A Trail of Fire (41 page)

The Next Day

Michael Murray stood in the aisle of the ageing-shed, feeling puny and unreal. He’d waked with a terrible headache, the result of having drunk a great deal of mixed spirits on an empty stomach, and while the headache had receded to a dull throb at the back of his skull, it had left him feeling trampled and left for dead.

His cousin Jared, owner of Fraser et Cie, looked at him with the cold eye of long experience, shook his head and sighed deeply, but said nothing, merely taking the list from his nerveless fingers and beginning the count on his own.

He wished Jared had rebuked him. Everyone still tiptoed round him, careful of him. And like a wet dressing on a wound, their care kept the wound of Lillie’s loss open and weeping. The sight of Léonie didn’t help, either – so much like Lillie to look at, so different in character. She said they must help and comfort one another, and to that end, came to visit every other day, or so it seemed. He really wished she would . . . just go away, though the thought shamed him.

‘How’s the wee nun, then?’ Jared’s voice, dry and matter-of-fact as always, drew him out of his bruised and soggy thoughts. ‘Give her a good send-off to the convent?’

‘Aye. Well – aye. More or less.’ Michael mustered up a feeble smile. He didn’t really want to think about Sister Joan-Gregory this morning, either.

‘What did ye give her?’ Jared handed the check-list to Humberto, the Italian shed-master, and looked Michael over appraisingly. ‘I hope it wasna the new Rioja that did that to ye.’

‘Ah . . . no.’ Michael struggled to focus his attention. The heady atmosphere of the shed, thick with the fruity exhalations of the resting casks, was making him dizzy. ‘It was Moselle. Mostly. Jerez sherry. And a bit of rum punch.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jared’s ancient mouth quirked up on one side. ‘Did I never tell ye not to mix wine wi’ rum?’

‘Not above two hundred times, no.’ Jared was moving, and Michael followed him perforce down the narrow aisle, the casks in their serried ranks rising high above on either side.

‘Rum’s a demon. But whisky’s a virtuous dram,’ Jared said, pausing by a rack of small, blackened casks. ‘So long as it’s a good make, it’ll never turn on ye. Speakin’ of which . . .’ He tapped the end of one cask, which gave off the resonant deep
thongk
of a full barrel, ‘what’s this? It came up from the docks this morning.’

‘Oh, aye.’ Michael stifled a belch, and smiled painfully. ‘That, cousin, is the Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray Memorial
uisgebaugh
. My da and Uncle Jamie made it during the winter. They thought ye might like a wee cask for your personal use.’

Jared’s brows rose and he gave Michael a swift sideways glance. Then he turned back to examine the cask, bending close to sniff at the seam between the lid and staves.

‘I’ve tasted it,’ Michael assured him. ‘I dinna think it will poison ye. But ye should maybe let it age a few years.’

Jared made a rude noise in his throat, and his hand curved gently over the swell of the staves. He stood thus for a moment as though in benediction, then turned suddenly and took Michael into his arms. His own breathing was hoarse, congested with sorrow. He was years older than Da and Uncle Jamie, but had known the two of them all their lives.

‘I’m sorry for your faither, lad,’ he said, after a moment, and let go, patting Michael on the shoulder. He looked at the cask and sniffed deeply. ‘I can tell it will be fine.’ He paused, breathing slowly, then nodded once, as though making up his mind to something.

‘I’ve a thing in mind,
a charaid
. I’d been thinking, since ye went to Scotland – and now that we’ve a kinswoman in the church, so to speak . . . come back to the office with me, and I’ll tell ye.’

It was chilly in the street, the leaning buildings shutting out the sun, but the goldsmith’s back room was cosy as a womb, with a porcelain stove throbbing with heat and woven wool hangings on the walls. Rakoczy hastily unwound the comforter about his neck; it didn’t do to sweat indoors; the sweat chilled the instant one went out again, and next thing you knew, it would be
la grippe
at the best, pleurisy or pneumonia at the worst.

Rosenwald himself was comfortable in shirt and waistcoat, without even a wig, only a plum-coloured turban to keep his polled scalp warm. The goldsmith’s stubby fingers traced the curves of the octafoil salver, turned it over – and stopped dead. Rakoczy felt a tingle of warning at the base of his spine, and deliberately relaxed himself, affecting a nonchalant self-confidence.

‘Where did you get this, monsieur, if I may ask?’ Rosenwald looked up at him, but there was no accusation in the goldsmith’s aged face – only a wary excitement.

‘It was an inheritance,’ Rakoczy said, glowing with earnest innocence. ‘An elderly aunt left it – and a few other pieces – to me. Is it worth anything more than the value of the silver?’

The goldsmith opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Rakoczy. Was he honest? Rakoczy wondered with interest.
He’s already told me it’s something special. Will he tell me why, in hopes of getting other pieces? Or lie, to get this one cheap?
Rosenwald had a good reputation, but he was a Jew.

‘Paul de Lamerie,’ Rosenwald said reverently, his index finger tracing the hallmark. ‘This was made by Paul de Lamerie.’

A shock ran up Rakoczy’s backbone.
Merde!
He’d brought the wrong one!

‘Really?’ he said, striving for simple curiosity. ‘Does that mean something?’

It means I’m a fool
, he thought, and wondered whether to snatch the thing back and leave instantly. The goldsmith had carried it away, though, to look at it more closely under the lamp.

‘De Lamerie was one of the very best goldsmiths ever to work in London – perhaps in the world,’ Rosenwald said, half to himself.

‘Indeed,’ Rakoczy said politely. He was sweating freely.
Nom d’un chameau!
Wait, though – Rosenwald had said ‘was’. De Lamerie was dead, then, thank God. Perhaps the Duke of Sandringham, from whom he’d stolen the salver, was dead, too? He began to breathe more easily.

He never sold anything identifiable within a hundred years of his acquisition of it; that was his principle. He’d taken the other salver from a rich merchant in a game of cards in the Low Countries in 1630; he’d stolen this one in 1745 – much too close for comfort. Still . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by the chime of the silver bell over the door, and he turned to see a young man come in, removing his hat to reveal a startling head of dark red hair. He was dressed
à la mode
, and addressed the goldsmith in perfect Parisian French, but he didn’t look French. A long-nosed face with faintly slanted eyes. There was a slight sense of familiarity about that face, yet Rakoczy was sure he’d never seen this man before.

‘Please, sir, go on with your business,’ the young man said with a courteous bow. ‘I meant no interruption.’

‘No, no,’ Rakoczy said, stepping forward. He motioned the young man toward the counter. ‘Please, go ahead. Monsieur Rosenwald and I are merely discussing the value of this object. It will take some thought.’ He snaked out an arm and seized the salver, feeling a little better with it clasped to his bosom. He wasn’t sure; if he decided it was too risky to sell, he could slink out quietly while Rosenwald was busy with the red-headed young man.

The Jew looked surprised, but after a moment’s hesitation, nodded and turned to the young man, who introduced himself as one Michael Murray, partner in Fraser et Cie, the wine merchants.

‘I believe you are acquainted with my cousin, Jared Fraser?’

Rosenwald’s round face lighted at once.

‘Oh, to be sure, sir! A man of the most exquisite taste and discrimination. I made him a wine-cistern with a motif of butterflies and carnations, not a year past!’

‘I know.’ The young man smiled, a smile that creased his cheeks and narrowed his eyes, and that small bell of recognition rang again. But the name held no familiarity to Rakoczy – only the face, and that only vaguely.

‘My uncle has another commission for you, if it’s agreeable?’

‘I never say no to honest work, monsieur.’ From the pleasure apparent on the goldsmith’s rubicund face, honest work that paid very well was even more welcome.

‘Well, then – if I may?’ The young man pulled a folded paper from his pocket, but half-turned toward Rakoczy, eyebrow cocked in inquiry. Rakoczy motioned him to go on, and turned himself to examine a music-box that stood on the counter – an enormous thing the size of a cow’s head, crowned with a nearly naked nymph, festooned with the airiest of gold draperies and dancing on mushrooms and flowers, in company with a large frog.

‘A chalice,’ Murray was saying, the paper laid flat on the counter. From the corner of his eye, Rakoczy could see that it held a list of names. ‘It’s a presentation to the chapel of des Anges, to be given in memory of my late father. A young cousin of mine has just entered the convent there as a postulant,’ he explained. ‘So Monsieur Fraser thought that the best place.’

‘An excellent choice.’ Rosenwald picked up the list. ‘And you wish all of these names inscribed?’

‘Yes, if you can.’

‘Monsieur!’ Rosenwald waved a hand, professionally insulted. ‘These are your father’s children?’

‘Yes, these at the bottom.’ Murray bent over the counter, his finger tracing the lines, speaking the outlandish names carefully. ‘At the top, these are my parents’ names: Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray, and Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Now, also, I – we, I mean – we want these two names as well: James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, and Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser. Those are my uncle and aunt; my uncle was very close to my father,’ he explained. ‘Almost a brother.’

He went on saying something else, but Rakoczy wasn’t listening. He grasped the edge of the counter, vision flickering so that the nymph seemed to leer at him.

Claire Fraser
. That had been the woman’s name, and her husband, James, a Highland Lord from Scotland. That was who the young man resembled, though he was not so imposing as . . . but La Dame Blanche! It was her, it had to be.

And in the next instant, the goldsmith confirmed this, straightening up from the list with an abrupt air of wariness, as though one of the names might spring off the paper and bite him.

‘That name – your aunt, you say? Did she and your uncle live in Paris at one time?’

‘Yes,’ Murray said, looking mildly surprised. ‘Maybe thirty years ago – only for a short time, though. Did you know her?’

‘Ah. Not to say I was personally acquainted,’ Rosenwald said, with a crooked smile. ‘But she was . . . known. People called her La Dame Blanche.’

Murray blinked, clearly surprised to hear this.

‘Really?’ He looked rather appalled.

‘Yes, but it was all a long time ago,’ Rosenwald said hastily, clearly thinking he’d said too much. He waved a hand toward his back room. ‘If you’ll give me a moment, monsieur, I have a chalice actually here, if you would care to see it – and a paten, too; we might make some accommodation of price, if you take both. They were made for a patron who died suddenly, before the chalice was finished, so there is almost no decoration – plenty of room for the names to be applied, and perhaps we might put the, um, aunt and uncle on the paten?’

Murray nodded, interested, and at Rosenwald’s gesture, went round the counter and followed the old man into his back room. Rakoczy put the octafoil salver under his arm and left, as quietly as possible, head buzzing with questions.

Jared eyed Michael over the dinner table, shook his head and bent to his plate.

‘I’m not drunk!’ Michael blurted, then bent his own head, face flaming. He could feel Jared’s eyes boring into the top of his head.

‘Not now, ye’re not.’ Jared’s voice wasn’t accusing. In fact, it was quiet, almost kindly. ‘But ye have been. Ye’ve not touched your dinner, and ye’re the colour of rotten wax.’

‘I—’ The words caught in his throat, just as the food had. Eels in garlic sauce. The smell wafted up from the dish, and he stood up suddenly, lest he either vomit or burst into tears.