French Agents
Friday, March 30
Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin stood outside at the main entrance to the York Inn, cast his eyes upward to the sky, and frowned. Dark clouds hung heavy with moisture over Bath. A steady drizzle muted somewhat the city’s raucous voice. An inauspicious beginning, he thought, as he raised his umbrella and stepped out into the street. His adjutant, Georges Charpentier, was about to follow when two rough-looking men carrying a sedan chair jogged by, nearly knocking him down.
“Mind your manners!” shouted a hotel footman at the backs of the retreating pair. He turned to Georges apologetically. “Could’ve saved my breath. The chairbearers of Bath regard neither man nor beast.”
Georges sputtered some unprintable French in agreement, then hastened to catch up to his superior. They had arrived at the inn very late the night before in a hired carriage, driven at top speed, heedless of highwaymen and deep holes in the road. When they had awakened early this morning, they ached in every joint. But, they had dressed and breakfasted quickly. A full day’s work lay before them.
At eight o’clock, Milsom Street was already crowded with traffic, though the shops had only just opened. The drizzle made the pavement slippery and walking treacherous. Carefully placing his feet, Colonel Saint-Martin threaded his way among carts, carriages, sedan chairs, and other morning traffic. Georges followed close behind, chilled, muttering to himself. The colonel peered through the crowd and saw the imposing bowed colonnaded facade of the Bath and Somerset Bank. “That’s our landmark. Madame Gagnon’s shop should be directly across the street.” Anticipation crept into his voice. This woman would know whether his prey, Captain Fitzroy, had in fact settled down in Combe Park.
In the millinery shop, a few dowdy ladies examined hats, feathers, bolts of fabric, ribbons, laces, buttons, hooks, and the like, anxiously preparing to display themselves to the gimlet eyes of their neighbors. Saint-Martin had learned earlier that a fancy ball would take place on Monday evening at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Many distinguished visitors and the cream of Bath’s society would attend, he’d been told. He gazed critically at the plain women in front of him. Were they a representative sample?
A short, stout middle-aged woman held up a yard of linen for a gaunt, nearsighted lady who examined it with the aid of spectacles. “A cloth of the highest quality, Madame. It is French manufacture. From Lyons.”
Saint-Martin concluded from the short woman’s accent what he had already deduced from her proprietary manner: she was his Madame Gagnon. At virtually the same moment, she met his glance and nodded. She would be with him in a minute. Her dark brown eyes darted back to her customer, then to the other ladies and the shopgirls. She seemed alert to everything going on in the store. A spirited woman, Saint-Martin observed, and, years ago, a pretty one.
After a few minutes, she freed herself from the nearsighted lady and approached him cautiously, a cool smile fixed on her face, her head tilted slightly. Something in his manner, he realized, betrayed him. He was not merely a stranger. Bath was full of strangers whom nobody noticed. He was French and a policeman. Her scrutiny was almost palpable. That pleased him. She would be a deep well of information.
“Sir?” She addressed him in English. Seeing he understood, she continued. “You have recently come to Bath? May I show you something? Perhaps fine ribbons for your lady?” She motioned him toward a counter at the rear of the room where there were no customers. Georges drifted away to one of the shopgirls.
“Yes, Madame,” Saint-Martin replied in English. “My footman and I arrived late yesterday and are staying at the York Inn. I wish to purchase a gift for a young noble lady in Paris.” He added softly, “Baron Breteuil’s goddaughter.”
She smiled politely as she would for any fine gentleman. But her eyes took on a harsh, knowing glint. She had a personal interest in Sylvie de Chanteclerc’s misfortune. “For that kind of gift, sir, we need to agree on a time when we can discuss her wishes privately. In an hour, shall we say? An extra shopgirl will arrive then who can take my place.”
“Of course, Madame. I’m pleased to deal with a person who promises to be so helpful.” The colonel bowed, collected Georges, and left the shop.
The Upper Assembly Rooms were only a few minutes’ walk to the north. Saint-Martin had decided while waiting in the shop that Monday’s fancy ball might offer something useful to his purpose. Fitzroy and his noble cousin would likely be there. Within the hour he had bought a ticket for himself. Georges offered to spend that evening mingling with the motley mob of chairbearers, pickpockets, and beggars who usually gathered around the building as the fine folk entered and departed. He was sure to pick up helpful gossip.
Georges then left to build a network of informants and to acquaint himself with the city’s constabulary and watchmen. Some cooperation might be required of them in order to spirit Fitzroy out of Bath. Baron Breteuil had provided generously for such expenses.
The colonel returned to Madame Gagnon, who greeted him again as a rich prospective customer. “Let us discuss the young woman’s desires in my parlor in the English manner over a cup of tea.”
The milliner led him to her living quarters above the shop. Her parlor was a small room overlooking Milsom Street, from which rose a constant low rumble of traffic. Saint-Martin soon ceased to notice it as they introduced themselves and began to converse in French. “Baron Breteuil has indicated I should expect you,” she said, seating him at a small table. She took a chair across from him. A servant came with tea and biscuits, then left. Madame Gagnon poured while he told her what he had already learned about Fitzroy.
She seemed to anticipate a question forming in Saint-Martin’s mind. “Yes, I know the baron. And Sylvie. Years ago, I worked as a dressmaker for her parents.” That harsh glint came back to her eyes. “Let me tell you what I’ve learned about that Irish rogue.”
She explained that the captain and his cousin, Lady Margaret, had come to Bath six weeks ago in the company of a Major Tarleton and a Captain Corbett. “Odd chaperons,” she added. “Faces scarred in battle or brawls, they seem better suited to transport hardened criminals from Newgate to the hangman’s scaffold. They are Fitzroy’s constant companions in public. He appears to feel perfectly safe and takes no other precautions.”
“I’ve been warned he’s always armed,” remarked Saint-Martin. “He’s also ruthless and cunning. It will be difficult to apprehend him.”
“Difficult, to be sure,” the milliner agreed. “But he’s overconfident. That’s to our advantage.” She went on to described his skill at the gaming tables and his charm at the cotillions and balls. The news of his affair with Sylvie had followed him from London. Most people in Bath seemed willing to accept his version. “The English are inclined to think the worst of us French,” she observed tartly.
Saint-Martin smiled, bit into a biscuit. “I understand he lives with Lady Margaret and her husband, Sir Harry.”
“Yes, at Combe Park, a mile and a half southeast of the city.”
“Fate plays odd games with us,” exclaimed the colonel. “A friend of mine has recently entered Sir Harry’s service as tutor to his deaf son. I plan to visit her.”
Madame Gagnon appeared to hesitate. “I would be anxious for any friend of mine in the Rogers household.” She explained that Sir Harry’s chief passions, next to making a great deal of money in the slave trade, consisted of playing court tennis and training a black man to be a bare knuckle fighter. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, neglected to supervise her household, leaving the task to a steward. Her only concern was to preserve her beauty. “She makes it clear to everyone that she prefers the company of her cousin to that of her husband.”
Saint-Martin leaned forward with increasing interest. “And how does Sir Harry deal with that?”
“Like a cat watching a pair of birds on a branch overhead. Only his eyes betray him. He holds the urge to kill just below the surface. The cousins have not openly challenged him. He has not openly reproached them. He seems to be waiting for them to take a false step.”
“Why does he tolerate the captain’s presence at Combe Park?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps to lull him into a false sense of security, then suddenly strike out at him. Perhaps to better observe the affair and gather incriminating evidence in case he wishes to secure a divorce.”
“A guileful man, this Harry Rogers.”
“And a hypocrite, as well. They say he has a mistress hidden somewhere in Bath.”
The colonel’s concern shifted to the young deaf boy whom Anne was tutoring. “Charlie Rogers, how is he affected by the conflict between his parents?”
Madame Gagnon pursed her lips, then studied the contents of her cup. “There’s a rumor—I can’t vouch for it—that Sir Harry isn’t the boy’s father.” With a nod she acknowledged the consternation that seized Saint-Martin. She continued soberly. “Charlie bears a remarkable family resemblance to Fitzroy. That shouldn’t surprise anyone, if indeed they are kin. It’s Fitzroy’s attitude that’s most telling. I sense—and so do others—that he regards Charlie as his son. And I fear Sir Harry senses that as well. Since he first saw the captain several weeks ago, he has grown cold toward the boy.”
Saint-Martin thanked the milliner and said they should keep in touch. “It sounds like Combe Park is a tinder box about to ignite,” he said as he rose to leave the parlor. He added silently to himself, “And Anne is in the midst of it.” He hastened back to the inn.
***
“Finished.” Saint-Martin laid down his pen and picked up the draft of the letter he had just written. His adjutant across the table sat up expectantly. The colonel continued, “I must make the acquaintance of Sir Harry Rogers. Tell me what you think of this, Georges.” He began to read.
Sir Harry Rogers, Combe Park.
My dear Sir: I would like to call on Miss Anne Cartier, tutor to your son, Charles, this afternoon at a time convenient to her and to you. The messenger, Monsieur Georges Charpentier, will await her reply and yours. I have messages for her from her grandfather in Hampstead, her solicitor Mr. Barnstaple, her employer Mr. Braidwood, and her patron in Paris, my aunt Comtesse Marie de Beaumont, who supports Miss Cartier’s work with deaf children at Abbé de l’Épée’s institute in that city. I particularly desire to make your acquaintance, either this afternoon or on another occasion. I have heard of your prowess at court tennis. Perhaps you would be so kind as to include me in one of the games at your hall in Combe Park. I am considered to be rather good at the sport. I also understand you have trained a black man to be an outstanding bare knuckle fighter. As a colonel in the French Royal Army on holiday, I would like to know more about this manly English art and perhaps invest some money in it.
Yours respectfully,
Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin, York Inn.
Georges approved with a nod. “It’s got the right bait for Rogers and I see why you are casting it. The man has ships lying in Bristol’s harbor. He hates his wife’s cousin, Fitzroy. Perhaps he could be persuaded to put the rogue on one of his ships and drop him off in France.”
“You’ve grasped the nub of my strategy.” The colonel struck the letter with the back of his hand, smiling wryly. “The devil will come in the details.”
Georges rubbed his bald head, reflecting for a moment. “It might work, sir. Let’s see what kind of fish we have in Sir Harry.”
“Good. Make a clean copy of this draft for my signature and bring it to Combe Park. Meanwhile I’ll write a note to Miss Cartier to take with you.”
While Georges copied, Saint-Martin leaned forward staring at a blank sheet of paper. Faint echoes of Mozart’s sweet melodies drew his mind back several months. A string quartet was playing in his sitting room as Anne was about to leave Paris. Moved by the music, they wondered what direction their friendship should take. Marriage perhaps? No, it would cost Anne her freedom. He had thought they might later leap that hurdle. In the end, they agreed they should part. Separation would test their love.
The scratching of Georges’ pen brought Saint-Martin back to the present. He breathed deeply, drew Anne’s miniature portrait from his pocket, gazed at it, laid it next to his paper, and picked up a pen. His hand trembled, then found assurance and began writing. My dearest Anne…
***
In the middle of the morning, on her way to Sir Harry’s study, Anne saw a stocky, bald-headed man standing hat in hand in the entrance foyer. She gasped in disbelief and rushed up to him. “Georges!” she cried out. “What are you doing here?”
Before she could embrace him, he winked and brought a finger to his lips. “Secret police business,” he whispered. “The colonel and I, we’re incognito, at least for the moment. I’ve brought messages to Sir Harry from Colonel Saint-Martin. One of them is for you. He’s requesting an invitation to Combe Park.”
For a moment, she stared at Georges, stunned speechless. Paul hadn’t even hinted he might come to England. She said softly, “It’s wonderful to see you, Georges. I hope to meet you and your colonel very soon and find out what you’re doing. Now I must run. Sir Harry has called me.”
As she entered, Sir Harry rose from his desk, the messages in his hand. Hers was unopened. He gave it to her and gestured to a chair. “I’ll read aloud the message the colonel sent to me. It concerns you. You may prefer to read your letter privately.”
“Yes, Sir Harry, that would please me.”
He raised the sheet of paper and began to read. In a polite and formal way, Paul asked Sir Harry for permission to visit her and, on the same occasion, to make his acquaintance. Having met Georges, Anne was prepared for the invitation, so she paid more attention than she might have otherwise to how Sir Harry read the message. His eyes engaged the words, as if drawing hidden meaning from them. The prospect of the visit had clearly intrigued him.
“Tea at about two o’clock should suit us,” Sir Harry said, glancing up at Anne. “This evening we shall also entertain here at Combe Park. Perhaps we could continue our visit with the Frenchman then. He might add some spice to the occasion. I’ll dash off a reply.”
***
As the hour of Paul’s visit drew near, Anne watched the driveway from the window of her room on tiptoes of anticipation, still feeling the effects of this morning’s surprise. She held his message open in her hand. “My dearest Anne,” he had begun. “How marvelous that Providence should bring us together in Bath. I have much to tell you.”
A hackney cab rattled up to the great house’s main entrance. Anne opened the window and leaned out. Paul stepped down, aided by a footman, and entered the house. Georges paid the driver and turned to follow the colonel. Anne waved a handkerchief. Georges glanced up, saw her, and broke out in a big smile. She drew back from the window, thinking she would visit with him later. For the present, typically, he would join the servants for tea and draw gossip from them.
On the way downstairs, Anne suddenly realized she had waved to Georges but not to Paul. What had held her back? A hidden doubt about him? Stung by this unexpected and unwanted scruple, she grew increasingly impatient with herself. She had looked forward so eagerly to seeing him. As she came to the entrance hall and heard his slightly accented voice, she began to grow light-headed. Any lingering doubt slipped away. Her eyes met Paul’s. She felt a surge of joy. It was as if they had been apart, not several months but a few days.
He bowed, took her hands, kissed her on the cheek. When they had exchanged greetings, Sir Harry directed them into his study and sat with them at a tea table. “Lady Margaret regrets not welcoming you and excuses herself,” he said. “We shall have a party here this evening. Cards, games of chance, dancing. The preparation for such an occasion takes her the better part of the day. Would you like to meet her this evening?”
“Yes, of course, I’d be delighted,” Paul replied, lifting an eyebrow slightly as if surprised by this sudden, unexpected invitation.
“Then consider yourself invited. Lady Margaret will be easy to recognize. Look for the most beautiful woman in the room.” He paused, then winked at Saint-Martin. “Feel free to bring a companion.”
“Perhaps Miss Cartier would be willing to accompany me.” He looked at Anne hopefully.
Her eyes gently teased him. “With pleasure, Colonel. I’ve also promised Sir Harry to sing a few songs.”
The black footman entered the study with the tea service. Paul scanned the man’s muscular body, his eyes widening in wonder. Sir Harry watched, barely containing his amusement. Paul engaged Jeffery’s eye and smiled a compliment, then turned to Sir Harry. “Your fighter as well as your footman, I assume.”
“Yes, strong as an ox. Clever and quick, too. Spars every day. Return here tomorrow and watch him. His real test will come in five days. His opponent stands a half-head taller and weighs one stone more. Fights like a bull. Hasn’t lost a match—yet.”
During this talk about sports, Anne took the opportunity to observe the two men in friendly conversation. Paul did not presume upon his higher noble rank, nor did Sir Harry defer to him. They went on to spar over the merits of French and English manners. Paul argued for the subtle Frenchman, Sir Harry for the blunt Englishman. At the same time, they appeared to be studying one another.
Sir Harry rose to end the visit. “Colonel, this has been brief but most pleasant. Please stay overnight as my guest. Then tomorrow, after you’ve seen Lord Jeff in his morning exercises, you might like to join me in a match of court tennis.”
“I’m pleased to accept your challenge.”
“You and Miss Cartier may use the parlor for your visit if you wish.” He gestured to the door across the hall from the study. With a wave of his hand he walked off toward Jeffery in the entrance hall.
The parlor was a northerly room, cool and dark in the late afternoon. Glowing embers of a dying fire drew Anne and Paul to the fireplace. They stood for a moment, side by side, in the fleeting warmth. As if triggered by a spark from the fire, they turned toward one another and began in unison, “I’ve missed you so….” They broke off in a burst of laughter and embraced, then kissed ardently.
“I have missed you, Anne.” He pressed her tightly to himself.
“We have much to share with each other. Let’s begin now.” She caressed his cheek. “What are you telling people in Bath about us?”
“We’re acquainted through your work with deaf children in Paris. But someone as perceptive as Sir Harry has already concluded we’re friends.”
Anne noticed an inflection in his voice that asked, “And more than friends?” She was silent for a few moments, wondering how to reply. Not yet, she thought.
Paul pulled up chairs and stirred the embers to life. Anne lit several sconces. When they were seated, Paul reached into his valise and drew out letters. “From Mr. Braidwood, Mr. Barnstaple, and your grandfather, André.” He handed them to Anne.
“I’ll read them later,” she remarked. “Thank you.”
He brought out another letter from the valise. “And this is from Comtesse Marie. I’d like you to read it now. It deals with a mutual friend of ours.”
Anne eagerly opened the envelope. Besides brief news from the comtesse, it contained a separate sheet of bravely written lines from Michou, a young woman, deaf from birth and uneducated, but gifted with a remarkable painter’s eye. Anne had befriended her, and introduced her into Abbé de l’Épée’s institute for the deaf. Anne read aloud:
I learn read write a little. I live by students at school. They are kind helpful. I miss you. I send gift. I love you. Michou.
Anne was too moved to speak. She looked up at Paul. He was also touched, his eyes moist.
He reached again into his valise. “Since you left, Michou’s been painting diligently and did this for you. I had it encased.” He handed Anne an oval silver case.
It opened to a miniature self-portrait of Michou as Anne remembered her from their last meal together. In a soft yellow silk dress, she sat erect, her green eyes alert, gazing at her friend. Anne shared the portrait with Paul.
“A remarkable likeness,” he said. “She speaks eloquently with her eyes.”
“She’s teaching sign language to Aunt Marie.” Anne handed him the comtesse’s letter, adding, “She admits it’s about time she learned.”
He scanned the single sheet, then gazed fondly at Anne. “Perhaps you will teach me.”
Anne nodded. “I’d like that.” She imagined him in voiceless conversation with her. It seemed more intimate than spoken words. After all, the language of love was gesture. Signing might help overcome his reticence in matters of the heart.
“Then we shall begin my instruction when our business in Bath is finished.” He carefully folded the letter and returned it to her.
“And what is that business, if I may ask?”
“The capture of Captain Fitzroy, who lives here. Georges and I must bring him back to France for a crime he has committed. You have met him by now and might be familiar with his character.”
“I do know him. In fact, he is among those whom I suspect caused the death of my predecessor, Mary Campbell.” Anne then told him what she had learned about that incident and the captain’s possible part in it.
“That sounds like something Georges and I must look into. The captain’s abuse of women would seem to follow a pattern.”
“Sir Harry surely suspects you are a French police officer in pursuit of the captain.”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “How would he have discovered that?”
“When Sir Harry learned I was coming to tutor Charlie, he asked Harriet about me. She’s a dear friend but easily led. I fear he has charmed her. She told him I had worked with you last year in Paris to clear Antoine’s name. At the time no one knew you were coming to Bath, but Sir Harry had heard about Captain Fitzroy and the baron’s goddaughter. When you arrived, he was sure to suspect who you are and why you’ve come.”
“Hm, I see.” Paul leaned forward and stared into the fireplace, hands clasped. “Fitzroy must also know. So much for the element of surprise.”
“I’ve heard his version of the story. Tell me what really happened,” she asked. “I sense in him a deceitful character.”
Paul stirred the fire, then turned toward her. “Back in January, Fitzroy brutally beat and raped Sylvie de Chanteclerc, my cousin and Aunt Marie’s goddaughter as well. Since then I have been pursuing him. This is the mysterious case I mentioned in my letters to you. Sylvie is depressed and has recently attempted suicide.”
“How horrible! Poor woman! The captain deserves to be punished. But how will you bring him back to France?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve come to Combe Park to find a way.” Paul paused for a moment. A puzzled expression crept over his face. “Why has Sir Harry been so welcoming? Surely he wants more from me than a partner in court tennis.”
“He apparently believes you might be useful to him. That’s how he thinks about everything. What’s most on his mind right now is how to deal with Lady Margaret and Fitzroy.”
Paul’s jaw tightened. He spoke with steel in his voice. “Perhaps I can help him solve that problem.”