THE TIME THIEF Read online

  “The Swedish ambassador’s son!” said Kate quickly, as the men clambered out. “You weren’t by any chance involved in an accident with a wagon and a donkey on London Bridge?”

  “How could you possibly know that?” asked Louis-Philippe. “But it is true that I was forced to catch a mail coach instead….”

  When Peter and his father saw who had turned up so unexpectedly, and they heard the reason for Louis-Philippe being there, they both shook his hand warmly and offered to take him with them to an inn.

  “I am vastly pleased to renew our acquaintance,” said Peter. “And I hope that we may be of some service to you, for in these dangerous times it is imprudent to travel alone.”

  “I assure you, sir, that I feel no anxiety on that account,” said Louis-Philippe, patting his jacket and opening it just wide enough for Kate to spot a pistol tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I have come well prepared.”

  Kate and Hannah wasted no time clambering into the stuffy coach which, to Kate’s delight, was lined with sheepskins. She took a corner seat and brushed her face against the soft white fleeces and watched the driver making light work of their heavy luggage. He sported an impressive mustache and long jackboots in black leather. Louis-Philippe squeezed in between Hannah and Kate. Kate wondered how old he was. Sixteen? Seventeen at most, she thought. And, much as the grown-ups, even Mr. Schock—at least most of the time—were nice, it was going to be great to have someone young to talk to.

  “So much for not drawing attention to ourselves,” whispered Mr. Schock to Peter. “Have you noticed how people stare at him?”

  But even Louis-Philippe was only of minor interest to the crowds on that day. The coach had barely set off when a huge cheer went up. The driver pulled on the reins and his passengers craned their heads out of the window to look. The cheer was, indeed, on account of Mr. Thomas Paine. As his feet touched French soil, an officer embraced him and presented him with a tricolor cockade. Then the artillery, who were now assembled in a neat line, fired a salute above the crowd’s heads.

  “By heaven,” said Hannah, “the innkeeper was right—that man finds more favor here than in his own country!”

  The coach set off again, through gathering crowds. Peter watched Kate looking up at Louis-Philippe, bright-eyed and a little flushed, as he made her giggle with his imitation of the ship’s cook. Peter felt a twinge of an emotion he did not like to put a name to. When he was a boy, had Kate ever looked at him with that expression in her eyes?

  The driver recommended an inn which was barely five minutes’ ride from the harbor. The rooms were clean and comfortable and Kate was helping Hannah unpack their night things when they heard a sharp knock on the door. Kate answered it and found Louis-Philippe standing in the corridor.

  “Have you seen the crowds? We must find out what is going on! Will you join me? It will be more diverting than sitting in our rooms.”

  He held out his hand, and when Kate took it, he pulled her out of the doorway toward the window, which overlooked the street. It was true, hundreds of people were lining the streets.

  “What do you say?”

  “I’d like to … but I should check that it’s all right with Hannah or Joshua first….”

  Louis-Philippe put his head on one side and smiled his irresistible smile.

  “Do you really need to ask permission to go outside? We won’t be long….”

  SIXTEEN

  THE SCENT OF BLOOD

  In which Kate and Louis-Philippe meet a fugitive from Paris and Peter loses his temper

  Holding her hand tightly so that they did not become separated, Louis-Philippe pulled Kate through the drenched crowds in the direction of the town square. It was raining heavily, and Kate was only wearing her dress, the hem of which became quickly soiled with mud.

  “Please slow down!” she panted, but soon Louis-Philippe came to a halt in any case, for a wave of cheers had erupted from the crush of people that lined the street as the carriage carrying Thomas Paine drove past.

  “What is everyone shouting?” cried Kate.

  “ ‘Long live Thomas Paine! Long live the French nation!’ ” Louis-Philippe shouted back.

  The crowd pushed forward and they were swept along behind the carriage as it bumped and vibrated over the potholes toward the town hall. Kate was by now soaked to the skin and could see nothing but a sea of heads as they hurried blindly on. Presently the carriage came to a halt and a hush fell on the crowd. She could hear raindrops pattering onto the roof of the carriage.

  Kate could see little, even on tiptoes, but she heard a strong and resounding voice echo around the square, although she did not understand a word.

  “It’s the mayor of Calais,” said Louis-Philippe helpfully. “He’s making a welcoming speech….”

  He looked back up at the mayor, but Kate tapped him on the arm. “I think I should go now—Hannah will be wondering where I am….”

  Suddenly the crowd roared and drowned out Kate’s words. People next to them were clapping enthusiastically and there were more cries of “Vive Thomas Paine!”

  “He’s been elected to represent Calais at the National Convention!” said Louis-Philippe. “An Englishman! And the fellow can’t even speak French!”

  The rain trickled down Kate’s neck and the thought kept coming to her that she was standing next to an aristocrat in a crowd of people who supported the revolution—even if he was wearing a tricolor cockade in his hat. She felt increasingly uneasy. Did Louis-Philippe enjoy taking risks?

  “I’d really like to go now, please,” she said.

  Although Louis-Philippe appeared to be interested in what was going on, Kate was relieved that he only delayed for a few moments before shepherding her out of the crowd. They started to head back toward the inn and had soon left the square behind.

  “What if someone had recognized you?” asked Kate.

  “But I’m in disguise!” he answered, indicating his outfit. “Who would recognize me in clothes such as these? Besides, I don’t know anyone in Calais.”

  “Weren’t you scared in the middle of that crowd?” asked Kate.

  “I am Louis-Philippe de Montfaron. I refuse to fear them. If I fear them they have already won!”

  Kate looked up at Louis-Philippe and she suddenly sensed that, underneath his bravado, scared was precisely what he was. Had he stood in the middle of the crowd just to show that he could? She did not mind admitting how frightened she had been, but then, Kate did not belong to a noble family on the verge of losing everything, and she, unlike Louis-Philippe, did not have anything to prove.

  They walked on. They had just turned a corner when, without warning, Louis-Philippe ducked behind Kate, then dived into a doorway and crouched down as low as he could.

  “Hide me!” he said in an urgent whisper.

  Kate stood in front of the doorway and pretended to have something in her eye while she scanned her surroundings to see what—or who—had so alarmed her companion. They found themselves in a narrow, cobbled street, rather run-down and lined with tall terraced houses. It was deserted apart from a mangy cat drinking from a puddle and an old woman sitting on her doorstep, a shawl pulled over her head against the rain. The gutters stank. Coming toward them, she saw a man approaching at a fast pace. There was something aggressive in his demeanor. He was searching for someone. His sandy-colored mustache was even bushier than their coach driver’s had been, and he wore long, red-and-white-striped trousers that came down to his ankles. A cockade was pinned to the soft red cap which covered his hair, and he wore a sleeveless jacket. It was like a uniform, Kate thought, although she was certain he wasn’t a soldier. As the man grew nearer she saw him peer down every alley and into every doorway. Kate felt Louis-Philippe pulling out the hem of her dress to conceal himself better. When the man reached Kate, she stood her ground and refused to budge and stubbornly rubbed her eye. She was so frightened she forgot to breathe. He paused for a brief moment and scowled at her. For a moment she fe
ared he was going to push her out of the way but then he moved on, staring at her as he did so with piercing, pale eyes, as if committing her appearance to memory.

  “He’s gone,” she said, when he had finally disappeared from view.

  “A thousand thanks!” said Louis-Philippe, standing up and stretching out his cramped legs. “I know that foul fellow, and more to the point, he knows me. He’s called Sorel. He married a woman who works on our estate. When the troubles started he joined the sans-culottes—the revolutionaries—in Paris. They pulled down the old prison, the Bastille, stone by stone, and I remember he brought back a piece of it to break up and sell as souvenirs.”

  Louis-Philippe stood immobile, and Kate couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “Come on,” she said, taking his arm. “It’s not safe here—let’s get back to the inn.”

  They had barely set off when a door creaked opened ahead of them and a woman peeped timidly out into the street. She spotted them immediately and darted back inside like a creature into its burrow. Presently one eye reappeared and a fragile, dark-haired figure stepped out uncertainly into the street.

  “De Montfaron?” Kate heard her say. When Louis-Philippe nodded, she broke down in tears of relief, and spoke rapidly, without pausing for breath, making great, sweeping gestures with her expressive hands.

  “What is she saying?” asked Kate after a while.

  “That she was a personal maid in the royal household. That she had often seen my mother at the Court of Versailles before the revolution and that she recognizes me, too. She says that no one who had ever seen the Marquise de Montfaron could ever doubt that I am her son….”

  “And why is she so upset?”

  The woman’s large, dark eyes flitted between the two of them while Louis-Philippe translated.

  “She went into hiding after the King and Queen surrendered to the Assembly in August. She is intent on fleeing to England but was denounced as an anti-revolutionary by a woman who traveled in the same coach. That man—Sorel—has been trailing her since Béthune. Will you help me get her to the Dover packet? I fear she is a little hysterical. If we go now, the crowd will be busy listening to the mayor.”

  A part of Kate wanted to say that they should return to the inn to tell the others what they planned to do. But how could she? They might miss their opportunity to get the poor woman to the ship. All the same, Hannah would be so worried…. Suddenly Louis-Philippe turned to her.

  “You are not like other girls. All the young ladies of my acquaintance would already have scampered back to the inn, weeping about the mud on their skirts.”

  Kate could certainly not ask to go back now, so she replied: “I’m glad you think I’ve got bottom!” and blushed when she realized what she had said.

  They frog-marched the woman between them as fast as they could through the streets of Calais toward the harbor. The woman talked ceaselessly, and in great bursts, of what she had witnessed, as if, like lancing an abscess, she needed to find a way of getting rid of the poison that had been building up inside her. At first Louis-Philippe tried to translate for Kate, but after a while he slowed down and finally stopped. Kate was glad of it, for the images the woman conjured up were the stuff of nightmares and gripped their imaginations so tightly that the damp, gray streets of Calais began to seem unreal.

  By the time they reached the harbor, Kate understood that the woman had been in the Tuileries Palace on that fateful day in August when the royal family had decided they had no option but to surrender themselves to the Revolutionary government. Fearing to go with them, the terrified maid had hid in the palace, wedging herself on top of a tall wardrobe in one of the children’s bedrooms. From this elevated position she had a view, through a gap in the shutters, of the Swiss Guard defending the palace. She saw hundreds of the rampaging mob mown down by the artillery. Their broken, bloodied bodies littered the courtyard in front of the palace. But worse was to come. Gradually, she heard fewer and fewer shots as the artillery’s ammunition became depleted, and then she heard them barricade themselves inside the palace. It was useless. Soon the rabble broke through, and the soldiers were overwhelmed by waves of men who, having trodden over the corpses of their friends, now waged a frenzied attack on their killers. The maid had clamped her hands to her ears but was unable to blot out the agonized screams as the Swiss Guards below were ripped apart with as little mercy as they had shown in their turn. Afterward, for what seemed like an eternity, she had been forced to listen to the mob search the palace, room by room, looking for new victims. Her heart beat so fast she thought her chest would explode. She started at every creak, at every footstep. When she heard the bedroom doorknob turn and the hinges whine open, her terror was so great she passed out. And when her eyes opened again, the first thing she saw, through the gap in the blinds, was the severed head and entrails of a man alive and whole but an hour before, now paraded about on a pike in the courtyard to the rousing cheers of those who fought for the rights and freedoms of man.

  What she remembered most, she said, was the scent of blood. The smell permeated her clothes, her skin, her hair—and no matter how much she washed, the smell would not leave her…. She sniffed her hand and then proffered it for Kate to smell.

  “She wants to know if you can smell blood,” said Louis-Philippe.

  Kate looked sadly at the woman and shook her head.

  “Please don’t translate anymore,” said Kate. “I don’t think I can take it.”

  Soon, the Dover packet was in sight. Compared to how it had been when they had disembarked, Calais harbor was almost deserted. It was windy outside the protection of the town, and in her wet clothes, Kate was chilled to the bone. Still the woman talked, her words tumbling out in a constant stream. Louis-Philippe came to an abrupt halt.

  “La Princesse de Lamballe!” he exclaimed. He put his hands to his mouth and stood, swaying slightly, on the edge of the quayside. Kate thought he was going to be sick.

  “Sssh!” Kate said to the woman and put her finger to her lips. “S’il vous plaî;t! Stop now! No more! … Are you okay, Louis-Philippe?”

  Kate pulled him back from the edge and he turned to look at her.

  “She was our friend…. Was it her fault she was born into that elevated rank?”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was dragged through the streets and …” Louis-Philippe shook his head vigorously and refused to complete his sentence.

  “Once, when I was small, she held me under a fountain at Versailles to cool me down. It was like a thousand rainbows….”

  The sound of galloping horses of which Kate had been vaguely conscious suddenly grew loud enough to cause her to turn around. They all saw a coach hurtling toward them. The woman let out a bloodcurdling scream as it drew to a halt and a tall man, wearing a furious expression and a tricolor cockade on his hat, jumped out next to them. At the same moment that Kate cried “Joshua!” the woman, crazed with fear, and willing to do anything to avoid capture, ran to the quayside and leaped into the choppy water below.

  For a split second, Kate, Peter, and Louis-Philippe all looked at each other, and then, without a word, Peter started to tear at the buttons of his jacket, kicked off his shoes and jumped in after her.

  “I can’t swim!” cried Louis-Philippe.

  “Never mind that,” said Kate. “Tell her to stop struggling! She’s drowning Joshua!”

  Louis-Philippe did as he was asked, but if the woman heard him, it did no good. She thrashed about in the waves, her skirts billowing in the water like a giant jellyfish. She kept pushing Peter’s head below water, though whether this was from panic or fear of his intentions, it was difficult to say. Kate ran, screaming and pointing, over to the Dover packet and alerted a sailor to what was happening. He rushed over with a grappling hook, and with everyone’s help they managed to heave the sodden pair onto dry land once more. Kate held the woman’s hand as the sailor carried her, now limp as a rag doll, onto the Dover packet. Then Kate s
printed back to see how Joshua was faring.

  He lay on the cobblestones, spewing up seawater and trying to get his breath back. After he had recovered a little, his eyes met those of Louis-Philippe. Peter pushed himself up on his elbows. Even a dip in the freezing waters of the Channel had not cooled Peter’s anger.

  “If you choose to put your own life at risk, sir, that is your affair, but do not drag an innocent young girl along with you on your reckless adventures! You are irresponsible and rash, and I forbid you to see Mistress Kate again!”

  “Joshua!” said Kate, aghast, not knowing what else to say. She glanced over at Louis-Philippe, whose expression displayed, in rapid succession, surprise, distress, a sense of injustice, and finally anger.

  “You are not my father, sir! Nor, indeed, Mistress Kate’s!” And with that, Louis-Philippe turned on his heels and walked smartly away from them toward the town.

  “Louis-Philippe!” cried Kate. “Come back! It’s dangerous!”

  “Do not be anxious on his account,” said Peter, shivering uncontrollably as the strong wind bit into him. “The young gentleman can clearly look after himself—if not those in his care. And I am disappointed that you, Mistress Kate, could be so thoughtless as to accompany Louis-Philippe without leaving word where you had gone. We were all beginning to fear the worst….”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE QUEEN’S BALCONY

  In which the Tar Man displays his talents and Inspector Wheeler becomes obsessed with a new master criminal

  A fine drizzle fell silently onto London’s Pall Mall. Scene of innumerable royal processions, the broad, tree-lined avenue, with its flagstaffs and its pinkish tarmac, resembled a vast red carpet leading to the gates of Buckingham Palace. Pall Mall culminates in a roundabout at the center of which is set, rather incongruously, the large and imposing Victoria Monument. Black cabs and diplomats’ cars constantly whizz around it, and it has long been a popular vantage point at times of national celebration, when people clamber over it and hang off the statuary. Today, however, was an ordinary working day in mid-winter. Victory, represented by a golden angel at the top of the monument, pointed, as usual, toward the heavens, her magnificent wings dazzling against the leaden sky. Halfway down the monument, carved out of white marble and with the royal orb and scepter on her lap, Queen Victoria surveyed the damp tourists arriving to see the sights. Looking up at her from the steps below stood a burly man. His cashmere coat was sprinkled with droplets of moisture like morning turf with dew.