Sovay (29 page)

CHAPTER
3
2

T
he next day, there was blood splashed on the wall and across the pavement outside.

‘It is dangerous to be on the streets at night,’ Virgil said with a grimace. ‘Here you see the evidence.’ They were on their way to the Luxembourg. It had been a grand palace, built for Catherine de Medici, but like all the royal palaces, it had been confiscated for the use of the people. While Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety held their meetings in the Tuileries, the King’s old residence, the Luxembourg had been made into a prison. Until recently, conditions in there had been relaxed, even pleasant compared with other prisons. It was said to be the best brothel in Paris, Virgil told them, and anyone with money could be assured of a decent apartment and have food sent in from the local restaurants, but recently such laxity had been considerably tightened.

‘We are unlikely to gain admittance,’ he warned. ‘It is difficult now even to get messages in or out, but we will see what can be done.’

Despite what Virgil told them, Sovay had been buoyed up by the expectation that they
would
obtain word about their father, might even be able to see him and be reunited, if only for a moment, but they were summarily turned away from the Luxembourg’s grand, imposing facade, their hopes dashed. No one was allowed in or out. No letters could be taken, no messages conveyed to those held inside. Pleading was pointless. The guards were stern and steadfast in their purpose and implied that further protestation would result in their own imprisonment.

In the end, Sovay had to drag Hugh away. He was dangerously close to losing his temper at the guards’ surly obduracy and was very likely to end up joining their father inside. Perhaps it was the stricken look on her face, or her beauty, or her dignified demeanour, but one of them softened and called her back.

‘Go into the gardens,’ he said, with a jerk of his head. ‘From there you might get a glimpse of him, or him of you. That’s what others do and it’s as near as you are going to get, Citizeness.’

Sovay thanked him and led Hugh away. Sure enough, the park was filled with people of all estates, men and women, old and young. Some walked up and down in a constant parade, others stood with the stillness of statues, all had their faces turned upwards, their eyes fixed on the high windows opposite. Some spoke, in a conversational tone, as if to an invisible companion, others yelled and bellowed, their voices echoing back upon themselves. An old man stared in silence. A young woman held up her infant as if to be blessed.

People crowded the windows of the upper storeys of the Luxembourg. Sovay could see mouths opening and closing, but glass and distance rendered the speakers dumb and their features indistinct, their faces as undifferentiated as a row of pegs.

‘This is hopeless!’ Hugh declared. ‘Hopeless!’

Nevertheless, he continued to stare upwards. Sovay joined him, caught up by the same despairing expectation as all the rest.

Meanwhile, Virgil was watching the traffic to and from the palace. Although no visitors were admitted, tradesmen brought food and goods, newspaper vendors delivered papers. In among the comings and goings, one young woman caught his eye. She was a pretty girl and very young, her smooth, brown hair caught up under a white cap. Her sober clothes were worn and faded, but she did not look like a servant or a shop girl. She carried a basket and approached the gates with confidence. The guards seemed to know her. They did not turn her away, rather they seemed well disposed to her, smiling and even holding the door for her as she slipped into the building. Virgil set himself to wait for her to re-emerge. Sure enough, after a little over a quarter of an hour, she returned, her basket now empty.

She stepped out quickly, eyes cast down. Then she unfolded a piece of paper and began to study it.

Virgil found Sovay and took her by the arm.

‘Come with me.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘No time for explanations. Quick, or she will get away.’

They left Hugh to his vigil and followed the girl. She was moving briskly, already melting through the restless crowd. They followed her down Rue Garancière and around the imposing bulk of St Sulpice. From here, she took the Rue des Canettes towards St Germain. Virgil walked faster, fearing that if she disappeared into the tangle of streets they would lose her altogether. She turned one corner, then another into Rue Jacob. Finally she slowed her pace and stopped outside an apothecary shop, its windows filled with decorated jars and bottles. She unfolded the note she was carrying, as if to check again what was on it.

‘Citizeness!’ Virgil called to her. ‘A word if I may.’

She started round, her large brown eyes full of apprehension. If Sovay had not been with him, she would have bolted into the shop, but the sight of another woman relaxed her a little.

‘Forgive me for approaching you,’ Virgil went on quickly. ‘But were you lately at the Luxembourg?’

She nodded, her eyes widening, her wariness returning. ‘You
followed
me?’

‘With no ill intent, I do assure you, but I could not help but notice that you were one of the few to gain admittance.’

‘Yes, my father is a doctor. Every day he sends out for medicines. I take the list to the apothecary here and carry the medicines back to the prison.’

‘This young lady’s father,’ Virgil indicated Sovay, ‘is in the Luxembourg.’

‘I’d like to help you,’ the girl looked from Virgil to Sovay, ‘but there are so many . . .’ She frowned, as if she could see them all before her.

‘He is sick,’ Virgil went on. ‘Gravely so. And we are desperate for news of him. As a doctor, perhaps your father will know of him and could tell us how he does.’

‘He might.’ The girl’s apprehension was creeping back, as though she feared a trap. ‘We are not allowed to carry messages. Such things are forbidden by the authorities.’

‘Oh, no.’ Virgil shook his head. ‘We ask nothing of the kind. We –’

‘We just want word that he is alive,’ Sovay interrupted. ‘Please.’

The girl considered this appeal from one daughter to another and her face cleared.

‘I will see what I can do. What is his name?’

‘Middleton. John Middleton.’

‘
Milord Anglais?
Your father?’ The girl looked shocked. ‘It is not safe for you! Meet me here tomorrow. At the same time. I should have news by then.’

She turned to go into the shop, but Virgil detained her.

‘One thing further. Do you live around here?’

‘Not far. I have rooms on Rue Monsieur Le Prince. It is cheap there and near Father.’

‘Do you know this man?’ Virgil showed her the name Léon had given him.

She nodded. ‘He lives above the printer’s down by the Cordeliers.’

‘Thank you. Much obliged.’ Virgil gave a slight bow. ‘Who is this man?’ Sovay asked as they left the girl.

‘I have a plan – to incriminate Dysart. If we can find evidence to show his connection to the Revolution, then we can still discredit him.’

The place wasn’t hard to find, but the printer warned them that they would not find him at home.

‘Wine shop next door.’ He hardly looked up from his press. The place filled with the sharp, pungency of fresh ink as he began turning the machine.

The man, Lefere, was short in stature but solidly built with fleshy features and lank, greying hair swept back from his high forehead. His black suit was crumpled and greasy, his shirt stained with wine and his neckcloth none too clean.

‘Citizen? A word, if I may. In private.’

They went back to Lefere’s rooms, following him up steep, narrow stairs. The building was much older than it looked from the outside, the ceilings and walls hatched with thick, black crooked beams.

‘Now,’ the man turned, wheezing as they reached his attic rooms at the top of the stairs, ‘what’s this all about?’

‘I’ve heard that you find information.’

‘I have been known to,’ the man cackled. ‘I am a journalist.’

‘I’ve heard that you collected information concerning Fabre and Danton and their connection with the British Government.’

‘I follow the example set by Citizen Marat, before his sad martyrdom.’ The man’s expression became pious. ‘I am pleased to do my part to expose any enemy of the Revolution.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ Virgil sighed at his hypocrisy. ‘In that investigation, did you come across correspondence from Robert Dysart?’

‘The English spy master?
Bien sûr.

’

Virgil took a purse from his pocket.

‘Good. I need a sample of his hand. I’ve also heard that you have a happy knack of uncovering vital evidence, even if the necessary documents are missing, or cannot be found.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting I would forge something!’ Lefere did his best to look indignant at the very thought.

‘For the right fee, of course.’

Lefere’s protests subsided at the chink of coin and his small blue eyes grew narrow at the sight of gold spilling onto the table.

‘This is what I will need from you . . .’

As the man listened to what Virgil had to say, he began to sweat. His eyes flickered with fear, but could not help but stare at the coins piling up before him.

‘I don’t know . . .’ he said, licking his lips. ‘It will take time to get what you describe. Besides that, I will need official paper, stamps.’

‘I will take care of that.’ Virgil neatened the gleaming column, as careful as a banker. ‘You have a week.’ He pushed the pile of coins towards the journalist. ‘Get what I need and this will be doubled.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Lefere’s hand shot out, his stubby fingers closing round the gold as if it might disappear by magic.

‘If it works, we will catch Dysart at his own game.’ Virgil smiled at Sovay as they walked down to the Seine.

‘
If
it works.’ Sovay was not so convinced. ‘Dysart is a spy master, after all. Evidence to show that he has been in touch with the Revolutionary powers here will merely show that he was doing his job.’

‘Depends on what that evidence is, doesn’t it?’ Virgil took her arm. ‘I will see you home, then I must make my deliveries. The coffee and sugar especially. They are destined for Citizen Robespierre. They call him the
Incorruptible
, but he has a weakness for coffee. It would be well to feed his craving. It might be the one thing that keeps us safe.’

CHAPTER 33

‘I
don’t know where they are. How many times do I have to tell you?’ Gabriel answered with quiet patience. ‘I don’t know anything about any conspiracy. I am a steward. Why would Sir John, or his family, confide in me?’

‘You are here, Stanhope. They are not. They saved themselves and left you to suffer the blame. Is it not always the way of their class? They do not care about you. Why should they? You are merely a servant. Why should you care about them? Why do you protect them?’

Gabriel refused to rise to this, or to say anything, so Dysart tried a different tack.

‘What about your other friends? The residents of Vine Street. Your co-conspirators in the London Corresponding Society?’

Gabriel shrugged, his strong shoulders pulled down by the heavy chains he wore on his wrists. ‘I hardly know them. I met them once only. I’m a countryman. I know nothing about what goes on in London.’ He spread his hands on the table. ‘I cannot tell you what I do not know.’

Robert Dysart stared down at the prisoner chained before him. This could go on all day, as it had on previous days. He was careful not to let his frustration show, but so far the man had given him nothing. He had a feeling that this Gabriel Stanhope would turn out to be far more dangerous than all the rest of them put together.

He had a big man’s capacity for physical endurance. His robust constitution had not proved in any way susceptible to the foul conditions of Newgate, despite Dysart’s instructions to keep him in the darkest, dankest, filthiest part of this disease-ridden prison. Others were already succumbing to the vile contagions so rife here, but Stanhope always appeared fresh and ruddy faced, in the rudest health. He stayed calm, mild-tempered, however harsh or long the questioning. He seemed able to retreat to some place inside himself; a place that Dysart could not reach. Despite his mild manner, however, Dysart sensed a profound belief, a zeal for his cause that sustained and fed him. It showed sometimes, deep in his blue eyes, like a spark from a damped down fire.

He would love to be able to break him, to use methods that would shatter that strong body, stretch and rack it, separate each vertebra, pull each bone from its socket, turn those powerful hands to bloody paws, nails torn out, fingers smashed. But thanks to Oldfield, that could not be. Dysart silently cursed the lawyer. Cursed all lawyers. The way they stuck together. Even the judges. Oldfield had managed to wriggle out of all attempts to implicate him in the conspiracy that Dysart had spun for Hugh and Sovay. Now he had engaged Thomas Erskine, as defence counsel in this and his other cases. Erskine had made a career out of defending these radical swine and any hint of torture would be pounced upon and made much of in court, for Stanhope and the rest were to be tried by judge and jury. How Dysart wished he could sweep all that away as they had done in France. How he longed for the clear, shining simplicity of the Revolutionary Tribunal. No troublesome lawyers, no endless parade of pointless witnesses, no stupid jury, just the rightful judgement of true believers. Death or acquittal. If Dysart had his way, it would be death in every case. And he would have his way. It was only a matter of time and he would be First Minister in the Departement of the Thames. He had the highest assurance of that.

Perhaps it was time to move things on. Conditions were ripe. Despite the draconian action that had been taken against Stanhope and his kind, unrest was spreading. Ireland was in ferment; Ireland might be the key to this. He would send a representative. Someone whom he could trust, someone with the right connections, of high enough rank to be believed. A man of no scruples at all, who was heavily in debt and who would be more than happy to be relieved of such obligations. Dysart smiled to himself. He knew just the man. If he was successful, he might even receive a large and lucrative estate in Warwickshire for his pains.

‘What did he want?’ Lydia asked as she came into the cell.

‘Oh, the usual.’ Gabriel gave a weary smile. He put a brave face on with Dysart, but these sessions tired him beyond measure.

‘Shrivel-hearted crow,’ Lydia grimaced. ‘Don’t let him get you down, Gabriel. Cook’s sent a squab pie to keep your strength up. She knows it’s your favourite, and Mrs Crombie’s put in some warm vests she’s been knitting you to keep off the chill.’

As Lydia kept up a light chatter about the goings-on at Soho Square, Gabriel’s eyes filled with tears. They could have no idea how these simple acts of kindness sustained him through the endless hours of interrogation. They helped to keep his resolve to the forefront of his mind and cut out Dysart’s voice and his insidious accusations. Gabriel would fight all his life long for the rights of ordinary people, people like them.

Lydia came almost every day to bring food for him and clean linen. As often as not she was accompanied by Skidmore, Oldfield’s clerk, who brought news on how the case was progressing and how the others were faring. Gabriel was kept in solitary confinement, but he was not deprived of visitors, Oldfield made sure of that.

‘The thing is, Gabriel, the fact of the matter is . . .’ Gabriel looked up at Lydia’s seriousness of tone, her uncharacteristic hesitation. ‘With me being distant from my own people, and the mistress away, I wanted your opinion.’

‘About what?’ Gabriel asked, intrigued.

‘Well, it’s this. Mr Skidmore, Algie,’ the words came in a sudden rush, ‘has asked me to walk out with him. I’ve asked Mrs Crombie, and she thinks it would be acceptable.’

‘I’m sure the good lady is right, in this as in most matters.’ Gabriel went to rise, to embrace her, but was pulled back by his encumbering chains. ‘You don’t need anyone’s permission, Lydia, if it is what you want.’

‘Oh, it is, Mr Gabriel. I love him with all my heart.’

‘There you are then!’

Gabriel smiled. He was happy for her; Algernon Skidmore was a fine young fellow with good prospects, thanks to Sovay, and would make an excellent husband. He’d thought, at one time, that Lydia might have had feelings for him. He had not wanted to tell her that there could be no place in the life he planned for a wife and perhaps children. It would not be fair on them. How could he devote himself to the many, if he was distracted and occupied by the happiness of the few?

That’s if he ever got out of this place. There was no trial date as yet. It would be October at the earliest, according to Oldfield, and much could happen between now and then.