CHAPTER NINE #3
He had made the journey to the Black Horse mounted behind the farmer Mayberry, the excise officer ranged alongside, both horses moving at a walk, and escorted by the five men who had surrounded the house.
Henri had not known whether this elaborate display was for his detention or protection, though there had been no sign of his countrymen along the way.
Mayberry, a very English type, he had briefly encountered before.
He was disposed to be friendly to Grace and therefore to be regarded with favour.
Wooferton, on the other hand, looked to be a man hardened by circumstance to steer clear of sentiment.
Henri had seen many wear that look in France, had used it himself upon occasion.
As for Sir James, who conducted the interrogation, he was a character easily read.
A man wholly of the English breed, at ease — unlike his French counterparts — with his fellows, no matter their station.
Even an avowed revolutionary of a regime that must disgust him.
He would show no prejudice, likely did not feel it.
Henri knew the type from his lengthy sojourn in this country as a young man — in another era, bon dieu!
— when all that had been expected of him was to mingle in society and acquire the language.
He had learned enough of Englishmen of the stamp of Sir James to know there would be justice, could Henri but feel his way into revealing matters in a fashion that might balance his accounts. Difficult, but not impossible.
The magistrate had greeted him pleasantly, asked after his wound and offered him refreshment, before proceeding to take down his personal details on the parchment before him.
Henri had been wary. If Sir James thought he could be either softened or rattled into saying aught before he wished, the magistrate had much to learn of him.
One did not survive the pitfalls of the Revolutionary Government without strengthening one’s nerve.
“Well, now, M’sieur Rousselle,” began Sir James, once the preliminaries were completed, “it falls to me to ascertain what brings you to England.”
Henri sipped at the wine with which he had been provided. “What is it that brings any Frenchman to England in these times, m’sieur?”
The other eyed him in a manner as bland as it was inscrutable. “In the normal course of events, sir, I dare say we should not question it. However, in light of your injury, and the evidence of those persons who are in pursuit of you, it is difficult to expect us to accept you as an émigré.”
“That is seen,” agreed Henri.
“Who shot you?” barked Sir James abruptly.
“You do not know?”
“I mislike your tone, m’sieur.”
“And I, m’sieur, do not like your question.”
Sir James sat back. “Why, sir? Seems to me perfectly reasonable.”
Henri smiled. “For you, perhaps.” He set down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. “It is for me not easy to answer you, Sir James, for that I do not know what has been told to you. You have had speech with my countrymen.”
“What of it?” The magistrate was frowning now.
A derisive laugh escaped Henri. “What is not of it, m’sieur? It is my word, or it is the word of my countrymen, voilà tout.”
Sir James was nodding. He glanced back to the officials either side. “He has a point. Who do we believe, when all is said and done?”
“Well, sir,” ventured Mayberry, “them Frenchies had got a paper on ’em.”
“True. Have you any papers, M’sieur Rousselle?”
Henri was silent. He had no intention of bringing his papers into this, not as yet.
When and if he felt it expedient, it would be necessary to ask Sir James to send to Grace.
He wished to avoid that as long as possible.
Let him first note which way the wind was blowing.
The last thing he wanted was to expose her to more distress and to false hopes.
The expression in her eyes as they parted haunted him.
“He didn’t have any papers on him, Sir James,” said Wooferton, “for we searched him before we took him out at Miss Grace’s place.”
“Did you search the house too?”
“I went over his chamber,” Mayberry offered, “only I didn’t like to hunt elsewhere particular, seeing as Miss Grace were tedious ill-tempered already.”
To Henri’s relief, Sir James did not pursue it. “No matter. I will speak to Grace myself in due course. If anything is hidden at Wonts, I shall find it, never fear.”
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Henri let him see his satisfaction.
This man knew Grace very little, if he supposed she would give up the documents to him for the asking.
Nor was there the slightest chance of any of his men finding that cunning little cache were they to search the house from top to bottom.
But Sir James’s next tactic was less than welcome. “I hadn’t intended to do this quite yet, M’sieur Rousselle, but your attitude leaves me with no alternative. Wooferton, go and fetch M’sieur Loriot, if you please.”
A confrontation with Jean-Marc? In public, too. Thinking furiously, Henri looked for a way to turn it to good account. He watched the excise officer unlock the door and leave the room, and turned to the magistrate. “You have a reason. Will you tell me what you desire from this?”
Sir James raised his brows. “Ah, interested now, are you? No, sir, if you won’t co-operate with me, I’m damned if I co-operate with you. You’ll find out my reasons soon enough.”
Henri said no more, but took up the glass and sipped at the wine it contained.
A good Chambertin. Had it paid duty? Or was it perhaps a perquisite of an excise officer’s job to make use of impounded liquor?
An idle question he could not afford. At any moment, Jean-Marc would enter this room.
He could not withstand a feeling of apprehension, and it was all he could do to prevent it from showing in his features.
Not that he feared Jean-Marc, despite the man’s attempt upon his life.
He feared rather what his former friend might say.
The only consolation lay in the notion he might possibly glean anything Loriot had told the English authorities. Apart from the fact of Henri’s revolutionary activities; that much he knew from Grace. Naturally, Jean-Marc had only given half the story.
Wooferton re-entered the room, and Henri rose automatically, unwilling to meet his enemy seated.
Abruptly Jean-Marc Loriot was there, and Henri met the hostility in his eyes.
How long since they had last met? More than these ill-fated two weeks.
Longer since they had met as friends — or when Henri had still believed them to be friends.
Jean-Marc did not speak, but came to the table and looked enquiringly at Sir James Levisham. The magistrate signed to Henri to sit again, and he complied, his eyes never leaving Jean-Marc’s face.
“M’sieur Loriot, will you be kind enough to repeat what you told me of our friend Henri Rousselle here in our previous interview?”
Henri saw his enemy glance at him. “For the benefit of Citizen Rousselle? I believe he knows already these things.”
Sir James’s manner changed. “For my benefit, sir.” The emphasis on the last word gave Henri the distinct impression that the revolutionary title of “citizen” was not to the magistrate’s taste. “You are here for what reason?”
Jean-Marc’s lips compressed together, and for a moment Henri thought he was not going to answer. It was evidently a struggle.
“This man is an enemy of the République, m’sieur. It is my duty to bring him to justice.”
Henri found Sir James’s eyes upon him. “You hear, M’sieur Rousselle?”
“I hear, Sir James.”
“What have you to say?”
Sacré bleu! What should he say? He is come not to bring me to justice, but to see me dead. No, this was not the way. Let him instead challenge his erstwhile friend.
“I ask if Citizen Loriot will explain what is the crime of which I am accused.”
A muscle twitched in Jean-Marc’s cheek, and Henri was satisfied. Sir James was eyeing the man.
“Well, sir?”
“That is a matter for the Public Prosecutor of France, m’sieur.”
Oh, well evaded, Jean-Marc! “Citizen Loriot desires not that you will judge me, Sir James. It is possible that you do not agree with the public prosecutor, enfin.”
“What I’m in disagreement with,” barked Sir James, “is the occurrence of shootings in my parish! Did you or did you not, M’sieur Loriot, incur this man’s injury?”
There was a pause. How did Jean-Marc intend to get himself out of this one?
“This was an accident, m’sieur. My associate called to the accused to halt. He refused. My associate began to run after him. He lost his foot in the marsh, and the gun was fired.”
Henri almost laughed out. Did Sir James know the accuracy of Jean-Marc’s pistol hand, he could place no credence on this nonsense. A pretty story. Would it pass muster?
The magistrate was looking at him. “Does that march with your memory, M’sieur Rousselle?”
In no particular! But he was not going to take issue with Jean-Marc. “I was not in a condition to see who has fired on me. It was dark in the marsh.”
“Were you called upon to halt?”
“I heard only my name.”
“But you knew who it was calling?”
“Assuredly.”
“One of Loriot’s associates?” pursued Sir James.
Henri hesitated. “I cannot tell.” Which was true, even if his intent was to lie.
He kept his eyes on the magistrate, in whom the beginnings of frustration were appearing. He could sympathise. It was apparent Jean-Marc had been cagey, giving little away. But Sir James was not beaten.
“You informed Wooferton that Rousselle was a revolutionary, and that he worked as an aide to Robespierre.”
Henri thought a shade of wariness came into Jean-Marc’s face. He answered briefly. “I said it, yes.”
“Is that all his crime?”
“This is not a crime. Citizen Robespierre has been an enemy of the République. But we do not therefore say that all who work for him are also enemies.”