MV02 Death Wears a Crown Read online

  “That is what he guessed,” said Vernet, trying to match her precision.

  “If they were determined to damage the fleet, they might have done it more easily landing in Holland, at Zoutelande, or perhaps at Oostende in Belgium. There would be fewer restrictions on them, and they would not be at risk as they are here.” She began to move her first finger on the tablecloth as if writing. “But suppose they are not interested in the negotiations or the fleet. Twenty men are a small force for such a task, but if they were sent here to lead a rising of the remaining Aristos, or as assassins—”

  “Victoire! For Saint Dennis!” He looked around to be certain they were not overheard and encountered one startled stare from a ruddy-faced dealer in leather goods.

  “Sir,” said the merchant’s agent, his broad features darkening, “it is hardly fitting to speak to your wife in such a tone.”

  Vernet realized it was his own outburst that had caught the man’s notice, and he made a gesture of agreement. “I offer her and you my apology.”

  The merchant’s agent nodded twice and returned to his cheese.

  Victoire had been speaking softly, but she lowered her voice. “Let us suppose that there are no other landings to concern us.” She watched him until he nodded. “It would appear that this may be a scouting mission, but if it is, they are not scouting here, or someone would have seen something. So we have to consider the possibility that they are not here at all.”

  “And how do you propose we find them?” he asked her.

  A fine vertical line formed between her pale brows. “It would probably be wise to warn the mission in Holland, and your superiors in Paris. That for a start, at least. If it turns out that the English have merely gone to ground here, then they can be apprehended by local officials. But if they have left this area, we must assume that they are bound for other places. Why come to France unless their target is in France?” Her question hung between them.

  “I take your point, my love,” Inspector-General Vernet said to his wife. “All right. I will spend one more day in a search for the English. I want to find them. Père Antoine should be able to tell me something. If there is no more information, then I will do as you suggest.” He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “I do not want to seem to be an alarmist.”

  “That may be sensible,” she said slowly. “But do not delay in dispatching warnings if you do not locate at least one or two of the English in the next twenty-four hours. It would be unwise not to alert—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, agreeing with her, little as he wanted to. He wanted the time not only to search for the English, but to examine the implications of the theory Victoire had just put forth. It was one thing, he decided, to apprehend spies. Assassins were another matter entirely.

  * * *

  By the middle of the afternoon Vernet’s feet hurt and he was worn out as he trudged up to Saint-Pierre-le-Roc. Hours of questions and small bribes had done nothing but confirm what he had learned already. He was growing bitterly disappointed and apprehensive, for increasingly he thought that Victoire’s suspicions—which he had hoped were absurd—were becoming more probable.

  Père Antoine greeted Vernet warmly, saying, “Napoleon may dislike religion, but I warrant he knows the value of parishes like this one, and relies on us to aid him in his reforms.” There was an appreciative twinkle in his brown eyes. “It is always prudent to value those who advise the community, isn’t it?”

  “I suspect my wife would agree with you at once,” said Vernet, his face remote as he thought about the situation they were in, and gave Victoire’s suggestion about the invaders another unwelcome consideration.

  “What troubles you, my son?” asked Père Antoine as they entered the little church, a relic from a thousand years ago.

  On the walls were faded, ancient frescoes for the Stations of the Cross, the plaster crumbling with decay and age. He knelt and crossed himself and waited while Vernet, belatedly, did the same. “Something does trouble you, doesn’t it?”

  “It troubles me,” said Vernet, “that I can find no sign of the English, and no whisper of them, either,” he admitted as he followed Father Antoine in the general direction of the confessional. “I have been looking, but there is not a hint of them anywhere.”

  “Perhaps they have accomplices,” said Père Antoine diffidently.

  “I thought that myself, at first, but there would still be signs. There would be children displaced in a house, or an increase of errands. Someone would suddenly need to purchase more bread, or had more for the midden, or there would be strange events noticed by someone, if only a jealous neighbor. And there would be speculation, people guessing about the unexplained occurrences. It is difficult to keep secrets in places like this. You are too near the sea and sailors, and—” He waved his hand to indicate that such things are often in the air.

  “I would agree,” said Père Antoine. He led Vernet behind the altar to a small door that led into a small sitting room. “Please come in.” He stood aside to let Vernet enter, indicating one of the two upholstered chairs.

  Vernet felt a bit too tall and too bright for the room, and he strove to compensate by choosing the smaller of the chairs. Ordinarily he would have waited for the priest to be seated, but clearly Père Antoine was reserving that honor. “Well, I am grateful you are willing to talk with me,” he said, finding the moment suddenly awkward.

  “It is my duty and my pleasure.” He drew up the larger chair and sat at once. “I would hate to see France under English rule. It has never succeeded, having the English here. We on this stretch of coast have known it since Queen Eleanor eloped with King Henry.” He looked around with satisfaction. “Saint-Pierre-le-Roc saw those unhappy times, and ones earlier than that.”

  “Of course,” said Vernet, wondering if this was leading anywhere.

  It was. “There is a fisherman who worships here. He has an English wife, the daughter of a sailor who has carried ... night cargos for many, many years. The English wife is often visited by English. She knows all of them, all the captains and all the navy men who seek to end the smuggling. Even she knows nothing of the English you seek.”

  “Ah?” said Vernet, to encourage Père Antoine to continue.

  “She has said that her brother and her husband have been bothered by others. And she has been slighted in the market. The people blame her for you asking questions.” He folded his hands in his lap and looked over at Vernet. “You must understand that she is not one to complain for no reason. Like many of the English, she is stoical in her behavior, not like some Frenchwomen, who would be in tears and filled with outrage if any of the townspeople behaved so badly.”

  “And she tells you that she knows of no reason for this to happen?” Vernet prodded.

  “That is the gist of it, yes,” said Père Antoine. “I have asked her if she has received any visitors from England in the last month, and she declares that none have come in over three months. She is not a woman who lies easily or well, and so I believe what she tells me.”

  Vernet heard this out. “Would she talk to me?”

  “She would, but it would not be a good thing for her. It would give rise to more speculation that could cause more of the townspeople to turn against her, and in times like these, such rejection can be very cruel. If she were not English, I would not be concerned for her, but as she is ...” He opened his hands to show that he could not regulate the attitudes of the whole of Dunkerque.

  “You indicate her father ... smuggles from time to time,” Vernet said carefully. “Have I understood you correctly?”

  “You have,” said Père Antoine without discomfort.

  “Is there any way I might arrange to speak with him?” Vernet asked, thinking that if the daughter did not have answers for him, her father could.

  “I will ask her to get a message to him. That is the most I can do.” He
paused as he got up from the chair and took a turn about the room. “She is a good woman, for all she is English, and she does not deserve to suffer the odium of the town.”

  “I would not want her to,” said Vernet at once. “The Gendarme Nationale does not want to embarrass honest citizens.”

  “Certainly not,” said Père Antoine. “But if care is not taken, such things can happen, can they not?”

  “Sadly, yes,” admitted Vernet, wishing that Victoire were with him to talk to the priest, for he suspected she would know better how to learn more of the Englishwoman married to the French fisherman.

  “There is something that I cannot discuss, for it is of the Confessional and there is a sacred seal on it. However, I can tell you that I have heard the Confession of a Frenchman who came here by sea and who has never set foot in this church before. He is worried for his soul, because of what he has come to France to do.” Père Antoine coughed. “That is more than I should tell you or anyone, but I fear if I do not say something, this man might bring great sin upon his soul.”

  “Because he is a spy?” Vernet demanded.

  “I cannot tell you that,” said Père Antoine. “But the sin he contemplates is not a minor one, and he is determined upon it.”

  Vernet scowled. “The seal of Confession is sacred. You would be excused if you said nothing. But it is important that you spoke, and I thank you for it.”

  Père Antoine motioned Vernet to rise. “Your work is very important to the country, and I respect your goals. Surely when a man is in danger of damning himself, if a word can help to save him, there is sin in silence if it is not the silence of the Confessional. I pray I have done the right thing and that God will forgive me my sophistry now. You seem a man of principle, which is not encountered as often as one would like. I will do what I can, Inspector-General Vernet,” he promised. “I will send you word at the Garçon Rouge if I discover anything that may be of use to you.”

  “I will be grateful for any assistance you give, mon Père. In these times we must rely on the good-will of the people of France.”

  Père Antoine shrugged. “There is nothing remarkable in that,” he observed. “The soil of France has tasted English blood before. This will not be the first time, nor, I suppose, the last.”

  “What we must hope is that there will be no French blood spilled. Enough young lives have been lost already.” Vernet bowed slightly. “I am most appreciative, Monsieur le Prêtre. With help such as yours we may yet foil the English plots.”

  “As God wills,” said Père Antoine, as he sketched a blessing in Vernet’s direction. “I will pray for the welfare and accomplishment of your mission, the success of Napoleon and France.”

  Although Vernet muttered assent as he closed the door behind him, inwardly he doubted that God had much to do with what was happening on this part of the coast of France.

  SOMEWHERE in a room not far from the Prime Minister’s home, three men met. One was a high official in the government. The second had served as a general in the British army before retiring and was known to be the personal friend of the king of England. The third had once been a king, but now lacked a nation. Carefully the latter two gentlemen told William Pitt, Secretary of War, of their plan. Before the statesman could react the general assured him that there was no way the men in France could be linked to anyone in his government. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  It was unlikely that Pitt could protest a plan that obviously had the approval of King George. Still there was a chance that due to the irrational gentlemen’s code of diplomacy Pitt would be outraged. That could embarrass very many important men and end with a short note to the French ambassador.

  Unused to waiting for another’s approval, Louis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He exchanged a worried glance with the general and then turned to Sir William Pitt again. The Prime Minister was smiling.

  * * *

  As he sanded the eighth dispatch, Vernet looked around their room for a place to set it while it dried. Most of the bed was already taken, with seven of the large vellum sheets drying there already. He swung around in the straight-backed chair and looked toward his wife. “Is there any—”

  She reached out for the dispatch and slid it expertly to the top of the armoire. “This will do,” she declared, and continued to darn his cuff.

  “I think that will alert most of them,” he said as he leaned back, tipping the chair precariously onto its two hind legs. “If there are any questions later, I can declare that I thought it best to be prepared when it was not necessary instead of unprepared when it was necessary.”

  “It will be necessary,” said Victoire grimly. “I am more convinced than ever, husband, that these English are not interested in anything on this coast. Everything you have found out supports that view.”

  “Then at least we have given the warning,” said Vernet, not as convinced as Victoire. “And if we are in the wrong—”

  “You may blame me. Berthier will, in any case,” she said, with a quick, wry chuckle. “Tell him that I insisted, and he will rub his chubby hands together and turn his oyster eyes to the ceiling.”

  “Victoire!” he protested, fondly scandalized by her description, knowing it was accurate and therefore the more deplorable.

  “Yes, it’s not a very flattering portrait, and I am in charity with him these days. But you will admit that he’s not a very prepossessing figure.” She began blind-stitching the darning into the line of the seam.

  “He is utterly devoted to Napoleon,” Vernet reminded her.

  “He certainly is,” said Victoire at once. “And he’s as incorruptible as any man in high rank can be. You see, I’m aware of his excellent qualities. But I do not think him a very ... personable fellow.”

  “You mean unlike Murat?” said Vernet, not without a twinge of jealousy, although he knew it was wholly unfounded.

  Victoire smiled. “Well, it would be very difficult not to be swayed by Murat, if one were swayable, and he were inclined to attempt to sway,” she said with her usual candor. “But he is a married man, and I am a married woman, and so I will admire his features and the cut of his uniforms and the size of his vocabulary, and occasionally we will flirt outrageously for entertainment, but there’s an end to it.” Suddenly her eyes were serious. “Without him, I would have died in Egypt.”

  “Without him, you might not have been in such danger,” Vernet reminded her. “But you are right. He provided you excellent protection when I could not, and for that I am grateful. And you did the same for him, in Italy.”

  Again she chuckled. “An honorable debt.”

  “Of course.” He rocked the chair forward and stood up. “I will have to hand these off to riders this afternoon if they are to be delivered in a timely manner.” He reached for one of the vellum sheets and began to fold it, then set it on the table near the standish.

  “Tell them it is urgent,” she recommended as she made a concealed knot in the thread, then cut it with her teeth.

  “Naturally. And I trust it will not be lost with all the others that are urgent,” he said, beginning to sound weary. “One more day here—two at most—and then we must return home.” He cleared his throat. “I wish that Englishwoman would come to talk to me.”

  Victoire set Vernet’s jacket aside. “Do you think she might talk to me instead? It is not the same thing as speaking to a man in uniform. A comfortable chat with a merchant’s daughter; it might cause her to speak freely.”

  “I don’t think she would be more forthcoming. You know what these coastal towns are like, and how private the people can be.” He glanced in her direction. “You remember that she is already regarded as a foreigner, and so she will not want to be seen talking to someone like you, simply because you are not from Dunkerque. But I thank you for making the offer, my darling. You already do more for me than most men could have from ten wives.”

>   As always, she found this effusive praise embarrassing. “Well, that’s as may be, but where your clothes are concerned, I do not seem to manage all that well.” She shook her head as she regarded the jacket. “I don’t know how much longer I can darn the collar and cuffs. I’ve done my best, but it is apparent that there have been repairs.”

  Vernet sighed. “And I will have to have a new dress uniform if I am to attend the two receptions that are planned—the one for the Swedes and the one for the Austrians. I can’t go looking bedraggled or threadbare, not to such functions.”

  “No, of course you can’t,” said Victoire with a slow sigh. “I would not want you to, Lucien, but it is not easily arranged.”

  “Captain Sommenier has run into debt, just keeping himself properly uniformed. His family lost everything in the Revolution and they cannot give him any help but their excellent reputation,” Vernet went on. “He has not been able to afford ...”

  “Anything,” said Victoire for him.

  “Essentially, that is so.” He had finished folding the dispatches and now set about writing the directions on each of them before sealing them. “But it is the price demanded by advancement in these times.”

  “It is an invitation to trouble,” said Victoire darkly.

  “Hardly that,” said Vernet as he continued his task.

  “Oh, yes,” said Victoire. “If you force your men to live beyond their means, you are making it necessary for them to compromise themselves. You know how you feel about those who take bribes, and you admit that some were not in the wrong as much as they were desperate.”