Black Gold (6 page)

Anne stopped the boy. He was trembling. His speech was becoming fast and impossible to understand. She sat down with him on a bench and held him again until he quieted down. Then she asked what he knew about the theft of the spoons.

“I think Mr. Critchley took them. He pinches things when no one is looking. But I've seen him do it. The next day, when I was in the kitchen, he brought the spoons to Cook. He said he found them somewhere.”

The boy glanced at Anne, his face blank, as if overwhelmed by what he had seen. Anne struggled to suppress the horror she felt. Finally, she asked, “What happened to Miss Campbell after the man left her room?”

“She told me she would talk to my mother in the morning. That same night she fell down the stairs.”

Could there be a connection? Anne wondered. Critchley might have feared being exposed. Had he killed her that night? Unsupported conjecture, Anne realized, but worth keeping in mind.

In any case, something had to be done to shelter the boy from the tutor's evil influence, though she didn't know what. She didn't trust his parents enough to bring the matter to either of them.

She consoled the boy. “We'll be best friends. Pretend you didn't tell me anything.”

The boy smiled and touched his heart.

“I have an idea, Charlie. Bring me your modeling clay and your paint and brushes.”

Half an hour later, Anne and Charlie stepped back, inspecting their work. They nodded to one another and laughed. The two fauns framing the mirror stared at them through new, brightly painted, bulbous eyeballs.

Chapter 5

Tracking the Prey

Tuesday, March 27

Colonel Saint-Martin and his adjutant, Charpentier, arrived in London tired and hungry after four-and-a-half days of traveling from Paris. It was a cool, foggy morning. The city bustled, wide awake, its narrow streets thick with traffic. Georges paid off the coachman who had brought them from Dover to the George & Blue Boar Inn in Holborn, a point of departure for post coaches to Bath. They had planned for only two days in London, so they went directly to work.

Georges arranged for breakfast and unpacked. Saint-Martin sent messages by courier to Monsieur André Cartier and Anne, announcing his arrival and asking to meet them. He also wrote to two friends, Captains James Gordon and William Porter, whom he had met while serving with French forces in the American War. “Do you know a certain Captain Fitzroy?” he inquired. He gave that message to another courier and sent him off posthaste.

The two officers replied shortly by the same courier, and suggested Saint-Martin join them at noon in London Tavern on Ludgate Hill. “Best selection of wines in London,” Gordon had written. “Near St. Paul's Cathedral. You can't miss it.” They did know Fitzroy, a dashing fellow about town. He spoke proudly of his escape from France.

After a short rest in their rooms, Saint-Martin and Georges walked to the restaurant and were shown through the noisy, crowded public hall to a private room. As they entered, the British officers rose to greet them. “We reserved this room,” said Porter. “Too many curious ears out there.” Porter shook the colonel's hand, then glanced skeptically at his adjutant.

Saint-Martin drew Porter aside out of ear-shot of Georges. “He's my chief investigator. Part ferret, part bulldog! First-rate soldier. Served with valor at Minden. I want him to hear what we say about Fitzroy.”

Porter nodded to the colonel, smiled amiably to Georges, then showed the two Frenchmen to their seats. In a few minutes, a waiter came to take their orders. “The turtle soup is famous,” suggested Porter. They chose the soup, hot beef, and a fine red Bordeaux. When the waiter left, they sat back recalling old times and exchanging recent news of one another. There was much to talk about.

The British officers had been prisoners of war in the colonel's custody for several months following the fall of Yorktown. The three men had become friends and had met again during Saint-Martin's visit to London last year. Gordon was a tall, red-haired canny Scot with broad shoulders and narrow waist. His family were wealthy landed gentry who traditionally gave a son to the British army. Porter was also tall, but corpulent, fair-skinned, and black-haired. His father was a wealthy merchant in Essex, north-east of London. An educated man and amateur playwright, Porter had helped Saint-Martin perfect his English.

They had avoided military duties since returning disillusioned from captivity in America four years ago. Business and politics bored them. Their chief interest was the pursuit of pleasure. They shared comfortable quarters in London, and frequented its coffee houses, theaters, and gambling dens.

Saint-Martin thought he knew the officers well enough to trust them with his plans. There was still some risk. Gordon and Porter were, after all, British officers and might regard what he intended to do as an affront to British honor. On the other hand, they had probably heard rumors concerning Fitzroy and Sylvie and could easily suspect he was pursuing the Irishman.

When conversation began to lag, Porter cocked his head and asked, “Paul, what brings you and your aide to England? And how has Captain Fitzroy captured your interest? I can guess but I'd rather that you told us.”

“This is for your ears alone,” the colonel replied. “Baron Breteuil has sent us to apprehend Fitzroy and return him to France. Privately. Discreetly.” Saint-Martin went on to describe his mission from its beginning in January up to his forthcoming trip to Bath. His friends soon dropped their nonchalance and leaned forward, fully engaged. When he described Fitzroy's assault on Sylvie and her attempted suicide, both men flinched.

At the conclusion of the story, they remained deathly silent for a moment, shaking their heads. They glanced at one another. “Fitzroy! What a blackguard!” exclaimed Gordon. “He's been telling a different story. The young woman was willing enough, he claims. For her sins the baron beat her.”

Porter seconded his companion with a vigorous thump on the table. “The captain's a liar, a villain, and deserves to be horsewhipped and shot!” Then he turned to Saint-Martin. “We'll tell you what we know about him.”

The colonel settled back in his chair and listened. His friends had met the Irishman many times during the months he spent in London. “He's a handsome one!” said Gordon, the livelier of the pair. “And has charmed many a bird out of the trees. At the beginning of the year, he lived in the town house of a woman he called his cousin. A tall, auburn, green-eyed beauty. We saw her usually from a distance, walking in Green Park or dancing with him at a ball. He never brought her into our circles or talked about her.”

The turtle soup arrived at this point. While a waiter was ladling it into their bowls, Saint-Martin leaned over to Georges and whispered in French, “Find out that cousin's address and what the servants have to say about her and Fitzroy.” Saint-Martin switched back to his friends. “What's the local opinion of Sylvie de Chanteclerc?”

Porter tasted the soup, smacking his lips with satisfaction, while he considered the question. “Most people are inclined to believe Fitzroy. The woman is just another French tart. Disappointed in love, she cried rape. They say a man like Fitzroy doesn't have to beat a woman to get what he wants.”

“Sylvie's different,” insisted Saint-Martin with some heat. “She kept him at a distance. He had to force himself upon her.”

“I'm not surprised to hear this,” Porter conceded. “I've seen his violent side. Often gambled with him. Once, he accused a man at our table of cheating at cards. Picked him up and threw him right out the window into the street.”

“And he wasn't charged either,” added Gordon.

“Who protects him?” asked Saint-Martin, amazed. “He left England a decade ago to escape arrest. Why has he been allowed to return?”

Porter, the more knowledgeable of the two, replied. “According to credible rumors among his fellow officers, Fitzroy has brought information from France that seems useful to the British government.”

Saint-Martin raised an eyebrow. “He hasn't been privy to any secrets about our armament or tactics. The only strategy he knows is what he's learned in a boudoir or gambling den.”

Porter smiled. “Quite right. And that's where he has gathered his tales of sexual and financial corruption at high levels of the French king's army and navy—who can be bought and for how much. Fascinating tidbits to feed to our spies in your country.”

“In return for those tidbits, our government has cleared away old charges against him and obstructs new ones,” added Gordon. “For good measure, he now has the rank of captain in the Royal Horse Guards and carries a sword. Two armed officers, a major and a captain, look after him. It's not clear exactly what they're supposed to do. Keep him out of trouble? Protect him from French agents?” Gordon's voice took on a warning tone. “Fitzroy's an expert fencer and marksman; he can actually protect himself.”

This discussion broke off while waiters cleared away the soup dishes and served hot beefsteaks. The red Bordeaux arrived and was poured. The waiters withdrew again. Saint-Martin brought the conversation back to Fitzroy.

“He has the devil's own luck,” observed Gordon, who went on to tell tales of the Irishman's prowess at the faro table. “He will wager on almost anything and usually wins.”

At the end of the meal, Porter ordered drinks and pipes, then turned to Saint-Martin. “Now you see more clearly the lay of the land. If we learn anything else about Fitzroy, we'll let you know.”

Gordon picked up the thread. “Paul, if you need help, call on us. Catching that rogue will be a daunting task.”

***

The next day, under heavy clouds, and a brisk wind blowing against them, the colonel and his adjutant set out in a hired cabriolet for Hampstead. Monsieur Cartier's message had urged them to come to his gunshop, but regretted Miss Cartier had departed for Bath two days earlier. Momentarily, Saint-Martin felt disappointed, but his spirits revived quickly. He would meet Anne in Bath. How extraordinary!

On their way, Georges reported that Fitzroy's alleged cousin, the “striking beauty,” was Lady Margaret Rogers, daughter of an Irish baron and married to Sir Harry Rogers, a rich Bristol slave trader. At Lady Margaret's London town house, the servants had been shy talking to a stranger. “But there's always one I can buy with a pint of ale or a guinea,” George observed wryly.

He had insinuated himself into the company of Rogers' coachman, Peter Hyde, who was staying briefly in the town house. His master had sent him to London to run errands in preparation for a boxing match near Bath in the first week of April. Georges found the man in a nearby inn, bought drinks for him, and soon had him talking.

“Fitzroy and Lady Margaret are an odd brace of cousins. Hyde says you can feel the tension between them, like love and hate mixed together.”

“Did he go to Bath with her?”

“Yes, sir, several weeks ago.”

“Sounds like a
ménage à trois
. How does her husband feel about that?”

Georges shrugged. “I couldn't draw the coachman out. He's loyal to Rogers, enjoys his confidence. They talk mostly about horses and sports, especially boxing.”

After an hour's drive, the cabriolet reached Cartier's gunshop, a large two story building on the edge of the village of Hampstead. At the front door the two Frenchmen entered the business office and asked for the proprietor. The hum and clank of machinery could be heard behind the office wall. The clerk went into the workshop, releasing a burst of noise as he opened the door. In a few minutes he returned with a stocky, gray-headed man.

The colonel extended his hand. Monsieur Cartier hesitated a fraction of a second, then gripped it. That cost him an effort, thought Saint-Martin. He had heard from Anne of the family's flight from religious persecution more than fifty years ago. An officer of the French king could expect his visit to awake bad memories.

Cartier addressed the visitors in French with a Norman accent. His greeting was courteous but cool, his eyes wary, searching their faces. He asked if they would like a quick tour of the shop. With a slight bow, the colonel replied that he and his adjutant would be delighted.

A dozen men were busy at work in a large, well-lighted room, speaking French for the most part. Some operated lathes and drills, producing gun barrels. Others carved and polished wooden stocks, while a few cut and engraved brass fittings. “Let me show you samples of our firearms.” Cartier opened a wall cabinet to rows of short fowling pieces. In another cabinet stood long sharpshooting rifles. In a third lay racks of pistols. “Business is good. My men can hardly keep up with the demand.”

“Last year at Wimbledon, I fired one of the pistols you gave to your granddaughter. A beautiful weapon,” Saint-Martin remarked. “How do you achieve such perfection?”

“I still have friends in Normandy who help me select the very best apprentices. I train them myself and when they become expert, I pay them well. That's my secret!” His manner had relaxed as he walked through the shop, exchanging words with his men. He clearly enjoyed their respect.

As they were passing by a stack of canes, Georges asked if he could study them while Monsieur André and the colonel visited privately. “I suspect they contain hidden weapons.”

“Indeed! Devilishly clever ones—stilettos, swords, pistols, even a mace. They are much in demand among gentlemen who walk in the city at night.” Cartier signaled a young man nearby polishing a cane. “He'll show you how they work.”

As Cartier led the colonel out of the shop, he smiled for the first time. “We can talk better upstairs where many of the workers live. I keep a couple of rooms for myself. Sometimes I work late at night or the weather is bad.”

One of his rooms served as a simply furnished parlor. Cartier sat his guest at a table and offered him cider. “You must excuse my manners, Colonel. You noticed a lack of warmth in my welcome. I never thought I'd shake the hand of a French policeman. As we fled from Normandy, your troopers were biting at our heels.” He paused, stared into his glass, as if recalling a faded memory. He sighed. “That was many years ago, and times have changed. There's more tolerance. Still, old wounds lie hidden deep in our souls and bleed when we least expect them to.”

“I understand,” said Saint-Martin gently. “No offense taken.”

“Annie's told me how you cleared the name of Antoine Dubois last year. She's grateful. Counts you as her friend.” He gazed intently at Saint-Martin, as if struggling toward a decision. “An unusual young woman, don't you agree? I've encouraged her to be her own person. But that sets her apart from most other people, exposes her to loneliness. She needs a true friend and, may I presume to say, not just a husband.”

“I share your opinion,” Saint-Martin remarked. “I've tried to be that friend and consider myself privileged.”

Cartier's features softened, his eyes moistened. “She's more precious to me than all of this.” He waved a hand over his business in the rooms below. “Be good to her.”

That was a grandfather's benediction, Saint-Martin realized. From the heart. Difficult to make. He felt humbled. “I'll do my best.”

The two men finished their cider and rose from the table. “Too bad you've missed her,” Cartier remarked. “She'll be in Bath for a month tutoring a deaf boy.” The old man seemed genuinely sorry.