“The time has come to face the facts, General,” said the newcomer. “Your gladiator has lost his way to the arena.”
“Not now, Villon. A few moments, if you will.” Georges Cadoudal sipped Lord Rexborough’s superb port and watched the sun setting on England from the rear veranda.
The Royalist general held most of the island in contempt; it was one great brothel filled with whores to be thrown on the ash heap once he got what he needed. But that scorn didn’t extend to its spring when the sky turned copper. Rainy April was forgotten, May well along, its lush teal grasses shuffling in the breeze like a deck of new cards, streaked with colorful wildflowers. A flock of sheep made its way across the meadow, bleating greedily; one could set his watch by them at feeding time. They were as predictable and gluttonous as their British masters.
“If you’re quite through admiring the view,” Villon said, “let’s discuss the likelihood that someone has trod on your precious Viper.”
Cadoudal sipped and regarded his co-conspirator. François Villon was a caricature of the old French court in powdered wig and silk slippers, a corset under his waistcoat, and no doubt a jeweled lorgnette in his sleeve. With Rexborough back in London with his ailing wife (she’d seemed quite sturdy before the assassin’s visit; could she have divined his purpose?), their houseguest had persuaded the cook to change her menu for the sake of his belly, but this impatient emissary from the aristocracy in exile threatened to bring back his gastric complaint. One didn’t have to like one’s accomplices, with the great cause they had in common; but even on brief acquaintance, everything about Villon rubbed him the wrong way.
“I’ll entertain the possibility,” Cadoudal said, “but likelihood and possibility aren’t fact. When I fought in the field, I regarded casualties as facts: a man wounded, a man captured, a man dead; these things are indisputable. Do we know our friend is any of those?”
“Why hasn’t he reported?”
“I understood we wouldn’t hear from him unless he needed help. His silence is reassuring.”
“But what was his plan? You should have insisted he confide in you.”
“Those fools in the Christmas Eve affair were splendid at confiding. Fouché cracked the plot in days. The fewer people know what he’s about, the better; myself included.”
“The Comte d’Artois—”
“The Count is a dotard, as I’m sure you know. More pity to us all if he ascends to the throne. Come, Villon; speak for the man you truly represent.”
Villon lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “The walls have ears even here.”
“What walls? That ewe there, the one at the end of the feeding trough. Is she a spy in disguise?”
“You know very well what I mean. If you could smuggle an ally into the domestic staff, so could that pig in Paris.”
Cadoudal took pity on this fellow, despite his antipathy. Probably he was a government clerk with no hope of title, sacked by the Republic for his associations, but not important enough for Paris to prevent his emigration.
“I confess I anticipated some news before this,” said the general. “The Corsican has been uncommonly vulnerable lately, inspecting his troops and even joining them at campfires, coarse creature that he is. Why Le Vipère hasn’t struck already, I can’t say. Can you?”
“Of course not. I’m not a murderer for hire. I don’t know how they think.”
“Thank God for that. He made me uneasy just being in the same room with him. But we use the weapons available. I wouldn’t break bread with this British vermin if I didn’t think that.”
“I suggest we’ve been betrayed. Your man has absconded with the loot. You should’ve considered that before you agreed to his terms, without consulting the rest of us.”
“It occurred to me, of course. But there’s always that danger, and whatever deficiencies he has in his character I doubt they include larceny. At all events, to seek counsel outside this house would risk word getting out.”
“Then he’s been taken. In either case our situation is the same. We’re a cause without a champion.”
“What, then, are you asking?”
Villon brushed a bit of snuff from his waistcoat.
“Go to France. Take personal charge of the counter-revolution. I assure you a prince is on his way to reclaim the throne. We have Moreau and Pichegru in our camp. You need only show your face to raise our friends’ spirits. Mon général, you are the Restoration.”
“As Bonaparte is the Revolution, in his very own words. We’re truly lost if we have to borrow rhetoric from our enemies. Which prince is our savior-to-be?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. As you said, some things must remain secret, even from you.”
“I’m glad someone was listening. But I know who it is.” Cadoudal fingered the ring in his pocket, bearing the signet exclusive to the Royal family, a bona fide from the Viper. “Our high-placed friend is young and in good health, with a sound head on his shoulders. None of these things applies to his—to d’Artois.” He drained his glass to settle his nerves. He’d caught himself just short of identifying the man aloud, in a place crawling with servants he knew nothing about. “General Moreau is a hero of the Republic. Why should he fall in with us?”
“He doesn’t like the direction it’s taken. He thinks the Corsican has betrayed his glorious Revolution.”
“I wish that were so, although Bonaparte has all the makings of a despot. A civil war would make things much easier. But I don’t like throwing in with a man who’s turned his coat once. He’ll find it easier next time.”
“All the more reason to keep him close.” Villon moved a shoulder. “For now, the enemy of our enemy is our friend. Once the usurper is dead and we no longer need Moreau, we’ll clear him away along with the rest of the trash.”
Cadoudal’s smile was thin. “Remind me, Villon, never to get on your bad side.”
“Your pardon, monsieur,” Eslée said. “Who did you say you were?” Despite his uniform and odd hat, held politely in the crook of his arm, the drab little man at his door resembled a pushcart peddler.
“Nicolas Dubois, Doctor. I’m the Prefect of the Paris Police. I believe you know Constable Malroux.”
Eslée smiled at the village official, whose personal neatness and reputation as a good family man spoke well of his post. “I do. Pontoise lost a fine postmaster when he decided to become a policeman. Enter, gentlemen. Cognac?”
They declined, no surprise; they both smelled of beer.
Dubois confirmed his suspicions. “Malroux was most generous in his office, and I haven’t dined since breakfast. At end of day, all I have are my wits.”
When they were all seated in the consulting room, the Prefect drummed his fingers on the hat in his lap—drummed, literally; the tight fabric resonated. “Are you treating anyone at present, Doctor?”
“Not here.” Which was true. His patient was under Marianne Deauville’s roof, not his. “I have a local woman about to give birth and two cases of ague, but apart from that it’s been quiet. We’re indecently healthy here.” He smiled.
“Splendid! Then we’re not keeping you from anything. Malroux says you were most helpful in clearing up the details of an unfortunate incident outside the village this week.”
“Some may think it fortunate. As a physician, of course, I deplore the loss of life, bandits or no.”
“A noble sentiment. You agreed with Malroux that an explosive device was used on one of them.”
“I was guessing, but the condition of the victim certainly seemed to indicate it.”
“That’s what brought me here. Malroux’s description of the corpse convinced me I hadn’t wasted a trip. It’s the nature of the device I’m curious about. If heavy artillery were used, the carriage would have left deep tracks, but your constable says he was all over the area and found nothing fresh, apart from traces of a horse and cart. And of course someone would have reported hearing the thunder of cannon. That eliminates any theory that the military was involved, either intentionally or by accident. Also it’s unlikely this man Cruncher—”
“Crusher,” corrected the constable. “We may never know the identity of the other man, but from his uniform, stripped of insignia, I suspect he was a deserter or a rogue who was drummed out of the army. Perhaps the one led to the other.”
“In this case the corpse is more important than the man. It’s doubtful this Crusher shot his partner with the ordinary round you extracted, Doctor, then reloaded with the explosive one to finish the job. That would be a classic example of overkill, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m afraid I’ve given you all the help I can.”
Eslée saw the Prefect’s moustache twitch. Had he said something that betrayed him?
But Dubois moved on.
“Do you own a pistol, Doctor?”
“No.”
“Dear me. I may retire to this gentle village, where bandits have the good grace to die in pairs and a country practitioner can go about his rounds unarmed.”
“Look around you, monsieur. Do I give the impression of someone worth waylaying?”
“I would like to look around, if you don’t mind. It’s a matter of being thorough in my report to the Ministry.”
He hesitated. He’d just had time to strip the couch in the examining room when the two men came to call. He hoped he hadn’t overlooked anything. “Be my guest.”
The two officials worked efficiently. Malroux read the labels on medicine bottles, unstopped one, sniffed, winced, and restopped it. Dubois passed behind the desk, opened and shut drawers, riffled through the papers on top.
“May I ask what you’re looking for?”
The Prefect smiled shamefacedly. “I wish I could answer. I’m like the stable boy who inspects the horses’ teeth every day because he’s paid to, never knowing why. We’re a bureaucratic nation now.”
Malroux opened Diseases of the Stomach, paled when he came to a color-tinted illustration, closed it, and put it back on the shelf. “I declare this to be a doctor’s office.”
“So it appears. May we see the rest of the house?”
They entered the examining room. Dubois placed a palm on the couch. Surely the man’s body heat had dissipated by now. As Eslée turned to watch Malroux opening the cupboard that had contained Meuchel’s clothing, he spotted a scrap of bloodstained bandage on the floor beside the trash bin. He felt himself blanch. It must have fallen out undetected when he’d emptied it earlier.
“You could do with a proper cot,” said Dubois, straightening. “The horsehair is so lumpy I think they forgot to remove the horse.”
“I hadn’t realized it.” Stepping forward, Eslée kicked the bandage under the cabinet where he kept his instruments. He pressed his hands on the couch, testing it. “You’re right. I never lie on it myself. You’ve saved future patients discomfort.”
“It wouldn’t do to send them home suffering worse than when they arrived,” Dubois said.
They looked through the kitchen and the narrow bedroom where the doctor slept. Eslée’s unease began to lift. His patient had never been in those rooms.
Dubois started to put on his hat. “You’re quite certain you haven’t treated anyone in this house recently?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“It’s possible the man who blew off that wastrel’s head was injured himself during the exchange. If it was severe enough, he’d seek the nearest medical help.”
“Perhaps he came away unscathed.”
“Evidently; although I caught a strong scent of liquid opium in your examining room. It’s a pain medication. Has a bottle been opened there recently?”
“I inspect my stock from time to time, to make sure nothing’s spoiled.”
“Of course. I have a sensitive nose. My wife says I should have been a chemist in a perfumery.”
“You police are anatomical oddities. With Malroux, it’s his throat.”
“Indeed?”
“A conceit,” said the constable. “It’s constricted now, as a matter of fact. It happens whenever—”
Eslée spoke quickly; kicking himself inward for his clumsy remark. “May I prescribe tea and honey?”
Dubois appeared oblivious to the exchange. He donned his hat. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. We’ll—”
Outside, someone shouted, an unearthly howl.
Dubois made for the door, drawing a pistol from under his tunic. Malroux followed, armed also; the pistol in his belt scabbard wasn’t a stage property after all. The doctor trailed them outside and round to the backyard.
Pale light came from an inside window, illuminating a series of images:
The doors of the carriage house splayed open, Meuchel’s mare and cart boiling out at a gallop;
A figure standing in the front seat, shaking the lines and shouting at the animal for speed;
Dubois and Malroux scattering from its path.
Malroux was the first to collect himself. He unshipped the pistol from his belt and fired at the retreating cart. Orange flame leapt from the muzzle.
“For God’s sake, don’t step on me!”
It was Giroud, the village records clerk, Police Minister Fouché’s junior man in Pontoise, seated on the ground, rocking back and forth and cradling his bleeding arm in his lap.
Dubois swung his own pistol, but didn’t fire; cart and horse were out of sight, hooves clattering on cobblestones.
He straightened, panting. He turned toward Eslée, who knelt beside Giroud, knotting his handkerchief round the man’s upper arm with shaking hands.
The Prefect scabbarded his weapon. His face was grim. “Doctor, I think it’s time we resumed our talk. Here is convenient, but if necessary in Paris, and the offices of the Ministry of Police. The choice is yours.”
Eslée nodded, weary beyond words. “Can it at least wait until I prevent this man from bleeding to death?”
“But of course.” I am not Fouché, he might have added.