Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 18. Chapter 17: Just Past Midsummer & Inexplicable Behaviour

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PART VI

Summer 1817

Intelligence Report No. 75

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Cher Doyen de l’école de la Concorde,

Le banquet d'État en l'honneur du duc criminel russe a été ré-évalué comme un échec dans les quelques semaines qui ont suivi. La rumeur s'est répandue chez les Russes que les Anglais cachaient un complot d'assassinat, et maintenant les relations se . . .

Dear Doyen de l’école de la Concorde,

The State banquet in honour of the Russian criminal Duke has been re-evaluated as a failure in the several weeks since it happened. Rumour got to the Russians that the English hid an assassination plot, and now relations have soured.

That is a beneficial development as we approach the midsummer mark in a couple of days. Such buoyant news is needed as the summer of 1817 is every bit as bleak as in ’16. Rain, fog, chills hem in this interminable coast where goosebumps are the standard fashion even in the ‘best’ of English weather.

Hunger stalks the land more than ever. Food shortages have progressed to the dire state of staples running short. Already, mouths from the Colonies are being robbed just to feed the Lords of this nation. The social reform movement known as Luddite continues its violence around the country, although the press is forbidden from printing the true story. The newspapers must tow Whitehall’s propaganda that the movement was exterminated six months ago, at the end of 1816. Naturally, it wasn’t, but now when protests arise concerning sixteen-hour working days at industrial sites, the Red Coats are sent in to slaughter and bury in mass graves, carte blanche. Many are the tales of these Dragoons – ‘Goons,’ as they are known amongst the people – enslaving children whose parents they’ve mowed down to be receptacles of their daily lusts, and set to degrading, menial tasks not fit for even the raggiest enslaved Christians yoked and castrated by the Ottoman Turks. And yet, ‘white slavery’ – of the type most especially inflicted on the Irish – is not to be spoken about in this country, for fear the disgrace it would open up like a volley across the closed-off Great British brain.

Most of the Luddites are fighting for basic representation in assemblies. They do this for reasons of fundamental nutrition, for English ‘bread’ is a travesty of adulteration: chalk and alum to make it look white to the eye; sawdust to swell up in water and bulk out the loaf. All this is malevolent rubbish to those who can barely afford to sicken their children with it. Corruption of this sort is so rampant that all of a town’s bakers openly collude to ensure no one shop offers anything better than the others – and the ‘Law’ lets them. These exploiters pocket their ill-got gains with elitist smiles, saying the courts prevent them from charging more for wholesome loaves, so they in turn sell nothing but starvation bread to a people deprived of any political power in Parliament.

The natural outcome of this inequity is, instability grows, much to the overarching advancement of Liberty for the populace here. Yet, if the trauma of the ‘Year without a Summer’ produces a Constitution for the English, and freedom – at last – for the Scots, Irish and Welsh, then all the strife and bloodshed will have been worth it; the land will cease to bleed men, women and children to feed the money-grubbing factories and slave-grown cotton mills. What Man produces should be in the hands of free citizens, not their would-be Lordly ‘masters.’ But naturally on these issues, I preach to the choir, as they say over here, for you’ve single-handedly done more for the advancement of democracy than anyone alone in Europe today.

That I understand; although your means have sometimes been heavy-handed, your goals began and remain spotless.

As for the blinkered, fairy-tale world here at the Pavilion, I’m pleased to report the war against the entitled English goes smoothly on under their noses without them knowing. The plot afoot is working, and this might be my last field report as the ‘action’ may be put into effect any night now.

With this knowledge clearly in your mind, I again plead with you to allow Agathé, Marie and my associate to be released from under the Doyen’s vengeful eyes. I’m doing what’s been asked of me. Uphold your end of the agreement. Obviously, I speak with such candour knowing I probably will not survive the mission, and if that’s to be my fate, I wish for this missive to hit your conscience hard. When dead, sacrificed to an International cause – a human monument worthy to have wreaths placed at his feet – do what’s right to honour the memory of my commitment to the advancement of Liberty.

In conclusion, I will remind the Doyen that I’m close to attaining my goal. And, per your express instructions, my colleague continues to operate oblivious to what I am doing, although I hate to think of the consequences for him if any plot is exposed and unsuccessful.

But then again, I can assure you, I am well aware ‘failure’ is not an option for me or my kind.

Instituteur Marron Glacé

Chapter 17: Just Past Midsummer & Inexplicable Behaviour

“Did you and Lord Morgan have a nice time in Ireland?”

“A family funeral is seldom conducive to a ‘nice time.’ But we Irish have a saying:

‘The roads rise up to meet us;

The winds at our backs compel us,

With the sun warm upon our faces,

And the rain softly upon the fields

Until God sees fit to reunite us.’

“We’re prosaic” she went on, “and accept death as part of the life of our lush, green landscape. At home, they are oddly acknowledged as part and parcel of daily life.”

“Does not sound odd to me. It sounds natural.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

Carême and Lady Morgan were out for a midmorning stroll. Their feet crackled the pine chips freshly laid in the Riding House of the Regent’s stables. This enclosed space to the west of the horse barn’s dome was like a medieval great hall, with a wide, timber-framed roof and towering acres of window glass, peaking in the delicate scallop of a dozen Indian-inspired arches.

Tepid light from the half-hearted day outside now slanted in as a few horses were exercised in the centre of the space. The chef and novelist had plenty of room to amble around the structure’s perimeter, as, at the width of the Pavilion’s Banqueting Room – but triple its length at 180 feet – they felt cozy and unobserved. A rare treat on the Pavilion’s grounds.

“I’m sorry to have missed your State Dinner,” Sydney Morgan said. “From the reports I’ve heard, it was an occasion assured to go down in the annals of Diplomacy.”

Carême glowed internally. “The Lady does my heart good talking about ‘my’ banquet. Most everyone will think of it as the Regent’s success, or the Grand Duke’s.”

She interlaced her arm with her friend’s. “My dear Carême, if this event is remembered in times to come, it will be recalled as ‘your’ banquet, no doubt.”

After a few silent paces, Carême’s ebullience got knocked down a few pegs. “However, the Prince’s liberality has had unforeseen consequences.”

“Oh, really? What?” she asked.

“It sickens me to admit it, but in his way – inadvertently, at least – the Kitchen Comptroller has wreaked his revenge on me.”

“How so?”

“Because of the Prince’s lavishness with the banquet, he has to ‘save’ and now pay for it. It means I must economize and eke by on daily menus with a mere four entrées and two soups. I could accomplish such meals in a trance.”

“Oh, dear.”

“My Art has even been reduced to serving l’oie rôtie aux purée de pomme.”

Lady Morgan chuckled a bit. “Roast goose with applesauce.”

“Oui. It is nursery school food, and I am asked to cook it. What’s next: ‘Le Burnt Custard’?! No.”

Sydney Morgan repressed a smile, simply repeating her commiserating “Oh, dear.”

“I feel my talents are being wasted. It might be time to look for better opportunities; bluer skies.”

The thought of Carême’s departure saddened the novelist. She muttered lackadaisically, “Blue skies. Haven’t seen one in months – not since our outing in Rottingdean – and I’m beginning to wonder if things will ever get better.”

“I don’t know, Lady Morgan; I don’t know. I had hoped things between François and I were better after the poisoning, but I don’t know. It seems he has taken up again with the Princess’ lady’s maid.”

“Oh. I am sorry to hear that, Carême.”

“I had hoped, after François had come so near to death, he’d sort out his priorities, but now I am not so sure.”

Morgan replied, “Although the girl is young and pretty – and accomplished – and French, I feel confident whatever François sees in her equals a dalliance. Sometimes in life, we must accept wandering as natural, and treat it with patience and a shoulder-shrug.”

The chef considered, and then avoided asking, if these dispassionate shoulder-shrugs were something Lady Morgan could dole out in the light of Lord Morgan’s ‘dalliances’ receiving an airing. What he actually said was, “Perhaps a change of location will be good for our relationship too.”

However, Carême’s change of mood did not pass Lady Morgan by unnoticed. So, after a few more steps over the resin-redolent wood chips, she felt emboldened to inquire, “Possibly; but if so, what might that mean for your young Master Thomas Daniels? Your tête de linotte?”

Despite himself, Carême grew emotional hearing his now-pet-name for the young man. Across his internal vision, Carême recalled how his blue eyes sparkled as the chef taught the kid the ‘proper’ Paris accent for the term.

In point of fact concerning the question just asked, he didn’t know, so Carême tried deflection. “The undercook’s skills have come along nicely. It might make for a good fit if he goes to London to be Mrs. Lister’s right-hand apprentice. But, the young man is now in a position to be taken on by any chef as a skilled protégé.”

“Taken on even as yours?” his friend slipped in, slyly.

Suppressing his complex reaction, replete with thoughts of François, he answered with the truth. “Even mine.”

Clearing the air, they walked through the door into the stables. The fine ribs of iron, set with numberless panes of glass tapering up to the dome’s oculus, was always breath-taking. A sort of cathedral-hush pervaded William Porden’s great equestrian rotunda, and even the horses seemed to tread through the room more softly.

“Au fait – I’ve been meaning to ask how the launch of your book went in London, before you had to go to Ireland.”

“My France, thanks to your unflaggingly good assistance, is off to tremendous interest.”

“’Interest,‘” the chef slyly reiterated, “amounts to excellent sales?”

“And good reviews too, thank the heavens.”

“Well deserved, Madame. Your keen mind has delivered an exemplary exposé of the most winning kind.”

“Thank you, dear friend, but I have exposed myself and wait anxiously for the day my book is attacked in the press by means of denigrating me personally.”

The chef, a man of the world, knew what she meant. “But, is it to be so?”

“Women, mon cher Carême, are always accused of impropriety if they dare publish anything riskier than an embroidery manual. And such criticism ever starts and ends with imaginings of the woman’s love-life. Apparently only whores – according to men sat behind desks at newspaper and magazine offices – write about anything contemporary to the world we currently live in.”

“I am sorry, Lady Morgan. I can only hope that in the future the substance of a woman’s work will be the only factor considered in assessing what she has published.”

“I can only add my wish to yours. Why, at this dreary date, a person who’s written a truly original piece of fiction – unlike my travel-log, you understand – will have to publish it under an assumed male moniker to have any chance of it being read for its own sake.”

“I wish it were otherwise, Madame, but, I’m afraid you’re correct.”

After several paces in silence, the pair cast their eyes upward, enjoying the play of light and shadow, slowly making their way to the open gate onto the Pavilion’s gardens.

“I have heard the Regent has yet to let the Royal Couple go home.”

“Yes,” replied Carême, “it’s true. And Charlotte has ‘rebelled’ against her father by staying in her quarters for long stretches of time, and insists she and Leopold take meals sequestered upstairs, alone.”

“Dinner; alone?”

“And suppers too, which never vary: the meal goes up at eight o’clock. And then at nine, we send the Princess’ favourite baba au rhum, made personally by François for them.”

Lady Morgan responded with a chuckle. “A girl of habits. That is not such a bad trait for a young woman destined to reign as Queen one day.”

By this time they had arrived at the crushed gravel of the foot and horse paths lacing across the estate. Up ahead, to their left, the finished rooves and colonettes of the Pavilion crowded the sky with their white-stuccoed perfection. But the expansion of the marine villa seemed never-ending, for already workmen had excavated the rectangular patch of ground for the Regent’s new, garden-level suite of chambers, and brick walls were rising to enclose it.

They stopped. Noise from the bridle path to their far left drew their attention to an unaccountable sight. Princess Charlotte sat side saddle on her steed in a relaxed manner, but Leopold was muddy – as if he’d just fallen – and berating the poor teenage groom holding the reins of both horses.

Charlotte babbled, apparently at her husband. “You make me write too, too many letters—”

“You stupid Schmutzfink! Take that, Schweinehund!” He began striking the boy’s neck with his riding crop.

“Too, too many – I can’t seem to get the ink off my beastly fingertips anymore—”

“I ought to beat you to within . . . . ” He suddenly seemed to remember Charlotte’s presence. “Well, leibchen – I mean, bodice – I mean, darling – liebchen, if I make you do such letter-writing, then I do the same to myself as well, for my fingers – help me up, boy – are as stained as yours.”

The groom genuflected so the Prince Consort could step on his thigh, which the man did, simultaneously wrenching his horse’s reins from the boy’s grip.

“Let us be away.” The German rode off.

The groom handed her reins to Charlotte, and she followed her spouse as distracted as before.

“Peculiar,” Carême said. “I have never known Leopold to be short-tempered, let alone violent!”

“Yes. The behaviour we’ve just witnessed is . . . is, well – unaccountable. And in her own way, the Princess is as odd as he.”

Carême consulted his watch. “Now, if you excuse me, I must meet the Regent and go over the final details of this day’s dinner.”

Lady Morgan smiled. “I look forward to eating it, Chef.”

“À bientôt, Madame.”

“À tout à l’heure, mon très cher Carême.”

As she lingered, able to see the Royal Couple’s horses retreat off to her left, and the chef’s figure moving to a door in the northern part of the Pavilion to her right, she had a sudden flash of insight.

“Could lightning,” she asked aloud, “strike twice?”

Sydney Morgan knew what she had to do, and the investigation would call upon Doctor Kitchiner and his Brighton laboratory.

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Such a regular sight in the Great Kitchen, Lady Morgan’s presence drew little attention – in spite of her not being with Carême.

Her sleuthing chapeau was on as she casually removed the lid of a certain cannikin. She raised it up and sniffed the Princess’ special tea, smelling only wholesome chamomile now. Just as she was re-lidding it and setting it back in place, a quiet little scene unfolding at the other end of the kitchen caught her attention.

Conferring near the corner of one of the matched Welsh dressers holding the copper crown jewels of the Pavilion’s kitchens – the 300 piece batterie de cuisine, sparkling clean in every size of lidded pot and pan – stood fellow Frenchmen François and Brigitte.

Even from Lady Morgan’s slightly removed vantage, their body language spoke loud and clear: she was flirting and he was receptive. Her index finger traced the centre of his chest from neck to sternum before it withdrew and seemed to transfer its static charge to a freshly arrived grin on her face. Her head cocked momentarily to the side in tacit questioning, and François replied with an awkward Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Sydney Morgan instantly understood such displays, out in the open as they were, must ping Carême’s heart.

She considered circumstances a bit deeper. Brigitte was “off duty” while the Royal Couple gallivanted on horseback along the beach, and Carême was usually out of the kitchen at this hour, meaning this was some sort of ideal opportunity for the pair.

With a sly signal, Brigitte left the room – the ‘wrong way’ – out the door that led to the pantries and Kitchen Stables. In another minute, François, having spied Lady Morgan’s spying, appeared irrevocably sad, but turned and trailed after the lady’s maid for their predestined rendezvous.

The subtle domestic spectacle had been the confirmation Lady Morgan needed to see that Carême’s suspicions were well-founded. It allowed her to perceive the degree to which such sights left her friend feeling desolate.

An unbidden scrap of Byron unfolded across her mind:

‘What matter the golden rooves of the past? –

Their sight must falter neath a single tear

Shed for a loving existence to last

Beyond the sum total of every year.

Though the human heart is oft insincere,

Its past, its future – its glory – endear.’

She then spotted Thomas Daniels going up to a preparation table with a crate of fresh produce from the cold stores. She wound up thinking how the lad unwittingly formed the third side of Carême’s triangle of affections.

As the young man began to work, lost to his own thoughts, Sydney Morgan slid into place next to him.

“What is planned for today’s dinner table?” she asked with a smile.

“Ah, Lady Morgan – I didn’t know – well, the plan for today is to get ready to make cream of barley soup and chicken consommé, to go with my fried sole, and then ham and turkey.”

“What for the entrées?”

“A poultry fricassee, grilled mutton chop, pan-roasted capon with asparagus, and a ‘blanket’ of veal sweetbreads with fine herbs – that’s a sort of quick stew. All of this pending His Highness’ consent.”

The novelist slid in a sly, “Naturally.”

“Naturally.” Now the boy grinned as well.

Lady Morgan turned serious. “If you don’t think I’m overstepping my bounds by saying so, I’ve noticed quite a change in your work-life character.”

“How so, mum?”

“I mean, compared to nearly a year ago when Carême first arrived, I perceive you are now a diligent young man focused with passion on the career ahead of you.”

“I’m striving my best to achieve that, mum.” The boy’s smile transformed into blushing.

“With Carême’s help, you can reach your goals.”

He glanced away. “I’m not so shure anymore.”

“Why?”

Thomas appeared hesitant to speak of personal matters, but assessed from Lady Morgan’s warm countenance that it would be all right if he did. “Carême has set me aside, which is a hard blow considering I’ve made enemies of both the Kitchen Comptroller – who pilfers from my rightful earning now, crediting me a mere six Pence from last month’s food sales – and François who talks down my cookery skills to all and sundry.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The boy was sincere, getting down to work. “It was worth it before, but now that . . . now that the chef and François have reconciled – I’m out in the cold for shure.”

“Well,” the Lady said cunningly, “don’t be so positive you’re cast away from Carême’s heart. In fact, don’t be positive of it at all. I’d say, buck up, young man, because things can change rapidly. Trust me; I’ve seen it many times.”

Seeing young Master Daniels beam, she continued to the primary concern pressing on her mind. “Tell me, Thomas, have you heard any grumblings concerning Princess Charlotte or Leopold from members of staff?”

The boy was taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

“The Royals are increasingly – shall we say, eccentric.”

“No, mum,” Thomas replied artlessly. Then he said with honesty, “There have been no chatterings about them, other than the usual gripes concerning their late-hour wants or inconvenient chores.”

“Anything different about what they eat?”

“No, Lady Morgan. Apart from taking their meals on trays, they eat what the rest of the Family do.”

“I’m feeling there must be something special about their food; something leading to their untoward conduct of late.”

The young man’s eyes fell on a half-nipped sugar-cone. “Charlotte likes her sweets, but that’s nothing new.”

“Well, give me some of the sugar anyway. I’ll take it to Doctor Kitchiner and ask him to analyze—”

Lady Morgan halted her own words because the boy’s face suddenly held an unaccountable expression.

“This,” Thomas said, reaching for a particular jar. “Have the Doctor look into some of this.”

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Hours later, another gruelling day in the life of the Great Kitchen was coming to an end.

Had Lady Morgan an inkling of how momentous a day this was destined to be, or how pivotal events in motion were, she might have placed in her mind an additional quote to stand by Byron; one by his contemporary Wordsworth.

Think how kind Nature’s made to weep,

Knowing thus the human soul can

Scheme its atrocities most deep

When he plots ‘gainst his fellow man.

But now as the hands of the regulator clock inched their way forward from five minutes to nine, most in the kitchen were cleaning or restocking various work areas with the washed and dried implements of the next day’s meal-making, while only a small group were actively still working.

Carême had a contemplative hand to his chin, inspecting the finishing touches on the night’s baba.

François stood across the dish from him. It was already on the silver tray upon which it’d go up to Charlotte and Leopold.

While Carême wondered if the lines of piped Chantilly cream and equally spaced candied violet petals were enough – maybe a few angelica slices too . . . ? The chef caught some veiled-yet-sexual inuendo pass from Brigitte to François. She was right there as well, waiting as always to take the Royal Couple’s dessert up to them.

The chef de cuisine soured on any notion of further embellishment, wanting things to be over. He stepped back, nodding his assent to François.

The maitre-d’ placed the sparkling silver cloche over the top, and Brigitte stepped efficiently forward.

Just as the lady’s maid placed her hands on the tray’s grips, the peaceful quiet of the kitchen was burst like a bubble.

Doctor Kitchiner and Lady Morgan came bounding through the doors from the Kitchen Court.

“Stop!” Sydney Morgan rushed over. She stepped between the maid and tray, whipping off the cover. “It’s here, Doctor, thank the stars!”

“What is this?” Carême asked, confused and personally offended to see his food manhandled. But in another moment, Kitchiner was by his side.

“The Princess and Leopold are suffering from Saint Anthony’s Fire. It’s in the food – driving them mad.”

“Impossible,” muttered Carême. “Where’s the poison?”

Lady Morgan pointed to the baba. “Here – the rye flour. Tests show it’s infected with the mould that causes ergot poisoning. The Doctor’s laboratory analysis indicates the toxicity levels are off the chart.”

Carême’s confusion was only added to. “C’est impossible. François alone handles the grinding and cooking of the rye for this dish.” Stunned and in disbelief, he glanced around the room, feeling his breath shorten. “François . . . ?”

The young man was nowhere to be seen.

Carême told Kitchiner, “He was here a minute ago.”

Two of the Doctor’s men rushed in at that very moment from the Court.

The Doctor immediately barked at them, “He’s escaped! Search the Pavilion, starting with the Servants’ Hall.”

As people scrambled this way and that, Carême straightened his spine. He very calmly picked up a bin and slid his baba au rhum into it.

Then he headed to the Central Service Corridor, not turning to the left as the others did towards François’ chambers, but to the right, to the darkened Banqueting Room and the sleepy Pavilion beyond.

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Not daring to carry a light, Carême mounted creaky steps. This narrow passage was one François had shown him, for the chef suspected where his partner could be found.

Carême drew his breath carefully, for even the exertion of climbing drained the feeling of strength from his muscles. The tightness of this windowless space also heightened a sense of claustrophobia. Or perhaps it was the dawning of an awful dread that gripped his heart. A helplessness pervaded him.

At the top of the stairs was a small landing and door. He opened it quietly outward and stepped onto the roof of the Pavilion, behind the Salon’s now-finished onion dome. Closing the door again, the scent and faint sound of the surf struck his senses. Up above and out to every horizon line, stars filled the sky. A crescent moon was just beginning to rise in the south-east, casting fantastical shadows from the villa’s roof on the ground far below. Ironically, it was the most beautiful night he’d witnessed in Brighton.

The chef made his way around the construction site at the base of the dome, still littered with boards, timber and troughs to mix stucco and limewash. He climbed a short ladder leaning against the bulging substructure of the dome, up to the flat ledge encircling the curved walls of the dome itself.

Rounding the platform to the point of where the water was visible, he saw François standing, silently admiring it. The views and sea breeze up here were perfectly unencumbered.

Almost as if perceiving the other man’s presence, François said, “Listen. Out there is the seashore, the waves rolling in, and beyond them, our motherland, France. I wish I’d never left her.”

“Is it true, what the Doctor claims.” Carême came closer.

“Yes.”

“Why, François?”

François turned in slack-jawed amazement. “Because that’s why I’m here! To kill the entitled brat and frame the Bosche for her murder. And tonight it would have been too. One final dose of ergot, and after they were sound asleep, I’d sneak away from the lady’s maid. I’d run the Princess through with Leopold’s sword, and in the morning, he’d be stark raving mad and unable to explain how the English Empire’s heir – and her unborn baby – got killed, except by his own hand!”

“François—”

“The problem with the Irish couple was they weren’t radical enough. Why strike out just to kill the innocent offspring when you can kill their actually criminal whelpers! I had my mission – figure out a way to pull down in madness, murder and disgrace the Regent, Leopold and the heir-apparent along with them.”

“And you planned this on your own?”

François scoffed. “Antonin, how blind you can be when you want. We work for the same master – Talleyrand.”

Carême was confused. “But what possible leverage could he have over you?”

“You,” François said through an ironic laugh. “Blackmail me via you and everything I value. To ruin your career, separate Agathé and Marie from your protection; throw them on the streets as scum to make their own way, and you know what they’d have to resort to.”

“But, I don’t understand. Talleyrand ruin me?”

“Chef, it’d be as easy as sharpening his fingernails to reveal who you love, create scandal, make sure you’re shut out of every palace kitchen in Europe because of it.”

“Prince Talleyrand would not do that. We’ve worked closely on stability for such a long—”

“No?! He wouldn’t let harm come to you? Naïve thought, that. A luxury men like you and me – working men – are never allowed to have.”

“And the poisoned turtle?” Carême suddenly saw some light, albeit a terrible, dark one. “I thought the scheme somehow had the smell of Talleyrand on it.”

“It did. It was his idea, and quite frankly, he didn’t care if the success of it brought you down – serving venomous broth to the British leader – you’d be hanged in public, and he wouldn’t care; would laugh that he got away with it while you swung.”

“My God—”

“But I – me, Carême – I couldn’t let you suffer. If the plan had worked and Nicholas and George died in agony in the dining room, I would have confessed and taken the fall. It helps that you were actually innocent; knew nothing; and that gave you sterling deniability. But I would have swung to protect you, Carême.”

“Why did you then drink the poison soup yourself?”

“Simple. The plot was exposed. I drank to sicken myself and again divert suspicion away from you. The Doctor concluded the whole affair was nothing but an ‘accident,’ or a plot by the Regent’s brother, so it worked.”

Carême suddenly became aware of time. Desperately, he said, “It’s not too late. We can get you to Talleyrand’s men in Dover. From there, they’ll get you to France.”

François walked up straight into his man’s arms, hugged him; kissed him. “It is too late. Right now you are safe – I’ve seen to that – but if the English catch you helping me, it will mean your head as well as mine.”

“Don’t talk so desperately. There is always hope.”

François was devastatingly sad. “Is there? No, not always, my love. You see, I am a true child of the Terror, and hope is dangled for such as we like a promised treat for a dog, but one always yanked away at the last second by its vicious owner.”

“So, Brigitte—”

“I never slept with her through my own volution.” Tears appeared. “She never meant anything to me – neither did Agathé, at first at least, but having a child together changes a person.”

“Yes, Villon, I know. It changed you for the better; made you a better person.”

“Made me a mark for Talleyrand to exploit, against you. It’s like he told me before we left for England: ‘Every one of us scrambles for just a bit of warmth and comfort. It’s human nature.’ And so too is the drive to keep those we love safe. And I’ve only ever loved you.”

The man became lost in his own sorrow. Carême saw him chance to pull his partner back from the brink.

“François—”

“I had to use Brigitte,” he cried out in his torment. “Had to use her to get to Charlotte. It broke my heart to see how painful it was for you to bear”—he struck himself hard in the chest—“and I won’t forgive myself”—he hit himself again, dishevelling his hair—“even if you do, but I had to use her.”

“Villon, it’s not too late—”

“Oh, but it is.”

Gruff voices sounded from within the stairway.

After a frozen moment of silence between the men, François’s face washed over with horror.

He took off, away from the access point, sliding down from the ledge on which stood along the ‘fish scale’ shingled part of the dome support.

Carême, thinking quickly, rushed down the ladder and to the closed portal. He picked up a short plank of construction timbre, jamming it under the doorknob just as it twisted with the onrush of Kitchiner’s men. In another moment, their fists pounded on the other side of the door and voices commanded to “Open Up!”

Assured they were locked in, Carême turned tail and followed François’ course across the Pavilion’s treacherous roof-scape. Parts of the metal flashing were slippery and damp where rainwater had puddled, as he found out while jumping from the dome’s ladder.

Carême wasn’t fond of heights, so he kept his eyes mainly on the surfaces he had to walk. He tried to regulate his breathing as well, navigating around the blue iron ribs rising like drums for the smaller onion domes over the bedrooms.

As he cleared his path around the second one, Carême glanced up to see François mounting a ladder up to the Banqueting Room’s tent roof.

There was no other way around except over it, so Carême followed suit, placing one foot after the other, mounting the workmen’s scaffold, trying not to look down. He hauled the ladder up after him, to slow pursuers if they got through the door to the roof.

Up top, the moonlight burst full on the stuccoed-over standing seams of the tent. But as the incline was a curving one, walking on it gave Carême the frightening sensation he was constantly being pitched downslope.

He swallowed the fainting feeling and followed on. But as he rounded the last section of tent roof, his heart sank. Up ahead, and down below a good eight feet, François was holding his arms out for balance as he tight-roped a thick plank across a void. Illumination from the Decking Room skylight, ten more feet below his partner, lit up the maitre-d’ as if some eerie circus performer. His destination? The shiny copper roof of the Great Kitchen beyond.

Carême wanted to call out François’ name, but he thought better of it in case Kitchiner’s men were also roving the Pavilion grounds.

Instead, Carême located the place he could lower himself from the Banqueting Room roof onto the ledge with the board.

He could see François already carefully scrambling on the kitchen roof, so Carême inhaled deeply, stuck his arms out for balance, and walked the plank. He focused only on the patch of wood where his feet would go next.

Clearing the void over the Decking Room, Carême suddenly thought maybe he shouldn’t have, because the forty-five-degree pitch of the Great Kitchen’s roof was perilous. Light from the clerestory windows above his head only seemed to make it worse, for now the copper-clad slope appeared smooth and unaccommodating to any toehold.

But when he saw François round the corner up ahead, he soldiered on.

Once he too cleared the corner of the kitchen, he could see the angle of the Servants’ Hall roof was not as severe, and an easy cross-over point existed, which François was using at that very moment.

All of a sudden, the breeze shifted and distant motion caught his eye. The gilded dragon weathervane atop the Water Tower slowly glinted as it turned in the moonlight.

Carême had to stop; his muscles were deprived of oxygen and weak.

François’ movement again focused Carême’s task. He too got down and onto the more tread-friendly slate of the Servants’ Hall. Now, although winded and fatigued, he could make good time and close a bit of the distance between them.

And the Water Tower was François’ destination. He climbed through a window of this octagonal structure, and in a couple of minutes, so did Carême.

Inside the tower, the chef paused. The great wooden cage of stairs and landings encircling the interior’s perimeter reverberated with François’ steps. But then, Carême panicked. His partner’s footfalls were not below him – heading to escape at street level – but above him.

Carême leaned his body over the handrail, into the void, and saw François’ shadow going up and up. He once again drew in a deep lungful of air, fought back tears, and began to follow.

The last flight was a ladder leading to an open hatch. Carême mounted this, at last arriving at the open enclosure right below the cupola on top and its weathervane. Eight arches looked out in all directions, and François sat quietly on the stone balustrade of one of these facing forward. But his back bent low as he stared at the stone floor, catching his breath; his hands, spread wide, anchored him to the railing.

Carême approached slowly, holding out his hand. Gently, he said, through his gasps, “Villon, you don’t – it’s not too late.”

The young man slowly recited his namesake, almost as if in a trance:

“Wretchedness tracks us everyone with his trace.

Find it writ on the tomb of our ancestors,

The spirits whom we hope God can yet embrace,

Though we poor lack the rich’s crowns and sceptres.”

François lifted his head. A look of utter desolation was upon his face.

“Come no closer,” he barked as if suddenly waking; only it was from a dream to a nightmare. Tears blurred his vision, but he gathered his thoughts, slowed his tempo, and added with pleading tones, “You will, won’t you? Continue to look after Agathé and Marie for me? And tell my daughter – please, you be the one – tell her her papa was a patriot for France.”

Carême nodded.

“Thank you, mon amour.”

François let loose his grip on the edge of the stone balustrade. He fell backwards, over the handrail and down the ten stories to earth.

In the awful silence that followed, Carême heard the wind shift outside and the gold weathervane pivot with a terrible screech overhead.

Through the film of his own tears, Carême gingerly made his way to where François had just been. He looked down into the court to see the lifeless corpse of his lover twisted on the paving stones.

Carême’s hand brushed something.

He picked it up. It was the locket and chain he’d given to François, right where his Villon had left it on the handrail.

_