“I knew the fellow was lurking about. Could spot him a mile off,” Bascombe said. “Found it amusing.”
“The editor suspects someone acting for the king had a hand in it.”
Bascombe shook his head. “His Majesty always had a grudging respect for Bonaparte, a superb tactician, and a brave soldier, which the king wished he could have been. Look at the ridiculously elaborate uniform he designed for himself. Possibly he was jealous of Bonaparte, but I doubt he’d go to those lengths.” He dragged on his cheroot. “Welby is a keen journalist who has sniffed out a story that would give him recognition, no question. Atwood is a profligate who sees money to be made from it. Don’t trust either of them.”
“Atwood is fond of waving a pistol around.”
“Shouldn’t let that bother you. Probably doesn’t know which endthe ball comes out of.”
That made him evenmoredangerous in Jack’s view. “I’ve begun to doubt Lord Butterstone did take them into his confidence because they’d learned nothing of importance. They were looking to me for information. Why are they watching Lord Caindale?”
“Caindale’s involvement in this affair bears looking into.” Bascombe rose and replenished their glasses from the decanter. “I viewed Bonaparte’s autopsy,” he continued when he’d resumed his seat. “The opinion of the five surgeons was inconclusive. It was decided on balance that he died from a stomach tumor.”
“No question of poisoning?”
“There’s always a question. The symptoms of arsenic poisoning can be misinterpreted.”
“Who could have carried it out?”
“He’d need constant access to Bonaparte’s food and drink over a period. Difficult for an Englishman to visit St. Helena often enough to manage that.”
“A servant in his pay?”
“Improbable.” Bascombe ground out his cheroot into a saucer. “Not with Louis Marchand, Napoleon’s loyal valet for ten years, in attendance.” He paused to drink from his glass. “Only two people had close contact with Napoleon daily. One was his valet, and the other was Charles Tristan, the Marquis de Montholon. Montholon interests me the most. Initially, it was self-interest that motivated him, for why would he volunteer to serve Bonaparte on the barren island of St. Helena, for possibly another twenty years? Especially after Bonaparte had ordered Montholon’s discharge from his post as the French envoy to Wurzburg after he married the twice-divorced Albine Roger against Bonaparte’s wishes.”
“Perhaps he didn’t intend to remain on the island for long?”
Bascombe nodded. “He did become the major beneficiary of Bonaparte’s will, and it is common knowledge that he needed the money.He’s a gambler and in debt. But there’s a more significant possibility. He’s known to be a strong royalist, as is his stepfather, the Comte de Simonville—a tricky customer, and a close friend of Louis XVIII. Could it be that Montholon was acting as an agent of the Bourbons, who considered Bonaparte to be an enemy of peace in Europe?”
“Interesting.”
“It is. Montholon was the sommelier. He had exclusive access to Napoleon’s wine. Arsenic powder was used to kill the rats on the island. It is neutral—it has no taste—and could be put into wine whenever Montholon wanted to.”
“So, who is this Frenchman Lord Caindale spoke of?”
“That is something we must find out. He is the key to Butterstone’s death, I feel certain.”
Jack stood. “Let’s hope we find him before any more blood is shed.”
“Indeed.” Bascombe saw him to the door.
*
Thepied-à-terreJack’sfather had left him turned out to be a large townhouse.
There was a stables in the mews behind big enough for six horses and two carriages.
His father’s secretary, Stinson, opened the glossy, black door beneath a decorative fanlight, smelling strongly of macassar oil, his unruly hair the bane of his orderly existence. Jack entered the lofty, marble-tiled entry hall, where a graceful staircase swept to the upper floors. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.
“The house is furnished. At present, it is devoid of staff. As you requested, most will arrive tomorrow. I can be here to introduce you to the butler and the housekeeper if you wish.”
“I would be grateful, thank you, Stinson.” In the comfortablelibrary, Jack signed the relevant documents, briefly discussed his other properties, then sent the secretary on his way. He was moodily staring down into the street from his grand, new bedchamber, wallpapered in a pattern of gold and cream, with elaborate matching damask curtains and bed hangings, when a carriage drew up in front of the house. An unaccompanied lady dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled forward over her face emerged onto the pavement and hurried to the door.
Jack ran down the stairs, his pulse beating hard with a desire to greet the lady, plus a degree of concern for her reputation. He flung open the front door, grasped her arm, and drew her inside. Before a word was spoken, he’d pushed back the hood and covered her mouth with his.
Althea clung to him with a little sob. “Foolish man, did you think you were free of me?”
“Oh, my darling.” Jack swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.
