Another Small Kingdom (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he General sat looking up at Jeremiah Jones who was standing in front of the desk leaning heavily on his stick.His leg was hurting but, as the General hadn't asked him to sit down, he stood and tried to ignore the pain as he delivered his report.

‘St Clair was almost certainly the initial disburser of incoming funds as well as orders and information from Paris. But I couldn't find a way to get close to him or of getting anything out of him. Then someone put a pistol ball in him and that was that.'

‘I see. Any idea who might have done it?'

‘Well, as it wasn't us, I imagine either the British or the French.'

‘The French? Why would the French kill their own man?'

‘Why do any of us do anything? In some way they thought they would gain an advantage by his death. If I had found out about him others could or already had. If so, Paris may have decided he had become a liability. But my money is on the British, there was a woman down there calling herself Madame de Metz. She was good, she passed herself off as the real article easily enough.'

‘But you think she was working for London?'

‘We wanted someone in New Orleans, I assume London would have seen the same signs and drawn the same conclusions. She came from nowhere and despite all her fine talk and lofty manners no one really knew anything about her except what she herself told them.'

‘Could she have killed St Clair?'

‘Very possibly. Once she'd got herself well established she made it her business to cosy up to the wife of St Clair's friend and lover, a wet dandy of a man called de Valois. It was probably her best way of trying to get close.'

The General finally motioned for Jones to take a chair.

‘And Macleod?'

Jones sat down grateful for the respite from his leg.

‘Ah, now there it is a different story. I take my hat off to Mr Macleod and to you, sir, a clever and very effective choice. I congratulate you.'

‘Damn your congratulations. Tell me how he did?'

‘Moved in amongst them smooth as you like. He got close to de Valois, don't ask me how as it was something I could never do, and through de Valois got to St Clair. It's my opinion he knows pretty much all there is to know of St Clair's part in all of this. He may well know most of his contacts here in America.'

‘So where is his report?'

Surprise filed Jeremiah Jones's face.

‘His report?'

‘I assume, if he did so well, he made a report of it to you?'

‘Has he not reported to you directly?'

‘Would I be asking for his damn report if he had?'

‘I see, that is to say I don't see.'

‘Stop gibbering, man, and tell me what happened.'

‘He came to me on the night of St Clair's murder. With St Clair dead he reckoned his work in New Orleans was finished. I asked him to make a report which I could bring to you but he refused. He said he wouldn't commit the information he had to paper. He said the plot went to the highest level, even into the government. He was only prepared to name names to someone he trusted absolutely. I tried to reason with him but he was adamant, so I told him to come to you as fast as he could. I couldn't leave for several days. I had to tie up what was left of my supposed negotiations. I thought he would have been in contact by now.'

The General sat in silence for a moment.

‘Well, you thought wrong. Macleod is dead.'

‘Dead!'

‘They found his body down some alley near the docks. His head had been smashed in.'

‘You're sure it was Macleod?'

‘He was carrying a letter of credit that identified him. It was Macleod all right. Whatever information he'd managed to get never left New Orleans. The mission has been a total failure.'

Jones stood up with difficulty.

‘I will have my resignation on your desk immediately, sir.'

‘Sit down you fool, what would I want your resignation for? If I decide any of this
is
your fault I won't want your damned resignation, it'll be your hide I take.'

Jones slowly sat down and waited.

‘Either the French were on to him or the British, that Madame de Metz woman. Either way he's dead, and what he knew died with him. But St Clair is also dead and their operation in New Orleans shut down for a time. How did St Clair cover what came in?'

‘His tailor was Fouché's man. It was a clever piece of work. The tailor made sure that everyone knew he was getting Paris fashion plates brought into him secretly so no one thought to ask what else might be coming in. And having the latest designs from Paris meant he could be the tailor of choice to money and fashion so St Clair could visit him as often as he liked and no one suspected anything.'

‘You left him in place?'

‘Why not? If they think it's safe to use that route again we know about it and it's watched.'

‘How did that side of things go?'

‘Well enough. We've a small group recruited who'll keep an eye on things and make reports but my guess is that what matters will move on now. From what we already knew I'd say that St Clair's work in New Orleans was pretty much done. He'll be no real loss to them.'

‘You said his lover, de Valois, had a wife. Could she know anything?'

‘I doubt it, and even if she did she's too busy running back to her family to matter to us or anyone else.'

‘Running?'

‘St Clair and de Valois were killed while they were in a compromising position together. The wife must have heard the shots and run, but nobody knows where. As far as Governor Salcedo is concerned the matter is closed. The wife killed them both either from rage, jealousy or in a fit of madness, then either took her own life by throwing herself in the Mississippi or the sea. One way or another she's gone and I don't think we need bother with her any more.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘De Valois was a vain fool who lived for social position, fashion and St Clair. St Clair may have been his bedfellow but he was certainly no fool, he wouldn't have told de Valois anything and I can't imagine his relations with the lady of the house were ever of a nature which would encourage him to intimacy, so I doubt he confided in her.'

‘Well, a mixed result but, on the whole, progress.'

‘You don't think it a considerable loss not having Macleod's report? He said he could name names.'

‘People say a lot of things. Remember, Macleod was an ex-officer with no experience in our kind of work. He wanted to do well, but enthusiasm without experience can be a lethal combination. And if there are people high up who are involved in this I doubt St Clair would have known their names. He was a provisioner and a source of orders and information. His knowledge of who was involved would be very limited. If Macleod got names they would probably be the ones that led us to New Orleans in the first place. No, I regret losing Macleod. In his day he was a decent enough officer, if of limited imagination and resource. I'm sorry he's dead, but it was a chance he took. Suffice to say that he fell in the service of his country. No true American can ask for more. Well, nothing stopped while you dallied in New Orleans so you've a considerable back-log so it's back to burning the midnight oil, Jeremiah, after all that gallivanting among the fleshpots.'

Jones stood up.

‘It's a pleasure to be back, sir.'

Jones closed the door the General sat with his thoughts. A body found with Macleod's papers but features possibly unrecognisable. Does that make the body Macleod's? And if not, who put the papers there? And a wife who can't possibly know anything, but nonetheless has conveniently disappeared. He looked at the closed connecting door. Deep games, Jeremiah. It begins to look like someone's playing deep games. But it doesn't do to get out of your depth unless you're a strong swimmer. I wonder, Jeremiah, with that game leg of yours how strong a swimmer you might be. Maybe the time has come to find if you're as strong as the others in the water. Yes, I think that time might very well have come.

Chapter Thirty-three

C
harleston Harbour was a crowded mass of shipping. To any landsman it seemed incredible that the forest of masts, furled sails and rigging that grew skywards from the cram of vessels could ever be sufficiently unravelled for these ships to put back to sea.But the miracle was daily performed by the vast army of slaves who toiled on these docks to get them ready.

Endless lines of cotton bales led from the great stone warehouses to the ships awaiting them. On other quays lines of tea-chests were disgorged from holds to be manhandled into other warehouses awaiting sale at the Exchange. On yet another quay another valuable cargo was led, staggering and in chains, also to be stored in warehouses until it too, like the tea, could be taken to its own Exchange and there auctioned off.

Macleod stood watching two of the crew bringing his trunk ashore down the gangplank. Marie stood next to him, and beside her stood the bundle which another of the crew had carried down minutes previously. A kind of frozen silence surrounded the pair amidst the noise and confusion of the busy quay.

Macleod was glad the passage was over. From the moment they boarded Marie had assumed an air of silent hostility which generated in him a mood of impotent anger. This had communicated itself at once to the crew and the other passengers, three merchants' representatives who shared the one other cabin. Macleod found both himself and his supposed wife politely isolated for the entire journey. After a few uncomfortable and almost totally silent attempts at communal meals with the other passengers Macleod and Marie, to everyone's relief, chose to eat in their small cabin. When they walked on deck the three representatives found they had business to attend to and, as far as the crew were concerned as they went about their business, Macleod and Marie, walking in stony silence, were invisible.

If some great actor had taken on the task of coaching the pair so that they might convince the crew and fellow travellers that they were indeed man and wife no better result could have been achieved. Marie, for all her dowdy clothes and the mob cap, which she insisted on wearing almost as a proud badge of her humiliation, was still a woman of outstanding beauty. Yet to the man who was at her side and supposedly sharing her bed she seemed to mean no more to him than his own shadow.

When they were forced to exchange words they did so in such a cold and formal way that even though the days were warm and the breezes balmy anyone near could have sworn there was a sudden chill in the air.

Not a soul on board ever doubted for one second that this frosty couple were indeed man and wife, from the moment the ship had got underway at New Orleans until it docked in Charleston and they stood frigidly together on the quay.

Macleod turned to Marie.

‘Wait here by our luggage while I go and find a carter.'

Marie didn't answer but slightly raised her chin and gazed sadly into the distance in a way that Macleod had come to recognise as meaning, “See how I am made to suffer, see what indignity is heaped on me, yet I do not complain nor repine. It is my lot, I am only a woman. See, I obey.”

Macleod ground his teeth, clenched his fists and pressed his lips firmly together as, many times before, words crashed unspoken about his mind.

He turned and walked away. The three representatives were now disembarking. A large woman was waiting by the gangplank and, as the first of them stepped ashore, came forward, firmly took his arm and passed hers through it and stood holding him.

He accepted his capture and meekly pecked at the woman's cheek before looking at the ground in beaten subjection.

The woman looked across at Marie who had been watching. The woman's eyes sent the message, “I know, my dear. They're all brutes, every one, if they're not kept in their place.”

And with a tilt of the head she turned and led her captive away.

The other two representatives came down the gangplank. Perhaps they had seen the prisoner taken before and had allowed the painful scene to close before they themselves came back to dry land. They lifted their hats to Marie with formality and when past her broke into happy conversation and headed away from the toiling docks to the streets beyond and the nearest tavern.

They were not married men.

Macleod returned in a matter of minutes and called up to a sailor on the deck coiling ropes.

‘The carter will be here to collect this trunk and bundle shortly. Keep an eye on it, will you?'

The sailor made the universal acknowledgement to his betters by touching his forehead with a knuckle. Macleod took out a coin and flipped it to him. The sailor deftly caught it, gave it a look, touched his forehead again and returned to his business with the ropes.

‘Come, we must find somewhere to stay.'

He offered his arm to Marie who took it and the couple set off away from the ship with the sailor watching them. He turned to a fellow who had arrived and begun to stow the coils.

‘They say the strongest poisons often comes in the prettiest bottles.'

His colleague nodded.

‘My missus has one eye, a small moustache and gets violent when in liquor but you wouldn't catch me wanting to swap wives with
that
poor sod.'

‘Ah, poor sod indeed.'

And both returned to their business.

Macleod thought hard as they walked away from the docks. He didn't want to spend any more time sharing a room with Marie in the humiliating farce of man and wife. The recent voyage had stripped away any illusions he may have entertained for that situation. The only solution he could come up with was that they came from New Orleans and she was his sister.

‘When we take rooms, you shall be my sister and we shall have come from New Orleans.'

‘If you say so.'

‘I shall be a lawyer heading to Boston on business. You can be accompanying me because you have a friend in Boston whom you wish to visit.'

‘Does this friend have a name?'

Macleod wondered whether a name would be needed. He decided that it was highly unlikely but would do no harm.

‘Bentley, your friend is Mrs Bentley.'

Eventually they arrived at the tavern which the captain had recommended and Macleod took two adjacent rooms. Macleod was eager to sail as soon as possible but first had to find a bank and cash one of his letters of credit to cover their stay in Charleston and pay passage to Boston. He went to Marie's room where he knocked and waited.

Marie eventually opened the door.

‘I must go out on business. I would suggest you stay to your room until I return. I doubt you are in any danger here, but the less we show ourselves the better.'

Marie had been thinking of her situation ever since the ship had begun to approach Charleston. The terror brought about by what had happened in her house in New Orleans had diminished early in their journey, as had any inclination to trust the man she had chosen as her saviour. Macleod, when she had fled to him in panic, had seemed a veritable white knight, but too soon she realised that she had been sadly duped by what, in calmer judgement, she saw was nothing more than a mean-spirited bully. Was a man who could positively revel in humiliating her be deserving of her trust? Assuredly not. True, Macleod had got her away from New Orleans, but what were his motives? Once she had told him of her secret he had quickly spirited her away to Charleston where, as she was utterly alone, he could do exactly as he wished with her.

As she sat in her room contemplating the vile bundle that was her wardrobe she wondered whether, if she could get her hands on enough money, she might not give him the slip somehow and get away. She had accepted that the authorities might be watching for her at the docks in New Orleans but no one would be interested in her in Charleston. However, the only access to money would be from Macleod and she had decided that any hope of getting her fingers into his wallet would depend on how close she could get to him when he was off his guard.

It was, therefore, quite a different Marie who had opened the door and now looked at Macleod.

‘Jean, please come in. I must speak to you.'

Macleod had been ready for the cold look and the acid word. The soft tone and the gentle manner caused him to pause.

‘You wish me to come in?'

‘Please, Jean, don't be cruel. If only you knew what agonies I have suffered while on that awful boat, you would pity me, not blame me. I assure you that if the Holy Mother of God had shared a cabin with me on that journey I would have treated her no better than I treated you.' Her eyes took on a pleading look. ‘I am a weak woman whom you have saved from a terrible fate and I have repaid you like a common scold, a washer-woman. I would not blame you if you could not find it in your heart to forgive me.'

Macleod was now quite well aware of how unschooled he was in the ways of women, especially women like Marie de Valois, but he was no poltroon. She had made a fool of him often enough in their short acquaintance for him to realise she wanted something and had changed her manner only to assist her in getting it. But his job was to get her alive to Boston and keep her there until he could deliver her and her information to the General or to his deputed agent. That being so he entered Marie's room.

‘Jean, in Charleston if I am to play the part of your sister I must have more suitable clothes.'

The request was not, Macleod knew, unreasonable. Even on board the ship he had felt she was hardly dressed as he would have wished any real wife to be. But he couldn't help feeling somewhat frustrated and annoyed that Marie's first consideration, now they were safe, was that she be given nicer dresses to wear. It was not what he looked for from one who shared such a situation of adversity.

‘I shall send someone to you with a selection of dresses and cloaks. Once you deem yourself fit to be seen in public I will provide you with sufficient money to buy what you consider a suitable wardrobe.'

‘Jean, you are so kind. After the way …'

‘Suitable, I should remind you, to the unmarried sister of a simple lawyer in a modest way of business.'

Marie took the rebuke humbly.

To escape this impossible brute she felt she would have taken a physical blow humbly. She had thrown herself on his mercy and he had taken cruel advantage of her and now, she had become sure, he would betray her. He would sell her because of the secret knowledge she possessed.

‘You are kind, Jean, too kind. I will do as you say and wait here until the clothes come. But you must choose. I have only ever dressed as a lady of fashion is expected to dress and I don't think I have ever met an unmarried sister of a Boston lawyer, and certainly not one in a modest way of business. You must decide what I shall wear.'

Macleod was now impervious to her mockery or her play-acting. He welcomed it. Had he been able, he would have thanked her for it. It helped him thrust from his mind the knowledge that once, in a distant past, he had felt something for this woman.

‘You may choose whatever you think would suit a woman of simple and honest disposition who would be indifferent to any manners of fashion. If you can do that, Madame, you will fit the part very well. Good day.'

Macleod left, Marie's eyes fixed on his back. Once the door was closed a phrase shot from her lips. It was one she had heard as a girl when a pony on which she had been riding had stood on the foot of the groom who was trying to help her dismount. Its vividness had struck her forcefully, although its meaning was, at that time, obscure. But now, feeling exactly as the groom must have felt, it seemed entirely appropriate.