The Scent of Betrayal (35 page)

‘I wonder, Lieutenant Oliverta,’ he said finally, looking down at his mud-streaked shirt, that being followed by a scrape of the chin, ‘if I could ask you for some clean linen and the use of a razor. I’m afraid mine was mislaid by that fool I have for a servant.’

‘Of course, Señor. I will lend you one of my own shirts. My manservant will shave you. Please follow me.’

Harry was led into a suite of private rooms, small but adequate, with Oliverta shouting as they passed down the narrow corridor. A servant appeared, then immediately rushed off for water. Oliverta produced a shirt from a deep drawer and gave it to him.

‘If you take the chair before the mirror.’

‘Most kind.’

Oliverta bowed and left the room, giving Harry a chance to sigh with relief. Half an hour later, shaved and in a clean shirt, he re-asserted his dominance of the renewed conversation, hardly pausing for breath as he gabbled on, happy to observe that his host’s eyes were showing signs of glazing over.

‘Rude of me, I know, Lieutenant, but since Don Cayetano isn’t here, I wonder if you’d take it amiss if I set out to return to New Orleans?’

‘No!’ said Oliverta, jumping to his feet just a shade too quickly.

He was out of the post and back on the river within ten minutes, almost hustled off the jetty by a man who’d identified him as a bore.

‘It’s perfect, Pender,’ said Harry, gaily, as they steered the pirogue back out into the channel. ‘I can even pretend to be put out that having accepted his invitation I arrived to find him absent.’

‘I don’t care what excuses you use, your honour, he’ll still wonder why you took your time in gettin’ there.’

‘Let him,’ Harry replied, chucking his servant some fruit he’d lifted from the table. ‘All I have to do is put you up on a horse, let you trot, and the reasons for the delay will be self-evident.’

Harry landed the pirogue upriver after dark, in the residential area outside the city walls, then used the palisade to guide him to his destination. As they made their way through the now dried-out earth outside the northern wall his eyes were searching for the gaslit beacons that would identify the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans. He was close before he realised that, unlike the other taverns, they were unlit, that the whole building, apart from a few candles, was in darkness.

‘Somethin’s a bit rum here, your honour.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry replied softly.

He stopped behind a tree, examining the hotel which lay across
the dirt-track road. The lights from the nearby buildings illuminated the front, but that only served to underline how quiet it was. There were no girls plying their trade, nor customers arguing for their services. The double front doors were shut tight and any noise they heard came from other establishments.

‘Call it instinct, Pender, but something tells me that a knock at the front door would be a bad idea.’

‘I make you right, your honour. Do you want me to get round the back an’ have a look?’

‘Let’s both go.’

The forlorn look of the place was underlined by the view from side and rear. The veranda was silent, the long set of windows that led out into the garden shuttered, with only a faint glimmer coming from Hyacinthe’s private apartments above.

‘Happen they’ve been shut down, Capt’n.’

‘No happen about it,’ Harry said. They walked gingerly up the stairs which led from the garden and Harry tried one of the windows. It was locked and he stepped back as he heard the jingle of Pender’s picks.

‘No noise,’ said Harry, unnecessarily.

‘There’s a latch as well as a lock,’ Pender replied, pulling out his thin-bladed knife. He inserted it between the two doors and raised it slowly, a grin splitting his face as he felt the resistance of the latch. Gently he eased it up and opened the door, moving it faster at the least hint of a creak to minimise the noise. The thick drapes were only half drawn, and once through them they were plunged into near total darkness. Pender put his hand on Harry’s chest for a moment, until their eyes became adjusted to the small amount of available light, then inched his way across the room to the foot of the main staircase.

‘Walk up near the wall, your honour,’ he whispered. ‘They creak less there.’

Harry nodded and went ahead of him, feeling rather foolish. The sudden thought struck him that de Carondelet had shut the place down for some misdemeanour, that he’d open a door and
find Hyacinthe and his brother calmly playing cards. Yet by the top of the stairs he was wondering if danger threatened. The silence was all pervasive, too overwhelming to be a recipe for a happy outcome. They stopped outside the door to Hyacinthe’s private apartments. The door was very slightly ajar and Harry pushed it wider. The silhouette at the untidy desk perplexed him for a moment, then the figure turned slightly and he recognised James. That brought an immediate feeling of relief. At least he was safe. But what was his brother doing sitting at Hyacinthe’s desk, going through what looked like her papers?

‘James?’

He spun round, his face fearful. ‘Harry, you’re back.’

There was no joy in either the voice or the manner. ‘Where’s Hyacinthe, and why in God’s name is the place shut up and dark?’

James stood up as Harry closed the gap between them. ‘Don Cayetano shut it down.’

‘Why?’

He took Harry’s arm and led him to the door that connected the salon to Hyacinthe’s bedroom. He tightened his grip on his brother’s arm as they passed through the open door. The coffin lay on two trestles in the middle of the room, a set of candelabra at either end. Both men walked forward slowly.

‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ said James, ‘so desperately sorry.’

Harry Ludlow fell to his knees before the body of Hyacinthe Feraud.

‘
SHE WAS
left to be found, Harry,’ said James. Her body had been discovered on the edge of the road, right by a swamp. But he didn’t go on to say how easy it was to feed a body to the alligators in this part of the world, which made murder, and the disguising of the deed, very easy.

‘She was last seen alive in the Calle Borgana, and it was assumed she was making her way back to the Porte d’Orléans. No real attempt was made to avoid her discovery. It’s as though the torture was meant as some kind of warning.’

Again James was dissimulating for Harry’s benefit. Clearly Hyacinthe had been killed in one place, then left in another. Harry sat, his head bowed over his knees, eyes closed and hands clasped. He said little since he had seen Hyacinthe’s mutilated body, except to emit groans of despair. James had left him alone for a while, with a huge glass of brandy, and talked quietly to Pender, but time was short, with the funeral due to take place at eight. His brother had to decide what he was going to do. He thanked the Lord that Harry hadn’t seen her before the embalmer had made good some of the ravages on her face and body, hadn’t been present when one of de Carondelet’s watchmen had examined her and made a cavalier remark about her death being that which commonly fell to whores. James had been tempted to strike him. Harry would have killed him on the spot.

‘The tongue,’ croaked Harry.

‘Yes.’

‘Just like Rodrigo.’

James patted him on the shoulder, then drew his hand away as Harry sat up suddenly. His face was drawn and grey.

‘Pender asked me on the way downriver why I cared about what happened on the
Gauchos
. I didn’t really. I made some flippant answer about skewering San Lucar de Barrameda. But I care about this, James.’

‘Of course.’

‘But what am I to do about it?’

‘This is hardly the time.’

‘We have no time, James. We must get
Bucephalas
out of here as soon as we can.’

‘Pender told me.’

‘Did you get the men off the ship?’

‘Yes. Ten at a time to begin with, but the Dons have ceased to count.’

Harry made a gesture, as if to say ten was enough. His waving hand disturbed the papers on her desk.

‘Why were you going through these?’

‘Something Bernard said. She went to see the pirate Charpentier in his cell, claiming that he was an ex-lover. Hard to believe that after all this time they plan to garrotte him in a day or two. Anyway, it was hard to refuse such a request.’

James paused, sighed slightly, then continued. ‘Bernard said that she briefly entertained de Chigny the day we went to the house near the Calle des Ursulines. There were other trips into the city, unexplained ones, made on foot. She wore a veil on several occasions. I was trying to find out where she went.’

‘And did you?’

‘No. But I found something else.’

James stood up and went to the desk. He came back with the first note Harry had received from McGillivray. Harry looked at the crabbed capital letters, deliberately used to obscure the correspondent.

‘Bernard told me that the note he delivered didn’t come from
McGillivray. It came from Hyacinthe. She must have used this one to copy out the lettering. There’s no good time to say this, Harry. She instructed him to lie to us.’

Harry’s body shook violently. His hands clasped together hard as he tried to control himself.

‘What time did you say the burial would take place?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

Harry stood up and walked towards the bedroom door. ‘I can’t go, James. I don’t want anyone to know I’m back. I only have a limited time and there’s a great deal to do. So leave me alone for ten minutes while I say my private goodbyes.’

He shut the door firmly as James turned to exchange a worried look with Pender.

‘Do you think he’ll forgive me, Pender?’

‘Yes, your honour. But I don’t know that he’ll forgive himself.’

Harry and Pender slipped out of the house, in darkness, before the servants rose, and took up a position from which they could watch the funeral cortège depart. De Coburrabias arrived, with a small military escort including a drummer, ready to lead the procession. James took up a position by his side. Harry saw Saraille, the newspaperman, hovering about, very much in the manner he had adopted when Hyacinthe was alive. The camaraderie of the people who shared the district was shown by the number who emerged from the other taverns, even the mean-looking shacks that stood furthest from the road. The catafalque was a highly decorated flat-bed cart drawn by hand, onto which the servants of the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans loaded the heavy coffin. They were followed out of the building by the girls Hyacinthe had employed, all brightly dressed, which would have accorded with her wishes. Both groups then took up station behind, the drum began its funereal beat, and the chief mourners led the procession toward the city gate. There they would loop through the
streets, before exiting to the south-west and the consecrated burial ground. Harry waited till the last faint beat of the drum faded before moving out and heading towards the rear of the hotel. Pender opened the window again and both men entered the silent, empty building.

The ground was dry enough to dig a proper grave. De Coburrabias spoke a few words after the priest had finished, describing his regard for Hyacinthe and his sorrow at her death. Then he lifted up some shingle and threw it into the grave. Bernard was next, followed by a line of servants and girls from the hotel. James stood for a while after they had gone, watching as the gravediggers loaded the heavy rocks on to the top of the lid, weights that would keep the coffin in place if the water table rose. When they’d finished, and just before he departed, he threw in a single flower for Harry.

He was gathering a few personal possessions that Pender hadn’t already packed, wondering whether he should take some memento of Hyacinthe. He glanced at the portrait at the top of the bed. It was too large for his cabin, but there would be a place for it at Cheyne Court, his house in Kent, or even in the drawing-room in London.

‘Take that picture out of its frame, Pender. I will want to take it with us when we leave.’

As Harry turned away, to go back to the desk, his servant climbed onto the bed and lifted the frame clear. The bottom section, where it had been hidden by the bedhead, was covered in dust, which flew up in the air. Using the coverlet to wipe it clean, he had to suppress a sneeze as he laid the portrait face down on the floor. His knife sliced at the canvas, as close as possible to the point where it joined the wooden frame. Once free he rolled it up. Looking around he saw the leather case that contained the other pictures, the ones from the
Gauchos
. Quickly he unbuckled it
and slipped Hyacinthe’s portrait inside. He knew his Captain wouldn’t want the others, but this was too painful a moment to ask him what he should do about them. When he went back into the salon, Harry was at the desk writing a note.

‘Do you remember where McGillivray’s house is located?’

‘I reckon I do.’

‘I want you to deliver this note.’

‘You think he’s back, then?’

‘If he’s not, Pender, he won’t be far behind.’

‘D’you mind if I ask what you’re sayin’ to him?’

‘No. I’m thanking him for his assistance.’ Pender produced a small grunt, half humorous, half disapproving. ‘I’ve also pointed out to him my need to stay out of de Carondelet’s clutches. Details of what happened on my journey north would be as damaging to him as they are to me.’

‘In other words, steer clear.’

‘Precisely.’

Harry had to admire the way that Saraille controlled his excitement. The story of his trip upriver, and what he thought had happened in his absence, would set the whole of New Orleans on its ears. But the editor scribbled the details as though Harry was describing a christening. He asked several questions to check the details, each slight change notated. Finally he looked up.

‘This is an extraordinary tale, almost unbelievable. You realise, Captain Ludlow, that you’re saying that someone close to de Carondelet is a murderer, who has killed both at sea, and here in the city.’

Harry nodded. ‘And a thief, Monsieur Saraille, albeit a failed one.’

‘I’m not sure I can print either without ending up in a cell.’

‘But if you had proof you could.’

The editor shook his fat pink jowls. ‘How to find it?’

Harry put as much conviction into his voice as he could, hoping that Saraille wouldn’t detect his uncertainty. ‘I intend to find
it, and when I do it will be yours to use as you see fit. Can you get in to see Charpentier?’

‘Why?’

‘Hyacinthe Feraud went to see him while I was away, saying that they had been lovers. She had to have another reason.’

‘Other than the one she gave?’

That produced a grim smile. ‘She made no secret of her past, Monsieur. Made no attempt to disguise her attachment to Thankful Tucker, or anyone else. The excuse she gave when she went to visit Charpentier was a lie. What makes me curious is why.’

‘De Carondelet might not agree. He and I don’t often see eye to eye.’

‘The one thing he fears is trouble on the streets. Tell him that a statement from Charpentier might avoid that. The last words of a Frenchman condemned to die.’

Saraille sat, his hands under his knees for a full minute, his bland face betraying nothing. ‘I can’t blackmail him, not with what you told me regarding the gold and silver. To do so would only see my presses smashed and me in gaol. My only hope is that if he refuses I could threaten to write Charpentier’s last testament myself, and hint that it could be so inflammatory he’d have another riot on his hands.’

‘It’s good of you to do this for me.’

The pale blue eyes fixed on him, and Harry thought he saw just a trace of pain.

‘It’s not for you, Monsieur. They call people like Hyacinthe Feraud free people of colour. To me, she was merely a French Creole, and that is a far better title.’

‘I understand,’ Harry replied. Then he remembered that, as well as being enamoured of Hyacinthe, the newspaperman had, locally, many sources of information.

‘Hyacinthe behaved very oddly these last weeks. Bernard said that she made several trips to the city alone. Do you think it possible to trace her movements?’

‘Possible, but difficult. You have no idea what she was doing?’

‘None that exceed speculation.’

‘That is better than nothing, Monsieur. To a man in my profession it is usually where one starts.’

‘Find out what she asked Charpentier and perhaps we’ll know.’

Pender, wearing a huge straw hat to keep off the searing late August sun, pushed the handcart along the jetty towards
Bucephalas
. He was carrying Harry’s instructions as well as the family luggage. The picket by the downriver bollard, all that remained of the original guards, were busy playing cards under an awning. They didn’t even look at him, and the hard glare he gave the men on deck stopped them from giving him too overt a greeting. He picked up the case containing the portraits, along with James Ludlow’s easel and paints, without any sign of haste. Coming aboard he noted that he was going down the gangplank, instead of up, clear evidence of how much the river had dropped in their absence. It was like a furnace on the deck, the levee seeming to create an enclosed area where the heat was trapped. Dreaver, alerted by one of the crew, sauntered up the companionway and approached Pender, his manner and carriage almost a caricature of innocence. Harry’s servant dropped the things he was carrying behind a gun carriage.

‘What’s the state of play in the cabin?’

‘Where’s the bloody Captain, Pious?’

‘Safe and sound, mate, and getting ready to shift out of here.’

‘Thank Christ.’

‘So tell me what’s been goin’ on.’

‘We’ve been going stark crazy, that’s what’s happenin’. What with the heat and hardly a word for weeks, except the odd note from Mr Ludlow. Then there’s rumours growing by the day that war is in the offing, all topped off by the Captain’s lady bein’ done in.’

Pender was sympathetic, but this wasn’t the time to show it. His voice, when he replied, had gravel in it. ‘Then it’s time to
stop gabbling and put our minds to what matters. Tell me about the way you’re guarded.’

Dreaver looked as though he was about to put Pender in his place, but clearly thought better of it.

‘There’s always a sentry on that gun platform above the gatehouse, but you can’t see him unless you go right to the starboard rail. Not that he pays much heed to us any more, he can’t really see much since the river went down. He’s more interested in keeping an eye out for officers. The lot on the jetty rely on him. He tips them the wink when there’s someone important about, otherwise they could be asleep for all the heed they pay to guarding us.’

‘So I noticed, mate. They didn’t even spare me a look.’ Pender called softly to two men to fetch the rest of the luggage then turned back to Dreaver. ‘How do you go for gettin’ off the ship?’

‘Come and go as we please now. That’s what’s kept us sane, though a few of the men have taken to the bottle and women in a way that the Captain won’t like.’

‘And the cabin?’

‘Fernandez sleeps there. He’s out most of the day – don’t ask me what he’s up to, ’cause I don’t know, but he’s usually had a drink or two on his return. You can hear the bastard snorin’ from the heads.’

‘Right. I’ll have to speak to the lads, but I want you to get hold of anything cloth on the boat that’s red, white, and blue, Captain’s orders. Take it to the sailmaker and I’ll tell him what to do with it.’

‘When are we goin’?’

‘Soon, mate, very soon.’