Chapter Fifteen
“How d’you do, Captain Ryder? Lord Atworth.
” The long-faced dandy in the seat opposite tucked the pistol into the back of his buff pantaloons.
His collar sat uncomfortably high beneath his chin, his waistcoat an alarming shade of puce.
Fobs and seals hung on a gold chain from his pocket watch.
His uneasy glance took in Jack’s shoulders.
“I apologize for the dramatics, but it’s urgent that we speak with you. ”
“‘We’?” Jack struggled not to take the man by his ridiculous lapels and shove him out into the street. “Then I advise you to get on with it.” He glanced out the window as the carriage took off again, wondering who wanted him now and for what reason? “Where are we going?”
Atworth eyed him nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. “Patience, I beg you. Just a short way along Fleet Street. We are visiting an associate of mine, Mr. Welby.”
Jack lifted his eyebrows. “The editor of The London Gazette?”
“The same.”
“And why would Mr. Welby wish to see me?” Jack asked curtly. “I’ve nothing of interest to tell him.”
“You have maybe more than you are aware of at this precise moment, Captain Ryder.”
“I read his article in The London Gazette concerning Bonaparte’s death. A well-written piece.”
“But not comprehensive enough,” Lord Atworth stated, folding his arms.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard the rumors same as you. No story in that. But if you’re looking to me to prove that Bonaparte didn’t die from natural causes, you are destined to be disappointed.”
“You are too humble, Captain Ryder. The undercover work you performed for General Colquhoun Grant has been highly regarded in certain circles. Your interest in Bonaparte’s death has led us to suspect you are after the truth. As are we.”
Jack studied the man’s nervous, hazel eyes. “I’m keen to know how you came to that conclusion.”
“You were seen entering Lord Caindale’s residence and also paid a call on Colonel Bascombe.
You visited Butterstone’s home in Mayfair.
We’ve since learned you were present at the marquess’s death.
We are interested in what Butterstone may have told you before he gasped his last. You’ve come from his funeral at St. Paul’s, have you not? ”
“I didn’t attend it. Why are you watching Lord Caindale? The marquess told me nothing that would be of interest to you. You waste your time following me.”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
Jack considered the initials written in Lord Butterstone’s diary.
Lord A and Mr. W. Unlikely to be coincidental.
Had Atworth and Welby been involved in a plot to kill Bonaparte?
Then why seek him out? Were they afraid of imminent discovery and wished to know how close he was to the truth?
If Lord Caindale was to be believed, the French were hot on the English plotters’ trail.
But none of this fit. Somehow, it didn’t add up. What, or who, was missing?
Jack leaned back, having decided not to tackle the gentleman seated opposite and exit the coach.
He’d grown interested in what they might tell him.
“I can understand Mr. Welby would be after the story of the century, but where do you fit in, my lord? A serious interest, it would seem, if it required kidnapping me at gunpoint.”
Atworth flushed. “These are troubling times, Captain Ryder. Let us discuss it once we are inside.” He glanced out the window as the carriage rocked to a stop. “Ah, here we are.”
The newspaper office was devoid of staff.
The printing press stood silent, although the acrid aroma of printer’s ink and newspaper still permeated the air.
Mr. Welby, a slight gentleman with gray wings at his temples and sharp eyes, introduced himself.
“Let’s go into my office, where we can be more comfortable. ”
Jack followed the men into the small room and took the seat nearest the door. “I’ll give you an hour, gentlemen, after which I have an appointment.”
He accepted the offer of brandy and waited for the two men to settle themselves. “Did you gentlemen meet with Lord Butterstone in Paris?”
Lord Atworth smiled without humor. “I thought we were to ask the questions, Captain.”
“Then you are in error. You know my involvement in this affair, such as it is. Now I wish to know yours.”
“You’re right. We were called to Paris, Captain.” Welby swirled the golden liquid in his glass. “Butterstone told us quite a story. We were sworn to secrecy, however.”
Jack put down his glass. “Then I might as well not waste my time.”
“No need. We trust you to keep it close,” Lord Atworth hastened to say.
“Government members had discussed the possible disposal of Bonaparte, but Wellington wouldn’t have a bar of it.
Not the honorable thing in his view. When an officer at the battle of Waterloo told Wellington that Napoleon was in their gun sights, he replied that it was ‘not the business of commanders to be firing on one another.’
“But not all are so squeamish,” he continued.
“It was feared Bonaparte would make another attempt to escape, and succeed, as he had at Elba, then take the throne again as emperor. We’d have another conflict on our hands at a time when England is in a poor state after years of war.
Butterstone was worried that should any poisoning be successful, and the English were found to be the culprits, it would cause a serious diplomatic incident that England could ill afford.
“He asked Welby to ferret out the truth. I was also to use my influence to dissuade them from such an action. But before we could act, Bonaparte was dead. We didn’t know whether the poisoning had been carried out or not, but Butterstone was still nervous.
He intended to discover the truth when he returned to England.
Then, shortly after that, he too was dead. ”
“Am I to be told the name of this possible assassin?” Jack asked curtly. “I suspect Lord Caindale has some knowledge, but he has thus far refused to enlighten me.”
“Butterstone had his suspicions, but he wasn’t prepared to say anything until he had further proof. We hoped you might be able to tell us. There’s a suggestion royalty was involved,” Welby said bluntly.
Jack leaned forward. “Are you suggesting that someone in George’s set killed Butterstone to silence him?”
“No, no. We just don’t know. But it’s possible that someone of influence didn’t like Lord Butterstone bringing this to light,” Welby said moodily.
“Could he have had any tangible evidence?” Jack asked, still skeptical. “Have you considered how difficult it would have been to murder Bonaparte? How would the poison have been administered?”
“Through his jailor, Sir Hudson Lowe?” Atworth posed.
“The gentleman fiercely denies any knowledge of it,” Jack said.
“Lowe is a vindictive man,” Atworth said. “Napoleon said of him that he had a villainous countenance.”
Jack found Atworth increasingly annoying. “Still, it would not have been easy, when Napoleon barred him from his presence.”
“Still not impossible,” Welby said, firming his jaw. “He was still on the island.”
These two were like dogs with a bone. And he’d learned nothing from them. Either they didn’t trust him, or they knew less than he did. Jack threw back the last of the brandy and put down his glass. “I’m not sure what you ask of me, gentlemen.”
“To collaborate with us,” Welby said. “Pass on any information you glean from Colonel Bascombe and Lord Caindale.”
Jack had no intention of betraying the colonel and would keep his dealings in this affair secret. But Lord Caindale was another matter. “I expect you’ll keep me informed?”
“We will, rest assured.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “But nothing is to appear in print until it’s verified?”
“You have my word,” Welby said despondently.
Jack stood. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have business to deal with.” He had a house in Mayfair to visit. The pied-à-terre his father had left him. But first he wished to alert Bascombe.
At the colonel’s home, Jack relayed to Bascombe Welby and Atwood’s request to be kept up to date with information and that they were watching him.
“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 end the ball comes out of.”
That made him even more dangerous 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?”