The two men were still staring in disbelief at the rain-sodden corpse when a door in the cottage opened, and Mr Ames stepped out into the rain. His face was dark and inscrutable, and he seemed quite unmoved by the sight of the dead man lying at their feet.
‘Get into the house,’ he shouted, and motioned angrily to the door from which he had just emerged. It was not a time to ask for explanations. Box and Blythe did as they were told, and thankfully hurried out of the blinding rain into the Queen’s Cottage. Colonel Kershaw appeared on the threshold of an inner room, and beckoned to them to enter. He looked pale and angry, but fully in command of himself.
On this occasion, Box had no eyes for the décor and furnishings of Marie-Antoinette’s rural retreat. His gaze was fixed on a corpulent, balding man in his late fifties, who was sitting on an upright chair, and holding a wet cloth to an ugly bruise over his right eye. He looked white with shock, and his eyes held a look of bewilderment tinged with caution.
‘I tell you, it was an outrage!’ he said in heavily accented English, merely glancing at the two men who had come into the room. ‘I have been abused, and robbed of a fortune. I came here today to admire the great château of Louis XIV, and what happens? I am set upon by apaches, thugs—’
‘Yes, yes, so you’ve already told me,’ said Kershaw impatiently. ‘Now, Herr Pfeifer, I want you to stop talking and listen to me. There’s no time to be lost. There is a man lying dead out there in the rain – murdered. The man is called Alain de Bellefort. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard the name?’
Box saw how the man called Pfeifer visibly sagged with relief. Evidently, the colonel was going to give him a means of disappearing from the scene without fuss.
‘What? No, as you say, I have never heard of this man. Poor fellow! Those thugs who knocked me down and stole my money must have murdered him.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Now, it so happens that the Queen’s Cottage is closed to the public on Saturdays, so if we move quickly, we can all be away from here before a party of tourists braves the rain and comes walking out here to admire the view. I see no reason why you, Herr Pfeifer, or us, for that matter, should be caught up in the tedium of a French murder enquiry.’
‘But who are you?’ asked the German, looking from one to the other.
‘Well, like you,’ Kershaw replied, ‘we are just tourists. You might say that we’re in a similar line of business. My name is Jones. These two gentlemen are Mr Smith, and Mr Robinson. In a moment – ah! Here he is.’
The door had opened, and Mr Ames came into the room. He was carrying the briefcase that Box had seen discarded beside the body. Without saying a word, he handed the briefcase to Major Blythe, and left the room, followed by Colonel Kershaw.
‘My money!’ cried Herr Pfeifer, half rising from his chair. Blythe had opened the briefcase, revealing the roughly packed wads of sodden banknotes, most of them still with their blue paper bands intact.
‘Yes, it’s your money, Herr Pfeifer, which our coachman has collected together for you. The apaches must have taken fright when they saw that De Bellefort was dead, and fled without their loot. Now, there’s nothing else that you want, is there? No documents, no papers—?’
‘No, no, nothing. You’ve all been very kind, you, Mr Robinson, and you, Mr Smith. So pleased to have met you, and your friend Mr Jones. I should like to go, now, if that’s all right with you. I have my own means of transport on the public road nearby. Good day.’
In a moment the German had all but run out of the cottage. Colonel Kershaw was standing alone in the vestibule. His face was flushed with what looked very much like anger or indignation.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘our work here is done. Mr Ames found the Alsace List still in De Bellefort’s overcoat pocket, and I have it here now. Mr Ames went ahead to bring the coach round to the northern wicket, which is only yards from here. It is essential that all of us – Herr Pfeifer included – are never connected with the events that have occurred here today.’
The rain had begun to ease, and faint streaks of sunlight were brightening the sky. The three men walked silently along a tree-lined path that would take them to the main road. Box glanced at the grim countenance of Colonel Kershaw, and experienced a sudden pang of doubt.
While Major Blythe had been restoring the money to Herr Pfeifer, Box had been able to witness the meeting of Colonel Kershaw and Mr Ames in the vestibule. He had seen the rough coach driver hand Kershaw the Alsace List, secure in its envelope, and also the sheet of paper upon which someone had written the word TRAITOR. Evidently, De Bellefort’s death was to be passed off as a common murder by thugs.
It was after he had handed over the Alsace List that the rough-and-ready Ames had burst into speech.
‘You shouldn’t have let Théophile Gaboriau in on this business, Colonel,’ he had muttered. ‘I told you what he was like. He’ll cut your throat as soon as look at you, and now he’s done for De Bellefort. I told you what would happen—’
‘Mind your own damned business, Ames,’ Kershaw had replied. ‘Bring the coach round to the northern wicket, and drive us all away from this cursed place.’
Had Colonel Kershaw deliberately engineered Alain de Bellefort’s murder?
One week after the death of her brother at Versailles, Elizabeth de Bellefort, clad in deep mourning, walked through the deserted rooms of the Manoir de Saint-Louis. All was to be sold, to pay the debts of her dead brother. She had a small income entailed to her from her mother’s estate, so she would not be in want, but it was a devastating blow to leave the house of her ancestors.
Far from being her protector, Alain had proved to be a ruthless deceiver, using her to further his own crazed ends. For crazed they had been; the Chevalier de Bellefort was little more than a charlatan and, if what rumour suggested was true, a traitor to his country as well. Only a handful of mourners had attended his funeral mass. None of the Norman nobility had been there, and the mayor had very pointedly absented himself. She felt nothing now but sadness and desolation.
Elizabeth walked through the tattered and neglected state apartments of the manoir, through the room with the many mirrors, and out into the faded vestibule. The house, she heard, was to be demolished, and a small packing plant for farm produce erected on the site. The grumbling Anna had gone, seemingly unaffected by the tragedy that had befallen the De Bellefort family, and showing not a glimmer of emotion when news of her master’s murder reached them.
Elizabeth would take rooms in Paris, and live there until it was her turn to be brought back to Saint-Martin de Fontenay for burial beside her parents and her murdered brother. There would be many works of mercy that a maiden lady of her background could take up as a late vocation.
She left the house, and pulled the door shut. The noise had a sickening finality about it that made her shudder.
A man was standing motionless in the tangled gardens facing the house. Of course! It was Etienne Delagardie, her brother’s former friend, and once an admirer of hers. Strong and fair-haired, and dressed in sombre black, he wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried, not a sword this time, but a hunting-crop in his left hand. Her heart gave a leap of pleasure, which she tried to repress. Not only was she virtually penniless, but she had lost cachet through the revelations about her erring, murdering brother. This Norman gentleman was not for the likes of her.
‘Monsieur Delagardie—’
‘Bah! Set aside all this foolishness, Elizabeth,’ he cried, impatiently. ‘You know my Christian name well enough. You cannot spend the rest of your life orchestrating this ludicrous ballet of ancient titles of precedence, lordships of manors, and all the other discarded baggage of ancient times. Come with me, now, and I will show you a new and different life.’
‘What do you mean?’ she faltered, but she understood quite well the import of his words.
‘Come with me, now, and take some refreshment at my house. All the townsfolk will see you in my company, and will realize that you have decided to live not in the reign of Louis XIV, but in the Third Republic. I was your first love, before Maurice Claygate cast his spell over you. I have been content to wait, and here I am. Come. Leave this ruined place. Write to that kind Englishwoman who came to visit you, and tell her that you have been redeemed from the thrall of the past.’
Together they walked through the village of Saint-Martin de Fontenay, past the ancient church where Alain de Bellefort and his parents lay, and past the civic building, above which fluttered the tricolour of the French Republic. They entered Etienne’s fine two-storey house of white stucco with the green shutters at the windows, and when he closed the front door, he did so with a fixed determination to shut out forever Elizabeth de Bellefort’s dark and tragic past.
In the private parlour on the first floor of Dorset House, Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw looked at the group of people assembled to listen to the statement that he had come to make. The old field marshal and his wife sat together on a sofa. Facing them, and sitting on upright chairs, were their surviving son, Major Edwin Claygate, his wife, Sarah, and Miss Julia Maltravers. It was the bright morning of Saturday, 6 October.
Mr Box, Kershaw noted, had taken up a position near the door, where he stood rather stiffly, as though trying to distance himself from the party. He knew quite well what was wrong with Box that morning. Later, when the opportunity arose, he would deal with the matter.
‘I have asked you all to assemble here today,’ said Kershaw, ‘because there are certain things that you should be told about the late Mr Maurice Claygate. As you know, he was murdered in this house, and through the careful investigations of Detective Inspector Box, the murderer, Alain de Bellefort, was tracked down to France. Before Mr Box could arrest him for your son’s murder, De Bellefort was himself murdered, a fortnight ago today, in circumstances which still remain a mystery.’
‘I cannot understand it,’ said Field Marshal Claygate, half to himself. ‘That man’s father and I were close friends for half a lifetime.’
‘People are unfathomable, sir,’ said Kershaw. ‘But now let me tell you in a few words what I have come here to impart.
‘For the past year, your son Maurice had been a valued member of Secret Intelligence, of which I am the representative here today. I can’t reveal to you the work that he did, but I can tell you that he rendered invaluable service to his Queen and country. He fell by the assassin’s bullet, but his death was fully avenged in the rain-soaked meadows of the Palace of Versailles.’
There was a profound silence when Kershaw had finished speaking. The Colonel looked once again at his audience. Sir John Claygate seemed to have suddenly grown in stature, and his deep-set eyes gleamed with pride. Lady Claygate’s face was transformed with a smile of thankfulness. The old field marshal, evidently intent on concealing his emotion, burst into speech.
‘I’m going to have that garden passage demolished,’ he said. ‘It was never used much, and when it was, it was used to commit murder. It’s all to be pulled down, and turned into a wide flower-bed, with statues and a sundial.’
‘What a good idea,’ said Lady Claygate. ‘We can get a landscape gardener in to do the thing properly.’
They know, now, thought Kershaw, that their son Maurice was something more than a scamp and a seasoned gambler. He rose from his chair, and bowed to the field marshal and his wife. It was time to go, before any searching questions were asked about his own role in the affair. He motioned to Box to join him, and together they left the room.
‘Good Lord!’ said Major Edwin Claygate, softly. ‘So Moggie was a hero, after all.’
‘I told you there was nothing wrong with Maurice,’ said Sarah, her eyes full of tears. She turned to Julia Maltravers, who was sitting beside her.
‘What will you do, now, Julia?’ she asked.
‘Do?’ said Julia. ‘I shall sell my London apartment, and go back to Northumberland. There’s our old family seat, Thorpe Hall, to look after, and the home farm to manage. I shall pick up my life where I left it off last year, and take things onward from there. One cannot live in the past.’
‘But whenever you come to London, my dear,’ said Lady Claygate, ‘you must make Dorset House your home. You’ll always be welcome here, and not just for Maurice’s sake. I wonder what will become of Elizabeth? With her brother dead, she’ll be all alone in the world.’
‘Oh, who cares what happens to her, Mother-in-Law?’ cried Sarah indignantly. ‘She was just as bad as her brother – conniving and scheming…. If Alain had lived, he would have been tried and found guilty of murder, and she would have been an accessory.’
‘Poor Elizabeth had suffered terribly,’ said Julia, flushing with indignation. ‘I visited her, as you know, and she told me terrible things that I can’t repeat to others. I had a letter from her yesterday, to say that she is abandoning the manor-house, and keeping company with an honourable gentleman who lives in the district. She, too, was a victim of that brother of hers. Can’t we all wish her well?’
‘I’m sure you are right, Julia, dear,’ said Lady Claygate, ‘and I’m pleased to hear that Elizabeth is going to face up to the real world at last. We must go forward. I think we might well survive the political ramifications of this affair. We’ve already had overtures from the French Ambassador, haven’t we, John? He wants us to hold a reception here for the Sultan of Morocco. It’ll be an excuse for a whole flock of diplomats to come here and discuss the present state of the North African colonies.’
‘Yes,’ said the old field marshal, hoisting himself up from his chair. ‘That could be a very interesting occasion. The ambassador’s suggesting some time in mid-November – the fifteenth, he thought. Pencil it in to your engagement book, will you, Edwin? Now, whom shall we invite?’
With one accord, the members of the Claygate family left the parlour, deep in conversation about what members of the Dorset House set would be suitable to meet the Sultan of Morocco.
Box and Kershaw stood under the great Corinthian portico of Dorset House, and watched as the colonel’s smart closed carriage rumbled out of the lane from the mews.
‘Mr Box,’ said Kershaw, ‘I’m going direct to the Foreign Office, to chew over this Dorset House affair with Sir Charles Napier. I expect you’re going back to King James’s Rents. May I offer you the hospitality of my carriage?’
Box assented, and Colonel Kershaw said nothing more until they were sitting in comfort, and the carriage had turned into Berkeley Square. Then he began to speak.
‘Box,’ he said, ‘I want you to understand that I was very worried that De Bellefort would succeed in passing the Alsace List to Pfeifer at Versailles before we arrived on the scene. We didn’t know whether they would be able to keep to the exact time of their rendezvous, and I was concerned that De Bellefort would have accomplices in the palace grounds. He has worked with little select gangs of his own before, as you know.
‘And so I contacted a man in France who I knew would ensure that De Bellefort would not succeed in making the exchange if we could not arrive in time to prevent him. This man, part French, part Algerian, is called Théophile Gaboriau. He heads a group of fanatical French patriots called the Syndics, whose aim is to restore to France all lands lost to her since the year 1800. I knew he was a violent, ungovernable man, but I made the decision to seek his help.’
‘Sir,’ Box protested, ‘there is no need for you to justify your action to me—’
‘Oh, yes, there is, Mr Box. I’ve known ever since we found De Bellefort dead that you suspected me of having engineered his murder. Well, I tell you now, solemnly, that I intended no such thing. You had the warrant, and you were to arrest him. Mr Ames warned me not to take Gaboriau into my confidence, and I didn’t listen to him. Mr Ames lives and works in Paris, and knows a great deal about the underground movements. I should have listened to him. I didn’t. I was wrong.’
‘What was the state of things when you and Mr Ames came on to the scene?’ asked Box.
‘We both saw De Bellefort lying dead on the path,’ Kershaw replied. ‘Before we could examine the body, poor Pfeifer staggered out through the door of the cottage, protesting that he’d been set upon by ruffians. That, by the way, will be the official explanation of De Bellefort’s death – murdered by common robbers. Mr Ames removed the accusation of “traitor” from the dagger, collected all the money and, as you know, returned it to Pfeifer. It will suit everybody’s book to hear no more of the affair.
‘As for the Alsace List, Major Blythe and myself conveyed it personally to Baron Augustiniak, who has caused it to reappear in the archives of the French Foreign Office. The Alsace conspirators have all been warned off. Now everybody – by which I mean France, Germany and Russia – can pretend that the list never existed. That’s much the best way.’
‘And what about poor Mr Norbert, the banker, sir?’
‘A few days ago, Box, a man called at Norbert’s bank in Metz and handed him a briefcase containing ten thousand pounds. It was Norbert’s own briefcase. I am convinced that Gaboriau had removed it from the scene of the murder – remember that De Bellefort would have been carrying it – and arranged for its return to Norbert. Gaboriau is a patriot, not a thief. He took not one single banknote away from that terrible scene.
‘That man De Bellefort murdered Maurice Claygate and Sophie Lénart, and brought about the ruin of his own sister, who could have ended her days in a lunatic asylum. He plotted the betrayal of over twenty foolish men in Alsace-Lorraine, all of whom would have ended up on the German gallows. I have no regrets that he is dead, Mr Box, but I did not have him murdered. Do you believe me?’
‘I do, sir. And I must also point out, respectfully, that your suppositions concerning this man Gaboriau are only that – suppositions. They would not stand up for a moment if submitted to the rules of evidence.’
Colonel Kershaw laughed, and a brilliant smile transformed his usually sober features. Box’s artfully contrived jibe had restored his good humour. The carriage arrived in Whitehall, and Box and Kershaw stepped down on to the pavement.
‘Goodbye, Box,’ said Colonel Kershaw. ‘I think our visit to Versailles was worth all the resultant inconvenience. I hope that we shall work together again, some time.’
‘I hope so, too, sir,’ Box replied. ‘Goodbye.’
He watched Kershaw hurry up the steps of the Foreign Office, and then made his way down Great Scotland Yard, and so to King James’s Rents.