Another Small Kingdom (31 page)

Chapter Sixty-seven

T
he great doors of the fortress Palazzo closed behind them and they walked away in the afternoon sunshine without noticing its heat, full of thoughts of success and joy.

‘Now, Jean, all that we must do is decide to whom we should sell our list of names.'

Macleod stopped dead.

‘Sell!'

Marie paused and looked at him in surprise.

‘But of course. After so much trouble, so much great danger, it is only right that we must be rewarded.' She resumed walking. ‘But who is it that will reward us best?'

Macleod caught up with her.

‘But, Marie, this list must go to the American Government. I have explained, have I not, that my duty …'

Marie caught his arm and laughed.

‘I know, Jean. I am happy, so I tease you. Forgive me.'

Macleod pulled her arm through his.

‘Of course.'

They were about to cross the street but waited because a closed carriage was coming quickly towards them. They both stood back to allow it to pass by.

But it did not pass. It stopped in front of them and the door opened. Inside they saw a man holding a pistol. The pistol was pointing at Marie.

Count Brutti smiled graciously at them.

‘Please, Mr Macleod, I would be most grateful if you and the lady would get in.'

Marie turned to Macleod in alarm.

‘Who is it, Jean?'

‘It is someone I met in Rome who calls himself Count Brutti. He says he writes political pamphlets.'

‘But, Jean, I don't understand.'

‘No, but I think I'm beginning to, my dear.'

The Count nodded at his pistol.

‘Please, I do not wish to use this but be quite sure that I will if you force me. My driver, if you care to look, also has a pistol. I think you should both do as I say.'

Macleod looked at the driver and saw the business end of a pistol pointing down at him from under his cloak.

‘We must do as he says, Marie. Please get in.'

Marie did as he asked and was followed into the carriage by Macleod. Brutti pulled the door shut and the carriage moved off. Sitting opposite Count Brutti was another man. He also had a pistol.

‘You see, Mr Macleod, I do not take chances, but I assure you that if you both give me your fullest co-operation, neither of you will come to any harm.'

‘Where are you taking us?'

‘All in good time, Mr Macleod, all in good time.'

And the closed coach moved off and gathered speed.

Chapter Sixty-eight

C
ount Brutti's voice echoed around the great, empty and thoroughly forbidding room.

‘As you can see from the iron grilles outside the windows and the solidity of the doors, the rooms of this palazzo, now alas so empty, once housed considerable wealth. But times change and one must make the best of what one has. What was designed to keep intruders out now serves just as well to ensure that as my guests, however unwilling, you will remain.'

‘You cannot keep us prisoners here.'

‘But why not, Mr Macleod? No one saw you arrive, that is to say, no one who would be foolish enough to make public what I choose to do in private. The wealth of my family may be gone and with it, social position, but I still maintain a reputation, although only of a certain kind. I assure you I could keep you both here indefinitely if I chose. Please be sensible and accept the situation in which you find yourselves.' Brutti looked round the large, dilapidated and rather ill-lit room. ‘Below this Palazzo is a windowless pit. There have been those of my family before me who have let people slowly die in that dark place, people who had offended them or their honour. However, let us not become morbid. You have not offended me and I no longer have any honour to defend, nor would there be any profit in letting either of you die slowly in a room of any sort. In so far as my humble home is able to provide, then it is at your service. Here you see you have a table and chairs, rustic perhaps and none too clean, but serviceable. Next door a bed and bedding, only one bed I am afraid, built for humbler circumstances but again serviceable. Over there you will see that I have had your luggage brought from your lodging. I have no servants, not domestic servants that is, so I fear you must serve yourselves as best you can. You will be fed shortly and you will sleep here tonight.'

‘And then?'

‘And then it will be tomorrow and I will return.'

‘You do not live here?'

The Count laughed and his laughter echoed around the faded walls and marble floor.

‘Live here? No, I do not live here. I could say it has too many memories for me. When I told you in the taverna that it was my great-great grandfather who lost the family's wealth, I fear I lied. My father was the gambler and debauchee who managed to run through most of our money. What little he left I soon spent in trying to outdo his folly and wickedness. Yes, I could say it has too many memories, but that also would be a lie. I do not live here because it is too hot in summer and too cold in winter, and the only company are the rats. How they manage not only to survive but thrive is a mystery to me.'

One of the great doors at the end of the room opened and a man came in carrying a wooden tray. He took it to the table then left without speaking or looking at anyone. On the tray was bread, cold meats, cheese, a flagon and two pottery beakers. Count Brutti went to the table and picked up a piece of cheese, took a bite and threw it back onto the wooden plate.

‘Edible. Not what you are used to perhaps, but just about edible. I regret you must use your fingers to eat, but try to think of it as if it were an al fresco entertainment. Let your imaginations suit your surroundings to this simple, peasant fare and it may not seem so bad. Now I must leave you. It has been a busy day and I have other business to attend to. I'm sure you will both forgive me for being such a poor host.'

‘But what of other necessities?'

The Count, who had been about to leave, paused.

‘Other necessities?'

‘We must wash, and …'

‘And?'

‘And there are other necessities.'

‘Ah, I think I see what you mean. As for cleanliness being next to godliness I fear I have left that in His divine hands. The other necessities, as you choose to call them, are provided for by a chamber pot under the bed. And now I really must go. Enjoy your meal and I hope what rest you get will be refreshing, for you will both have a busy day tomorrow.'

The Count turned and his boots echoed round the big empty hall as he left them. The door closed behind him and they heard a key grate in the lock. Then there was silence.

‘Are we truly prisoners, Jean? Is there no way out?'

Macleod went to the door. He turned and pulled at the big brass handle but there was not the slightest movement. He went to the windows. They were closed and he saw no way of opening them. Not that it mattered because, beyond the grimed glass, he could make out the stout iron grilles. He went back to where Marie was standing.

‘We must make the best of it, my love. Here, sit and eat.' He took the flagon and poured some wine into a beaker and held it out to her.

Marie took the beaker.

‘Is there any hope, Jean?'

‘I think if Brutti wanted us dead, we would be dead already.' Macleod sat down and poured himself some wine and then, as much to encourage Marie as to satisfy any hunger he felt, picked up a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. ‘Come, eat. There is always hope.'

He saw from her face that his words were of little comfort but they were the only true ones he had to offer. Marie sat and picked up a piece of cheese and bit into it. Then put it down.

‘But what is it he wants? He has not taken the letter that the Cardinal gave you, no questions have been asked. What is it he wants of us?'

‘We will know when we are told and I'm sure we will be told soon enough.'

Macleod's mind returned to the words of Brutti, that tomorrow they would both have a busy day. He had no idea what that might mean, but he felt now was not the time to explore its meaning with Marie. No, now was definitely not the time.

Chapter Sixty-nine

T
he next thing Macleod knew he was being slowly shaken from side to side by an unseen hand. His head hurt and his mouth felt as if someone had stuffed an old leather glove into it. But most of all he felt an unbearable pressure on his bladder. He opened his eyes. He was sitting in a closed carriage being rocked by its movement.

He saw Marie sitting opposite looking at him. Next to her was Count Brutti. Sitting beside Macleod was a man with cropped hair, close-set eyes, broad shoulders and large, dirty hands. He looked at Macleod and said something to Count Brutti who gave a short reply.

The man next to Macleod opened the window, leaned out, looked around and then called to the driver. The coach came to a halt. The big man opened the door, got out and waited.

‘Please go and relieve yourself, Mr Macleod, I have used the draught before on sufficient occasions to know how much you must feel the need. Guido will keep you company.'

Macleod got out. They were on an empty country road. Macleod walked to the side of the road, unfastened his breeches and let nature take its course. As he did so, and feeling the great sense of relief, he realised that Marie must also, at the side of some other road, have already done as he was doing, even perhaps watched by the evil-looking Guido. A sense of outraged anger gripped him, but outside the coach Guido seemed even larger than he had done inside. Realising any action on his part would be futile he allowed his anger to subside and returned to the coach.

Brutti sat looking at him.

‘The wine you gave us was drugged.'

‘Oh yes. You have both slept for over twenty-four hours. You were quite right, of course, I couldn't keep you at the Palazzo. I had to move you both very quickly, so I told my little story and you drank my wine and now here we all are.'

‘Where are you taking us?'

‘I fear we all have a long and tedious journey before us. We go to Paris. There is a man there whom I serve. He has asked me to deliver you and the letter you carry.' Macleod's hand went to his pocket. The bulge was still there. ‘You see, I have not robbed you. You still carry what the Cardinal gave you. Now, you will both oblige me by listening carefully to what I have to say. I am charged with delivering you and what you carry to Paris. I would wish to do this with you both unharmed, that means I must be sure of your co-operation. I assure you that you will be delivered, although whether in sound health, or damaged, is entirely up to you. Mr Macleod, I do not doubt that you are a brave and resourceful man. To have achieved as much as you have shows me that. But do not confuse bravery with foolhardiness. Guido here could snap you in half with his bare hands. Antonio the driver has already killed four men in my service and Carlo, who sits beside him, is a most unpleasant character and has a rare talent for inflicting pain. If you do not co-operate I will have you killed and give the beautiful Madame de Valois to Carlo. Before he kills her he will enjoy himself with her. She will suffer, I assure you, and not just pain, although there will indeed be much of that.'

Macleod looked at Marie. Her eyes were filled with terror. He knew he had no choice.

‘You will have my cooperation. You have my word. And may your soul rot in eternal hellfire.'

Count Brutti laughed.

‘That much is already assured and I am reconciled to my fate.' The laughter left his voice. ‘Do not doubt me, Mr Macleod, in certain things I do not lie. If your cooperation fails even in the slightest degree,' he looked at Marie, ‘then you will find I can and will be as good as my word.'

Chapter Seventy

L
ord Melford knocked on the door that divided his office from that of Jasper Trent and waited until a voice called him to enter. His manner as he stood and waited for Trent to acknowledge his presence was meant to be respectful without being subservient. Although he had stood in front of a mirror practising, he was not at all sure he had, as yet, perfected what he aimed at. His recent experiences had caused him to modify his views of his superior and he wanted to show Trent that his was a new and improved attitude.

Trent looked up from his reading.

‘Well, Melford? You have something for me?'

‘I have had a report from Count Brutti.'

‘Brutti? What does he say?'

‘He says that an American calling himself Macleod accompanied by a woman posing as his wife arrived in Rome and were asking questions about Cardinal Henry. He says he thinks they are agents of the American Government.'

‘Do you believe him?'

‘I don't disbelieve all that he tells us. He tells us that Macleod and the de Valois woman are in Rome and want to talk to our Cardinal. I believe that.'

‘And why would Brutti want us to know that, do you think?'

‘At the moment I couldn't say, not with any degree of certainty.'

‘Ah, honesty and caution. Am I wrong or have you changed your attitude to our work, Melford?'

‘I think I am beginning to understand a little of what our work is about.'

‘Well, well, humility as well. Your adventures seem to have changed you although I'm not sure it is for the better. I rather valued your thorough selfishness, it made you predictable. I'm not sure I feel so comfortable with this new Melford.' But the new Melford did not rise to the bait. He knew Trent wanted a reaction but he declined to respond. ‘Tell me, what makes you come to the conclusion that you at last understand, even if only a little, of what our work is about?'

‘The business of sending Molly running off to New Orleans then me being sent post-haste to Boston.'

‘And Gregory, don't forget Gregory.'

‘No, indeed, how could anyone forget Gregory?'

‘So what does the business of New Orleans and Boston tell you?'

‘I think it was all a bluff. I think you wanted a show of interest and activity well away from where you were really active.'

‘And where would that be?'

‘How would I know? I was part of a pantomime put on to attract attention. If I was taken, I knew nothing of value, neither did Molly O'Hara.' Trent smiled at him and nodded him to continue. ‘If I had to guess I'd say that you knew very well what our friend in Paris was up to with the Cardinal and, if anything, you approved.'

‘Approved of overthrowing the Government of a neutral State! Well, well, go on.'

‘Fouché's plan would somehow resurrect the Jacobite cause. Henry claims the crown …' Suddenly the truth dawned. ‘By God, Fouché's planning to put Henry on the throne of America.'

‘Bravo, Melford. Maybe you are indeed beginning to understand a little.

‘A puppet king controlled from Paris.'

‘A Stuart king, remember that.'

‘Yes, a Jacobite, but still a eunuch of a king, a Papist priest of a king who will never sire an heir because even if he wasn't too old, he's too pious.'

‘As you say, an old, weak king on an American throne, one without an heir and who cannot get an heir. An unwilling kingdom robbed of its hard won freedom and independence, kept in place by a group of self-serving politicos who, once in power, would soon fall to squabbling. What do you say, Melford, if Fouché got his king of America, would that state of affairs be such a bad thing for Britain?'

‘Perhaps not, but it's a gamble, Trent, with no certainty of outcome. What if you're wrong?'

‘If times changed in the coming years, if troops could be sent to aid the aspirations of a people oppressed by an alien monarch, forced on them by a foreign power, if America found itself with a choice, live under a puppet king or return to the British fold, how long would Henry sit on the throne? It would be just another small kingdom, Melford, created in treachery and no doubt kept alive by force of French troops. Fouché thinks that with a Stuart on a throne, any throne, the Highlands will rise. They won't. He thinks the Jacobite cause will be re-ignited and will force us to commit troops. It's a vain hope. That cause is dead and soon will be buried. It is France who will find it has to commit troops, troops to keep their precious Henry on his throne. Tell me, if I'm right, Melford, how long would such a kingdom last do you think?'

‘Not long, Trent. I would say not long at all.'

‘But it was important that our friend in Paris must not be allowed to think in such a way. He must think his plan is seen as a serious and present danger to the British war effort here in Europe. What better way to confirm his thinking than by the British trying their best to thwart his clever machinations?'

‘And that role was played out by me and Molly O'Hara?'

‘Yes, Madame de Metz's arrival and subsequent disappearance in pursuit of Macleod and de Valois's wife would have given the French very much the impression that we were doing all in our power to frustrate their ambitions. Fortune certainly smiled on you with the arrival of Macleod, unless of course you or Madame de Metz had a hand in that.'

‘No, Macleod dropped to us straight from heaven.'

‘Like manna in the desert?'

‘Very like. And once you heard he'd run off with Madame de Valois no doubt you saw it as yet another piece of divine intervention?'

Trent smirked.

‘Occasionally things do seem to favour one's efforts. I regard such times as just rewards delivered to the deserving.'

‘Once you received Molly's report and knew where they were headed, you sent Gregory and me to Boston to put some plaster icing on your wooden cake. I was sure to blunder, you knew that.'

‘I counted on it, I had every confidence that you would fail me.'

‘And I realise now that I could indeed be counted on. I was brash and inexperienced and too proud to listen or learn. And you knew I would resent being placed in the position of a subordinate to a common whore.'

‘A whore, yes, but not a common one. I dispute common.'

‘I was bound to fail.'

‘As indeed you did. You failed splendidly. I was proud of you.'

‘But as the cautious man you are, you took the extra precaution of having Gregory accompany me. Was Gregory's task to see that nothing might, by some awkward chance, go right?'

Trent shrugged.

‘Luckily he was not needed.'

‘But if he was?'

‘He would have arranged for you and Molly to be taken. You, of course, would tell them all you knew.'

‘I might have resisted.'

Trent let out a loud laugh.

‘If you are to understand, even only a little, of what our work is about, then lose that illusion at once, Melford. In our world no one, when questioned, resists. They may die or go mad but no one, as you call it, resists. As I said, you would tell all you knew, which was exactly what I would have wanted them to hear.'

‘And Molly?'

‘Ah, Molly was a different proposition. She, very sensibly, would have bargained for her life.'

‘With what? She had no more information than I.'

‘No, but she had a letter. A letter I gave to her which was signed by the highest authority in the land. A letter by which she could command any loyal subject of the crown. Of course it was a forgery, good enough if used well away from England, but if it fell into the wrong hands, which I admit I hoped it might, could easily enough be shown to be far from genuine if it were used against us.'

‘And where is that letter now?'

‘She gave it back to me. It bought her life for her. As I said, Molly knew how to bargain.'

There was silence for a moment while Melford digested all he had been told.

‘Was it you who had St Clair killed?'

‘No. Somebody else was responsible for that favour.'

‘Who?'

‘A very clever gentleman whom you had the pleasure of meeting in Boston.'

Melford mentally reviewed his visit to Boston. Only one man came to mind.

‘Bentley?'

‘None other.'

Melford was momentarily stunned.

‘Bentley works for you?'

‘No, not me.'

‘Then who?'

‘For a certain gentleman by the name of John Adams, lately President of America.'

‘So the American Government had St Clair killed?'

‘Technically, no. Adams is a private citizen now. Jefferson is the President at the moment. However, that is beside the point. The actual order to kill St Clair was given by an old military gentleman who has an office in their new capital and he used a very capable agent to carry out the execution, a man name Jones, Jeremiah Jones.'

‘But you said Bentley did it?'

‘In a way he did. In the same way that I tried to prevent Fouché's plan.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘No, you're not meant to, Melford. No one is meant to understand. That's the whole point, don't you see?'

‘No, Trent. Dammit, I don't see.'

‘If I had so arranged things that you could understand, then anyone might understand and Monsieur Fouché would most certainly have understood, and understood a long time ago. If that happened he would have dropped his scheme and directed his considerable energies elsewhere and that may have been at a place where some real and lasting harm might have been done.'

‘So, is Bentley part of this plot of Fouché's?'

‘Yes, in the same way that we all are.'

‘Is he working for or against the American Government?'

‘Neither and both.'

‘But you said …'

But he could not make head nor tail of what Trent had said so he gave up. He had come into the room rather proud that he understood a little more of Trent's business than previously. That pride now lay in ruins. He didn't understand and he never would understand.

‘I'm pleased with you, Melford. You are indeed a changed man from the arrogant semi-imbecile I sent as window dressing to Boston. Sit down and we'll take a drink together.'

‘I don't understand, Trent. Why you are pleased with me?'

Trent stood up and went to a cupboard. Out of it he took a decanter filled with golden liquid and two glass tumblers which he brought to the desk.

‘Because at last you show a small glimmer of promise.' He poured out two drinks and passed one to Lord Melford. ‘When I sent you to Boston I doubted you would come back. Well, you came back and you seem to have made progress, small progress it is true, but progress none the less. As I say, I'm rather pleased with you and when I next see your father I shall tell him so. He thinks of you, I know, as a coward, a waster and a fool. I shall tell him you are no longer quite such a fool.' Trent sat down and raised his glass. ‘Come, Melford, a toast. Confusion to all understanding, long may it prosper, long may it serve.'

Lord Melford raised his glass with little enthusiasm and drank.

‘So, what do we do now?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What about Macleod and the woman?'

‘What about them?'

‘Fouché might have them. If Brutti's taken the trouble to tell us about them then it means he knows they represent no threat.'

Trent shrugged.

‘If he has he's welcome to them, and if they're still free then they are of no importance. Their part in all of this is over. Forget them.'

‘But they went to see Cardinal Henry. What does that mean?'

‘I neither know nor care. The business is over for us and if Fouché has them he may do as he pleases with them.' Trent threw off what was left in his glass. ‘Now, drink up and leave. I have other work to do.'

Jasper Trent watched as Melford finished his drink, rose and left. He was not displeased with the way his dealings in the matter of Cardinal Henry Stuart had turned out. Whether Fouché would manage to bring off his plan he doubted, he doubted it very much. The Americans were indeed divided and there were senior men in America, very senior men, who had played on those divisions for their own ends. But the divisions in the country were not yet sufficient to be in danger of setting them all at each other's throats. That day might well come, Trent felt sure of it, but if it did it was still a long way off. No, Fouché had played a clever game but had overplayed his hand. Still, it had kept him from other things while his powers to harm the Crown were at their height, so it was all to the good. Soon enough he would find other more pressing problems, not least among them the ambitions of Napoleon. And cracks in
that
relationship were already well advanced. Well advanced indeed.