
The manservant was about to deny that there was a doctor in Spezia, but the girl chipped in: “I’ve heard the master say that the man staying with Mr. Walton knows more than any mere physician.”
Gregory’s expression became even more clouded, but all he said was: “I’ll do what I can.” As he strode off, the maidservant beckoned Ned toward the stairway.
Ned frowned at the necessity of climbing the stairs, but he did as he was bid, and was eventually able to lay Shelley’s body down on a bed in a large room whose thick curtains were still closed, keeping the daylight at bay.
“The mistress is sick abed,” Jenny told him, plaintively, “and Mrs. Williams has gone to Pisa with her husband. There’s no one to help you but me–but there’s a kettle in the kitchen.”
“Put it on to boil,” Ned said. “In the meantime, fetch me a jug of cold water and a glass,” Ned said, “I think we might be able to revive him.”
The maidservant raced away.
In the event, Shelley began to stir even before the water-jug arrived, and when Ned put a glass to the poet’s lips, he was able to sit up. The poet did not look at Ned, though–it was the fluttering maidservant who caught his eye. Shelley frowned, and murmured: “You were ordered not to leave Mary’s side, Jenny.” The effort was too much, though, and he sank back on to the pillow, closing his eyes. He seemed far younger than his years–hardly more than a child–and his near-feminine beauty was strangely exaggerated by his distress.
The girl retreated, babbling apologies.
“Boil the water first,” Ned called after her, “and fetch the carbolic soap.” Then he turned back to the poet. “She was not at f
ault, sir,” he said. “For the moment, your need is even more urgent than your wife’s. The wound on your head has turned bad.”
Shelley was still confused, but he opened his eyes again and peered at Ned through the gloom. “Is that you, Patou?” he whispered.
Ned controlled his astonishment. The opening seemed too promising to be neglected. “I am not Germain Patou,” he said, smoothly, “although I had the honor of meeting him once, and I understand how the confusion might have arisen.”
“You’ve met Patou?” Shelley murmured, still battling with confusion. “Where?”
“In London,” Ned replied. “I’ve seen you there too, Mr. Shelley, on three separate occasions, but we were never introduced.”
Shelley raised himself up to take another sip of water, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could stare at Ned more intently. His brow was furrowed with concentration. The effort seemed to help him, and his gaze became clearer.
“The Royal Institution,” he said, eventually. “At Mr. Davy’s lectures–twice, I believe.”
Ned was genuinely impressed. Men of his extraordinarily short stature were a rarity at the meetings in question, always likely to attract more attention than individuals of ordinary height; even so, he was immensely flattered by the fact that he had been noticed by Percy Shelley. “That’s true, sir,” he said. “I suppose you noticed my resemblance to Monsieur Patou, if you are acquainted with him. The third occasion was one of Mr. Coleridge’s lectures.”
Shelley was still concentrating hard, perhaps focusing his thoughts as a defense against falling unconscious again. “In that case,” he whispered, “there was a fourth occasion, which you have forgotten. You were in court when Tom Wooler was prosecuted for seditious libel in 1817. I marked you then, as a bantam who seemed ready to tear that rogue Shepherd limb from limb, for all that he outweighed you by several stones.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 33