Chapter 13
Thirteen
The brigade chief in charge of the Rouen office of public safety was not having a good day.
It was unseasonably hot, even for June. No, for Prairial, he mentally amended.
The flies on the ceiling above his desk seemed to be multiplying at a pace almost as alarming as that of the pile of papers on his desk. And now this.
“Captain Bouchary and his company have disappeared,” said L’Helias.
The brigade chief waved away a fly and peered at his subordinate over the latest set of directives from Paris. “What do you mean disappeared?”
“He and five of his men were sent out yesterday to patrol the road to Barentin. They haven’t returned.” Sweat streaked the young man’s narrow face, and his cheeks were nearly as red as the rosette on the tricorne he clutched to his dust-coated chest.
“They were on foot? Yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So even with a day’s head start, they couldn’t have gone far. You’ve searched thoroughly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The taverns?”
“Yes, sir.” L’Helias nodded, sweat spattering the white facing of his blue jacket.
The brigade chief sighed. The restructuring of the military two years ago had allowed for men to advance on their own merits rather than on their social standing and connections. But the democratic ideals this change had brought with it also created certain challenges to discipline.
“The brothels?”
“Yes, sir.” L’Helias nodded again, spattering more sweat.
“You’ve checked with any family members in the area?” There was always a chance they’d gone home for a good meal.
“No sign of them.”
He sighed again. He was already dealing with reports of smugglers, spies, and bandits in the area.
Which was only to be expected, given they were the main route between Paris and the English Channel.
Separating reality from rumor was challenging.
Still, a man couldn’t be too careful in these troubled—no, liberating, times. Mistakes could cost a man his head.
“Send out mounted patrols along the roads to Barentin. Tell them to speak with the tradesmen who regularly travel the road and with the laborers working the fields alongside it. Ask if anyone saw the patrol. Saw anything unusual,” he added, glancing down at the pile of papers on his desk.
He fanned them out, searching for a report he’d just remembered.
Catching sight of it, he snatched it up and held it out to L’Helias. “Can you read?”
“No, sir.” L’Helias shook his head.
Of course not. No point in asking if any of his men did either.
Reading was a rare skill. “We’ve had some reports of an Englishman with a scar and woman traveling northwest in a blue Berlin,” he explained.
“It’s one of the reasons I wanted that road patrolled in the first place.
Tell your men to ask about it as well.” Also pointless, he suspected.
By now the coach and its occupants were probably long gone.
The brigade chief used the report to swat at a series of flies that seemed to be organizing an enfilade of his neck. “Report back to me as soon as you find them.”
“And if we can’t?” L’Helias asked cautiously.
“Guardsmen aren’t shoe buckles, L’Helias, they don’t just disappear.”