Gabriel refused to rise to this, or to say anything, so Dysart tried a different tack.
‘What about your other friends? The residents of Vine Street. Your co-conspirators in the London Corresponding Society?’
Gabriel shrugged, his strong shoulders pulled down by the heavy chains he wore on his wrists. ‘I hardly know them. I met them once only. I’m a countryman. I know nothing about what goes on in London.’ He spread his hands on the table. ‘I cannot tell you what I do not know.’
Robert Dysart stared down at the prisoner chained before him. This could go on all day, as it had on previous days. He was careful not to let his frustration show, but so far the man had given him nothing. He had a feeling that this Gabriel Stanhope would turn out to be far more dangerous than all the rest of them put together.
He had a big man’s capacity for physical endurance. His robust constitution had not proved in any way susceptible to the foul conditions of Newgate, despite Dysart’s instructions to keep him in the darkest, dankest, filthiest part of this disease-ridden prison. Others were already succumbing to the vile contagions so rife here, but Stanhope always appeared fresh and ruddy faced, in the rudest health. He stayed calm, mild-tempered, however harsh or long the questioning. He seemed able to retreat to some place inside himself; a place that Dysart could not reach. Despite his mild manner, however, Dysart sensed a profound belief, a zeal for his cause that sustained and fed him. It showed sometimes, deep in his blue eyes, like a spark from a damped down fire.
He would love to be able to break him, to use methods that would shatter that strong body, stretch and rack it, separate each vertebra, pull each bone from its socket, turn those powerful hands to bloody paws, nails torn out, fingers smashed. But thanks to Oldfield, that could not be. Dysart silently cursed the lawyer. Cursed all lawyers. The way they stuck together. Even the judges. Oldfield had managed to wriggle out of all attempts to implicate him in the conspiracy that Dysart had spun for Hugh and Sovay. Now he had engaged Thomas Erskine, as defence counsel in this and his other cases. Erskine had made a career out of defending these radical swine and any hint of torture would be pounced upon and made much of in court, for Stanhope and the rest were to be tried by judge and jury. How Dysart wished he could sweep all that away as they had done in France. How he longed for the clear, shining simplicity of the Revolutionary Tribunal. No troublesome lawyers, no endless parade of pointless witnesses, no stupid jury, just the rightful judgement of true believers. Death or acquittal. If Dysart had his way, it would be death in every case. And he would have his way. It was only a matter of time and he would be First Minister in the Departement of the Thames. He had the highest assurance of that.
Perhaps it was time to move things on. Conditions were ripe. Despite the draconian action that had been taken against Stanhope and his kind, unrest was spreading. Ireland was in ferment; Ireland might be the key to this. He would send a representative. Someone whom he could trust, someone with the right connections, of high enough rank to be believed. A man of no scruples at all, who was heavily in debt and who would be more than happy to be relieved of such obligations. Dysart smiled to himself. He knew just the man. If he was successful, he might even receive a large and lucrative estate in Warwickshire for his pains.
‘What did he want?’ Lydia asked as she came into the cell.
‘Oh, the usual.’ Gabriel gave a weary smile. He put a brave face on with Dysart, but these sessions tired him beyond measure.
‘Shrivel-hearted crow,’ Lydia grimaced. ‘Don’t let him get you down, Gabriel. Cook’s sent a squab pie to keep your strength up. She knows it’s your favourite, and Mrs Crombie’s put in some warm vests she’s been knitting you to keep off the chill.’
As Lydia kept up a light chatter about the goings-on at Soho Square, Gabriel’s eyes filled with tears. They could have no idea how these simple acts of kindness sustained him through the endless hours of interrogation. They helped to keep his resolve to the forefront of his mind and cut out Dysart’s voice and his insidious accusations. Gabriel would fight all his life long for the rights of ordinary people, people like them.
Lydia came almost every day to bring food for him and clean linen. As often as not she was accompanied by Skidmore, Oldfield’s clerk, who brought news on how the case was progressing and how the others were faring. Gabriel was kept in solitary confinement, but he was not deprived of visitors, Oldfield made sure of that.
‘The thing is, Gabriel, the fact of the matter is . . .’ Gabriel looked up at Lydia’s seriousness of tone, her uncharacteristic hesitation. ‘With me being distant from my own people, and the mistress away, I wanted your opinion.’
‘About what?’ Gabriel asked, intrigued.
‘Well, it’s this. Mr Skidmore, Algie,’ the words came in a sudden rush, ‘has asked me to walk out with him. I’ve asked Mrs Crombie, and she thinks it would be acceptable.’
‘I’m sure the good lady is right, in this as in most matters.’ Gabriel went to rise, to embrace her, but was pulled back by his encumbering chains. ‘You don’t need anyone’s permission, Lydia, if it is what you want.’
‘Oh, it is, Mr Gabriel. I love him with all my heart.’
‘There you are then!’
Gabriel smiled. He was happy for her; Algernon Skidmore was a fine young fellow with good prospects, thanks to Sovay, and would make an excellent husband. He’d thought, at one time, that Lydia might have had feelings for him. He had not wanted to tell her that there could be no place in the life he planned for a wife and perhaps children. It would not be fair on them. How could he devote himself to the many, if he was distracted and occupied by the happiness of the few?
That’s if he ever got out of this place. There was no trial date as yet. It would be October at the earliest, according to Oldfield, and much could happen between now and then.
CHAPTER 34
It was hard to keep track of time. France was no longer ruled by the same calendar as everywhere else. All the months had been renamed after the weather, or crops. They were presently in Messidor, which meant harvest, or perhaps they were in Thermidor, which meant hot. Sovay could not be sure. She didn’t even know what day of the week it was, since the normal seven had been increased to ten. The weather was certainly living up to the new naming. Even with the windows open, there was hardly a breath of air. They were living in Year 2. The new calendar was calculated from the day the Republic had been declared, and there hadn’t really been a Year 1, because no one had thought of it then. It was as if time had been broken. As if the past had never existed and the future was there to be invented along with everything else. Who knew what to believe? Or how to behave? The rules were made up and changed from day to day. The arrogance bordered on madness. It is what sent the tumbrels rolling to the guillotine day after day.
Sovay had not seen any of the gruesome executions, and she didn’t want to, dreading to see her father riding among the condemned. Amélie Thery, the doctor’s daughter, reported that Sir John was gravely ill but his condition was far from hopeless. Either Hugh or Sovay went every day to get news of him, torn between hoping that he was better and knowing that any recovery speeded him towards the Tribunal and the guillotine. Hugh had taken quite a fancy to Mademoiselle Thery and often elected to go on his own to the Luxembourg, in the hope of accompanying her on her shopping rounds and then back to her home on Rue de Monsieur Le Prince. Sovay was often left alone in the Hôtel Fonteneau where she sat in her shift because of the heat and wrote letters that it was impossible to send.
In the evenings, she went out with Hugh and Virgil, among the expatriots who remained in the city. They met in clubs, private salons and hotels. Subdued parties of Americans mainly, and some Irishmen. Among them was Lord Henry Fitzwilliam, now plain Henry since he had given up his title, celebrated United Irishman, brother to Gerald, Hugh’s Oxford friend and tutor. He was very different from his kinsman, being very much taller and bigger altogether, with thick, curling auburn hair and large, expressiv
e brown eyes. He had a deep voice and a rich laugh and, considering the state the country was in, he laughed a lot.
‘Always entertainment to be found,’ he declared. ‘Champagne and oysters to be had. I don’t see it very different, as long as one avoids the tumbrels, except the theatres are full of those confoundedly boring patriotic plays.’
The only time he was ever serious was when the talk turned to Irish politics. Then his handsome face grew sombre and he burned with a quiet anger at the fate of his fellow countrymen.
‘Revolution is our only hope,’ he declared, ‘if we are to free ourselves of the English yoke and become independent.’
He was here to solicit French support for an Irish rebellion. Virgil didn’t hold out much hope for his ambitions. The French were fighting on all sides. With every country in Europe against them, they had neither men nor money to squander on such an expedition, but Henry would have none of such talk.
‘On the contrary, my dear Barrett, it is very much on the cards. I am in negotiation with those in the very highest authority. They see it as a means to deflect English attention away from war with France.’
Sovay enjoyed the diversion such evenings afforded her. Henry Fitzwilliam and his friends were charming company and the women she met were interesting, being of an adventurous and independent frame of mind. But there was something brittle in the laughter, as though danger gave a frantic edge to the frivolity. Fear was always there, real but never spoken. They could all be arrested at any time. There was often a space at the table where someone had been taken, or else had left for Switzerland or some other place of safety. If a person was absent, their presence was missed, but never spoken of or questioned. One learnt not to ask.
Despite Henry Fitzwilliam’s brave words, it was different. Very different. Society of any kind was dwindling, even among the French. A year ago, she was told, the salons had been filled with politicians, journalists, men of learning and letters, soldiers on leave from the wars. Now they were in the grip of La Grande Terreur, many such men had fled, or had been arrested and sent to the guillotine. There was a distinct lack of stimulating male company. One young captain was very much missed since his duties had taken him from Paris. His absence was especially regretted, particularly by the ladies. Sovay was oddly galled to find out that Léon was so popular and felt an unwelcome stab of jealousy to hear him spoken of in that way.
Although Sovay liked going out in society, the relentless pleasure-seeking left her giddy, and the single-minded focus on the trivial in the face of daily enormity was difficult to reconcile. She was glad when Virgil told her that he had arranged a meeting with Lefere. Going with him would give her something to do that had a real purpose.
‘It took longer than I thought, but he has uncovered a letter from Dysart. I’ve taken him the blank forms stamped with the seal of the Committee of Public Safety that Fernand procured,’ he told her. ‘He’s not happy about it, but will do anything for money. We have to collect them tomorrow night.’
It was a hot night and the attic above the printer’s shop was stifling, the atmosphere stale and thick with the onion stench of sweat and the sweetish reek of unwashed clothes.
Lefere was clearly having second thoughts. Sovay positioned herself behind him. At a nod from Virgil, she eased a small pistol from her pocket. Lefere turned at the click behind his ear, the beads rolling off his oily forehead and onto the paper on the table before him.
‘Careful!’ Virgil threw him a kerchief. ‘Mop your brow. We don’t want to soil the evidence. Now, I find a gun to the head a great persuader, so let’s get on with it shall we? And I want a fair copy, so keep your hand steady or that paper will be stained with more than sweat.’
His hand ceased to shake as soon as he applied pen to paper and he wrote to Virgil’s dictation with a forger’s careful precision. Finally, he copied the signatures, each one an exact imitation of the members of the Committee of Public Safety.
‘Good!’ Virgil looked down at his work. ‘Very good. Now for the annotations.’ Virgil picked up the letter that Lefere had procured which was written in Dysart’s hand. ‘I want you to add, here, here, and here.’ Virgil completed his dictation. ‘Let me see.’
Lefere shook sand over his work, blew away the residue and handed the paper to Virgil.
‘This will do very well.’ He passed it to Sovay. ‘What do you think?’
She read it through quickly. It was perfectly executed and worded in such a way as to implicate Dysart in a plot against his own Government. She smiled at the cleverness of it. There would be no gainsaying it. Given in evidence, it would be enough to get him hanged, or worse.
‘Thank you, Citizen Lefere.’ Virgil scooped up the other papers and put them in his pocket. ‘We should have plenty here. Your money.’ He took out a purse. Gold spilled across the table. ‘I’m sure you’ve betrayed people of much greater worth for far less than that. You can consider yourself well rewarded.’
With that, they left him, making their way quickly down the narrow turns of the crooked stairs. As soon as they were out in the street, the casement above them flew open.
‘Spies! English spies!’ Lefere bawled out. ‘Ring the tocsin. Rouse the Section! Spies in our midst!’
Faces appeared in doorways and at open windows. Men spilled onto the street.
‘Where?’ They looked up to Lefere for direction. ‘Where?’
‘There!’ He pointed at Sovay and Virgil. ‘Don’t let them get away!’
There was nowhere to hide. People were appearing on every side, armed with anything that they could find, and the street was well lit, with lanterns swinging from chains strung from one side to the other.
Virgil grabbed Sovay’s hand, making for the end of the street. Two men wearing liberty caps shouted a challenge and attempted to block their way with improvised pikes. Virgil dodged sideways, pushing one man into the other, their unwieldy weapons tangling together. One of the long poles skittled out of the man’s hand and bounced into the path of another band of pursuers, causing the front rank to trip and fall. Those following behind fell over their fellows in a confusion of arms and legs. Virgil and Sovay sped on, but all the while more people were pouring down side streets to join in the hue and cry.
It seemed that they would be caught in a matter of moments.
‘Amélie Thery lives up here.’
Sovay pulled Virgil after her, praying that the gate to her courtyard would be unlocked. It was their only hope. Up ahead, the narrow street curved away, sheer as a canyon. The house was first on the right. She pushed and the gate creaked open on to a little garden crowded with trees and shrubs. Virgil and Sovay hid among the foliage, trying to control their ragged breathing as many feet clattered past in the street outside.
‘Which door is hers?’ Virgil whispered.
‘The one at the end.’ Sovay crept forward and rapped lightly on the door. ‘Amélie. It’s me,’ she called quietly. ‘Sovay.’
The girl’s big brown eyes grew wide when she saw who was standing outside. ‘I heard the shouting,’ she said, pulling her shawl round her shoulders. ‘But did not want to go out. Too dangerous. I’m on my own here at the moment. My neighbours have all fled or moved out. Come this way. Quick! They may be back!’
She led them through to the back of her house. She put her ear to the panels of the door, then looked out cautiously.
‘There’s nobody about. Good luck.’
She gathered her shawl tight around her and prepared to answer the distant hammering that had started up on her front door.
The street Sovay and Virgil entered was quiet. The disturbance started by Lefere seemed local to the area around his house.
‘It is odd how one place can be in ferment,’ Virgil said, ‘and right next door there is no sign of anything.’ He looked around, relieved. ‘We should be able to proceed unmolested.’
They made their way through the streets of St Germain until they reached the river and then they crossed over the Pont Ne
uf to the relative safety of the other bank.
‘I dropped into White’s on my way to see Lefere,’ Virgil said as they walked up towards the Marais. ‘I met Henry Fitzwilliam there. Who do you think he’s expecting?’
Sovay had no idea.
‘His brother, Gerald Fitzwilliam.’
‘Hugh’s tutor?’
‘Due to arrive tomorrow.’
‘Why is he coming here?’
‘To see his brother. Undergone a late conversion to the cause, apparently, and become a United Irishman. Henry is overjoyed, of course, but I call it mighty strange.’
‘You suspect him?’
‘Don’t you? He will be up to no good, we can be sure of that. I suggest we pay him a visit tomorrow evening. Welcome him to Paris.’
CHAPTER 35
The house where Henry Fitzwilliam now resided had been divided into apartments. The concierge took his time answering the bell and when he did appear he was surly to the point of rudeness. He opened the door a crack and scowled out, his face folded in lines of ill temper and dissatisfaction. Virgil barely had time to state his business before he grunted, ‘Not in,’ and went to shut the door on them.
‘We’ll wait.’ Virgil put his foot inside the threshold.
‘Please yourself.’ The man let the door go and wandered off.
Henry’s rooms were at the top of the stairs. Virgil knocked, expecting to be answered by Henry’s manservant. Instead, he was confronted by a rusty-haired boy who spoke in English.
‘Sir Henry ain’t here.’
‘It’s not him we’ve come to see.’ Virgil walked past him into the apartment. ‘It’s his brother. And less of the “Sirs” if you value your life, or your master’s. I’m Virgil Barrett. This is Sophie Weston.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Rufus Brook. I work for Mr Gerald. He’s gone out for the evening with his brother, Mr Henry,’ the boy added with a wide grin.