Chapter 3
In November, Julia and her family returned to a still-simmering London. Anger lingered through the autumn. By December, little had changed. Headlines shouted, Irish protesters filled the parks, and editorials demanded harsh measures to quell the unrest.
Dr. Lewis looked up from The Times. “The prime minister has banned all demonstrations.”
Julia swallowed a last bite of scrambled egg. “Has he the power to do that?”
“The opposition will challenge it.” Her grandfather folded the morning paper. “Seven hundred years,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s seven centuries since we first invaded Ireland, and we’re no closer to a ‘united’ kingdom.”
“No one likes to be tied to another by force.” Julia stood and planted a kiss on her grandfather’s head.
“You’re off then? A busy day?”
“Lots of respiratory ailments this week, but we’ll see.”
Julia sorted through several medical journals, waiting for the morning’s mail.
It had been nearly two months since she’d had a letter from Richard.
There were endless explanations: if only she could think of one that satisfied her.
Surely Sergeant O’Malley would tell me if something had happened to him?
Julia gave up and descended the town house steps. She spotted the postman rounding Finsbury Circus’s curving pavement and waited. But the morning post brought only bills and letters for her grandfather.
For months, Inspector Richard Tennant tracked Edgar Romilly across the Continent.
From Paris to Berlin and on to Antwerp, the distance between them grew.
He’d come full circle, back to the City of Light, and was as much in the dark as ever.
Then, with only weeks left of leave, came a glimmer.
A note from Lt. Jules Picard of France’s criminal bureau brought the inspector to a Paris café near the train station that served Lyon.
He’d instructed the inspector to pack an overnight bag.
Tennant spotted Picard at a small streetside table, smiling at a dark-eyed waitress who swiped a slow circle around the marble top. She laughed at something he said and sauntered away. Picard eyed the sway of the girl’s hips as she slipped between tables.
“You haven’t changed, Jules.”
“Richard.” Picard stood and greeted his English friend in the French fashion, gripping his upper arms and leaning in for a quick brush to each cheek.
Tennant glanced at the retreating waitress. “Madame Picard is well?”
“She enjoys the country air and rarely visits Paris, so everything arranges itself.” Picard double-twitched the arched eyebrows that made him look perpetually amused.
“Nearly twelve years since the Crimea.” Tennant dropped his carpetbag and sat.
“From war to peace. From the army to the police for us both.” The Frenchman poured two glasses of red wine. “To our survival.” He sipped, eyeing Tennant over the rim of his glass. “How are you, my friend?”
Jules Picard would understand. Still, Tennant kept to himself the dizzying bouts of disorientation, the suffocating fear of enclosed spaces, the nightmares, and night sweats that left him shivering.
He had survived a bombardment and a live burial in the Crimea.
He doubted the memory would ever leave him.
“A little stiffness in my leg,” Tennant said. “Especially on cold, foggy days.”
“Are there any other kinds in London?”
Tennant smiled. “A handful in August. And you, Jules?”
“Well enough. What is it you Britishers say? Mustn’t grumble.” Picard set his glass aside. “Alors … down to business. I have news about this villain, Romilly, and his latest venture.”
“Which is?”
“Running guns out of Lyon.”
“What sort of weapons are we talking about?”
“Stolen ones from our arms factory at Saint-étienne. Five thousand of our very latest bolt-action rifles, to be precise.”
Tennant sighed. “The man is nothing if not resourceful. In London, it was kidnapping, prostitution, and pornography. Have the guns changed hands?”
“We hope to prevent that in Lyon.”
“You said to pack a bag for overnight. What is the plan?”
“The army will supply a force of heavily armed gendarmes to seize the weapons. The soldiers get their guns back, the Paris police arrest the criminals, and you—”
“I want Romilly.”
“I regret that won’t be possible. I offer a chance to be ‘in at the kill,’ as the hunters say, but we retain custody of the fox.” Picard tapped the table. “An arrest on French soil requires a trial in a French court.”
“Romilly is an Englishman. He must face a—”
“Trial by an English jury? That, my friend, is always unpredictable. No, Monsieur Romilly will enjoy a long, unhappy stay on Devil’s Island. Many ‘guests’ of our emperor never leave.”
“You have a point.” Tennant hesitated. “Very well, Jules.”
“The train leaves Paris in thirty minutes.” Picard stood and clapped Tennant’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Richard. Ten years in a disease-ridden penal colony in the French tropics? An English hanging might be preferable.”
The gendarmes parted company with Tennant, Picard, and his officers at the station in Lyon, the soldiers heading for a warehouse outside the city. The policemen left for Lyon’s central square, La Place du Change, and a rendezvous with the local police.
When they arrived at the plaza, Picard asked Duclos, the sergeant in charge, “Where is our pigeon?”
“Romilly is at the café opposite. At a table under the striped awning,” Duclos said. “His wiry drinking companion is Jacques Morin. A villain with fingers in every dirty pot.”
“Très bien,” Picard said. The lieutenant tapped an officer on the shoulder. “Vous allez.” The Paris copper sauntered across the plaza, joining two of Picard’s men loitering on Saint-Jean Cathedral’s steps.
Morin threw some bills on the café table and tapped Romilly on the shoulder. The two men crossed the plaza at a rapid pace and headed down the Rue Saint-Jean.
“Merde,” Duclos said. “He’s spotted your officers.”
“No matter,” Picard said. “I have four men posted at the turning to the river.” The lieutenant signaled his remaining two officers. “Follow me.”
Duclos grabbed Tennant’s elbow. “Let them go, Inspector.” He tipped his head. “This way.”
Tennant eyed Picard’s progress. Then he joined the Lyon coppers heading in the opposite direction.
“I told him not to fill the square with his men,” Duclos growled. “But these Paris flics think they’re God almighty.”
“Where are we going?”
“At least three traboules lead to the quay. Our prey will slip through one and vanish before Picard reaches the river.”
“Traboules?” Tennant said, hurrying to keep pace, wincing when his boot twisted on an uneven cobble.
Duclos smiled. “Hidden passageways connecting streets. Shortcuts known to every Lyonnaise in a hurry. Lyon is like a honeycomb riddled with them.”
As they exited the plaza, Duclos and his officers broke into a run. Local knowledge, Tennant thought, scrambling after them. Trust it every time.
At the river, Duclos turned right. He pointed to an oak door that looked like an entrance to a house. “We will remain here. My officers will cover the other two exits. The wait won’t be long.”
Duclos was right. Tennant pulled back as the heavy door swung open. Jacques Morin emerged and turned right, straight into the grasp of the French sergeant. Romilly turned left and spotted Tennant. The man spun and darted back into the dim, curving tunnel.
Tennant entered the maw of his nightmares.
The dark stone corridor swallowed him, and invisible bands tightened around his chest. He reached for his revolver and followed the sounds of pounding boot leather.
When the tunnel turned left, Tennant stopped.
He was about to round the corner when Romilly darted out of the darkness.
He lunged at Tennant, his knife slashing the inspector’s upper left arm.
Romilly struck again. This time, Tennant parried the thrust and felt the searing pain of a defensive wound slice across his right hand.
But he kept his grip on his revolver, and when Romilly came at him a third time, Tennant fired.
The shot cracked like a hammer against granite, but Tennant hadn’t missed at that close range. Edgar Romilly staggered and collapsed on his back, a crimson stain spreading across his white shirtfront.
Tennant fell against the tunnel wall. His gun slipped, clattering across the stone floor. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand, securing the makeshift bandage as tightly as he could manage. Then he watched the red patch bloom.
Two days later, Tennant was back in Paris, walking along the right bank of the Seine, his right hand bandaged and his arm in a sling. He headed for a meeting set up by Jules Picard.
Was the pursuit worth it? Tennant hadn’t intended to become Romilly’s executioner; others with powerful friends were beyond his reach, never to be held to account. Tennant would leave for England the following morning to resume his life. But what would that mean?
Tennant stopped at the entrance to the Invalides Bridge and leaned against the balustrade, propping himself on his left forearm.
On that late Sunday afternoon, Paris was a study in December gray: the sky, the leafless willows, and the pewter surface of the Seine looked like a pencil sketch.
Even the golden dome over Napoleon’s tomb had lost its luster.
Julia … They’d met just over a year ago.
Is that all it is? He looked from the bridge into the dark Seine.
The memory rushed back: the cold shock of the canal water, reaching for her, and how close Julia came to drowning.
After empty nights in Paris, he understood more deeply what her loss would have meant to him.
He’d walked the boulevards as a stranger, passing café tables, watching couples lean in, laugh, and smile at a lingering caress.