MV02 Death Wears a Crown (2 page)

“Perhaps, but I am required to try, in any case.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “How will I explain to Berthier if I have nothing to report?”

“I will explain it to Berthier,” said Victoire in a tone there was no disputing. “And he will listen to me.”

“Now there’s a threat that will shake him,” said Vernet with fondness. He was more cautious of Napoleon’s right-hand man than Victoire was, for she had crossed wits with him on more than one occasion and come out the winner.

“I doubt it,” she answered, and gave him an affectionate shove in the arm. “Well, I suppose I cannot convince you that I will be safe in your company; be about your duty, then.”

He put his arms around her. “Have a care while I am gone,” he said, and kissed her with a mixture of affection and passion.

When she moved free of his arms she made a gesture of impatience. “I am staying here so that you will not worry for me. Therefore, do not worry.”

He grinned. “All right.”

“And since I can’t go with you, tell me everything—everything!—when you get back.” This last order was given with a smile, but Vernet saluted smartly.

“Oui, ma Colonelle,” he said, using the nick-name he had come to use for her.

She gestured toward the door, watching him as he reluctantly left her to arrange for the laundress to wash their clothes.

* * *

The quay was largely deserted, for most of the local ships had been out after fish since dawn. On the other side of the quay a half-dozen lobster boats waited, secured to stanchions with fore-and-aft painters. On this side most of the fishing craft were out in the North Sea. The two remaining boats tied to the quay showed signs of age and damage. Aboard one, a lean, salt-hardened man labored to replace the boom of his mainsail. He swore with vigor and variety as he worked, which covered the sound of Vernet’s approach.

“Good afternoon, my good fisherman,” he said, trying to sound friendly in spite of his uniform, for the fishermen of this region were as apt to curse a soldier as help him.

The man stopped his work, straightened up, and glowered in Vernet’s general direction as he shaded his eyes with his big, hard hand. “If you say it is,” he grumbled.

“I say that it might become so, if you will hear me out,” said Vernet, who had learned in the last two hours that he had to offer these taciturn fishermen good reason to speak to him. He took a gold coin from his wallet as if it meant little to him, though in fact he could not easily spare such a sum. “I am Inspector-General Lucien Vernet, of the Gendarme Nationale. If you have the information I seek, the afternoon might well be profitable for you.”

This caught the fisherman’s attention and he left off his task. “What might your interest be, then?” he asked, moving carefully nearer the quay.

“I am investigating a landing here, a night landing from England. Not one of the usual landings, something else.” Vernet said it directly and without any hint of condemnation. He had made that mistake with the first man he approached and had been greeted with stony silence for his trouble. “It is important that we learn if English soldiers have been sent ashore.”

“English soldiers?” the fisherman asked with greater interest and feigned ignorance. “What would English soldiers be doing in France?”

“They might well be planning to sink the fleet we are gathering, or so it is feared,” said Vernet, knowing that although the fisherman might dislike men in uniform, he would hate the English and anyone who damaged ships.

“Ah!” said the fisherman, and stared off in the direction of the bow of his craft. “English soldiers.”

“And French Aristos,” added Vernet with emphasis. “Who want to bring down Napoleon and—”

“That’s nothing to me. All of them collect taxes, my fine soldier-boy, and taxes are what matter to men like me.” He pulled at his grizzled chin, where a two-day stubble grew. “English. English,” he mused.

“That’s right,” said Vernet, holding up the gold coin again. “There is a rumor,” said the fisherman at last as he made up his mind. “Mind you, it’s only a rumor, but this morning I heard it from the lobstermen as they came in from the night. They go to their traps at night, many of them.”

And they exchange more than lobsters, thought Vernet, keeping this to himself. “What is their rumor?”

“Well, they said there was a sloop come in above Malo-les-Bains and below De Panne. I can’t swear there was one because I didn’t see it, but three lobstermen swore to it, and they’re not ones to make up stories.” He folded his arms. “That’s the rumor, and you may make of it what you will.”

“Who would know if the sloop was English?” Vernet persisted, the gold coin still visible.

The fisherman pursed his lips. “You might try the Père Antoine. He holds Mass at midnight for the lobstermen. He might have seen something. His church is over there, Saint-Pierre-le-Roc. You talk to him.” He lifted his chin. “Is that worth anything to you?”

“We shall see,” said Vernet as he tossed him a coin, wondering as he did how he would explain it to Victoire, for they were running short of money already.

* * *

Vernet paused outside the ancient church. Something felt wrong. He wasn’t sure what, but after so many years on campaign, the Inspector-General had learned to trust his instincts. Perhaps he should have followed the example of the other four Inspector-Generals and traveled about with a full patrol in attendance. Then it was hardly likely anyone would speak to him if he had.

Cautiously Vernet moved into the shadows of a nearby wineseller’s booth on the far side of the small square and directly across from the church. The proprietor stared at the gold braid and Gendarme uniform of his visitor after assuring Vernet that he had paid his taxes and was a loyal Buonapartist; he was silenced by an abrupt gesture.

A short while later Vernet was able to determine what bothered him: three men stood at separate sides of the square, exchanging covert glances. All were tough-looking, dressed poorly for this prosperous fishing port.

Several minutes passed and at the nod of the largest, all three entered the church. Vernet was certain they were not going to worship.

When they did not emerge immediately Vernet decided to get closer and discover what they were about. This was the first sign of anything unusual he had seen in Dunkerque; he had to investigate for that reason alone.

Moving slowly, Vernet kept his hand on his pistol as he approached the church’s large wooden doors. He was less than a dozen steps away when they crashed open and the three men came rushing out, each holding one of the golden vessels from the altar.

Bellowing his rage and brandishing a long brass candlesnuffer, a red-faced man in clerical robes ran a dozen steps behind them.

Vernet drew his pistol and fired at the closest thief, only seeing the long dagger the man was carrying as he did. The steel blade had been extended like a rapier to wound Vernet. But the ball struck home and the dagger clattered to the paving stones a few paces away as the man crumpled.

The other two thieves pulled to an abrupt stop at the sound of the shot. The presence of the impressively uniformed Gendarme officer was not part of their plan. The priest quickly dispatched the closest of the brigands with a sharp blow to the head with the candlesnuffer.

Caught between the two threats, the third thief turned and ran along the front of the church and disappeared down its side. Vernet hurried after him, only to find the man had run into a cul-de-sac. The back of the alley was blocked by a story-high wall.

The thief spun in panic and slashed out with the short fisherman’s knife; it was a nasty blade, curved, commonly used for gutting and scaling fish. Fortunately Vernet was too far away and the blow passed harmlessly in front of him. In the man’s other hand was the gem-encrusted gold chalice from the altar, worth more than the thief could earn in a lifetime; he was dressed in a tattered and stained shirt and pants such as were used in the white uniform of the Guard Nationale. Vernet reckoned this man was a deserter and so doubly desperate to escape from a member of the Gendarmes: the punishment for desertion was hanging.

They paused for a moment, Vernet with his sword raised and the thief looking desperately for escape.

“Surrender,” Vernet ordered. His sword had more than a foot of advantage in reach over the dagger.

The thief seemed to realize this and his hands sagged. Both men started to relax and Vernet was already forming the question he would ask when without warning the deserter threw the chalice at his face.

Taken off-guard, Vernet staggered back, fumbling with his free hand to catch the sacred vessel before it struck the paving stones.

Seeing his chance the thief tried to rush past, switching the knife to his left hand and swinging the blade to force Vernet further back as he passed. Vernet fell against the weathered stone wall of the church and brought his sword around in a rapid slash intended to strike a glancing blow to his opponent’s chest; the thief’s own desperate rush drove the edge deeply into his neck, partially severing his head. The man dropped, twitching.

Irrationally, all Vernet could think of as he retrieved the chalice was to avoid getting any blood on his uniform or Victoire would have a difficult time cleaning it.

By the time the city watch had arrived, Vernet had returned the chalice and the priest had given absolution to the last of the thieves. The blow from the thick brass pole, or his fall to the paving stones, had cracked the skull of the man the priest had struck.

The local corporal’s outrage over the slaughter in his street gave way to careful respect when he recognized the uniform of an Inspector-General. He was even more grateful when Vernet allowed him and his patrol to take credit for stopping the theft. It was not that Vernet cared whether anyone in Paris heard of this exploit, but Victoire would worry if she learned of his encounter. Miraculously his uniform, the last of his good ones, was neither cut nor stained.

To Vernet’s frustration the watch knew all three men, local brigands whom they had long sought. But the priest was most effusive in his thanks and so was more than willing to answer the Inspector-General’s questions.

* * *

“And that is all you have learned in three days?” Victoire said in surprise as they dawdled over their luncheon. Vernet seemed more excited than the information he had gathered warranted, but she said nothing.

“The priest was the most helpful—I’ll give that fisherman his due,” Vernet continued, unaware that he was fiddling with his wine cup. “Père Antoine said that he had seen muffled lamps out to sea at two in the morning, east of where the lobstermen lay their traps.” He had a bit more of the lamb after he had offered it to Victoire. “I tried all yesterday to find someone who could tell me more than the priest, but either they do not know or they will not tell. One of the lobstermen threatened to set his crew on me if I did not leave them alone.”

“Gracious,” said Victoire with more indignation than astonishment. “What did you do to them?”

“I reminded them that there were penalties for aiding the enemy, and that made them hesitate, as you may well imagine.” He cut his meat carefully, looking around the small dining room of the Garçon Rouge as he did to see if any of the other four occupants were listening to him.

“And then?” she demanded.

“And then I said that they might be rewarded if they had useful information. They had nothing to tell me.” He looked at the bread, and cut one more slice for himself. “I will speak to a few more of them, but I suppose I have learned all that I am going to learn already.” He stared toward the window where the sunlight caressed a small garden. “It troubles me that there has been only the one landing.”

“That you have discovered,” Victoire amended.

“True enough,” said Vernet. “But if there had been more, if there had been English soldiers about ... Père Antoine must have said something. He is for Napoleon and does not want to see another king in France.” He smiled a little. “For an old man—he must be fifty-five at the least—he has very forward-looking ideas. But he tells me that half the people hereabouts would just as soon have the king again as Napoleon,” he scoffed. “They are ignorant.”

“Then you must hope that Père Antoine will help them to learn better,” said Victoire at her most soothing.

“At least they trust him enough to tell him of ... odd events,” said Vernet, a displeased frown in his eyes.

“And he has heard nothing of strangers in the area?” asked Victoire thoughtfully.

“So he says,” Vernet answered. “If they are hidden, they have excellent protection. But that would mean they are not able to move about, which seems to defeat their purpose.”

“And what purpose is that?” Victoire turned her acute blue eyes on her husband and had more of the lettuce cooked with vinegar.

“To spy on the fleet, or damage it. Or to disrupt the negotiations.” Vernet spoke firmly, but managed to keep his voice down.

“Are you certain of that?” She did not give him a chance to answer. “Two days ago I might have said the same thing myself but now I am not so sure.”

“But of course that is their purpose. Think, my love. They landed here, near the border of the Lowlands.” He leaned forward, his handsome features intent.

For once Victoire was not distracted by his arresting good looks. “And that, too, is odd, when you think of it,” she murmured.

“How do you mean?” he asked. “What else could it be?”

“That is the heart of it. We have been expecting the enemy to do what it is convenient for us that they do, and that may be a mistake.” Victoire had another bite of the baked apple that accompanied the lamb. “I find this very puzzling,” she admitted. “Very, very puzzling.”

“Why?” asked Vernet, knowing his wife was more clever than most. “What puzzles you?”

“Well,” she said slowly, and paused for another sip of the red wine that was served with the meal, “I cannot help but suppose that we are wrong in our thinking.”

“How wrong?” Vernet inquired, watching her with fascination. “What is wrong?”

She did not answer at once, and when she did, she sounded distant. “It bothers me that they chose to land here. The border with Holland is near, true, but ... but so is the road to Paris. What if the English are not here to compromise the negotiations or to destroy the fleet? What if they have other mischief in mind?”