Maxim Jakubowski: The Best British Mysteries III

He went outside and walked quickly, as if he had purpose he was intent upon. Get it done. The fear of it was just as bad as the actuality. At least get this achieved.

He was there before he expected. He must have been walking too rapidly. There was an archway on the corner leading into a cobbled yard with a well in the centre, just like any of a thousand others. At one side a flight of steps led up to an entrance, and even from where he stood Carton could see bales of paper piled up just inside the doorway, boxes beyond, and printed newspapers ready to deliver. There was no excuse for hesitation. It was obviously Marat’s house.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then walked across and up the steps. No one accosted him until he was inside and peering around, looking for someone to ask. A plain, rather ordinary woman approached him, her face mild, as if she expected a friend.

‘Citizeness,’ he said huskily. ‘I am sorry to interrupt your business. But I have a favour to ask which only Citizen Marat could grant me. Who may I approach in order to speak with him?’

‘I am Simone Evrard,’ she replied with a certain quiet confidence. ‘I will ask Citizen Marat if he can see you. Who are you, and what is it you wish?’

Carton remembered with a jolt that Marat had some kind of common-law wife – Marat of all people! This was her, a soft-spoken woman with red hands and an apron tied around her waist. ‘Sydney Carton, Citizeness,’ he replied. ‘It is to do with a man hoarding food instead of making it available to all citizens, as it should be. Unfortunately he has a position in the local committee, so I cannot go to them.’

‘I see.’ She nodded. ‘I shall tell him. Please wait here.’

She was gone for several minutes. He stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to control the fear rising inside him. It even occurred to him to change his mind and leave. There was still time.

And then there wasn’t. She was back again, beckoning him toward her and pointing to the doorway of another room. Like one in a dream he obeyed, his heart pounding in his chest.

Inside, the room was unlike anything he could conceivably have expected. It was small, a sort of aqueous green, and the steam in it clung to his skin and choked his nose and his throat. The smell was ghastly, a mixture of vinegar and rotting human flesh. In the centre was a tin bath shaped like a boot, concealing the lower portion of the occupant’s body. A board was placed across it on which rested a pen, inkwell, and paper. Even through the heavy steam Carton could see Marat quite clearly. His toadlike face with its bulging eyes and slack mouth was almost bloodless with the exhaustion of pain. There was a wet towel wrapped around his head. His naked shoulders, arms, and upper chest were smooth and hairless.

‘What is it, Citizen Carton?’ he asked. His voice was rough and had a slight accent. Carton remembered he was not French at all, but half Swiss and half Sardinian. The stench caught in his throat and he thought he was going to gag.

‘Would you rather speak in English?’ Marat asked – in English. He was a doctor by profession and had held a practice in Pimlico in London for some time.

‘No, thank you, Citizen,’ Carton declined, then instantly wondered if it was wise. ‘Perhaps you would indulge me should my French falter?’

‘What is it you want?’ Marat repeated. His expression was hard to read because of the ravages of disease upon his face. He was in his fifties, a generation older than most of the other Revolutionary leaders, and a lifetime of hate had exhausted him.

‘I believe a certain Citizen Duclos has discovered a quantity of exceptionally good food, cheeses and bacon to be exact, in the keeping of a Citizen Fleuriot, and has blackmailed him into concealing that food from the common good.’ Carton was speaking too quickly and he knew it, but he could not control himself enough to slow down. ‘Citizen Duclos is in a position of power in the local committee, so I cannot turn to them to search and find it.’

Marat blinked. ‘So you want me to have men from the Commune search?’

‘Yes, please.’

Marat grunted and eased his position a little, wincing as the ulcerated flesh touched the sides of the bath. ‘I’ll consider it,’ he said with a gasp. ‘Why do you care? Is it your cheese?’

‘No, Citizen. But it is unjust. And it could be mine next time.’

Marat stared at him. Carton felt the steam settle on his skin and trickle down his face and body. His clothes were sticking to him. The pulse throbbed in his head and his throat. Marat did not believe him. He knew it.

‘A friend of mine was blamed for it, and shot,’ he added. Was he insane to tell Marat this? Too late now. ‘I want revenge.’

Marat nodded slowly. ‘Come back this evening. I’ll have men for you,’ he assured. ‘I understand hate.’

‘Thank you,’ Carton said hoarsely, then instantly despised himself for it. He did not want to have anything in common with this man, this embodiment of insane rage who had sworn to drown Paris in seas of blood. He half bowed, and backed out of that dreadful room into the hallway again.

He returned to his rooms and fell asleep for a while. He woke with a headache like a tight band around his temples. He washed in cold water, changed his clothes, and went out to buy a cup of coffee. He would have to think about something more for publication soon, as he would run out of money.

It was half past seven in the evening. He had not long before he would have to report to Sabot.

He was almost back to Marat’s house when he heard shouting in the street and a woman screaming. He hastened his step and was at the archway when a Revolutionary Guardsman pushed past him.

‘What is it?’ Carton asked, alarm growing inside him.

‘Marat’s been killed!’ a young man cried out. ‘Murdered! Stabbed to death in his bath. A mad woman from Calvados. Marat’s dead!’

There were more footsteps running, shouts and screams, armed men clattering by, howls of grief, rage and terror.

Dead! Carton stood still, leaning a little against the wall in the street. In spite of all his will to stop it, in his mind he could see the ghastly figure of Marat in that aqueous room, the steam, the shrivelled skin, the stench, the pain in his face. He imagined the body lifeless, and blood pouring into the vinegar and water. And with a wave of pity he thought of a quiet woman who for some inconceivable reason had loved him.

He must get out of here! Maybe he would be lucky and the widow would not even remember his name, let alone why he had come. He straightened up and stumbled away, tripping on the cobbles as he heard the shouts behind him, more men coming. Someone let off a musket shot, and then another.

All his instincts impelled him to run, but he must not. It would look as if he were escaping. A couple of women accosted him, asking what was wrong. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘Some kind of trouble. But stay away from it.’ And without waiting he left them.

When he finally got inside his own rooms and locked the door, he realised the full impact of what had happened. Marat, the head of the Commune, the most powerful man in Paris, had been murdered by some woman from the countryside. The revenge for it would be unimaginable. But of more immediate concern to Carton, he did not have Marat’s men to search Fleuriot’s house for the cheeses. And Sabot would expect an answer tonight or Carton himself would pay the price for it. He would have to do something about it himself, and immediately.

He dashed a little water over his face, dried it, put his jacket back on, and went outside again. The one idea in his mind was desperate, but then so would the result be if he did nothing.