Death at Dawn (19 page)

‘He could hardly blame her.’

‘He will. I suppose you think badly of me, leaving my mother in danger.’

‘I hope she will not be in danger.’

‘I hope so too, with all my heart. But she chose to marry him and she’ll always be unhappy now, whatever happens. Does that mean I must waste my life too?’

‘So you won’t speak to either of them?’

‘No. If I spoke to anybody it might be my grandmother, but …’

‘Perhaps you should.’

I was on the edge of telling her about Mrs Beedle’s behaviour but stopped myself. It wasn’t my secret.

‘No, I’ve made my choice and I choose Philip, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘This Philip, do you know him well?’

I cared enough for her to hope she wasn’t throwing herself away on some worthless man just to escape.

‘Of course I do. A year ago, we were practically engaged to be married.’

‘But your stepfather disapproved?’

‘No, that’s the cruel part of it.’

‘What happened?’

She paused for breath.

‘Philip and I met at Weymouth last summer. Sir Herbert was prescribed sea bathing for pain in his joints, so of course we all had to pack up and go. Philip’s father was there for the bathing too. I think my stepfather approved, as far as he cared at all. It would get me off his hands without having to pay a settlement because Philip’s family are very comfortably situated. They have an estate in Buckinghamshire and Philip will inherit a baronetcy if his uncle dies before he has any children, and the uncle’s sixty-three and a bachelor, so …’

‘So altogether a most suitable match,’ I said.

She looked sharply at me.

‘I wonder why you have such a low opinion of me. The fact is, I love Philip, he adores me and I’d marry him even if he were a pauper.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Only I’m glad he isn’t, of course.’

I believed her, both about that and loving him, which was a relief in its way.

‘When did your stepfather change his mind?’

‘Only in the last month or so.’

‘When Mr Brighton came on the scene?’

She nodded.

‘It would be treason, wouldn’t it?’

She asked the question very softly, looking down at the sketchpad. The paper was damp from her tears.

‘I think so, yes.’

‘And my stepfather’s trying to drag me into it, for his own ambition. So I’ve no choice, you see, no choice at all.’

‘Yes, I see.’

She dried her eyes with her handkerchief and took a deep breath.

‘So now there are just two days and seven hours to live through and I’ll be away with Philip and it will be all over. Only there’s that terrible dinner to get through first. I know they’ll make me sit next to him. I’m glad you’ll be there, at least. I shall be able to look down the table at you and know somebody understands what I’m suffering.’

‘I? At the dinner?’

‘Didn’t Mrs Quivering tell you? You’re to fill a gap in the table. Lady Arlen is
enceinte
again so has cried off the dinner, and that put out the whole table plan because they were a woman short. So my grandmother said you were perfectly ladylike and they could move somebody else up and put you down at the far end. Why are you looking so scared?’

‘He’ll recognise me. He can’t fail to if we’re sitting at the same dinner table.’

My panic was about Lord Kilkeel, but she naturally thought it applied to Mr Brighton.

‘How can he? There are forty people, remember, and you’ll be at the very far end of the table, and by candlelight. The people at the other end won’t even see you.’

I hoped she was right. Mrs Beedle had been clever, seizing the chance to provide her spy with a seat at the
dinner. I might have tried again to persuade Celia to confide in her, but two of the house guests, a gentleman and a lady with a little dog, were approaching from the far side of the terrace.

‘Botheration,’ Celia said. ‘I suppose they’re coming to talk to me.’

She crumpled her damp apology for a sketch and rose from the bench to face them while I slipped away, down the side steps of the terrace and into the back entrance.

Mrs Quivering’s assistant was in the housekeeper’s room, drinking sage tea for her sore throat.

‘There’s a letter come for you, Miss Lock.’

She handed over a coarse grey envelope.

‘When did it arrive?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody delivered it to the stables and a boy brought it over.’

The writing was Amos Legge’s. I went into the corridor and opened the envelope.

If I could, I’d have gone straight to the livery stables to find him, but I was needed back in the schoolroom to superintend the children’s dinner and afternoon walk
in the grounds. With so many visitors in residence, ladies and gentlemen kept stopping us, talking to the children and petting them. It made them over-excited and above themselves, but at least we were spared the ceremony of taking them down before dinner.

‘Lady Mandeville has one of her headaches,’ Betty said.

That saved me from having to invent a headache of my own as an excuse. We took off their best clothes, supervised their washing and tooth brushing and got them into their beds by half past eight. When we’d set the schoolroom straight, I said I needed a walk to clear my head. It was time to keep the appointment with Daniel. The light was fading, the brick walls of the vegetable garden radiating back the heat of the day. The gardeners had gone by then, but they must have watered the plants last thing because warm, damp earth scented the dusk, along with lingering whiffs of carrot, spring onions, bruised tarragon. Pale moths wafted around the bean flowers like flakes of ash blown up from a bonfire and a hedgehog rooted and grunted under the rhubarb leaves. I sat on the edge of the water trough and waited.

‘Liberty.’

Daniel Suter’s voice, from the door in the wall.

‘I’m here.’

He came over to me, practically running, tripping on the gravel path.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘You were right, child. Ye gods, what a situation.’

He sat down beside me, breathing hard. I’d known him all my life, but had never seen him discomposed before.

‘You recognised somebody here who was in Paris?’

‘As you thought, the man they call Mr Brighton.’

My heart jolted, like a salmon trying to leap out of water and flopping back.

‘And you saw the portrait?’ I said.

‘Yes. You’re right. There is a very strong resemblance. But you’d expect that, of course.’

‘My father saw it.
The dregs of their dull race
– I should have guessed.’

‘It wasn’t only your father who saw. They were flaunting it. They were a laughing-stock among the Parisians. The very waiters would bow to him in jest, only he took it in deadly earnest.’

‘Tell me, please, everything that happened in Paris.’

‘There’s not so very much to tell. It all happened over just two days and nights.’

‘Everything you can remember.’

He took a deep breath.

‘It was pure good luck meeting your father in Paris. He inquired at a few hotels where he knew I’d stayed in the past and found me. And, as chance would have it, half a dozen of our mutual friends were there, musicians mostly and …’

‘And?’

‘Lodge brothers. We spent the afternoon in each other’s company, talking about all the things you talk about when you haven’t seen your friends for months. Your
father was in excellent spirits, money in his pocket, looking forward to reaching home and being with you.’

‘He said so?’

‘He certainly did. We talked a lot about you. We all had dinner together and your father asked if there was anywhere we might have a hand or two of cards, simply for amusement.’

‘I know. Money never stayed in his pockets for very long.’

‘This time he was determined it should. We went to a place I knew, off the Champs Élysées. He did not intend to play for high stakes, but …’

‘He won a horse.’

‘Indeed he did, from some old marquis who’d won her off somebody else and didn’t know what to do with her. But how did you know that?’

‘From the same person who told me you were together in Paris. So how does Mr Brighton come into the story?’

‘The table next to ours were playing high. There were about half a dozen of them, all English. They were already there when our party arrived and they’d been drinking heavily. Mr Brighton was totally drunk and kept yelling out remarks in that terrible high bray of his. It was a small place and the tables were too close together. At one point, Mr Brighton pushed his chair back suddenly and sent your father’s tokens scattering all over the floor.’

‘Did my father resent it?’

‘No. He had too much good sense to quarrel with a
man in drink. We all picked the tokens up and went on playing. It happened a second time and we did the same thing. By the third time, it was obvious that the fool was doing it deliberately. I said something, fairly mild in the circumstances, about taking more care. Mr Brighton went as red as a turkey cock’s wattles. He pulled himself as near upright as he could get and said, “Do you know whom you’re speaking to, sir?” Spraying spittle all over me in the process. So, “A clumsy buffoon, so it would appear, sir,” I said. I will admit it was not the most politic speech, but I was annoyed by then. A man they called Trumper …’

‘A fair-haired country squire kind of man?’

‘Yes, the very same oaf who tried to carry you off. Anyway, he seemed to realise that his friend was making an ass of himself and took him into a side room, where I assume they continued to play. By then the evening had been spoiled for us, so we finished our hand and left.’

‘And nothing was said about a duel?’

‘Good heavens, no. It had been an unpleasant few minutes, that’s all. Nobody thought of duelling. We went to supper and stayed up late over our pipes and our punch talking of this and that. And there it might have ended if we hadn’t been joined by some Frenchmen your father knew. My French is nowhere near as good as his and they were talking away nineteen to the dozen. Something they said seemed to amuse your father mightily so we asked him to translate so that we could all share the joke …’

He hesitated. A barn owl flew over the garden, just a few feet higher than the walls. From further off, a fox barked.

‘I can remember all of it,’ Daniel said. ‘All of the words, that is. Only the tune of it will be wrong, if you understand me. It was still a joke to us then, you see.’

‘Please, every word.’

‘Your father turned to me, pulling a long face. “Daniel,” he said, “you are in very serious trouble. In fact, you will be lucky to escape with your head. Have you any notion of the identity of our spluttering young friend whom you so grossly insulted?” Well, by then we were near the bottom of the punch bowl and we all began imitating the young ass’s bray, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, sir?” Your father sat watching us, grinning over his pipe, until we became tired of it and silence fell. “Well, Daniel,” he said, “my Parisian friends here tell me it is an open secret. He goes by the
nom de guerre
of Mr Brighton, but his identity is well known to every pawn shop and gambling hell in this fair city. Young Mr Brighton is none other than …” Then he couldn’t go on for laughing. I played the farce out, pretending to tremble, knees knocking. “Don’t keep me in suspense, old friend,” I said. “Who is this gentleman to whom my humble head is forfeit?” And your father, just managing to get the words out between gusts of laughter, replied: “Only the rightful heir to the throne of England, that’s all.”’

‘You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Daniel said. ‘Only I’ve no notion how you did.’ His voice was sad at all that laughter gone sour.

‘Sir Herbert’s desperate to marry him into the family,’ I said. ‘His daughter’s too young, so his stepdaughter has to do, poor thing. She came very near to telling me. Then there was the portrait. As soon as I saw Brighton, he reminded me of somebody. But why should it be poor Princess Charlotte?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you remember when the princess died?’

‘Of course not. I was only two years old.’

He sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how young you are, or perhaps how old I am. I do remember. I was in my last year at school.’ Another sigh.

‘You were sorry?’

‘I had no more strong feelings about the deaths of princesses than I have now. But she’d been popular and people mourned her. Then later there were some ugly rumours going round, so ugly that I’m sorry to have to repeat them. You’re cold?’

I must have shivered.

‘The child Henrietta said she was poisoned.’

He took his jacket off and draped it round my shoulders, in spite of my protests. It smelled comfortingly of violin resin and candlewax.

‘Yes, that was part of it. Charlotte was a healthy young woman, you see, with the very best of medical attention. She and the baby should not have died.’

‘But women do die in childbirth, even healthy ones,’ I said.

‘So they do. But some years later rumours started that she and her baby had both been poisoned just after the birth.’

‘Why would anybody do such a terrible thing?’

‘She was Queen Caroline’s daughter. In some people’s opinion, Caroline was well nigh a lunatic, certainly an adulteress. Certain distinguished persons at court were said to be determined that neither her daughter nor her grandson should ever come to the throne.’

‘But to kill a baby! It’s like something from the Middle Ages.’

‘Royalty
is
something from the Middle Ages.’

‘Did many people believe it?’

‘It was a persistent rumour, helped by another unfortunate fact.’

‘What?’

‘A few months after Charlotte and her baby son died, the gentleman who’d had charge of the birth, her
accoucheur
, shot himself.’

‘In remorse for killing her?’

‘No, there was no suggestion of that, even in the rumours. But he was an honourable man and, so it’s said, blamed himself for not foreseeing the plot and preventing their deaths.’

‘Daniel, do you believe this?’

‘No. I believe their deaths were sheer misfortune. But it seems some people, including Sir Herbert Mandeville, are determined to revive the rumour – with one essential difference.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Child, you’ve come so far. Can you not see it for yourself?’

I didn’t want to think. I’d thought enough and every time it seemed to have made things worse. We sat for a long while in silence. The day’s warmth had faded from the brick wall behind us and Daniel must have been cold in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, but he gave no sign of it.

‘Well, Liberty?’

‘The baby didn’t die after all. Charlotte died, but her baby didn’t.’

‘And was spirited away by Charlotte’s friends and
brought up safely on the Continent, until the time came to claim what was rightfully his. Yes?’

‘No!’

‘I agree with you. It’s a fairy tale, a horrible, warped fairy tale. And yet it’s what Sir Herbert and Trumper and all the other greedy fools think they can get the country to believe. I’m sorry, Liberty. I’m ranting. But their idiocy has killed your father and could do so much other damage.’

He was trembling now, from anger not cold.

‘But why are they doing it?’ I said.

‘Why do men do most things? Money and power. Sir Herbert and his like have been running the country since the Conqueror. Now they’re beginning to see some of their power stripped away, and it maddens them. When they knew the poor buffoon William was dying and there’d be a mere child on the throne – a girl child at that – they decided to take their chance. Put in another king, one beholden to them, and no more nonsense about reform.’

‘But even if he were Princess Charlotte’s son, why should they suppose people would support him rather than little Vicky? He is hardly Bonnie Prince Charlie, is he?’

Daniel laughed bitterly.

‘So-called Bonnie Prince Charlie was a fat, red-faced, drink-sodden wreck, yet men died for him fewer than a hundred years ago.’

‘And my father died because of Mr Brighton?’

‘Yes. I can’t see any other explanation. He must have threatened their plans in some way.’

‘But how could he? You said it was an open secret in Paris in any case.’

‘As a joke, yes.’

‘But he thought it was all a joke too. He said so in his letter. And my father wasn’t important, not in that way. He couldn’t have made any difference.’

‘It puzzles me, I admit. But he must have known something, otherwise why should they have tried to kidnap you?’

‘It was a woman they wanted to know about. Daniel, do please think. There must have been a woman somewhere, those last days in Paris.’

He shook his head.

‘I can’t remember him speaking to a woman at all, except the maids at the hotel. And …’

He hesitated.

‘There’s still something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’ I said.

‘No. Nothing that matters.’

‘How do you know? Anything might matter.’

‘Very well. There was a wine shop on the corner of the street near our hotel. I happened to be walking past and I’m nearly sure he was sitting with a woman.’

‘You didn’t go in and join him?’

‘No. There was no reason. Besides …’

‘Besides what?’

‘The wine shop was used quite a lot by the local
dames de la nuit
. Now, don’t rush to conclusions. As you know, your father would talk to anybody and …’

His voice trailed away.

‘It might explain something,’ I said. ‘Supposing there’d been an English girl there, fallen on hard times. He might have promised to bring her home to her family.’

‘Yes, he might.’ Daniel sounded embarrassed and unhappy.

‘But there’s a lot it wouldn’t explain, isn’t there? Why should Kilkeel be so interested in some poor Englishwoman? Why should anybody kill my father over her?’

‘I don’t know, Libby. Maybe the woman in the wine shop has nothing to do with it at all. But you asked about women, and I can’t remember any other.’

‘And he said nothing to you about a woman needing help?’

‘No, and that’s a puzzle in itself. As you know, your father was the most open man in the world. If he had decided to help some poor dove out of the gutter, I’m sure he’d have discussed it with us that evening when we were all together.’

‘The evening that Amos Legge came to make arrangements for Esperance?’

‘Who? Oh, the amiable horse-transporter. Yes. Your father said goodbye next morning in the best of health and spirits. That was the last I saw of him. If I’d the slightest idea of all this at the time, I’d never have let him go alone.’

I was crying and sensed he might be near tears too. I felt for his hand on the edge of the water trough.

‘Do you think it was Mr Brighton or Trumper who shot him?’ I said.

‘I simply don’t know. It’s difficult to think of Brighton even doing up his own shoe-laces. Trumper may be a different matter. You said your father died on Saturday?’

‘Yes.’

I could see he was thinking back.

‘That’s the morning I left for Lyon. I saw both Brighton and Trumper in the street the evening before. In fact, I spoke to Trumper, or rather he spoke to me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He came striding up to me like a man wanting a quarrel and said, “Where’s your friend gone?” I guessed he meant your father and supposed he might have got wind of how we’d been making fun of them. So I said my friend would be back home in England by now. That didn’t seem to please him.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘I didn’t give him the chance, just said good-day and walked off.’

‘They must have known by then that he’d gone away with the woman.’

‘Yes, but Trumper couldn’t possibly have got to Calais in time to kill him, however fast he rode.’

He sounded both regretful and relieved. I understood. I wanted more than anything in the world to know who killed my father and yet the prospect of it scared me.

‘What about the fat man – Lord Kilkeel?’ I said.

‘To the best of my knowledge, I never saw him in Paris.’

‘So he might have been in Calais on the Saturday. He was certainly there three days later.’

We lapsed into silence again. Bats darted overhead and a hedgehog snuffled. My brain was tired and wanted to curl up and sleep like a hedgehog.

‘If you think Charlotte’s baby died twenty years ago?’ I said.

‘I do, yes.’

‘Then who is Mr Brighton?’

‘Take your pick from twenty or more. You understand what I mean?’

‘There is certainly no shortage of Hanoverian bastards,’ I said.

That was common knowledge. George III had fifteen children, seven of them sons who grew to manhood, and since he refused to let any of them marry until suitable princesses were available, the natural consequence was many Georgian grandsons on the wrong side of the blanket. The Duke of Clarence, for one, was responsible for at least five such.

‘From his looks and his manners, I’ve no doubt he’s one of that stock,’ Daniel said.

‘And tomorrow, Sir Herbert intends to introduce him to all his friends and supporters as their rightful king.’

‘You think that’s what will happen?’

‘I’m sure of it. Why else all the preparations? Why
else that ridiculous
Welcome Home
piece you’re rehearsing?’

‘It is indeed an offence in itself. I think you’re mostly right, Libby, only it probably won’t happen in quite so blatant a way. I don’t suppose they’ll get straight up from the dinner table and march off to storm Windsor Castle.’

‘How, then?’

‘These days, the banner would be raised by gossip and hints and whispers. They’ll have their dinner party and ball. Mr Brighton is affable, the likeness unmistakeable. Gossip gets back to London, around the salons, the newspapers pick it up … So it all starts.’

‘I can’t imagine how anybody who’d met him could possibly want him for king.’

‘If the British public tolerated the Prince Regent, they’ll stand for anything. Our standards are not high.’

‘Even so …’

‘And remember, most of the people shouting for him will never set eyes on him. A few nicely placed stories, a flattering engraving or two in the newspapers, and he’s England’s hope and the people’s friend.’

‘He’s not the people’s friend,’ I said. ‘None of them is.’

‘Of course not. But this country’s not as safe as some people like to think. There are hungry and desperate people out there, prepared to clutch at anything.’

‘But why should anybody just take their word that he’s Princess Charlotte’s son?’

‘A good question. Do you suppose that’s what this
whole occasion is about – that they intend to produce something that might be regarded as proof?’

‘But how can they, if it’s not true?’

‘Believable by people who want to believe.’

‘Then what should we do?’ I said.

‘Tell somebody in authority?’

‘Do you know anybody in authority?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘If I were to go straight up to London and bang on the door of the Home Secretary, would he believe me? Besides …’

I waited.

‘Besides what?’

‘There is the question of what Blackstone is doing,’ he said.

There was a change in his voice, more guarded. It struck me too that he’d said very little during the part of my story where I’d told him about Mr Blackstone.

‘You know him well?’ I said.

‘Quite well, yes.’

I took my hand away from his.

‘Is Blackstone another
nom de guerre
?’

‘I believe not. We’ve always known him as Alexander Blackstone.’

‘“We”?’

‘Your father and the rest of us.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Liberty, that ring of your father’s – did you understand anything by it?’

‘Only that it was a favourite of his. He often wore it.’

‘He was a freemason, Liberty, that’s what it signifies. So am I, and so is Blackstone. I should not be telling you this, but I think you are owed it.’

‘But where’s the harm in that? Weren’t Haydn and Mozart masons?’

‘Yes, and you’re right, there’s no harm in it at all. Mostly we’re no more than companionable people with a liking for intelligent company who wish to do good rather than harm. That, I’m sure, is how your father saw it. But some people will tell you otherwise.’

‘That you wish to do harm?’

‘That we are revolutionaries. They may not be entirely wrong. Some of the leaders of the Revolution in France and the War of Independence in America were masons. We believe in equality among men and have no exaggerated respect for kings or princes.’

‘
A man’s a man for a’ that
.’

‘Who taught you that?’

‘My father, of course. I am not in the least shocked that you and my father should believe in equality, but I’m at a loss to see what it has to do with Mr Blackstone and Mr Brighton.’

‘Because Alexander Blackstone is a revolutionary. As a young man he was put in prison for writing a pamphlet supporting the French Revolution. He came from a good family and had a considerable income, but he’s given all his life and fortune to the cause, and I believe now there’s precious little of either left. What did you make of him?’

‘He’s like a black rock with ice on it.’

‘You didn’t know him in his prime. Neither did I, come to that, but people who did tell me he could have marched ten thousand men on Whitehall by the power of his oratory alone. He was a dangerous man, Libby.’

‘I think he still is.’

‘Perhaps. But he’s a sick man now, and the younger generation don’t listen to him like their fathers did. He’s never wavered in his belief that there’ll be no end to poverty or injustice here until England has a revolution and we become a republic like the Americans. I think whatever he’s doing now is his final desperate attempt, before he runs out of money and strength.’