CHAPTER NINE #4
Sans doute! Seeing that Jean-Marc was another of his aides.
It would not suit him at all to indict Henri for that alone.
That his so-called friend had denounced him could not be in doubt.
That he had done it to save himself was evident.
It was possible it had been at Jean-Marc’s instigation that Robespierre had begun his own investigation on Henri.
Certain that Jean-Marc, well placed to garner intelligence, had been the appointed investigator.
It was only after Robespierre had fallen that he had suborned Etienne. One could not tell about Augustin.
His thoughts faded as he heard Sir James addressing Jean-Marc. “If you wish to address the prisoner in French, m’sieur, pray do so.”
What was this? Did the magistrate hope that if they spoke in their own tongue, either might make a slip? Doubtless he understood a little French at least. Jean-Marc was regarding him with disdain. But he spoke in English, and to Sir James.
“I have nothing to say to one who is a traitor to France, m’sieur.”
Sir James leaned forward. “If he has not been tried, how do you know he is a traitor?”
Ha! Answer him that, if you can, Jean-Marc. But his enemy would not be easily rattled, he knew.
“There is evidence enough. En plus, there are those who stand witness against him. I have seen and heard, m’sieur.”
“But you won’t tell me the substance of your complaint?”
Jean-Marc’s eyes flashed. “It is not for our enemies to judge our internal affairs!”
Sir James’s cheeks suffused, and he half-rose from his chair. “I would remind you, sir, that your continued presence in this area owes much to my good will.”
Henri watched the tense struggle in his enemy’s features. He could appreciate the man’s invidious position. A French official of his standing could not easily kowtow to the dictates of a foreigner. Exigency won the day.
“Pardon,” murmured Jean-Marc. “This affair is most secret. The threat to our country from the activities of this man is of extreme seriousness.”
The magistrate nodded and sat back. “A pity, since the fellow is out of your hands until I see fit to release him.”
“If you will allow me an interview in private, I may satisfy you, m’sieur.”
“No, no. I will have no man indicted without an opportunity to answer the charges. I suggest you make up your mind to speak before M’sieur Rousselle or not at all.”
Jean-Marc stiffened, but said nothing. Henri found Sir James’s eyes upon him instead. “And you, Rousselle? Have you anything you wish to say to Loriot?”
Deliberately, Henri kept his gaze fixed upon that of the magistrate. “No need, m’sieur. He knows well all that I desire to say.”
A look of exasperation came into Sir James’s face. Henri was sorry for it, but it could not be helped. A confrontation with Jean-Marc would not assist him.
“Very well,” said Sir James. “That will be all, M’sieur Loriot. I will send for you should I require to ask you anything else.”
Jean-Marc hesitated. “When do you return the prisoner to my guard, m’sieur?”
Sir James became haughty. “I don’t know that I will, sir.
Why in the world do you suppose I am conducting this enquiry, if not to determine whether you have a case?
One thing you may be sure of, M’sieur Loriot.
I will not hand over a man to be murdered by your revolutionary authorities without certain and just cause.
If you wish to take him back to France, you had better state your case with a good deal more freedom than you have shown. Good day to you, sir!”
The chagrin in Jean-Marc’s face was balm to Henri.
In somewhat grim amusement, he watched him remove from the room at the urging of the excise officer.
But he was not fool enough to suppose Sir James was on his side.
And the moment he put his own cards on the table, the magistrate would seek to check them against what Jean-Marc might have to say.
He did not know the man’s true worth, and Henri had no proofs to offer.
What documentary evidence he had might be construed in his favour.
It would indict his enemy only by demonstration.
“Don’t think I’m finished with you either, young Rousselle,” snapped Sir James, his temper apparently tried beyond endurance. “I want the truth, and I want it sooner rather than later. We’ll see if a period of incarceration won’t bring you to your senses.”
It came as no surprise to Grace when Mab appeared that fatal Tuesday in the early afternoon.
She had expected the news to spread with rapidity through the villages.
The lamentations of her old nurse might reproach her, but at least they clamoured against the unnerving quiet that had succeeded Henri’s removal from the house.
She had watched the cavalcade all the way down the lane, growing smaller and more indistinguishable with distance, until it turned off towards Rainham and was lost to sight. The very air had stilled, and the silence was absolute. Never had Grace felt so isolated.
She had stood for a while, unwilling or unable to weep, although she felt as if the tearing dread must burst out. The day was heating up, but chill pervaded her body, a line of ice running down her spine. She had jumped as Jemima’s voice broke across the quiet.
“Aren’t you coming in, Miss Grace?”
Grace turned her head. She could see the maid standing in the porch, and recognised anxiety in her features.
But her attention caught on the house around her.
It looked smaller, and alien. Unreal somehow, like an ineffectual painting.
Her gaze travelled upwards, and found Henri’s window. The emptiness behind it yawned at her.
“I’ve made some tea.”
She blinked, focusing on Jemima’s face. Tea. Yes, tea would be pleasant. A shiver shook her, and she roused herself to move. Only the motion felt feigned, as if Grace was outside herself, watching as she clumped up the path.
By the time she reached the porch, Jemima had retired to the kitchen.
Grace trod up the step, hearing the stomp of her foot unnaturally loud in her ears.
Her progress into the parlour sounded like a breach in the enfolding silence within the house.
As if she no longer belonged. As if the house and she had come apart.
Automatically, she took her place at the head of the table as Jemima bustled in with the tray.
A riffle of naturalness prevailed while the girl poured out and presented Grace with the cup, waiting until it was raised to her mistress’ lips.
Satisfied at length, she went away, leaving Grace to the same uncomfortable sensation of deadly quiet, where every clink and scrape of her cup against the saucer travelled around the room in echo.
Time dragged to the monotonous tick of the case clock on the mantel.
Grace could neither rouse herself to settle to work, nor concentrate her mind upon what might possibly be occurring over at the Black Horse.
All the activity in her head revolved around the sensation of loneliness that grew upon her until the quiet of the house became too unnerving to be borne.
Only when Jemima came flying into the parlour in a state of terrified panic, did Grace realise that she had screamed aloud.