Another Small Kingdom (13 page)

‘Why did you call, Madame? Your husband, as you say, has been kind enough to introduce me into society but he would never call on me, and of that I'm sure you're well aware.'

‘I called to see whether we might be friends. There, now you know my secret. I would like a friend.'

Macleod was cautious. Was this genuine or merely a ploy to lead him on so as to make an even bigger fool of him?

‘You do not seem to lack friends. I see you always in company.'

‘In company, yes. With friends, no.' Marie stopped and drew down her parasol. They were at the door of her house. Her manner, as she looked at him, somehow seemed to change. ‘I fear I have been too forward, sir. I hope you will forget my visit and my too bold enquiries into your private affairs.'

Whatever she had wanted from their meeting, it was now over. She was dismissing him.

‘If that is your wish, then consider it done.It is forgotten.'

‘Thank you, sir. And thank you for accompanying me home. The rain is returning, I fear you will get wet on my account.'

‘Think nothing of it, Madame. Good day.'

Macleod turned and set off back towards his rooms. If his somewhat ungracious departure surprised her, she didn't show it. She was satisfied. She had enjoyed her little entertainment. In addition she had confirmed what Madame de Metz had told her of him. Mr Macleod was not what he appeared. It was enough. Her escapade was over. She erased him from her thoughts and entered her house.

Macleod almost marched back along the way he had so recently come. She had not made a fool of him, he had made a fool of himself. He had allowed the part he played to take hold of him, let a pretty face deflect him from his duty like some callow youth. He would go to Jeremiah Jones and tell him he had failed, that he had discovered nothing, never would discover anything and that he should be replaced.

When he got to his rooms he began preparing for his departure. That very afternoon he would go to the bank and wind things up. Tomorrow he would see Jones and then book passage on the first ship heading north. He would get out of this foul place and stop playing the fool. He was not a society fop, but now he knew he was also no longer any kind of soldier. If he had truly been under orders he'd be in irons by now and awaiting a court-martial for dereliction of duty.

And so Macleod prepared for his retreat from New Orleans, an angry and beaten man with a little more to add to his private store of hate. Nature might have tried to restore the balance, but for all its hard work nothing had really changed.

Chapter Twenty-three

T
he de Valois residence, like that of its neighbours, was in darkness. A church clock struck two as an uninvited visitor quietly entered at the rear of the house and, with a shaded light, passed through the kitchen, made his way to the hall and began to climb the stairs.

On the first floor the visitor moved along the corridor, stopped, silently opened a door, entered the room and crossed to a bed. The dim light from the lamp showed two figures lying still under the thin white sheet.

The light was placed carefully on a table at the bedside and soft sounds of movement were followed by two clear metallic clicks. A hand moved into the narrow light thrown by the shaded lamp, gripped the sheet and pulled it sharply back to reveal two naked bodies.

The oath which sprang to the lips of one was instantly drowned by the crash of a pistol shot and his body was thrown back onto the bed. The other man gave a high-pitched scream of terror and pulled up the sheet as if it might afford some protection.

Another shot filled the room with sound and the note of the scream changed from terror to pain. There was a clunk as the hand put the double-barrelled pistol on the table and took up the lamp.

One man lay dead, his unseeing eyes looking upwards to the ceiling, blood oozing from a hole in his chest. Beside him another figure squirmed and screamed in a frenzy of agony under the sheet which was rapidly acquiring a dark, spreading stain. The hand pulled away the sheet to reveal a man holding his stomach with both hands as blood came freely through the fingers.

It had been a clumsy shot for such a close range, even though made through a sheet.

The shooter picked up the light, crossed to the bedroom door and waited. There was silence.

Two pistol shots in such an enclosed space would certainly raise the house, but no sounds came.

The light waited at the door, the screaming from the bed continued but the rest of the house remained silent.

The light returned to the bed and the lamp was set once more onto the table, this time positioned to show the leather satchel which the intruder carried. Hands picked up the pistol and carefully re-loaded one of the barrels. Once done, the hammer was cocked and the light turned back to the bed. The hand made no mistake this time. It put the barrel to the head of the screaming man, pulled the trigger and, after the roar of the shot, there was silence.

The pistol was put back into the satchel and after a cursory cast across the bed, the light went to the bedroom door, out into the corridor, then stopped. Somewhere not too far away a door had been pulled open. The light waited. From further away, only just audible, another door slammed shut. The shots had caused somebody to leave in a hurry but no one, it seemed, was coming to investigate. The servants were showing excellent good sense, no doubt waiting until they were sure the armed intruder had finished and left before venturing to render assistance.

The light moved on along the corridor, went back down the stairs and slipped out the back door as silently as it had slipped in.

In the bedroom the two naked bodies lay sprawled in the awkward attitudes of violent death. Their blood flowed onto the sheets and mingled. Etienne Henri de Valois and Louis Antoine St Clair lay together, united in death as they had been in life.

Chapter Twenty-four

T
he night following Marie de Valois's visit to his rooms found Macleod unable to sleep, his mind filled with anger and despair.He realised that any hope of regaining a life with some sort of purpose was over. He had behaved like a lovesick ninny which was bad enough, but he had also failed utterly in the duty laid on him. The night passed slowly but at last dawn crept into the sky and Macleod began packing. He would leave this vile city as soon as he had visited Jeremiah Jones, told him of his failure and the reason he had failed. He would leave no room for doubt that the failure was complete and the responsibility for it entirely his own.

Jones's reaction to the news was not at all what Macleod had expected.

‘I've seen the lady whom you say turned your head and blinded you to your duty, and I find it quite easy to believe she might have that effect on any man except, of course, her husband.'

Quite what Jones's cryptic reference to de Valois meant Macleod didn't know or care to know.

‘As I can be of no further use to you here I'll leave as soon as I can find a ship bound for Charleston. From there I'll get a berth back to Boston. I'm running away, deserting. There was a time when I would have been shot for doing as much.'

There was a hint of nostalgia in Macleod's voice which Jones was quick to pick up.

‘Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, Macleod, but I'm not a regular officer and you're not in uniform and we certainly don't draw attention to ourselves by shooting people because they want to go home, not unless we have to, of course. Come, Macleod, I shouldn't worry too much about things if I were you. You were asked to find something and failed. And maybe you're right, maybe it was because you were briefly ensnared by a pretty face. But there'd be precious few men left alive if either or both were capital offences. Now if you will excuse me I have had a busy night myself and I still have work to do. I also leave New Orleans and, if it's any comfort, my negotiations also failed. Of course in my case that was the intended outcome so it's of no consequence. But against that I didn't have the pleasure of an encounter with anyone like Madame de Valois, so I'd say we were about even.'

Macleod stood for a moment and then realised that he was being dismissed. The meeting was over and nothing had come of it.

‘Is that it? I leave, you leave and it's all finished here?'

Jones's voice became severe.

‘As far as you're concerned it is. Go back to Boston and your lawyering. You did your best, now go home, and if you'll take my advice, forget New Orleans, forget Marie de Valois and everything to do with the place. Now, as I have already said, I have work to do. Good day.'

Macleod left as angry and frustrated as he had been after his meeting with Madame de Valois. If the failure of the mission could be so easily dismissed, why had he been sent?

Back at his rooms he spent the rest of the morning picking at that question. Why had he been sent? What was he supposed to have done? And why, when he told Jones he was leaving, did he speed him on his way? But, as the morning passed, he came no closer to making any sense of it. He went out and took lunch. After lunch he walked the streets. Finally he bought a bottle of brandy in a tavern and returned to his rooms.

His recent abstinence from strong drink and lack of sleep the previous night meant that, after half the bottle was gone, he fell asleep in his chair and woke up hot and uncomfortable in the late afternoon. He went out and walked for a while to clear his head then went down to the docks to enquire about ships to Charleston.

He was fortunate, one was due in the next day and would leave two days later. If he came back the following day he would be able to arrange passage. After his visit to the docks he went to his bank and explained to the manager that he was leaving, that he had urgent business to return to in Boston and would need to withdraw his balance in letters of credit. The manager mouthed the usual regrets at losing such a good customer but told him that his letters would be available if he returned in one hour. Early in the evening, having obtained his letters of credit and packed his trunk, he went out, took a small meal then returned to his rooms to finish his brandy.

Sitting, the bottle now empty, the same question shared his mind with the brandy fumes. If his failure was of so little consequence why had he been sent with such urgency?

He couldn't bring himself to believe that his old commander would have summoned him as he had done and then sent him on a fool's errand. The only solution he could find to fit the facts as he knew them was that the letter had been a forgery and he was being used by Jones and others as some sort of pawn in a game he was too stupid to see, let alone understand. Tiredness overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes and thought with regret that it would have been better to buy two bottles. But alas, it was too late.

Chapter Twenty-five

T
he night was oppressively hot and Macleod, open-shirted and sweating in the heat, sat and stared at the darkness beyond the open window.The brandy and the wine he had taken with his meal had left him fuddled, but any real sleep, he knew, would not come so he had not retired to bed. Outside, the sky was suddenly split by a streak of jagged light and a loud peal of thunder cracked across the city and seemed to rattle on in the very street below.

Suddenly Macleod realised that the rattle was, in fact, a loud knocking on the street door below. He roused himself from his confused thoughts and noticed in a detached sort of way that the storm which had threatened all evening had broken and there was rain splashing into the room through the open window soaking the carpet. Someone, he thought, should close the window. The late caller knocked again. Who would call at such a late hour on such a night? He looked at his watch which lay on the table. It was past midnight. Once more the knocking returned, if anything louder. Macleod dismissed the matter from his mind. Whatever it was it could be nothing to do with him, and tomorrow, thank God, he would book his berth and in two days New Orleans and all who lived there could go to hell.

From somewhere below there was the sound of raised voices, then what sounded like someone hurrying up the stairs followed by a loud knocking at his door. Macleod looked at the door but didn't speak or move. The knocking resumed even more loudly and this time there was a voice, a woman's voice, pleading.

‘M'sieur Macleod, please open the door. I know you're there. I can see the light under the door. Please, M'sieur, for the love of God.'

It was a voice he recognised. But still he didn't move. The knocking and the voice resumed.

‘M'sieur Macleod, if ever a woman's distress touched your heart let mine touch it now. In the name of mercy please let me in.'

Macleod felt stiff and awkward and not a little confused but he managed to push himself upright and stand. He was drunk, but not falling-down drunk. He crossed to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open. Madame de Valois didn't wait for any invitation. She pushed past him and Macleod felt the rain on her cloak as it brushed his hand. He stood holding the door handle looking at her. She turned. All pleading had fallen away. Now, for some reason, she seemed angry.

‘Mon Dieu, don't just stand there, close the door.' Macleod came to life and closed the door. ‘And lock it. Make it secure.'

Macleod did as he was bid then turned to his visitor.

‘Madame, I … Madame, to what do I …'

His words came out thickly so he paused.

‘Are you drunk?'

It was a genuine enquiry with no hint of disapproval. Its frankness caught Macleod unready and he answered without thinking.

‘Yes. I think I am, a little.'

She looked at him for a second as he stood, stupidly, allowing her to scrutinise him. Once again her tone changed. Now she became business-like.

‘I hope to God you're not too drunk. I'll get you coffee.' Macleod watched her as, holding her cloak tight about her, she went to the door, unlocked and opened it, then stood outside shouting into the darkness. ‘Down there, black coffee and quickly.' It was the voice of a woman used to being obeyed and obeyed promptly and a voice, whose reply Macleod couldn't quite catch, answered. Madame de Valois came back into the room, closed the door, walked to the table and looked first at the empty brandy bottle beside a half full glass, then at him. ‘You look a poor specimen at the moment, M'sieur, but I am in dire need of help and I pray you might be the one to see it given.'

Macleod made an effort to clear his brain. He didn't try to grasp what was going on. That would have been too much, but he managed at last to speak.

‘Would you care to take off your wet cloak, Madame?'

It was only politeness, the merest good manners, but it was a start, the best he could manage.

Madame de Valois responded by, if anything, holding her cloak even tighter.

‘Thank you, but no. Apart from my shoes and my cloak I have nothing else on.'

Macleod swayed slightly. Her revelation had been delivered in a tone much like her question about his condition, simple and direct. But the information she conveyed, her lack of clothing other than shoes and cloak, had an almost miraculous effect on Macleod. The idea of there being nothing between him and her naked body but the heavy cloak she held about her sobered him instantly. Sudden and unexpected lust can, in some people, be a wonderfully powerful corrective.

However, sober though he might be, he was still utterly confused. This was the same woman who only yesterday had, quite rightly, refused to enter his rooms unaccompanied, and on that occasion she had been fully dressed. Now here she was not only alone with him, but, if she was speaking the truth, in a state which no one except her husband had any right to expect.

‘While we're waiting for the coffee perhaps you might get me one of your shirts and a pair of trousers. They will at least offer me some covering.'

‘Of course, Madame, but most of my belongings are packed. It will take me a few minutes.'

‘I would appreciate it, M'sieur, if you could be as quick as you can, sir.'

Macleod left the room and went into his bedroom where his trunk stood against the wall but stopped when he caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing mirror. His sweat-soaked shirt was wide open. He had been in that condition since she had arrived. He saw his robe on the bed, grabbed it up and put it on then went to the trunk. He was about to unstrap it when his brain finally managed to function. He returned to the other room.

‘In my bedroom, Madame, you will find plenty of clothes in the drawers and wardrobes. Please feel free to help yourself.'

‘But I thought you said you were packed?'

‘I am only taking those things in which I originally travelled from Boston. I find I have no need nor desire to take anything else I have acquired here or elsewhere on my journey.'

‘In that case I will see what I can find.'

And, holding her cloak securely closed, she went into Macleod's bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Macleod tried to make his brain function. Something had happened, something which had driven her from her home, almost naked, into a night of wind and rain. She had come, at night in a storm, to his rooms. She had beaten on his door in a panic of pleading. What catastrophe could have driven her out and why choose him for help?

There was a knock and the voice of his landlady came through the door.

‘Your coffee, sir.'

Macleod went and opened the door. His landlady in nightcap and shawl stood holding a tray. Macleod took it.

‘Thank you, Madame.'

She stood looking past him into his room. She was obviously intrigued as to what was going on.

‘Can I be of any further service? Does Madame de Valois require anything? Should I send for someone?'

‘No, thank you. Nothing further.'

Macleod stepped back and pushed the door shut with his foot. He took the tray to the table, put it down, poured himself a coffee and resumed his thoughts. What sort of catastrophe was so complete, so overwhelming that it left you no time to even clothe yourself? And whatever the calamity, why him? She barely knew him and when they had last met she had treated him as a fool. No, it was a mystery and utterly beyond him.

The bedroom door opened and Madame de Valois came back into the room. She wore a white shirt of light silk with a lace-frilled front. Macleod had never liked it. He had been recommended to buy half a dozen by de Valois who said he wore them himself. Macleod had despised their style as overblown and effeminate. But on Madame de Valois he saw at once that he had been mistaken. It was an excellent shirt, the very best sort of shirt. She had rolled up the sleeves to her wrists and tucked the excess into the waist of a pair of his trousers which were held tight by a belt and had the legs rolled up. She still wore her own dainty pumps.

The general effect of her long, black hair cascading unchecked over her shoulders and her beautiful face surmounting such a comic outfit was unsettling. It took Macleod even deeper into the strange world of unreality into which her sudden appearance had plunged him. He didn't know what to say, what to do or even what to think. Perhaps he had drunk more than he had thought and passed out and this was all some alcohol-fuelled hallucination.

‘Mr Macleod, I know you must be alarmed by my sudden and altogether unexpected arrival …'

Macleod gave up any hopes he was dreaming. She was all too real.

‘Madame, I assure you …' But of what could he assure her? The trite formula of polite exchange expired on his lips. This was no occasion for society manners. ‘Madame, I am at a loss, but if you are indeed in need of help and if I may be of service then please tell me what I can do.'

At last, he had said something that was not utter drivel. It was plain and straightforward and Madame de Valois's response was to cover her face with her hands and burst into tears. Her uncontrolled weeping removed the last, lingering sense of unreality in Macleod. He went quickly to her side, put an arm round her and led her to his chair where she sat down and sobbed. Macleod picked up his unfinished glass of brandy. He took hold of her wrist and gently eased her hand away from her face and put the glass in it.

‘Take a drink. Just a sip.'

Madame de Valois put the glass to her lips, tilted it and handed it back to him empty. The drink brought relief, the tears stopped and she looked at Macleod with an unnerving brightness in her eyes and her voice took on an almost theatrical tone.

‘What must you think of me? To arrive as I did. You must have thought me insane.'

Macleod watched her carefully.

‘Not at all. A little odd perhaps, somewhat …'

Marie smiled, but it did nothing to reassure Macleod. Her smile was as theatrical as her tone.

‘M'sieur, I was afraid, terrified, and when I came into these rooms I did not know what to say.'

‘Of course. Perhaps now you can …'

Suddenly her mood changed once more.

‘Each day I, like all the others, pretend and pretence becomes a way of life and …' She paused and looked around the room as if only now noticing where she was. Then looked back at Macleod with almost a frenzy in her eyes and her voice. ‘Let us pretend now, M'sieur Macleod. Oh, let's pretend we're lovers, all alone …'

Macleod leaned forward and slapped her hard across the face. This was no longer uncharted territory to him. He had seen such a look and heard such a voice before, from young officers new to the horrors of war and meeting violent death on a grand scale for the first time.

He looked again at her eyes. At first there was hurt surprise, then fear, then anger, until at last gratitude took its place among the tears and her whole body seemed to relax.

‘I'm sorry but it was necessary. Are you all right?'

A genuine smile came to her lips.

‘M'sieur, I am indebted to you, more than you can imagine. I did not know who to turn to, where to go. I was alone, afraid …'

And once again her face was in her hands and her shoulders heaved with sobs.

After a few minutes the sobs subsided and the hands came down and Macleod saw that her eyes were clear and focussed.

‘Do you feel well enough to talk? I do not press you, Madame, but I …'

‘Please, my name is Marie. Don't you think that under the circumstances we can dispense with the normal rules of social convention?'

‘Yes, Marie, I think that tonight the normal rules of convention have completely flown out of the window.'

The rain, though somewhat diminished from its height, was still coming in through the open window.

Macleod closed it, drew the curtains and returned to her.

‘The rules of convention may have gone but I think perhaps the rules of necessity remain and I think they advocate urgency. What brought you to my door at this hour?'

‘A name. Before I tell you at least give me a name I might call you by other than Macleod. M'sieur, I am going to trust my life to you and I would prefer to do it with someone whose given name I at least know.'

‘Marie.'

‘Marie!'

‘Jean Marie Macleod. In honour of my French grandfather. So you see you will be trusting your life to one with whom you share a name. Think of it as a good omen.'

And for the first time since entering his school he blessed the day that he had been christened Jean Mary. Marie seemed to be reassured, not so much by his words perhaps, but by his manner, confident, gentle but also somehow strong.

‘Jean Marie, a terrible thing has happened. My husband is dead.'

‘Dead? How?'

‘Shot. I fled the house without dressing and covered only by my cloak. I came to you because there was no one else I could turn to in safety. When we last met I said I thought you were here in New Orleans playing a part. I hope to God I was right. I'm afraid I was a little cruel when I last talked to you, but at that time I didn't think I would so soon have to call on your services. I humbly ask your forgiveness just as I humbly ask your help for I know I am entitled to neither.'

‘Marie,' he felt uncomfortable using her name, but also he felt pleasure, ‘what is past is past. You need my help. Enough, you have it for what it's worth. You say your husband is dead?'

‘Yes, I am sure he lies dead in bed at this moment.'

‘Yet you are here!'

‘Yes.'

A sudden, terrible thought came to him.

‘My God, you killed him?'

‘Me?'

Her amazement at the question was again quite genuine.

‘Well, he is dead in your bed, you flee naked. Something horrible has been done and you can go to no one except a stranger. What else can I think?'

Indignation replaced amazement.

‘Sir, I came to you …' then the indignation evaporated. ‘Of course, why not? You do not know me. Perhaps I am capable of murdering my husband. God knows I wanted rid of him. But, Jean, it was not I that shot him and the one he lay with.'