Deadly Descent (7 page)

The curtain parted. Punch, armed with his traditional stick, beat his shrewish wife, Joan. A dog, Toby, bit Punch, who turned on the clown Scaramouche, the dog's merry master. A constable then arrested Punch but, in prison, Punch tricked the hangman into hanging himself. At the end Punch, joined by his wife, fought the devil and drove him off the stage. The curtain closed. The children reappeared, their faces beaming with pride. To vigorous applause, they took several deep bows.

Well earned, Saint-Martin thought, as he joined in the clapping. Much effort had gone into this production. He had no trouble understanding the children's speech, though it was a bit oddly inflected. Yet appropriate. Puppets, after all, were supposed to speak in their own way.

Benjamin and Sarah dashed behind the little theater, brought Miss Cartier out front and hugged her. They fetched small baskets of fruit and threw pieces to her. She juggled them and cast them to children in the audience. At the last fruit, an apple, she paused, grinning broadly. With the license allowed to clowns, she tossed it to Saint-Martin. He caught it deftly, smiled to the clown, and handed it to the nearest child. The clown waved to the audience, then came to attention and saluted the French colonel. With a grand gesture, she gathered the children and fifed them out.

Chapter 7

A Ride in the Country

The next morning shortly after daybreak, Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin pulled open the door to the stable and drew into his lungs the rich scent of horses, oiled leather, and fresh hay. Directly ahead of him, the thoroughbreds borrowed from Captains Gordon and Porter stood contented in their stalls, already brushed and fed. A door banged at the far end of the long well-lighted building. A pair of stable boys were cleaning an empty stall. The paved floor was spotless.

From behind came the snap of a buckle. Saint-Martin swung around, startled. A few stalls away, someone dressed in a black English riding cap, red coat, and tan breeches was saddling a fine-boned black thoroughbred. Saint-Martin stared in amazement; he could recognize a prize horse when he saw one. He called out a greeting. The other early riser looked up. It was Anne Cartier.

“You ride like that?” he stammered, accustomed to women riding sidesaddle in long flowing skirts.

She laughed at his consternation. “I do, at least here. It's safer and I can control the horse better. In public, I ride the other way. I'd rather not shock people.”

“Mind if I join you?” the colonel asked, marvelling at the woman's self-assurance.

“Please do,” she replied, as she walked the thoroughbred past him. “I'll show you the estate. It's lovely this hour of the day.”

She was waiting, already mounted, when he led his horse into the paddock. Only then did he notice the pistols holstered on her saddle. She followed his gaze. “They are a matching pair, a gift from my grandfather. His name's engraved on the brass. He thought I might need them.”

“Afraid we'll be ambushed?” the colonel asked.

“No, not here.” She smiled thinly. “An assassin wouldn't be put off by this.” She patted a pistol in its holster, then glanced at Saint-Martin, her eyes an icy blue. “But he'd have to be careful.”

They rode down a lane through the meadow behind the house, Miss Cartier leading. “That's a hot-blooded hunter with only a snaffle bit in its mouth, and she's wearing no spurs,” the Frenchman muttered to himself. “How will she control the beast? Is she mad?”

They entered a grove of tall oak trees and came to a clearing. “Now, watch,” she said. With no apparent movement or command, she urged her horse to a gallop. Holding the reins tightly with her left hand, she pulled the pistol from the right-side holster, cocked and tipped it to the left, and fired at an old clay pot on a tree stump. It shattered.

Incredible, he thought. She and her hunter understand one another perfectly. No need for spurs.

She beckoned him to join her. “I was lucky,” she said laughing. “I often miss.”

“How did you keep your mount steady? A pistol's report so near will make a horse skittish, even your hunter.”

“An old cavalryman who works for my grandfather taught me these tricks.” She put the pistol back in its holster. “Come, I'll show you something else.”

They dismounted at the far end of the clearing, where Saint-Martin saw a devil, complete with horns, cloven hooves, and gaping mouth, crudely drawn on heavy paper and stretched over a wooden frame that hung from an inclining rope between two thin trees. On closer inspection, Saint-Martin noticed the devil had a long human face with thick black eyebrows and a hawk nose. Justice Hammer, no doubt, judging from impressions Georges had gathered in Islington. There were several holes in the target, one of them precisely between the narrowset eyes. A sudden chill seized the Frenchman's heart.

“I found it in a shed by the house,” the young woman said as she pulled the target up the incline. “I've added a few details.”

With the second half-cocked pistol in her hand, she released the target, walked rapidly twenty paces, swung around to face the devil coming at her, cocked, aimed, and fired. The shot passed through its heart and echoed through the woods.

“When the king recruits women for the cavalry, I'll recommend you,” said Saint-Martin. “May I try a shot?”

She loaded the pistol and handed it to him. “Grandfather Cartier made this one—and its twin—for the Duke of York. Not fancy enough, said His Royal Highness and bought a pair from Wogdon of London.”

Saint-Martin gripped the weapon, aimed at the paper demon standing thirty paces away, then fired. The devil lost his left eye. The Frenchman lowered the pistol, nodding with satisfaction. “It's perfectly balanced.”

“And reliable,” she added. “It has never misfired.”

At her gesture, Saint-Martin returned the pistol to its holster on her horse. “Wogdon's guns are good, but you've gotten the best of that bargain.” They walked to a bench and sat down side by side. “By the way, where did you learn the trick you played on Mr. Roach in Islington?”

“You've heard about that from Barnstaple, I suppose. It's hardly a secret. If you must know, the trick's part of a routine my father—Antoine—taught me.” She flushed, waving a correcting hand. “I mean, we dressed as clowns and did foolish things to amuse people. In the act with the stick, I would just pretend to hit him, but he would double up and howl. The crowd loved it.”

She paused, a frown gathering on her face. “Roach jumped in front of me, wild and angry, shouting like a clown. He swung at me.” Her jaw tightened as if in pain. “I didn't have time to think; I just fell into my old routine. But I sensed he meant to hurt. I didn't pretend, I hit him as hard as I could. It happened so fast, there wasn't time to scream or to run.”

“They could have killed you,” said Saint-Martin softly, a brother's concern in his voice. “How do you feel now?”

Her hand rose spontaneously to her neck. “The bruises are gone, but I sometimes have nightmares.” She looked at Saint-Martin, as if debating whether to continue, her eyes measuring his empathy. Then she spoke slowly in a low voice. “I dream of the prison or the scaffold and I wake up shaking. Even in the village, where there's no danger, I still look over my shoulder, as if someone were creeping up on me. Roach would attack again if he ever got the chance.” She drew a deep breath and smiled nervously. “But that's no reason to hide in a hole. I'll not be chained by fear.”

He laid his hand on hers. She let it rest there for a long second, then gently lifted it. They rode back abreast at a trot to the stable.

***

In her room later that morning, Anne sat at a dressing table, combing her hair. She glanced down at Comtesse Marie's letter lying in front of her. A tempting invitation. At first she had felt reluctant to accept it. Was there anything belonging to Antoine that she wanted? Did she need to know any more about his life and death in Paris than she already knew? But now her mind was inclining the other way. Intrigued. There appeared to be more to the invitation than met the eye. An underlying urgency. The comtesse really wanted her to come.

She put down the comb and started sifting through a side drawer. Near the top of the pile lay one of her treasures, a miniature portrait of Antoine, a gift to her mother on a wedding anniversary. Anne held it up to the light and caressed it with the tips of her fingers. The broad face beneath the glass was generous and friendly, with large lively eyes and a mouth that broke easily into a smile. He had encouraged her and made her feel confident in herself. “God's given you many talents,” he had said. “Don't let people put you down.” She had taken his love for granted until he was gone. As she put the portrait aside, she found herself grieving. She brushed away a tear.

From a trunk under the table she pulled out small packets of letters Antoine had written from Paris. Beneath them lay diaries in which he had entered brief accounts of his performances in London. What clear, strong, and well-formed handwriting! She sat back, closing her eyes. He seemed close to her, full of life. He could not have killed himself. Something strange had happened to him in Paris. She felt driven to find out.

She picked up the comb, glanced at the mirror, and began reasoning with herself. She couldn't just run off to Paris. A harebrained idea! others would say. She replaced Antoine's papers in the trunk and snapped the lid shut. On the floor next to the trunk lay Barnstaple's letter to her. It had slipped from the table. Her eye caught the words, “Abbé de l'Épée,” and “deaf children.”
There
was a reason for going to Paris. A reason her grandparents could understand. If teaching the deaf was going to become her life's work, she should try to learn the method of the master. And this might be her only chance. She'd heard he was an elderly man. Colonel Saint-Martin would see her safely to Paris. Comtesse Marie, her patron, would present her to the abbé.

She got up and paced the room, a spring in her step. Out of her memory rose ever clearer images from Chateau Beaumont years ago. Paul de Saint-Martin had then seemed aloof and distant. Yet he had noticed her. He had always been at a window or door when she returned from morning rides. She had felt his eyes on her during performances in the garden theater.

She stopped at the window and tapped the comb in the palm of her hand, recalling a sunny morning. Just turned eighteen, she had gone alone to the theater to rehearse the part of Puck. All the adults were away for some reason, probably hunting. Four of Saint-Martin's cousins, young males in their mid-teens, joined her, claiming they were Bottom, Quince, Snug, and Snout. They teased her, then chased and jostled her. Sensing danger, she tried to flee. They blocked her escape and closed in on her. Heart pounding, she crouched for a fight.

Suddenly, a harsh command halted them in their tracks. Captain Paul de Saint-Martin, the sun shining upon him, stood at the entrance to the theater looking down. The boys vanished, leaving her shaken and alone on the stage. She looked up at him and was about to speak when she was struck by his expression, lips tight, eyes narrowed to mere slits. He said nothing, turned sharply on his heels, and walked away. He hadn't cared for
her
, but for the family's honor.

She resumed pacing, combing her hair vigorously. Had he changed? He seemed more compassionate than the last time she saw him. Would he try to take advantage of her? She didn't think so. He hadn't in the past. But, now? She conjured up the image of his aunt, Comtesse Marie, and felt reassured, knowing she had sent him.

With a sigh, Anne thought of her grandparents. They would surely shake their heads if they heard she had gone off with a French officer! It would be difficult explaining
that
to them, but she would have to try.

By noon, Anne had made up her mind. The Quaker children had received sufficient instruction from her and would benefit from a change. A substitute from Braidwood's institute would soon take her place. Yes, she would speak to the colonel. But, she must not appear too easily persuaded, too eager to join him. She would make clear to him that she had a mind of her own.

He was waiting for her in the sitting room near the entrance. His eyes brightened when he saw her. He was nervously fingering a button on his coat. She pretended not to notice, but she was pleased to find him a bit anxious. She would need more time to reflect, she told him, and would give him her decision by letter. Nonetheless, they made tentative arrangements to meet in London for the journey to Paris. She walked him to the door, where his adjutant waited with the horses. The colonel swung into the saddle with ease, then engaged her eye so warmly she felt caressed.

She stood at the front entrance, waving as they rode away. In the distance the colonel turned and waved back. How young he seemed for the rank—he could not be more than thirty-five. And so unaffected, despite his privileges. She recalled tossing the apple to him at the children's puppet show. His usual composure had dissolved into a heart-felt smile. For a moment she felt she had peered through a window into his soul. She waved again, softly murmuring, “I'll see you soon.”

Chapter 8

On to Paris

Anne Cartier gasped inaudibly as she entered the foyer of the French embassy at Saint James' Park. Stately fluted Ionic columns ringed the large circular room. Soft light sifted down from lunettes in a high domed ceiling. Several footmen in blue livery stood still as statues, while others met guests at the entrance. Gentlemen in pastel velvet suits and ladies in lustrous satin gowns glided across the gleaming marble floor, bowing and curtsying to one another, speaking through barely parted lips. The ambassador, Comte d'Adhémar, was receiving visitors somewhere deeper inside the building.

Glancing at her own plain light brown woolen dress, Anne momentarily wondered if she had walked into the wrong place, perhaps a royal palace. Or should she have used a service entrance? She smiled, reassuring herself. Colonel Saint-Martin had given her clear instructions. She squared her shoulders and walked calmly through the elegant crowd.

At the reception table, the clerk ignored her. She grew apprehensive again. But, forcing herself to be brave, she tapped her foot. He looked up, lips pursed. His eyes narrowed skeptically, reminding Anne she was alone, unpowdered, and dressed well below the mark of the present company.

“Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin was expecting me at noon,” she said, adding apologetically, “I'm a little late.” The clerk seemed to smirk. For a few moments, he measured her coolly then dispatched a young page with a note. Anne's anger had neared the bursting point, but she cautioned herself not to waste it on clerks.

She stepped back and sat on the edge of a chair with a view of the stairs. If travelling together didn't disturb the colonel, she told herself, it shouldn't bother her. This was her only way to reach Paris and Antoine's grave. And a new career. She couldn't do cartwheels and handstands for the rest of her life.

The page soon reappeared, skipping down the stairs. At a withering glance from the desk clerk, he shifted abruptly to a more stately descent. Colonel Saint-Martin would soon follow, Anne thought. She started to rise, then sat down again, watching for him out of the corner of her eye. She smoothed the folds of her dress. Her heart beat a little faster.

***

Upstairs in his parlor, Colonel Saint-Martin reclined in a chair, legs crossed at the ankles, reading Miss Cartier's letter a second time. He was relieved. She had accepted Aunt Marie's invitation and confirmed the tentative plan to meet at the embassy. She should be arriving any minute now. Her baggage would go to the coach station. She would stay the night with a friend.

He looked up from the letter, pleased, even morally vindicated. She trusted him. But she wasn't a clinging vine!

As I have the means to pay my own expenses, I shall be no burden to you. I also have sufficient strength and wit to cope with travelling to Paris.

Still nursing some bad bruises to her pride, he thought. She's skittish about men. Well, what matter. He had only to lead her safely to Aunt Marie. She and Miss Cartier could together wrestle with the strange fate of Antoine Dubois.

Out in the hall, a clock chimed noon. He folded the letter, laid it on the side table, and allowed his mind to play. Images from his visit to Wimbledon were soon darting about like minnows in a pond. The clown in bright yellow costume.
And
the toss of the apple! The young woman hearing of Dubois' death, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He steepled his fingers, tapped them lightly. Dubois had won her heart. She
would
try to vindicate him. A hopeless task. The case seemed clear-cut. A crime of passion. How could the police have made a mistake?

His eyes shifted to the folded letter by his side. He opened it again. “Strength and wit,” indeed! He sensed she could cope with more than a trip to Paris. He recalled her in the Wimbledon woods, urging her thoroughbred to a gallop, firing her pistol, the pot shattering. A woman of spirit!

The colonel sat up, glancing at his watch. Ten past the hour. He felt disappointed. Had she changed her mind at the last minute? Her grandparents might have convinced her the trip was an unwise idea. He walked to the window, paced the floor several times, stopped abruptly. So be it. He and Georges would depart tomorrow without her.

There were steps outside his door, then a knock and a voice. He opened for a page holding a folded message on a small silver tray. Saint-Martin took the slip of paper and handed the page a half-penny.

As the boy's footsteps faded away down the hall, Colonel Saint-Martin stiffly faced the door, fingering the paper. Then he read,
A Miss Cartier is waiting in the foyer
. “She's come,” he said aloud. He felt his life taking a major unpredictable turn. His mind urged caution. Inspecting himself in a mirror, he pulled on a plain buff coat with brown buttons. He would invite Miss Cartier to lunch privately.

***

A cab brought Anne and Colonel Saint-Martin to the coach station at the George and Blue Boar Inn in Holborn. It was Monday, the 15th of May, a sunny, cool day. The courtyard rang with the shouts and curses of stableboys, porters, and coachmen, with the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobblestones. Several coaches were loading as others arrived or departed. A crowd of passengers waited at the entrance to the inn. Tradesmen pushed through, carrying goods inside.

Georges Charpentier had collected the baggage and was watching with gimlet eye as a porter lifted it onto a Dover coach. Anne and Saint-Martin backed away from the bustle.

Ready for travel, Anne wore her light brown dress and a matching bonnet. She also carried a walking stick which she shifted nimbly from hand to hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small, wiry, round-shouldered man in a carter's smock, furtively studying passengers preparing to board a coach nearby. They paid him no attention, heatedly accusing one another of misplacing travel documents. At the call to board, the man drew closer. As the passengers surged forward, jostling one another, he singled out a noisy rotund woman, cut her purse, and darted toward a narrow alley from the courtyard to the street. The victim didn't realize she had been robbed.

Meanwhile, Colonel Saint-Martin had advanced a few steps toward the Dover coach, unaware of what was happening behind him. Anne was more alert. She stepped quickly to her right and tripped the thief with her walking stick. He tumbled head first to the rough stone pavement. Stunned, but still clutching the purse, he rolled over and rested on his elbow, blinking at the steel-tipped stick an inch away from his face.

A pair of steady blue eyes searched him. “Hand me the purse.”

He gave it to her without a word.

“Get out of here.”

He scrambled to his feet and scurried away.

Anne walked back to the woman who was only now becoming aware of a commotion. “Here's your purse, madam. The thief has escaped.”

“Well, thank you, young lady!” the woman stammered. “It's a pity no one caught him. He should be hung!”

“You lost nothing,” said Anne over her shoulder, hastening to rejoin the colonel.

The Dover coach was loaded and ready to depart, two pair of horses stamping in their harness. From an outside seat Georges beckoned furiously. Colonel Saint-Martin ignored him and motioned for Anne to come to one side. She balked inwardly at his command but, nonetheless, complied. When they were out of earshot, he asked, with a hint of reproach, why she had not held the thief. “The station master could have brought him to a magistrate.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied evenly, “and in a fortnight he might have been hung.”

Her irony appeared to nettle him. “Hanging's perhaps what he deserved. Do you suppose this was the first time he's snatched a purse? Anyway, he's not
your
concern.”

She took a step back and glared at him. “My concern? I had his life in my hands. I
was
his judge! And I had only an instant to decide. He deserved to be punished surely, but not hung.” She paused, then added with a teasing smile, “You probably noticed, he didn't get off scot-free. He took a nasty fall that he'll feel for a while.”

***

Returning to the coach, Saint-Martin stole a glance at Miss Cartier. She walked briskly, her brow smooth, free of doubt. He felt his irritation diminish. What the English did with their pickpockets was not his concern. With an indulgent smile, he fell in step with her.

***

Dozens of swooping gulls escorted the ship through Dover's harbor, their shrill calls echoing across the water. A few miles out in the Channel, white caps crowned the waves. The ship found a favorable steady breeze and steered straight for Calais. The other passengers crowded into the cabin below to sip from flasks they had brought along. Georges Charpentier joined them, hoping to pick up some useful Channel gossip.

Colonel Saint-Martin and Miss Cartier walked the slippery deck amidships, drawing salty air into their lungs, alone except for seamen who were too busy to notice them. England's chalk cliffs receded and the gulls disappeared. The sounds of the sea grew louder. Waves lapped the ship's hull. Wood creaked, rope groaned, canvas flapped against the mast.

Glancing sideways at the young woman beside him, Saint-Martin allowed himself to wonder. Could the Antoine Dubois she loved have changed in a few years into a murderer and suicide? Nothing in his letters had apparently alarmed her. The colonel's curiosity mounted, though he warned himself not to get deeply involved in her affair. Still, this seemed a good opportunity for a gentle probing.

“If it's not too painful,” he asked, when she turned his way, “perhaps you could tell me something about Antoine's life with you and your mother.”

“It was a good life,” she replied, gracefully shifting her weight for balance on the pitching deck. “Both of us loved and appreciated him.”

“That speaks well for him. Still, he was handsome and an actor.”

She conceded the point with a grudging nod. “He borrowed money and bought expensive gifts. And, he flirted with other women. He and mother quarreled but always reconciled. My grandparents disapproved of him at first, but eventually learned to like him and helped out with money.”

Gusts of wind suddenly filled the sails. The ship lurched forward. Anne gripped the railing. The colonel slipped back and forth but quickly regained his footing. They glanced at one another and smiled, sharing the moment.

“How did your mother's death affect him? Was he despondent?”

She knitted her brow in thought for a moment. “At her death, he wept. I recall him grieving but no self-pity or despair. When my maternal grandparents kept him from administering the trust fund my mother left me, he felt hurt. Later, he found lady friends,” she added without reproach. “One day he told me I had talent for something better than vaudeville.
And
he wanted to try a new partner.” She looked down, studying the ship's deck. “Who can blame him?”

“No one,” replied Saint-Martin softly, recollecting the emptiness of his own life after his wife's death. Hopes raised then dashed. He had thrown himself into his duties.

“We kept in touch. After the war, he returned to France to try vaudeville, farce, comedy—the things he was good at.” She shrugged her shoulders. “What else he did there, you probably know better than I.”

“I doubt it,” he replied. “The police interviewed people who worked with him but didn't learn much. He was liked but not successful. Flitted from task to task. Quarreled with his mistress. You can inquire about him when you've visited with my aunt and found your way in Paris. I'll help locate his things.”

She thanked him, then leaned on the ship's rail, gazing out over the sea, past the tiny dots of fishing vessels, to the horizon. For several minutes she remained there, still, as if digesting what he had said.

He stood silent next to her, the sea breeze whining in his ears. A few low clouds scudded easterly overhead. Finally, she stirred, and he asked casually what she had done after Antoine left her.

She turned around, resting her elbows on the rail. On her own, she explained, she had tried to become an actress. But she couldn't find good roles without a patron. Off-season she performed in vaudeville at Sadler's Wells. In her spare time, she went back to the puppetry her mother had taught her.

“I made puppets, wrote plays, and presented them.” Her face brightened. “One day, after a show, Mr. Braidwood came up to me and asked if I would perform for the deaf children at his school. I discovered I could do some of my vaudeville routines for them as well.”

She looked into his eyes as if worried she might be boring a distinguished French army officer.

He smiled, reassuring her, then glanced over her shoulder. “I think we should prepare to debark.” He pointed toward the sand dunes of the French coast and the low gray outline of Calais. A flock of gulls was soaring out to greet them.

***

Calais had a reputation similar to Dover's across the Channel, a port city with more than its share of pickpockets, baggage thieves, greedy innkeepers, and prostitutes. If travellers arrived by midday, they hurried on to Boulogne, a three-hour journey by royal highway. It was a beautiful city with decent inns and a large English colony. Thanks to good weather, Anne and her two companions debarked at one o'clock. Within an hour they were on their way to Boulogne in a rented carriage, Anne and the colonel inside, Georges Charpentier outside next to the driver.

The royal highway soon left the coast and cut directly inland. From the carriage window Anne saw grassy dunes, thickets of low bushes, and groves of stunted trees—a barren place where neither man nor beast seemed to thrive. Farm buildings were decrepit and fences in disrepair. The sun disappeared behind a cover of clouds, leaving the countryside, even the grass on the dunes, looking bleak and gray, a monotone relieved only by splashes of pink spring blossoms on the wild bushes.

Halfway to Boulogne, Saint-Martin closed the book he had been reading and looked in her direction. Anne smiled to herself. Was he going to interrogate her again? No, she thought, it was her turn. “What's it about?” she asked, glancing at the book.