Arceneaux s lodgings lay in a dark, narrow lane not far from the church of St. Clements. While not exactly a slum, the once genteel area had long ago begun the slow slide into poverty. As Sebastian paused on the footpath, his gaze scanning the old house s dusty windows and crumbling facade, a bedraggled woman well past her youth, her face gaunt and haunting, separated herself from the shadows of a nearby archway to hiss at him invitingly.
He shook his head and pushed open the street door.
The atmosphere inside the house was hot and close and filled with the smells of cooked cabbage and dry rot and the faint but inescapable odor of uncollected night soil. He climbed the worn, darkened stairs to the attic, trying to imagine Gabrielle s gentle, scholarly French lieutenant in this place. From behind one door came a man s hoarse, angry shouts and a woman s soft weeping; from the next, the wail of a babe went on and on. Someone somewhere was coaxing a sad melody from a violin, the bittersweet notes mingling bizarrely with the yowl of mating cats in the back alley.
There were only two doors at the very top of the stairs. Neither showed any trace of light through their cracks, but Sebastian knocked on both anyway and stood listening for some hint of movement.
Nothing.
Under the terms of his parole, Arceneaux should have been in his lodgings by now. Sebastian turned back toward the stairs, hesitating a moment with one hand on the battered newel post. Then he headed for the Angel on Wych Street.
He found the coffeehouse nearly empty in the heat. Tobacco smoke and the smell of freshly roasted coffee hung heavy in the pale flickering light. As he closed the door quietly behind him, the barman looked up questioningly. Sebastian shook his head, his gaze drifting slowly over the desultory groups of men hunched sullenly around their tables, their conversations low voiced.
Arceneaux was not amongst them. But in a corner near the empty hearth, the big blond hussar captain, Pelletier, was playing chess with a gaunt infantry officer in a tattered blue coat. At Sebastian s approach, the hussar lifted his head, the gold coins at the ends of his love knots winking in the candlelight, the fingers of one hand smoothing his luxurious mustache as he watched Sebastian cross the room toward him.
Come to ruin another of my games, have you? he said when Sebastian paused beside the table.
Has Arceneaux been here tonight?
The hussar pursed his lips and raised one shoulder in a shrug.
Does that mean you haven t seen him? Or that you don t know where he is?
It means he is not here now.
Do you know where I might find him?
The man s lips parted in an insolent smile. Non.
I thought under the terms of your parole you were confined to your lodgings after eight p.m.
Our lodgings are here, said the infantry officer when the hussar remained silent. We ve rooms upstairs.
Sebastian glanced down at the chessboard. Interesting. Whose move?
Mine, said the infantry officer, plucking at his lower lip with one thumb and forefinger, his brow knit in a puzzled, hopeless frown.
Try queen to F-seven, said Sebastian, turning away.
Casse-toi, hissed the hussar with an angry growl, half rising from his seat.
Not a wise idea, said Sebastian, turning back with one hand on the flintlock in his pocket.
For a moment, the hussar s fiery eyes met his. Then the Frenchman sank back into his seat, his jaw set hard, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing.
Sebastian was aware of the man s angry gaze following him to the door.
Outside, the night had taken on a strange, breathless quality, the air hot and heavy and oppressive. He stood on the flagway, aware of a rising sense of frustration. Where the hell was Arceneaux? For a paroled officer to be found outside his lodgings after curfew meant the revocation of his parole and consignment to the same hell holes as men from the ranks.
Sebastian felt the faintest suggestion of a breeze wafting through the streets, carrying with it a coolness and the promise of a change. He smelled the river and the inrushing tide and a touch of brine that hinted at faraway lands.
And he knew where the French lieutenant had gone.
Only ten months into its building, the new Strand Bridge rose from the bank of the river at the site of what had once been the Savoy, the grandest palace on the Thames. But the Savoy had long since degenerated from its days of glory, first into an almshouse, then a prison and barracks. Now it was only a shattered, half-demolished ruin that stretched between the Strand and the riverbank below, a wasteland scattered with rubble and piles of dressed stone and brick and timber that extended out onto the rising bridge itself. As Sebastian worked his way down the darkened slope, he could see the curving stone foundations of a small medieval guard tower and a long brick wall pierced by empty mullioned arches. Beyond the ruins, the jagged, looming bulk of the new bridgehead stood out pale against the blackness of the sky.
The first four of the bridge s vast arches were already complete, although the wooden forms at their centers were still in place and a rope-suspended walkway and scaffolding ran beneath the beginnings of what would eventually be an entablature, cornice, and balustrade above. When finished, the bridge s carriageway would rise even with the level of the Strand. But now it lay some feet below it, a rough, unpaved grade that stretched out toward the opposite bank only to end abruptly over the rushing water.
As he walked out onto the bridge, Sebastian could hear the tide splashing against the cofferdams at the base of the piers, feel the unexpected coolness of the breeze wafting against his sweat-sheened face. He kept his gaze focused on the solitary figure of a man that showed against the sliding expanse of the Thames beyond. The man sat at the jagged end of the bridge, his legs dangling over the water hundreds of feet below, one hand resting companionably on the brown and black dog at his side.
How did you know where to find me? Arceneaux asked when Sebastian paused some ten feet away from him.
I remembered what you told me, about liking to come here.
The Frenchman tilted back his head, the wind off the water ruffling the hair around his face. Are you going to turn me in?
No.
Arceneaux took a long breath, eyes closing, nostrils flaring, lips pressed into a tight smile as he drew the air deep within him.
Do you smell it? It s the sea. The same sea that at this very moment is swelling the estuary of the Rance and battering the stone ramparts of Saint-Malo.
Sebastian stood very still, the growing wind tugging at the tails of his coat.
Sometimes I wonder if I ll ever see any of it again, said Arceneaux. We have the illusion of being free here, but we re not really. Whatever happened to all the prisoners of the Hundred Years War? Do you know? What happens to the prisoners of a war that never ends? Is this my destiny, I wonder? To live out my life alone in a dusty, dark garret, scrabbling for a few shillings here and there, teaching bored little boys to speak French and His voice cracked and he shook his head.
Sebastian said, Two weeks ago, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson asked the daughter of one of his associates for her hand in marriage. Word of the betrothal was kept private due to the intended bride s recent bereavement. But I can t believe Miss Tennyson didn t tell you, her dear, beloved friend.
For a moment, Arceneaux sat motionless. Then Chien nuzzled his head against his friend s side. The Frenchman ran one hand down the dog s back, his attention seemingly focused on his companion. She told me, yes.
I ll admit the significance of Tennyson s betrothal escaped me at first. But as my wife far more acute in such matters than I pointed out, a woman of Miss Tennyson s temperament and independent ways would never have continued living as a mere sister-in-law and hanger-on in the houses where she herself had been mistress for more than a decade.
Arceneaux continued to stare silently out over the river, his hand running up and down the dog s back.
Sebastian said, She must have been upset and in need of comfort. You had already declared your love for her. Yet you would have me believe that you still didn t ask her to marry you? That you didn t press her to marry you?
No. The world was a soft, halfhearted lie nearly lost in the wind.
Sebastian quoted,
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honor thy decree
Or bid it languish quite away,
And t shall do so for thee.
He paused, then said, Were you thinking about violating your parole and going back to France?
No!
I think you were. I think you changed your mind because Gabrielle Tennyson finally agreed to marry you. Sebastian suspected that was probably when the two lovers had first lain together, but he wasn t going to say it.
Arceneaux scrambled to his feet and took a hasty step forward, only to draw up short. All right, damn you! It s true. I thought about escaping. Do you imagine there is a prisoner of war anywhere who doesn t sometimes dream of breaking his parole and escaping? Who isn t tempted?
Sebastian stared at the young French lieutenant. In the fitful moonlight his face was pale, his eyes like sunken bruises in a pain-ravaged face. The wind ruffled the fine brown hair around his head, flapped the tails of his coat. Sebastian had the impression the man was holding himself together by a sheer act of will. But he was coming dangerously close to shattering.
Did she agree to marry you?
Rather than answer, the Frenchman simply nodded, his gaze turning to stare out over the wind-whipped waters of the river.
I m half sick of shadows, thought Sebastian, watching him. He said, There s something you re still not telling me. God damn it, Lieutenant; the woman you loved is dead. Who do you think killed her?
Arceneaux swung to face him again. You think if I knew who killed her, I wouldn t make them pay?
You may not be quite certain who is to blame. But you have some suspicions, and those suspicions are weighing heavily on you. It s why you re here now, risking your parole. Isn t it?
The wind gusted up, stronger now, scurrying the tumbling dark clouds overhead and obscuring the hazy sickle of the moon.
Who do you think killed her? Sebastian demanded again.
I don t know! The Frenchman s features contorted as if the words were being torn from him. I lie awake every night, wondering if I might somehow be responsible for the death of the woman I loved.
Why? pressed Sebastian. What makes you think you might be responsible?
Chien rose to his feet, his gaze fixed on the rubble-strewn bank, ears at half cock as he trotted a few steps toward the bridgehead and then stopped.
Arceneaux went to rest a hand on the dog s neck. What is it, boy? Hmm?
Sebastian was aware of an inexplicable but inescapable intimation of danger that quickened his breath and brought a burning tingle to the surface of his skin. He scanned the ruins of the ancient palace, his eyes narrowing as he studied the piles of stone and timber, the long line of broken wall with its empty windows a dark and melancholy tracery against the stormy sky.
Arceneaux, he said warningly, just as a belching tongue of flame erupted from the foundations of the old guard tower and the crack of a rifle shot echoed across the water.