A Shred of Honour (23 page)

‘I had business to conduct.’

Markham looked out over the Petite Rade. ‘Might I be permitted to ask what kind of business?’

The look in Rossignol’s eye, as he opened his mouth to answer, made Markham suspect he was going to be fobbed off with a lie. Which was the last thing he wanted, since if the old man did that, he’d have no choice but to take his suspicions elsewhere.

‘Before you answer, monsieur, let me add some of the other things that trouble me. I cannot comprehend how you persuaded the Picards to allow us to billet in their warehouse. What treatments are the doctors you’ve employed engaged in? Why do you coach young
Jean-Baptiste
with a book of royal portraits? And just what makes you so important that Colonel Serota feels it necessary to come to the house to tell you personally of the Queen’s demise?’

As Markham fired his stream of questions, he could see Rossignol’s mind working.

‘Colonel Serota does not think me important, Lieutenant.’

‘Monsieur Picard?’ said Markham, incredulously. The absurdity of that notion had him close to the obvious conclusion just as Rossignol answered.

‘No. It is the boy himself.’

‘Jean-Baptiste?’

Rossignol dropped his voice to a whisper, indicating with a sharp nod that the others on the top of the tower should not hear what he was about to say. ‘Perhaps, Lieutenant, you’d be better to address him by his proper name and title.’

‘Title?’

‘His Majesty, King Louis the Seventeenth of France. I had better complete my labour for the day,’ said Rossignol, waving a soothing hand. ‘We can talk on the way back to the Picard house.’

‘How much do you know about events in Paris, Lieutenant?’

‘What I read in the London newspapers.’

‘Then you will perhaps be aware that the whereabouts of the Dauphin, once he’d been separated from his mother, was a secret.’

‘Vaguely aware, yes.’

‘I wish I knew what they did to that boy,’ Rossignol sighed. Seeing the look of inquiry on Markham’s face, the Frenchman continued, ‘If we had information
regarding
the cause, we would perhaps have a path to the cure.’

‘I have seen men in a similar state after a battle.’

‘God knows the battles the poor boy has had to fight. Perhaps they made him witness the death of his father. He was certainly subjected to a very harsh régime.’

‘Some recover naturally.’

‘And many never do, Lieutenant. Pity him, and France.’

Markham had been thinking about Jean-Baptiste and his bland expressionless face. But Rossignol’s melancholy mention of France brought him back to the present. His next question had more than a trace of incredulity in it, evidence despite all Rossignol’s assurances that what he was saying was true, and his own sudden deductions, he didn’t actually believe him.

‘How did he come to be here?’

‘We tried to save the King and Queen by helping them flee, and failed when they were apprehended at Varennes.’

‘We?’

‘All right-thinking Frenchmen, Lieutenant, those who believe that to murder an anointed sovereign is
sacrilege
. And that is not just the nobility, it is most of the people of France. Those Jacobin madmen who run the Committee of Public Safety are but a small minority.’

‘You failed at Varennes,’ said Markham, bringing him back to the point.

‘We did, though his late Majesty must bear most of the blame. Then, when Louis was murdered, we tried to save the Queen.’

‘And failed once more.’

‘You have a cruel way of alluding to the truth,’ replied
Rossignol softly, with a catch in his throat. He turned away, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. ‘But it’s nothing less than that. We failed them, may their souls rest in peace.’

Suddenly his voice recovered its normal strength, and he began to wave a triumphal fist. ‘Yet we succeeded with the son. Against all the odds, when everyone despaired, we managed to seize him from their grasp, to put another in his place.’

‘If you did that, why were they pursuing you?’

‘They didn’t know who was in the coach. If they had, believe me, you and your men would have died at Ollioules. But now we have him here, safe under your guns in Toulon.’

‘Safe and mysterious.’

There was a look of desperation in Rossignol’s eyes at that point. ‘What would you have us do? Proclaim to the nation that a boy lost in a world of his own, who cannot bring himself to speak even a simple sentence, who does not respond to his own name, is the rightful King of France?’

‘This, monsieur, is incredible.’

Rossignol carried on as if he hadn’t spoken, his tone a mixture of eagerness and frustration. ‘We were making progress undoing the cruelties that have made him so. The doctors were sure that with time he would recover his wits. Now, he seems to have gone silent again. They say it is a temporary relapse …’

They were outside the house now, with Markham
looking
up at the hoist above the double doors on the first floor. ‘That is why Madame Picard changed her mind about accommodating us.’

Rossignol banged on the door. ‘Yes. She can see the rewards that will come to those who are at the side of the King when he takes his rightful place.’

‘Hanger and Serota?’ asked Markham as it opened.

Rossignol handed the servant his easel and telescope,
then waited till he had departed before replying. ‘Are aware of the situation, plus, I am forced to admit, the problems. They agree that with the boy in his present condition, to try and proclaim him would not improve matters. Quite apart from the idea that he might be named an impostor, the increased pressure on young Louis might make a full recovery impossible. His uncles, the late king’s brothers, would take over his care, and I wonder whether they would put his welfare above their own claims to the throne.’

‘And this is a secret?’

‘Certainly! The least hint of the truth could be fatal.’

Markham, as they crossed the courtyard and entered the hallway, was thinking about Nelson and Troubridge. Then there was Lizzie Gordon. She too had referred to the possibility of a Bourbon prince coming to Toulon, which meant that the matter was not as secret as Rossignol supposed. But he was also remembering the way Jean-Baptiste had looked at Celeste, how he’d heard him singing more clearly than he had when being
examined
by the doctors, and her words to him when he’d found her in his room, laying out his uniform.

‘I must admit to being astonished,’ he said, temporising.

‘That would hardly be surprising, monsieur,’ replied Rossignol, with a knowing smile. Then he laid a hand on Markham’s arm and squeezed, his voice suddenly rather oily. ‘It is the most extraordinary thing. And rest assured, Lieutenant, when matters are brought to a rightful
conclusion
, you will have a claim, as I have, on the new King’s generosity.’

‘Colonel Hanger has no doubt received the same guarantee.’

‘Of course,’ said Rossignol, turning towards the study door. ‘Now if you will forgive me, I must appraise Monsieur Picard of these developments.’

Markham watched his back as he disappeared, then
made for the kitchens. Failing to find Celeste, he carried on to Jean-Baptiste’s room, and entered without
knocking
. They sat on the floor, Celeste’s hand spread wide, her fingers holding the threads of a cat’s cradle. The boy was trying to copy her, but judging by the tangle of wool, was having little success. His sudden entrance made both look up in alarm. Markham asked Celeste to accompany him to his room. Once there, she stood, her head bowed, not wishing to look him in the eye.

‘The other day you implied that something was going on in this house.’ Her head stayed down. ‘Look at me, Celeste.’

She obeyed, though it took her some time to do so, her dark eyes large and sad. ‘Who is Jean-Baptiste?’

Rossignol was alone, staring at the papers on Picard’s round table, one hand fingering the heavily-bound book of royal portraits. He look up slowly as Markham entered and shut the door behind him.

‘You think of me as an English officer, monsieur.’

‘Are you about to tell me that you’re not?’

‘No, I’m Irish. But to you, probably, we are all the same. I come from Wexford, a part of the world where the telling of tall tales is a national pastime. And the trick, my friend, if you’re going to concoct a story, is to make the lie so big that most people will believe it just because it’s so damned impossible.’

Rossignol was looking at him, without expression. ‘I think you’d better tell me the truth. And that truth would include the nature of the relationship you have with Pascalle, whom you claim to be your daughter.’

‘Claim?’

‘I was outside your door, Rossignol, long before you came out to put on that cloak. And the measure of the affection you showed Pascalle, while deep enough, was not that normally demonstrated by a loving parent.’

The Frenchman threw back his head and laughed,
which surprised Markham. ‘You’re sharp enough, Lieutenant. Eveline told me that you were getting
suspicious
. But it’s only by being in this house that you could have found the means to doubt me.’

‘Jean-Baptiste?’

‘King Louis,’ Rossignol answered, but with an
expression
that implied it was done more in hope than expectation. Markham shook his head slowly. Tempted to mention Celeste, but unsure what would happen to her if he wasn’t here, he kept silent.

The Frenchman caved in immediately. ‘The boy is an orphan I picked up on the way south. He is, you will admit, a handsome lad, who could well be a king.’

‘Except he’s not.’

‘No. But the food and lodging you receive from those prepared to believe it’s possible has two distinct advantages. It is excellent, and it is free.’

‘Are you a lawyer?’

Rossignol’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does that make a difference?’

‘Only in so far, monsieur, that if I don’t have the whole truth, I won’t know what to do about you.’

‘The truth?’ Markham just stared at him, until he started to speak. ‘I’m many things, Lieutenant, but not, strictly, a lawyer. I am what you might call a trader, who seeing opportunity, finds it difficult to let it go by.’

‘A projector?’ asked Markham, wondering if the word had the same connotation in French as it had in English.

He’d met the type, men who always had a scheme to make money in their back pocket, usually a fortune and all for no effort. Gold and silver mines were a favourite, or navigation canals that the investor would pay for, but never see dug out. Clearly it did, since Rossignol nodded. His story, as it emerged, confirmed that description, though he was careful not to be very specific about his previous activities, in fact quite able to talk of himself as if he were an upright and honest man. With everything
lost in the Revolution, and a government in power that was inimical to the kind of activity he excelled in,
security
could only be found away from Paris. But with limited funds transport was hard to come by, as was food and lodging. The lucky coincidence that had turned up
Jean-Baptiste
, just as speculation became rife about the fate of the Dauphin, was extremely fortuitous, allowing him to progress south in comfort.

‘And these people believed you?’ asked Markham doubtfully.

‘It is not so very surprising Lieutenant, since I did not seek to appeal to their loyalty, but to their greed.’

‘Does that include Hanger and Serota?’

‘Yes. Especially Colonel Hanger.’

‘Has he told his superiors?’

‘We agreed that he should not, that is until we had effected a recovery. Lord Hood and Admiral Langara would, we felt, be obliged to communicate his presence to the Bourbon princes.’

Markham smiled slightly. Hanger would keep such information to himself only to secure what he considered a proper reward. His smile broadened as he imagined Rossignol playing on his avarice and vanity to block off the information being passed to Hood.

‘You are amused by something, Lieutenant?’

‘It’s the idea of you duping Hanger, monsieur.’

‘He is, I believe, the second son of a Lord. I think he hankers after a title of his own. I think he suspects that Lord Hood has quite enough already.’ Markham actually laughed then, which produced a grin of pleasure from the Frenchman. ‘You see, Lieutenant, it is, in my business, very necessary to promise people that which they want, while also advising them of the quickest way to forgo it.’

‘You’re a rogue and no mistake.’

‘Do I detect by your tone you no longer disapprove of me?’

‘Pascalle?’

Rossignol shrugged. ‘She is sometimes my daughter, at other times my sister, or even my wife. It very much depends on what seems most appropriate.’

‘Was distracting my attention appropriate for Eveline?’

Rossignol leant forward, his look sincere. ‘Let me say. Lieutenant Markham, that your attention was
fortuitous
. Of the many tasks dear Eveline has been required to perform, that one has given her the most pleasure.’

His manner changed, become suddenly more serious. ‘The question I must now pose to you, is what are you going to do about what I have said?’

‘Well, if you’ve got Augustus Hanger salivating, I’m not one to want to interfere.’

‘I doubt that he’d accept the truth with understanding.’

‘He’d hang you, Rossignol, and God knows what fate he’d dictate for Pascalle and Eveline.’

‘That, I must admit, is what troubles me most.’

Markham was quite prepared to take that statement with a pinch of salt. But there was no doubt about the sentiment. Hanger, having found he’d been practised on, would probably go berserk. As to the Picards, they could afford to feed and defer to Rossignol, as well as billet his men in an ease they’d never manage to equal elsewhere. Then there were his own comforts. The siege would go on for months yet. Eveline, who was no more of a daughter than Pascalle, found his company congenial. It would be a pity to let that go, the chance to come from the pressure of war to a welcoming pair of soft, enveloping arms.

‘The boy must stay mute,’ he said, watching Rossignol closely. When he nodded, Markham knew that the Frenchman had no idea that Celeste could communicate with Jean-Baptiste. Not properly, but enough to establish a bond. Somehow the idea that Rossignol, too, was being fooled added spice to the whole thing.