MV02 Death Wears a Crown (22 page)

“There has,” said Sergeant Dagonie. “And there will be others here later, to inspect it more completely. It won’t be finished until sometime tomorrow, but if we rush the work—”

“I know,” said Vernet. “And I want your report to encompass everything in this house. And everything you can learn from the landlord and servants at La Plume et Bougie. Perhaps you will find some who can help you, who noticed who came to the inn or ... oh, anything out of the ordinary.” He stared down the hall once more. “To think that twelve men could come this far undetected.”

“It’s a frightening thing, that I’ll grant you,” said Sergeant Dagonie. He followed Vernet out the door to the waiting closed carriages.

As Vernet started to climb up beside the driver, he turned back to the sergeant. “That man, the one who was so insulting? Find out who he is if you can and keep him awake. I want to talk to him later tonight, when he’s had a chance to get tired and hungry.”

Sergeant Dagonie saluted. “Consider it done, Inspector-General.”

* * *

Victoire sat cross-legged on their bed, her elbows propped on her knees. Her blonde hair was in charming disorder, and the night-jacket she had dragged around her shoulders for warmth did not hide the curve of her breasts or the slight flush that still remained from their earlier lovemaking. “What more?” she asked, her eyes bright as she looked at Vernet. “Oh, I wish I could have been there!”

“Well, I’m not sure you would have liked it, actually,” said Vernet, one hand behind his head on the pillow, the other—the one with the swollen knuckles—tucked under the covers out of sight. “A few of the men have talked. They’re hoping it will go more easily for them, I think.”

“Will it?” asked Victoire.

“I don’t know. That is for the court to decide.” He was sleepy now that his long day was over and he had spent almost as much time making love as he had done eating supper; the heightened excitement that had possessed him had faded and the melancholy that sometimes came after he had been forestalled with passion. “It’s pretty obvious that someone close to Napoleon really is helping them. They haven’t given us enough to get Pichegru, but at least we know more about Querelle’s dealing with him.”

“Then why not arrest him?” Victoire asked reasonably. “You have Querelle, you have Moreau—”

“It still horrifies me, that Moreau should be caught up in treason.” He yawned. “We are going to move him to a more secure prison, and keep a guard at his cell around the clock; he might try to do away with himself, or so Fouche thinks.”

“And you? Do you think he might make such an attempt?” Victoire inquired.

“I think it will depend on whether we find out who his superior is,” said Vernet.

“And do you or Fouche have any notions about that?” she asked.

“Not yet. Tomorrow, when you come to identify the prisoners, we may have more information.” He stretched and shifted position, preparing to fall asleep.

But Victoire had more questions. “Is there anyone more suspect than anyone else?”

“Not yet,” said Vernet, no longer concentrating.

“Talleyrand supports alliance with England,” Victoire pointed out to him. “It would be very satisfying to discover that Talleyrand was the traitor.”

“That’s because you don’t like him,” murmured Vernet, fading into sleep.

“You don’t like him either,” said Victoire, and would have gone on if Vernet had not begun to snore. She gave him a single, exasperated stare, then pinched out the bedside candles and lay back, her mind fixed on all that Vernet had told her. It was hours before she finally drifted asleep.

“THE FELLOW
in the solitary cell, that is Claude Montrachet,” Victoire told her husband and Fouche the next morning. She was astonished at the intensity of the revulsion that went through her at the mention of his name. He was the last of the prisoners she had been asked to try to identify, and when she caught sight of him a hard fist closed in her chest. She had been grateful to be taken to the antechamber. where she would not have to see Montrachet again.

“The one you shot?” asked Vernet incredulously.

Her face was grim. “The same,” she said, and went on. “I recognize a few of the others.” She looked around the whitewashed walls of the antechamber where they waited. “I will make a statement now, if you like.”

“It would be welcome, if you are sufficiently collected in your thoughts,” said Fouche, and went to summon his secretary.

Vernet looked truly upset. “I did not realize that ... It never occurred to me that one of these men might ... might be the person—”

Victoire laid her hand on his. “He only threatened. We will be certain he is punished, between us.” It was not possible for her to smile, but a look of harsh satisfaction came into her eyes. “See that he does not slip through your fingers.”

“No fear of that,” said Vernet, and leaned down to kiss his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, my love; I had not thought this would be such an ordeal.”

She did her best to shrug, then regarded him steadily. “I don’t think any of us anticipated this, Vernet.” She was about to change the subject, when she recollected something she had been meaning to ask Vernet since the evening before. “Among those arrested is there an Englishman named Sackett-Hartley?”

Vernet chuckled at the unwieldy name. “No, nothing like. Why?”

“Because I overheard mention of him while ... while they had me at the inn. I got the impression that he was part of the company.” She had taken a handkerchief from her reticule and was pulling it between her fingers. “You would think that someone with such a name would stand out.”

“Probably one of their contacts, a messenger or a seaman or something of the sort,” said Vernet, dismissing the matter.

“Possibly. Or another spy,” said Victoire, with the increasing certainty that she was right. “There may well be more of them in Paris, if we do not have this Sackett-Hartley with the others.”

“But Victoire,” said Vernet at his most reasonable, which made Victoire want to strangle him, “there are so many other explanations. You yourself have said that this company of spies is already dangerously large. Why should there be more of them, when they need fewer in their company as it is?”

She stared at him in exasperation. “Consider, Vernet. We are assuming that they are wholly under the command of their traitorous leader, this unknown high-ranking Frenchman. But it may be that they feared precisely what has happened here, and because of that sent a second ... a second wave of assassins and spies, to take over the despicable task if any mischance overcame them.”

“You are making it too complicated, my love,” said Vernet. “You are being cautious and prudent, and these blackguards are neither of those things.” He was about to expand on this when the door opened once again and Fouche, followed by his secretary, came back into the room.

“And now, Madame Vernet,” said Fouche with a slight, formal bow, “let us begin at the beginning, when you accompanied your husband to Calais and Dunkerque.” He was not a man who smiled easily but he was able to make his expression appear cordial, and Victoire was willing to take the effort for the deed.

“All right,” she said, her throat feeling dry. She did her best to clear it, knowing it would take some fair amount of time to give her statement. “We go back to the beginning of last September.”

* * *

The carpenters had moved to the higher floor and now the sound of hammering and sawing came from above, making the parlor echo like a manufactory. Victoire sat in a high-backed chair and did her best to concentrate on what Murat was trying to tell her. From his arrival half an hour before the din had been almost continuous.

“It does not look promising for Bernadotte, I am afraid,” said Murat, raising his voice to be heard. “It appears he is implicated.” He was in regular uniform today, without the formal excesses he enjoyed on occasion. His boots were glossy with polish and his dark tunic had only a single medal on it, the one he had been given two years ago, shortly after Victoire had saved his life.

“But there is nothing to implicate Bernadotte,” protested Victoire. She was wearing a simple housedress chosen more for comfort and warmth than fashion; she had not expected Murat to call upon her that afternoon—or anyone else, for that matter.

“Probably true enough,” said Murat, taking another slice of soft Saint-Andre cheese. “But Fouche is more convinced with each passing hour that Bernadotte is his man. Or possibly Desirée his woman.”

“Ah!” said Victoire, pouncing. “Is that likely, do you think?”

“More likely than Bernadotte being the traitor,” said Murat. “She has never forgiven Napoleon for jilting her. Although why she should feel so singled out, I can’t imagine. She is not the first or the last, and everyone knows it. Napoleon takes and discards women all the time. He is not a constant lover, but for Josephine. And even that may change in time.” He took a short sigh. “Madame, let me tell you that those carpenters are the very servants of the Devil.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” said Victoire, and poured more coffee for him. “But they will be finished before much longer, and then this will be a suitable habitation. And since it could not have happened had you not come to my aid, you will have to endure my thanks.”

“Readily,” said Murat. “I’ve wanted to tell you how much improved the place is. You need not fear to bring any of Vernet’s superiors here; they will recognize the touch of one who has good taste and does not waste the ready.” He sipped at his coffee, and when he spoke again he had shifted the subject. “Your report to Fouche makes very interesting reading. I had the opportunity to skim through it, and I take leave to tell you, Victoire, that you are too careless of your own safety.”

“Would you not have done the same?” Victoire asked with all the appearance of innocence she could muster.

“I am a soldier of France. I am expected to do such things. And do not plead circumstances to me. I am well-aware that you had not accurately anticipated the number of spies you had to deal with. My objection is that you were dealing with any of them at all. A police agent should have been doing what you did; those fellows are trained to that work and they appreciate the risks.” He did his best to look huffy and failed. “I wish you could instill spirit like yours into some of our officers.”

“The worried ones, or the malign ones?” asked Victoire audaciously in order to cover her growing embarrassment at his praise.

“Both. All of them.” He accepted more coffee. “I had a word with Berthier this morning about Bernadotte.”

“And?” said Victoire.

“And he is inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being. He has said that if it can be shown that evidence points to another he will gladly do all that he may to convince Napoleon that Fouche, while dedicated and persistent, is occasionally wrong.” He selected his words very carefully, and added,
“Faenum habet in cornu,
my friend.”

Victoire recognized the Latin warning. “I find it hard to think of Fouche as a dangerous bull, but you may be right. I’ll tread carefully.
Dictum sapienti sat est.”

“Precisely.” He was silent a short while. “Is it permitted to ask if you have a plan to exonerate Bernadotte?”

“It’s permitted,” said Victoire with a slight laugh. “And to keep you from being worried I will say that I intend to become more interested in what Desirée is doing. She ought to accept me as one of her court—she is dark-haired and dark-eyed, so what will I look next to her but washed out.”

Murat snorted with laughter. “I am very pleased that I am not often on the rough side of your tongue, Madame.”

“You’ve done nothing to put you there,” said Victoire reasonably.

“Then I pray God that day never comes. Though there are men who are the more ardent when their innamorate are most arbitrary.” He made a rueful gesture. “Only a few of us are fortunate enough to know love that’s as kind as it is good.” He cleared his throat. “I trust Vernet is aware that he is one of the happy few to have a wife who is his staunchest supporter yet at the same time does not slight the accomplishments of others.”

This was too effusive for Victoire to handle, and she turned the conversation back to its original course. “Desirée, to the contrary of your overly perfect model, has chosen to treat many people badly, and she cannot expect to escape unscathed. My only regret is that Bernadotte may once again have to suffer for her actions.” She leaned back in her chair, a bit startled by the harshness of her feelings. Until this moment she had been unaware of how deeply offended she was by Desirée’s languid condemnation.

Murat regarded her closely but wisely said nothing. He refilled his own cup and poured more coffee into Victoire’s. “This is warm, and it is chilly today.”

“Yes,” said Victoire, already starting to set her plans. “It is.”

* * *

D’Estissac sat with Sackett-Hartley, the only two of their group of eight currently at Le Chat Gris. They sat close to the large fireplace, their stools at the edge of the flags of the hearth. Outside it was overcast and sullen; inside it was not much better.

“We will know who is in prison very soon, and what charges have been brought. We will find out if anyone is talking,” said d’Estissac as if repeating a lesson by rote. “Then we will be able to make new plans.”

“We can do nothing until the others return.” Sackett-Hartley sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Until we know what has transpired, there will be no point in anticipating developments, for—”

“We had better have some plans for leaving Paris in a hurry,” said d’Estissac with asperity. “It could easily come to that, you realize.”

“That is supposing that the police have learned about us,” said Sackett-Hartley with dogged optimism.

“And what makes you think they have not?” demanded d’Estissac.

“Only my faith in their honor,” said Sackett-Hartley heavily. He stared into the fire as if reading omens there. “We are all sworn to the same glorious duty, and I put my trust in our men, that they will not forget what they have sworn to do.”

“You are placing your faith in green lads who have never walked a battlefield, and others who are greedy for advancement,” d’Estissac reminded him. “I have welcomed their actions but I’ve never fooled myself that there was a bond that went beyond the rewards of killing Napoleon. And you cannot afford to believe anything else, Magnus.”

Sackett-Hartley said nothing for the greater part of a minute; his expression was that of a man dealing with necessary nastiness. “If they are talking, then we must find a way to leave, and leave quickly. The gendarmes will be after us.” Sackett-Hartley bit his lower lip.

“It would mean failing in our mission,” protested d’Estissac.

“Of course,” said Sackett-Hartley. He rubbed at his stubble-covered chin. “We will also have to contact our ally, and find out what he advises.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” said d’Estissac. “I’ve tried to reach him twice this morning and nothing. He does not respond to my inquiries. It may be that he is being watched, or ... There is a reception tonight given by the Corsican’s sister Pauline, and all the world goes. If our ally doesn’t attend, it’s as good as a confession; he will call attention to himself that might—”

Sackett-Hartley cut him short, then raised his hand to signal the landlord for cognac-and-cider. “Nothing so specific, my friend,” he cautioned.

“All right,” d’Estissac said, realizing that Sackett-Hartley was right. He rose and paced once around the taproom, then came back to the hearth. “There isn’t much time. The Coronation is only a few weeks away.”

“True,” said Sackett-Hartley, once again with a raised warning finger.

“What I cannot grasp is how the gendarmes came to know of the house at all. How did they decide to follow Querelle?” D’Estissac slapped his hand hard on his thigh. “They are not clever enough to have thought it out, not these damned peasant bureaucrats.”

“There must have been an informant,” Sackett-Hartley muttered.

“Exactly!” said d’Estissac. “You have the right of it.”

“But what informants?” asked Sackett-Hartley, “Not the landlord here or at La Plume et Bougie. Not the owner of the house we rented, not ... I cannot think who would be near enough to us to know what we planned and at the same time ready to betray us to the police.”

“What about our superior? Perhaps he decided the cause was lost and has taken this chance to sever all connections with us.” The implications of his own observations struck him with force. “It may be that he has found a way to trade all of us for his security.”

“I’ve considered that possibility,” said Sackett-Hartley in an undertone. “Whoever this man is, he undoubtedly is in great danger now, as we are. Without the reports from our remaining men, how are we to know whether it is safe to turn to the superior or not?”