Maxim Jakubowski: The Best British Mysteries III

‘I don’t suppose that makes any difference.’ Carton sank back into his chair and gestured for Jean-Jacques to sit down also. It was always better to be inconspicuous. They did not want anyone looking at them, or remembering.

‘That’s enough to send her to the guillotine!’ Jean-Jacques obeyed, the tears running down his face. ‘We’ve got to get her out of there! You’re a lawyer – come and tell them that she wasn’t even there. If someone stands up for her, we can make them realise it’s him. They’ll catch him with the cheeses, and that’ll be proof.’

Carton shook his head. ‘It won’t be so easy.’ In spite of the heat there was a coldness settling inside him. ‘Philippe will have thought of that…’

Jean-Jacques half rose to his feet, leaning forward over the table. ‘We’ve got to do something! We’ve got to help! She didn’t take them. There has to be a way to prove it!’

Carton rubbed his hand wearily across his brow, pushing his hair back. ‘It isn’t about them,’ he tried to explain. ‘It’s about reporting Philippe. The cheeses are gone. He can’t afford to be blamed, so he’s blaming her. If they can’t find them, who’s to say which one is guilty?’

Jean-Jacques straightened up with a jolt. ‘Exactly! No one at all! Come on! We’ve got to hurry. For that matter, who’s to say there ever were any? Citizen Fleuriot can’t admit to having lost them without admitting to having had them in the first place! It’s perfect. Hurry!’

Carton stood up and went after the rapid and highly agitated figure of Jean-Jacques. There was a kind of logic to it. The only trouble was that logic counted for very little in Paris these days.

Outside the street was hot and the sour smells of rubbish and effluent assaulted the nose. The air itself tasted of fear. A wagon rumbled by, half empty, a few casks in the back. An old newspaper stirred a little in the gutter and settled again. There was a group of Revolutionary Guards at the corner, laughing at something, muskets slung idly over their shoulders, red, white, and blue cockades in their hats.

Jean-Jacques was almost at a run, and Carton had to increase his pace to keep up with him. They had not far to go; there were district headquarters and prisons all over the place. Carton’s mind was racing, trying to think what to say that would help Marie-Claire now, and not simply make it worse. He would have to offer some explanation as to why Philippe was blaming her. And it would have to be a story that left no guilt with him! If only Jean-Jacques would slow down and allow more time to think!

They passed a woman on the corner selling coffee, and a group of laundresses arguing. There were people in queues for bread. Of course they were far too late! Or perhaps it was for the candle shop next door, or soap, or any of a dozen other things one could not buy since spring.

Then they were at the prison. A huge man with a red bandanna around his head stood outside the doorway, barring their entrance. Jean-Jacques did not even hesitate. ‘I have business with Citizen Duclos,’ he said confidently. ‘Evidence in a case.’ He waved his arm in Carton’s direction. ‘Citizen Carton is a lawyer…’

‘We have no need of lawyers!’ the man with the bandanna spat. ‘Justice gets no argument here.’

‘Never say that, Citizen,’ Jean-Jacques warned, glancing over his shoulder as if he feared being overheard. ‘Citizen Robespierre is a lawyer!’

The man with the bandanna rubbed the sweat off his face and looked nervously at Carton.

Carton cursed Jean-Jacques under his breath. ‘We have our uses,’ he said aloud.

‘Go in, Citizen.’ The man ushered them past.

Jean-Jacques obeyed with alacrity, Carton with great reluctance. The place seemed to close in on him as if the walls were human misery frozen solid. Their footsteps had no echo, and yet there were sounds all around them, snatches of voices, cries, someone weeping, the clang of a door slamming shut. He had been here only minutes, and he was already longing to leave, his body trembling, his stomach knotted tight. He thought of Charles Darnay locked in the prison of La Force nearly a year now, not knowing if he would ever leave, and Lucie outside, every day trying to see him, imagining his suffering, helpless to affect it at all.

Jean-Jacques had reached the official in charge and was speaking to him. He was a lean, ferret-faced man with a scar on his shaven head, and most of his teeth missing. What hunger and injustice there had been in his life one could not even guess. He gestured to Carton to come forward.

Carton obliged, his hands slick with sweat, his shirt sticking to him. How had he ever allowed himself to get caught up in this? It was insanity! He stood in front of the man with the scar and forced himself to speak.

‘Citizen, I have certain information you may not have been given regarding a matter of hoarding food. Cheeses to be exact.’

‘We know all about the cheeses, and the bacon.’ the man replied. ‘We have the hoarder in custody. She will be dealt with. Go about your business, Citizen, and leave us to do ours.’

Jean-Jacques was fidgeting, wringing his hands, moving his weight from one foot to the other. It was hopeless, but Carton was terrified he would say something and so involve both of them. It did not need much to make people suspicious.

‘Ah!’ Carton burst out. ‘Then you have recovered the cheeses! I was afraid you would not!’ He saw the man’s expression flicker. ‘Which would mean you had not caught the principals in the act.’

Jean-Jacques froze.

The man scowled at Carton. ‘What do you know about it?’ he demanded.

Carton’s brain raced like a two-wheeled carriage cornering badly. ‘I think you are a just man and will need evidence,’ he lied. ‘And if goods are in the wrong hands, then the matter is not closed until that is put right.’

The man leaned toward him. He smelled of stale wine and sweat. ‘Where are these cheeses, Citizen? And how is it you know?’ His eyes were narrowed, his lip a little pulled back from his gapped teeth.

Carton felt his body go cold in the stifling heat. Panic washed over him, and he wanted to turn on his heel and run out of this dreadful place. Memories of past prison massacres swarmed in his mind like rats, the priests hacked to death in the Carmes in September of ninety-two, and the women and children in the Salpetrière. God knew what since then.

‘We know where they were taken from, Citizen, and when!’ Jean-Jacques broke in. ‘If we put our heads together, find out who knew of them, and where they were, we can deduce!’

The man scowled at him, but his eyes lost their anger, and interest replaced it. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll go and find out.’ And before Carton could protest, he turned and strode away, leaving them under the watchful eyes of two other guards.

The minutes dragged by. There was a scream somewhere in the distance, then dense, pulsing silence. Footsteps on stone. A door banged. Someone laughed. Silence again. Jean-Jacques started to fidget. Carton’s fists were so tightly clenched, his nails cut the flesh of his hands.

Then there were more screams, high and shrill, a man shouting, and two shots rang out, clattering feet, and then again silence.

Jean-Jacques stared at Carton, his eyes wide with terror.

Carton’s chest was so tight he was dizzy. The stone walls swam in his vision. Sweat broke out on his body and went cold when his wet shirt touched him.

There were footsteps returning, rapid and heavy. The man with the scar reappeared, his face bleak. He looked at Carton, not Jean-Jacques. ‘You are wrong, Citizen lawyer,’ he said abruptly. ‘The woman must have been guilty. Maybe she gave the cheeses to a lover or something.’