The Silver Blade Read online

  ‘What green-eyed monster?’ asked Didier.

  ‘Mr Trippen, an actor and my tutor in London, loved quoting Shakespeare. One of his favourites was Othello: “Beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.” Most men, if they’re honest, would like to live in this house, to have servants, to own land.’

  ‘Not you, not me.’

  ‘We, my friend, might well be the exceptions,’ said Yann, going over to the window and opening one of the shutters.

  Outside the storm raged and the rain slashing at the windowpane made it impossible for Yann to see anything but his own reflection.

  Didier shrugged. ‘I would choose life over property any time,’ he said, unbuttoning his coat and hanging it over one of the many chairs in front of the fire. He took off his boots and rested them on the grate to dry.

  ‘You should do the same,’ he said, looking at Yann still wrapped in his sodden greatcoat. ‘I’ll go and find something to eat.’

  Yann stood by the fire. Steam rose from his soaking clothes.

  How many times have I arrived at a chateau just like this one, he thought to himself, to be greeted in the same dismissive manner? I suppose everyone’s idea of a saviour is different. I am never what anyone expects. The Duke spoke the truth.

  My mother was a gypsy, she told fortunes, had the gift of working the threads of light. She danced for fine gentlemen. What was the rhyme Tetu used to tell me?

  O, I am not of the gentle clan,

  I’m sprung from the Gypsy tree,

  And I will be no gentleman,

  But a Romany free.

  It matters not. No, it matters. It always has mattered.

  Yann leaned forward, his forehead cooled by the marble mantelpiece. Looking down into the burning city of coals, he knew his airs and graces had been hard won.

  ‘He is a good man,’ came the soft voice of the Duchess. She was standing behind him. ‘It’s just that we had been expecting the Silver Blade. Foolish, I know. It’s only a name, but his reputation had led us to believe that once he arrived we would be safe.’

  Yann didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed on the burning coals.

  ‘The Silver Blade is just a name on the street. He doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I believe he does. For all our sakes, I pray he does,’ replied the Duchess. ‘I am told that when someone escapes or disappears from under the eyes of the police, they look frantically for the small silver blade, suspended as if by a spider’s thread.’

  ‘A fairy tale, nothing more,’ said Yann.

  ‘We need fairy tales, to have some belief in magic. Without that, aren’t we all lost?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Yann.

  ‘Monsieur Cordell told us you helped Sidonie de Villeduval escape.’

  At the sound of her name, Yann turned to the Duchess. His dark eyes studied her face intently before he asked, ‘You know the Marquis’s daughter?’

  ‘No, we knew her uncle, Armand. He was one of my husband’s best friends and instrumental in forming his philosophy towards his tenants. A kinder and more considerate man would be hard to imagine. His was a terrible loss. Tell me, was it you who rescued Sidonie?’

  Yann nodded.

  She went up to him and kissed his hand. ‘God bless you,’ she said. ‘I, unlike you, monsieur, believe in fairy stories.’ She turned to leave. Pausing at the door she asked, ‘Have you seen the guillotine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am told that the blade falls so fast the mob feels cheated of the spectacle. Is that so?’

  ‘It is indeed very swift.’

  ‘How absurd is life when it is valued so cheaply,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  Didier returned with a plate piled high with bread and meat, and carrying a jug of wine and two glasses.

  ‘A feast, and the good thing is there’s more where that comes from,’ he said. Pulling a chair up near the fire, he started to eat. ‘What are you waiting for, Yann? You must be famished. Come on.’

  From outside, a howl like a wolf’s penetrated the room. Didier stopped eating.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Yann nodded.

  ‘It gives me the shudders. Sounds like it comes from the graveyard.’

  Just then all the clocks in the room began to chime. Father Time, who knows the hour of each man’s death, was beating out the last minutes of the day and still above the cacophony of noise that dreadful howl could be heard.

  Whatever it was that lurked out there in the dead of midnight, Yann felt certain of one thing. It was waiting for him.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  Chapter Three

  Mr Tull sat in the corner of L’Auberge des Pecheurs not far from the village of Greville. Outside, the sign creaked in the wind and the round bottle-glass windows rattled. Such was the battering the storm was giving this humble dwelling that, had it not been for the solidity of the floor, he might have believed himself to be at sea and likely to hit the rocks at any moment.

  Mr Tull, who was seated at a table beside the fire, was much changed of late. Gone was the stocky figure with the bulldog manner; in its place sat a haunted-looking man whose bulbous eyes constantly darted to the door as if whomever he was expecting might have already slipped past him unseen.

  ‘Another cognac,’ he shouted, as the spiteful wind hissed its way in through the many cracks, causing the tallow candles to flicker and falter.

  The innkeeper, placing a bucket on the floor to catch the raindrops from the leaking ceiling, glanced at his one and only customer.

  ‘Be with you in a moment, citizen,’ he said, nodding towards his daughter to go and serve him.

  Mr Tull, half-watching from the corner of his eye, could tell she had refused. He shifted uneasily into the shadows, realising that she was frightened of him.

  ‘Maybe I have the mark of the devil on me, and she can see its stain,’ he thought wretchedly. ‘My life would be good - I would be good - if only I could rid myself of my master.’

  He shuddered at the thought of the man and set his mind on more cheerful subjects, such as the cottage he had just purchased by the sea in Kent, where he planned to retire and grow cabbages, a morsel of consolation for all his hard work.

  The innkeeper, apologising for the delay, came over with the cognac. Mr Tull snatched the bottle.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone else, citizen?’

  ‘Two more, and we shall want dinner.’

  The innkeeper was without doubt wondering what in God’s name had brought him out on such a night. What had brought him was furniture, the stealing and shipping of stolen goods, and a very profitable business it had turned out to be. Furniture, unlike would-be emigres, didn’t fuss or suffer from seasickness, furniture wasn’t prone to weeping and wailing, furniture always kept its price and could be satisfactorily explained away. He had had a tip-off from Sergeant Berigot that the Duc de Bourcy was going to be arrested tomorrow. If he wanted to break into the chateau, he had been told, best to do it before the Bluecoats decided to make kindling out of the Duke’s possessions.

  His partners in crime these days were the butcher, Citizen Loup, and his unexpectedly beautiful seventeen-year-old son, Anselm. They had first met by chance at a cafe in the Palais-Royal. Citizen Loup was at the time feeling much aggrieved, for he had been reprimanded for taking a chair from a chateau that was to be burned to the ground.

  ‘Surely there must be some perks for tearing down the symbols of oppression? I only took what rightfully belonged to me.’

  Mr Tull had bought him a drink, and by the end of the evening the three had agreed to go into partnership.

  Tomorrow, thought Mr Tull, stretching his legs, he would be on his way to England, accompanying the Duke’s possessions to an auction house. He wouldn’t be returning, not for a while. His master had business for him in London. He wanted him to locate a certain young lady, one with whom Mr Tull had had dealings before - Sido de Villeduval. And locat
ing people was what Mr Tull was good at.

  He sat there, waiting, watching, drinking as another leak in the ceiling appeared. Drip-drop, drip-drop, water inside, water outside, everywhere there was water.

  At that moment the wind took hold of the door and threw it wide open, blowing the sawdust off the floor.

  The innkeeper rushed forward, cursing; then, seeing the imposing figure of Citizen Loup and his son in the doorway, backed away.

  ‘What kept you so long?’ said Mr Tull, getting up to greet them. The butcher, a beast of a man with pig eyes in a ruddy face, entered, followed by Anselm, whose beauty shone like a beacon in this dimly lit inn, making him appear as if he had come from another world entirely.

  ‘Merde alors, have you noticed the weather, rosbif? We’ve had the devil of a job getting here,’ said the butcher, shaking the water from his coat like a dog. ‘I hope it’s going to be worth it.’

  He sat down and ordered a bottle of wine, while Anselm went over to the innkeeper’s flustered daughter, who couldn’t believe her good fortune that the wind should have blown in one so handsome.

  Mr Tull watched the lad walk away. There was something about that young man that made his flesh creep. On the whole, he thought to himself, he liked his fellow thieves and villains to look as devious as the trade they performed. Like Citizen Loup: what you saw was what you got. Angels made him uneasy.

  Anselm had grown up looking more beautiful than many a young girl. His skin had not one blemish to spoil its perfection; his cheeks possessed the blush of a fine autumn apple.

  He had learned at an early age the power his beauty had over people. Even when he was naughty he was rarely scolded. No one could quite bring themselves to believe a child with such angelic looks could do anything wrong. The only person he had failed to impress had been the downtrodden Madame Loup. She knew the truth of his birth. He was not of her flesh and blood. He had been abandoned in a basket of putrid animal entrails at the back of the shop. The butcher had wanted to slaughter the infant, but she had pleaded to be allowed to take it to the nuns. Then something had happened. The butcher saw in the baby’s yellow eyes another wolf, and wolves don’t kill their own kind. The butcher had threatened to slit Madame Loup’s throat if she ever told the boy the truth. He soon forgot he was not his son; she never could. All her babies had been stillborn; their eyes never opened, their hunger for life a whisper in a candle flame, snuffed out. This baby had been ravenous for life and clung to it with a tyrannical grip that repulsed her.

  As a child Anselm had become fascinated by his father’s trade, saw him as a giant, an ogre who possessed an almost mythical power over life and death. The butcher saw in Anselm a kindred spirit, someone worthy to inherit the business.

  Few people can claim they are born into the right period of history. Most of us have to make do with the times we find ourselves in. This could not be said of Anselm, nor for that matter his father, for never had a revolution come at a better time. It liberated them completely from any morals they might have had. In any other age both would have been called murderers.

  Instead, the September Massacre had raised father and son, the beast and the beauty, to the status of heroes. They had been called the Spirit of the Revolution.

  ‘How long have we got before the chateau’s raided?’ asked the butcher.

  ‘My sources tell me tomorrow, about nine o’clock in the morning,’ said Mr Tull, relighting his clay pipe.

  Anselm returned and sat down, while the innkeeper’s daughter, having lost her fear of Mr Tull and blushing bright red, served them their supper.

  The rain battered at the windows and the wind listened through the cracks to what the three crooks had to say. They agreed there would be no point leaving the warmth of the inn until the worst of the storm had abated.

  The plates were finally cleared and another bottle of cognac placed on the table. Anselm stoked the fire so it roared and hissed while his father settled back in his chair, tired after their journey, annoyed that the pain in his chest had come back. He closed his eyes and fell fast asleep, snoring loudly.

  Mr Tull on the other hand was wide awake. He poured himself another glass. With no one to steady his hand he’d drunk more than enough.

  ‘Pa tells me that you also work for a very mysterious gentleman indeed. Is that true?’

  Mr Tull couldn’t remember ever having had a conversation with Anselm before. Usually the boy looked bored rigid by everything he had to say.

  ‘I do indeed have another job,’ he said, taking from his pocket a rather fine watch.

  Anselm still had his bewitching eyes fixed on Mr Tull, who felt somewhat uneasy at the intense look of innocence that this young lad’s face possessed. He snapped the watch shut. Even though he had never learned how to tell the time, he hoped it gave him a look of authority.

  ‘Come on, have a drink with me. Or can’t you take your liquor?’

  ‘It’s not that, Mr Tull,’ said Anselm, smiling, ‘I don’t want any more.’ To himself he said, ‘but I would buy you a vat of cognac if it would loosen your tongue.’

  ‘Come on, pour us another,’ said Mr Tull and he started to sing,

  ‘Old Nick is ailing

  He’s complaining tonight.’

  ‘So tell me about your master, then,’ said Anselm.

  ‘Old Nick is ailing,’ sniggered Mr Tull. ‘I wish he was. Many men would pay high to know about my master.’ He leaned towards Anselm. ‘It’s as dark as Hades down there. Hell don’t burn bright with flames, no, it damn well don’t. It’s dark, it smells of dead men’s bones. I should know. I work for a man who lives under the city of Paris, in the catacombs.’

  Anselm knew of the catacombs all right, a grim network of tunnels where many bodies from the September Massacre had been dumped, twenty metres below the city. He couldn’t imagine who would choose to live down there.

  ‘He sounds like a strange one, he does.’

  ‘I suppose, if you can’t stand the light,’ said Mr Tull, letting out a laugh, ‘it’s the best place for you.’

  ‘What? He lives in one of them dark tunnels like a rat?’

  ‘I’ll tell you something that will shock you,’ said Mr Tull. ‘There is nothing dark about the apartment my master lives in.’

  ‘What do you mean, apartment? There are only tunnels and dripping water down there. It’s where the dead go to rot.’

  ‘That’s what you think. My master is one of the richest men in Paris—’ He stopped for a moment. His words were beginning to slur. ‘He’s had the most stupendous set of chambers built for himself. Lined, they are, all in human bones covered in gold leaf. The chambers are lit by thousands of candles. He has a lake and a ballroom down there! What do you say to that?’

  Anselm wasn’t sure whether to believe Mr Tull, but he didn’t think the old rogue had the imagination to make up such a thing.

  ‘Why does he live down there then, if he’s so rich?’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I, he doesn’t like the light.’ Mr Tull finished his glass. ‘What - you still not drinking?’

  ‘Want to keep a clear head for the work, don’t I, Mr Tull,’ Anselm said, smiling. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t have to worry.’

  ‘You’re right, lad. Now, what was I saying?’

  ‘You were telling me the reason for your master living down in the catacombs, remember?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, he got hurt, didn’t he. Him and that dog of his got taken down there. Has to stay out of the light … shall I tell you a secret, boy?’

  Anselm nodded.

  Mr Tull’s vision had lost focus now. Anselm appeared more angelic than ever, a halo of light shining around his head. Yes, he was an angel come to save him.

  ‘Will you forgive me my trespasses?’ said Mr Tull, his frog-like eyes beginning to close.

  ‘I will if you tell me your secret,’ said Anselm.

  Mr Tull shook himself awake. Secret? What secret? What had he let slip to the boy? Sitting bolt upri
ght, he said, ‘You forget about the Seven Sisters Macabre, you just forget about them, all right? I never said a word!’ He had a feeling he was saying things that in the sober light of day he would come to regret.

  Anselm, longing to know more and fearing that Mr Tull might fall asleep at any moment, asked, ‘What sisters?’

  ‘They’re half-alive and always dead.’

  Anselm was beginning to feel like throttling the old drunk. He must have made up the sisters, he thought, to stop me asking about his master.