Den of Thieves (25 page)

Paris, 23rd June 1791

My dear Patron,

I am writing what might turn out to be my last letter to you. I thought it best to complete it to earn another guinea as it might at least help pay my funeral expenses. That was meant to be a joke but unfortunately it is too close to the truth to seem funny even to me.

Here are the facts as I understand them: our friends from Grosvenor Square are still enjoying French hospitality; one sprig of the tree is at large but under threat; a bunch of cutthroats are holding me to ransom in the hopes of claiming the reward for turning him in.

That's all the news from the family. As for the rest, you probably do not need to be told that the king is returning to Paris. The city remains quiet. My gut feeling is that people are beginning to realize that the sky did not fall on their heads when the Bourbons left town – this does not bode well for Louis. He, like me, might learn soon what it means to be expendable.

I have never forgotten your many years of kindness towards me. I send my love and best wishes for the future,

Your Diamond.

Woken by the sound of a door closing, I wriggled out of my cocoon of blankets and found myself alone. A fresh candle, two cups, a coffee pot and a basket of bread stood on a barrel. I guessed that meant it was morning. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my recollections of the previous night returned and with them my fear. It was hard to know exactly what to think or feel. This wasn't about me, as J-F had told me, but still I was the victim. I was a foot soldier caught up in the battle between two empires – forces beyond my control were in charge of my destiny. I didn't like it one little bit.

Pacing the cellar, I tried to imagine what my friends were feeling – that's if J-F had chosen to enlighten them to my plight, and I wouldn't put it past him to remain silent if it suited him. Frank would demand to be exchanged for me – and he
would be right as his fate was only prison with a good chance he might be freed when the truth about the king's flight came out. But the reward skewed everything.

Relying on thieves for your safety was not a good idea, I decided. If I got a second chance, I wouldn't do so again.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. I trust you slept well?'

The bishop was back for his breakfast. He was standing at the top of the steps looking down on me. I hadn't heard him come in. He was carrying a sack over one shoulder.

I gave a contemptuous shrug.

He jumped down the steps, the bag clanking on every bound.

‘I presume you've brought the church plate with you?' I asked, nodding at the sack.

‘Indeed so. I relieved some affluent citizens of their surplus as a donation to the poor. After all, it is harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through an eye of a needle.' He gave me a wicked grin. Charming he might be but I knew that those shining eyes of his were like
wrecker's lanterns: the sort to lure you off course on to the rocks of your destruction.

‘That was very charitable of you.'

He chucked the sack into a corner and turned to the breakfast tray. Lacing his fingers together, he bent them back, cracking his knuckles in preparation for the meal.

‘Has anyone ever told you that that is a very unattractive habit?'

‘Oh yes,' he said with a wolfish grin, ‘two people. So I put them out of their distress.'

I decided to laugh at this, though for all I knew he really did kill people on such flimsy pretexts.

‘How thoughtful of you.' I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot on the tray, adding a couple of spoonfuls of sugar to mask the bitterness.

‘Now you understand me, Mademoiselle Cat.'

‘I don't pretend to do that. I don't have a clue, for example, what's going on between you and J-F.'

He devoured a piece of bread, folding it to fit inside his mouth in one huge bite.

‘You should understand, mademoiselle, that Paris is a divided city. Each faubourg or district has
its own identity – even its own government. Likewise, we gentlemen of the night have our own way of distributing the territory between us.'

It sounded like home. I was beginning to get an inkling of what was happening.

‘But J-F seems very young to be running a kingdom,' I ventured. ‘Why hasn't someone taken it over?' In London, I couldn't imagine quick wits and an entertaining manner keeping anyone in charge of a gang of thieves.

The bishop scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Now there's an idea.'

‘No, don't get me wrong!' I said hurriedly, not wanting to be blamed for starting a gang war in Paris. ‘I wasn't suggesting anything.'

Monsieur Ibrahim showed a fine set of white teeth as he threw back his head and roared. ‘Don't worry, mademoiselle, I'll do no such thing without provocation. It's tradition that the thief king of the Palais Royal is a merry fellow like our J-F – he rules by consent. The bishop of Notre Dame,' he tapped his own chest, ‘rules by decree. Each to his own.'

Paris struck me as a very mixed up-place with all these contending underworld rulers. In my city, the person with the biggest fists commanded the most respect. We liked to keep it simple.

‘But you shouldn't underestimate J-F,' continued M. Ibrahim as if he could read my thoughts. ‘He has people loyal to him. It would be more difficult than you might imagine to walk in and declare that you've taken over his kingdom.'

‘I see.' I remembered the hulking lads who had walked off with Joseph's livery – yes, J-F did have his troops even if he preferred to live by his wits rather than fists.

‘But this will not do, mademoiselle,' declared M. Ibrahim, pouring me a second cup of coffee. ‘I was supposed to be asking you the questions, not the other way round.'

‘Of course, your eminence. I am at your service.'

He grinned and stroked the lip of his cup. ‘You're an interesting creature, Mademoiselle Cat. Who are you really? I don't buy this story that you're a dancer.'

‘Me? I'm no one – just an orphan brought up
among theatre people, now having to find my own way.'

‘Really?' His tone was sceptical.

‘Yes, really.'

‘You see, mademoiselle, our beloved authorities are convinced that there is an English agent at large in Paris.'

I choked on my coffee. ‘Oh yes? How do you know this?'

‘Naturally, I've a source in the City Hall.'

‘I see.'

‘Certain incriminating correspondence has been intercepted mentioning the king's flight and the imprisonment of those English aristocrats. Mayor Bailly is under the impression that the most likely source for these reports is someone close to the Avon boy, perhaps a servant or the boy himself. It's one of the reasons they are so eager to lay their hands on him. What do you make of that?'

‘That's very . . . interesting.'

‘Isn't it? I don't suppose you'd care to show me what you were writing last night?'

I put down my cup and discreetly checked that the letter was still in my apron pocket.

‘Actually, your eminence, I'd prefer to keep my letters private.'

He leaned forward. ‘That is a shame, mademoiselle, because I have a theory that if I handed the authorities the English agent, they would still give me the reward.'

‘What's that to do with me?'

‘Think about it, mademoiselle. J-F won't part with the boy without profit for himself so I have scant hope of receiving anything that way tonight. This means you will die unless you can persuade me that it's worth my while to let you live.'

‘And I thought we were getting on so well.'

‘Oh, but we are. I think we understand each other completely.' He rose and yawned. ‘I'm going to sleep now. Think over what I've said. I'll be back to hear what you have to say this evening.'

The first thing I did when he left the room was burn the letter I'd written to Mr Sheridan. The bishop doubtless knew that I'd destroy any
evidence I had on me but he was confident I'd prefer confession of my guilt to death. Curse Mr Sheridan for saying there was only slight danger involved in setting up a confidential correspondent in Paris!

Mind you, I reflected as the paper curled into ashes, he'd said that was before the king took it into his head to flee, leaving an anxious and suspicious government behind. I should've taken this into account before I started firing off my missives. Why did it not occur to me that in these dangerous times any letter to a well-known English politician such as Mr Sheridan would be opened as a matter of course? I should be cursing myself – so I did just that as I sat curled up in a ball on the bishop's chair. I'd got myself into this mess, so I had to think of a way out of it. As far as I could see, there were two possibilities: J-F would surprise me with his loyalty and think of some way of rescuing me or I would do it myself. Of the two, the latter was the most likely.

I explored the cellar again: there was only one way in and out: up the stairs. The top of the steps
was secured by a heavy wooden door that would've withstood a pounding from Syd, let alone yours truly. The best I could think of was to lie in wait and try to slip past the next person to come in. To this end, I made a Cat-shaped mound out of my blankets and returned to the top step.

I hate waiting. I am the least patient person in the world. Add to that my fear at what I was about to do and I hope you can understand, Reader, what an uncomfortable day I passed. I knew my plan was a shaky one: I didn't even know what was on the other side of the door – more barricades for all I knew. But I had to try something.

After many hours, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. I flattened myself in the space that would be behind the door once it was opened. It's fortunate that there's not much of me – few would manage this without being squashed flat. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Someone entered carrying a tray – that suited me as it meant they did not have a hand free to shut the door behind them.

‘Mademoiselle, your dinner is served,' called Scarface to the mound of blankets.

I crept out from behind the door and into the corridor. I was in a passageway. Left or right? I ran to the right as a shout echoed behind me. My trick had been discovered. Turning a corner I mounted a second flight of stairs. I could hear Scarface cursing. A door at the top – I pushed it open and emerged into a twilit cloister. In the centre of the quadrangle was a lawn and sundial. I dashed down the avenue of pillars heading towards the grand door at the end. Overhead, the bells of Notre Dame in her twin towers began to chime for the evening service – I must be very near the cathedral. Where there were people, there was hope. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. It did not move. I could hear Scarface running towards me. I had only seconds left.

‘Come on, damn you,' I cursed. ‘Shift!'

‘Tut, tut, mademoiselle. From the few words of English I know, I do believe you were swearing.' The bishop sauntered into view from the aisle to
my left, picking his nails clean with a knife. He didn't seem surprised to see me there.

Scarface reached me and slammed my shoulder into the door as he grabbed my arms.

‘Sorry, your eminence,' he said breathlessly. ‘She tricked me.'

‘I expected no less of her. Though why she thought I'd put only one lock between her and freedom, I cannot guess.'

‘Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to pick your nails?' I spat at him.

‘And didn't yours tell you it's rude to leave your host without even saying goodbye?' He tickled my cheek with the point of the knife.

‘I just wanted a breath of fresh air.' Scarface had my face pressed against the wooden planks of the door. I could hear voices, echoing footfalls, tantalizingly close.

‘Really? Because I could've sworn you were trying to escape. No matter. Something has come up, mademoiselle, that requires your presence here in any case. Luc, stop squeezing our guest to death.' The pressure on my back was instantly
removed. I rubbed my bruised arms. ‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me?'

Ibrahim held out an arm. I hesitated – until Scarface Luc prodded me in the back.

‘Where are you taking me?'

Ibrahim produced a key from his pocket and opened the door that foiled my bid for freedom.

‘There are summons that even a bishop cannot ignore,' he said, pushing me through.

The door took us on to the square in front of Notre Dame. I had scant time to admire the pale stone of the carved arches and statues and the two soaring towers as Ibrahim marched me into the cathedral itself. In contrast to the twilight, it was dark inside. Light seeped through the stained glass, glowing with jewel-bright colours; candles flickered beneath icons. The sounds of the street outside were swallowed up. Like Jonah in the mouth of the whale, we had entered another world cut off from all else, swept along on a tide of darkness to plunge into the very belly of the beast.