The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (38 page)

“Ryan, it’s Hugo.”

“Hey boss. Need me to come into the office? Please?”

Hugo laughed. “Nope. I need some help but you can take care of it from home, I think. Once you’ve brokered peace between your kids.”

“That’ll never happen.” Ryan had two boys and a girl, all high-energy and loud. “What do you need?”

“Two things. First, check with TSA and see when Alexandra Tourville last visited the States.”

“Easy. Next.”

“Hang on.” Hugo stood and excused himself from Lerens’s office, smiling enigmatically at her quizzical look. He closed her door before speaking again. “I’m back. And this one you might want to do in private, out of earshot of your wife.”

“Oh really? Top secret?”

“Not in the slightest.” Hugo chuckled again. “Come to think of it, delete your internet history once you’re done, too.”

“Why?”

After Hugo had ensured Ryan knew what to do, he sat back and waited with Lerens for Tom to call. They chatted amiably, Hugo with a million questions he didn’t dare ask. Over a carafe of wine, maybe, where he knew she wouldn’t mind, but they wouldn’t have been appropriate in her office. Instead they swapped war stories and Lerens was recounting the first time she arrested someone, a well-known Bordeaux vintner who was driving drunk, when Hugo’s phone rang. They both looked at the display and saw it light up with Tom’s name. Hugo answered and put him on speaker.

“Hey Tom, I’m with Camille, what news?”

“You go first.”

“Nothing much. Tourville was either beaten to death or strangled. Maybe a little of both. The ME’s doing an autopsy right now to make sure. He took swabs from her neck and face at the scene so we may have DNA to match with Lake.”

“DNA. There’s an irony,” Lerens said.

“Why’s that an irony?” Tom asked. “You fuckers better fill me in when I get back.”

“We will,” Hugo assured him. “You have Lake?”

“Senator Lake, you mean? Senator Charles Lake?”

“Tom.”

“Why’s it only you who gets to withhold information? It’s not fair.”

“Don’t you remember your mommy telling you life isn’t?”

“You as my mom, that’s about right.”

“It’s worse for me than you,” Hugo said. “Now answer the damn question and tell me Lake’s in custody.”

“I always wondered if these fancy ships had jails. You know, just in case.”

“On a ship, they’re called
brigs
,” Hugo said. “And I’m hoping the
Queen Mary
’s is occupied by a US senator.”

The line went quiet for a moment, then Tom’s voice came on. “Gonna have to disappoint you there.”

“Tom, explain. Where are you?”

“I’m in Lake’s cabin. Hold on a sec, the captain just came back. Need to tell him something.”

Hugo shook his head and smiled at Lerens, who stared wide-eyed at the phone, her palms facing up and disbelief on her face. “What’s he playing at?” she asked.

“Have patience. I have a sneaking suspicion things haven’t gone to plan and he’s stalling for some reason.”

“You think Lake’s persuaded him he’s innocent?”

“Maybe. I doubt it, though.”

Tom came back online. “Sorry about that. Now then, where were we?”

“Senator Charles Lake,” Hugo said. “You were about to stop being an ass and tell us what the situation is there.”

“The situation, yes. Well, that can be described quickly and easily. In two words, as a matter of fact.”

Hugo felt a rock sinking in his chest. “What two words, Tom?”

“Man overboard.”

Hugo and Lieutenant Lerens exchanged glances.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Hugo said.

“Nope.”

“He was right there with you, Tom, what the hell happened?”

“Well, we were talking for a while. You know, me asking questions, him not really answering them.”

“Jeez, Tom, tell me you didn’t . . .” Hugo didn’t believe Tom would harm the senator, but his methods had always been off the grid.

“No, no. Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. I don’t kill US senators, Hugo, that would be insane. Not without written authorization, anyway, and who had time for that?”

“So what happened?”

“Hang on, I was going to ask how you knew he’d be on the boat.”

“Lerens told me, but also something he said at that first formal dinner. He hated flying and had this romantic view of sea travel. Even dying at sea had romantic undertones for him. I’m sure he needed some time to think, to figure out what to do, and taking the
Queen Mary
fits his inclinations and his mindset perfectly.”

“Shit, Hugo, you guessed he’d kill himself, didn’t you? That’s why you said it was a matter of life and death. His life and death.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Well, I didn’t throw him overboard.”

“He jumped?”

“Flying leap, actually.”

“Are they looking for him?”

“Yeah. I gave him a few minutes in the drink, had a poke around his cabin, then let the captain know. They dropped some boats to look but I can’t imagine they’ll find him.”

“Why on earth did you wait?”

“Dude, he wanted to go out with a splash. Sorry, didn’t mean . . . Anyway, he chose his exit and how frickin’ embarrassing for the guy if he makes this grand final gesture and we drag him out of the ocean soaking wet and gasping for air like a half-drowned kitten. Only for him to be slapped in the brig and taken back to France. And let me tell you, a French prison was absolutely the last thing that man wanted.”

“I can see why,” Lerens said drily.

“Precisely. And that’s why,” Tom went on, “if you’re about to ask, I didn’t try very hard to stop him. In his shoes I would have done the same. That and he’s a big dude, I didn’t want to be hanging onto his legs as he went over the balcony else I would have gone too. No thanks.”

“So he admitted to killing Alexie Tourville?”

“Oh yes, he most certainly did. Wouldn’t tell me why, though. Just sat there saying mean things about her.”

“Did you record your conversation with him?”

A slight pause. “Well, there’s the thing. I thought I had, using my phone. Turns out none of it recorded.”

“That’s not good, Tom. Not good at all.”

“It makes no fucking difference to anything, as it happens. He sat on the bed, cried, confessed, jumped off the balcony.”

“OK, fine.” Hugo rubbed his forehead, trying to think through the fog of tiredness. “Did you call anyone else?”

“No, sweetie, I always call you first. I expect the captain panicked and phoned everyone up his chain of command, so you might want to check the newspapers in a few minutes.”

“Great. When we’re done, will you call the ambassador? We should tell him as soon as possible. There’s going to be a media shitstorm and he’ll appreciate a few minutes to pull on a coat and open his umbrella.”

“Nice image. I sure will.”

“Thanks. Hey, you said you’d searched the place. Before or after he jumped?”

“Well, I didn’t have time before he showed up and he wasn’t wild about me poking through his stuff. He has this briefcase, he kept it locked and seemed very protective of it.”

“You looked inside?”

“Hugo, really? Are you serious? I mean to say, a representative of the people of our great nation tragically takes his own life in front of me, and you think I’m breaking the locks of his most personal and private possessions—”

“Knock it off, Tom, what was in there?”

“Hey, come on. What was in there will blow your socks off. In fact, if it’s what I think it is, it’ll make historians do strange things to each other before ending up on display in some museum in Paris.”

“And that gives you the right to torture me a little?”

“Yes, and here’s why. If you’d been here instead of me, you would have jumped on Lake and wrapped him up tight, stopped him from taking a leap from the ship. Then you would have catalogued and inventoried his belongings and waited for a search warrant or court order to open his briefcase. Which, by the way, would then have been in the custody of the French police or subject to an ever-lasting international dispute over jurisdiction. The briefcase would have sat in a large plastic bag, in a locked storage facility, and we’d spend the next two years wandering around guessing at why all this shit went down.”

“Are you done?”

“No. Now, instead of that nightmare taking place, I am able to decisively solve this bizarre crime and have the paperwork to back me up.”

“Paperwork? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“OK, now I’m done. And yes, paperwork, because the only significant thing I found in his briefcase was a letter. A letter that was written in 1795.”

Cher Monsieur,

I hope this dispatch finds you in good health and, please, do forgive me for dispensing with further formalities but time presses in on me and I have come to think that perhaps more than one life depends on your receipt of, and trust in, my words. One life, for certain.

I know that you left our shores perturbed by the bloodshed. More than perturbed, perhaps. You are not alone there, of course. But it has become increasingly clear to many here that we need the support and cooperation of your nation as we rebuild. You can be a model for us, and a source of very real sustenance and this is why many who now hold power here fear that you will cut all ties.

This letter, and the small box that comes with it, are gestures of good faith, ones that I hope you will take as proof that the bloodshed is ended.

You know of the young man to whom the hair belongs. He is a symbol for us because he has survived the killing and I hope that he is now a symbol to you, of our dedication to restore France to the civilized and respected nation you love. I cannot go into detail, for obvious reasons, but through friends we managed to take him safely from the temple and send him to the countryside to live with a loyal family. They even have a son of their own, he is the same age, so perhaps a friend.

The sad news, though, is that he was not treated well in the temple and has been very ill. The young man looking after him has promised that he will travel to your shores with his family, and bring his new charge, as soon as he is well enough. For now, then, a chest containing his clothes, this letter, and a lock of his hair are all I can offer. And my promise. For these items come with a promise that he, a symbol of the old France you wanted to see changed, will live on and his life spared will be a symbol of the new France, one that has moved past violent times toward a new start, and a new partnership with your own young and great nation.

This promise, mon cher Thomas, is made with my own blood.

Your friend,

Albert Pichon

Lerens’s voice was barely a whisper. “The Dauphin. He’s talking about the son of Marie Antoinette.”

Tom had photographed the letter and sent it to their phones and they sat in Camille Lerens’s office reading and rereading it.

“The letter, it was in the chest with the hair. That’s the missing piece we were looking for.” Hugo shook his head in wonder.

“
Merde
. The Lost Prince,” Lerens said. “The Dauphin’s death has always been a mystery.”

“Apparently a myth. He was locked away and official records said he died in the Temple prison in Paris in 1795, when he was ten. Tuberculosis, apparently, which was rampant back then, but a lot of people refused to believe the official version. They said he didn’t die at all, but was spirited away to safety and another child put in his place.” Hugo smiled. “Don’t look at me like that, I flicked through a book about her and King Louis just last week. Guess where?”