Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Ffrog Prince

"I be Molly, zur, Madame de Barsac's maid." The girl spoke with a strong Dorset buzz.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Ma'am wonders, zur, if you'd kindly step by and zee 'er for a moment or two?"

"Lead the way, Molly," Hoare said, though he needed no guide to this destination.

He followed close on her heels to a decent but shabby building. The sign at the door read:

MARC-ANTOINE DE CHATILLON DE BARSAC

MAITRE D'ESCRIME

ENGLISH SPOKEN

ENQUIRE ABOVE

Molly led him down an alley behind the school, into a rear doorway and up two flights of stairs. Here she opened an inner door and bobbed again for him to precede her.

"Mr. 'Oare, mum," she whispered, and blushed again.

Her hand outstretched, her mistress advanced to greet him. A woman-shaped woman, she would be a few years younger than her husband or Hoare.

"Madame la Vicomtesse," Hoare whispered as he made his leg and bent over the hand. Actually to kiss it would have been unduly suggestive.

"So kind of you, Mr. 'Oare," she said in French. "My husband has spoken of you often."

"I am told he has been taken up in connection with the sad death of the Duc de Provins," Hoare said.

"Which is why I told Molly to find you and beg you to wait on me. He had nothing to do with it, of course."

"Of course. But the town authorities believe otherwise, and one can hardly blame them. After all, he is known to have quarreled with the duc, and his broken sword was the murder weapon."

"Anyone, monsieur," she said, "could have filched a broken sword from our salon. Marc-Antoine collects them in a corner. I record them and then sell them to Tompkins the cutler, for we cannot afford weapons of a quality high enough to be worth repair."

"How often is a weapon broken?"

"Perhaps two a week. There are some awkward pupils who break one almost every lesson. They are hopeless, and I charge them extra for the breakage."

"Then you keep the books for your husband?"

The vicomtesse nodded.

A notion tiptoed reluctantly into Hoare's mind. "Could the Comtesse de Montrichard have acquired one of the broken swords?" he asked.

"Why yes, I suppose she could. She sometimes accompanied the duc, especially if he wanted to display his proficiency by taking up a blade himself."

"She would come with her husband, I presume?"

"Hardly, monsieur. That would have been gauche in the extreme, would it not?"

"And about yesterday's quarrel between the duc and your husband?"

"It was hardly a quarrel," she said. "Provins took Marc-Antoine aside and told him that instead of giving command of Vendee to him he must give it to Montrichard. My husband had been counting on obtaining the post; it had become a matter of honor as well as the pocketbook. He protested, too vehemently, perhaps. The duc turned on his heel and left the salon, followed, of course, by his attendant."

"Who was… "

"The comtesse." Her eyes opened wide. "Why, the comte was there as well. How louche! Yes, I remember now. Montrichard was already practicing when the duc arrived, before the mirror, of course, being the sort of person he is."

"So, madame, any of four people could have taken away the broken sword."

"Four, monsieur?"

"Yes. The Comte de Montrichard, his comtesse, your husband… or you."

"Monsieur!" Her lip curled. For a moment Hoare feared she would order him to the door, but then she laughed. "Yes, I too, I suppose, although you are not to know I can hardly tell which end of the weapon to hold. But then you must add to your list of suspects every pupil of my husband, past or present."

Hoare shuddered at the thought and dismissed it.

"Well, madame la vicomtesse, I have now spoken with you, your husband and the Comtesse de Montrichard. It remains for me to question the comte." Having run out of breath, Hoare merely raised his eyebrows hopefully. She caught his meaning.

"He keeps chambers at The Lilies in Dover Street, I believe," she said. "I hope you will be able to establish my husband's innocence, monsieur. Strange though it may seem, our children and I love him."

"I share your hope, madame." With that Hoare prepared to take his leave, leaving unspoken his fear that powerful evidence indeed would be needed if De Barsac were to depart the Portsmouth bridewell unhanged.

"Un moment, monsieur," said the vicomtesse. She disappeared into an adjoining room, returning with a paper in her hand. "As I told you, I handle my husband's business affairs. Here is the commission Provins gave him, days ago. Perhaps you will believe me."

"It is not I who must be convinced, madame, but an English jury. May I take this with me?"

She shrugged. "It will be no use to him if he is dead, monsieur. Take it, then."

De Montrichard's "chambers" might be no more than a pair of garret rooms at The Lilies, one in a warren of similar quarters let out to titled emigre paupers, but he kept a lackey nonetheless, and he or the lackey kept Hoare pacing the low corridor outside his door for a half-hour's eternity.

The comte received him in a bare bleak chamber. It smelled of damp plaster and contained one hard chair, one desk, and a number of spanking-new seachests and boxes. Hoare had, he guessed, caught him in mid-move. Some, he saw, bore different crests. Could they, or some of them, belong to the late duc?

The comte's pale, narrow face was set in lines of sour and apparently permanent disapproval. He wore the same oddly different naval uniform that Hoare had seen on the duc's body, and like the duc's, the heavy bullion epaulettes he wore on each shoulder could never have seen salt air.

He received Hoare standing and began without greeting. "You have come here, I understand, to solicit information concerning the death of the Duc de Provins. Is that the case?" Hoare was not one to be outdone in matters of icy courtesy. He nodded assent and waited. "It should be obvious even to an Englishman," said the outwaited count at last, "that De Barsac killed him. Or perhaps you did not notice the provenance of the broken sword."

"I did, monsieur." Hoare waited again, counted fifteen of his slow pulses, and continued. "You are a member of his late grace's court, sir, I believe?"

"Your belief is in error. Until yesterday I was indeed a member of His Royal Highness's 'court,' as you are pleased to call it, though how it is any concern of yours escapes me entirely. In fact, I was his sole equerry. As for the comtesse my wife… that, now, was quite a different matter and is not one for discussion with you."

De Montrichard, Hoare said to himself, had probably been born sneering. Tucking the expression into his mental commonplace book for possible future use, he renewed the waiting game. Again he won; the count continued. "However, since yesterday I have had the honor to command His Most Christian Majesty's ship Vendee."

"Have you been read in, then?"

Montrichard visibly choked down an order for Hoare to take his questions and swallow them. Perhaps he recalled just in time that he would be at the mercy of Hoare's master for the fitting out of his new command, for he simply said, "In the French navy, monsieur, command takes effect when the officer receives his appointment, as I have." For the first time, the comte offered the honorific common between gentlemen. "Indeed, I have just returned from Admiralty House, where I presented the document in question to your admiral."

"My congratulations, then, mon capitaine," Hoare whispered. "And when do you actually board your new command?"

"As soon as arrangements for the ceremony of transfer have been completed. Tomorrow, I expect. You are, of course, welcome to be present."

To Hoare's ears the invitation lacked something of sincerity.

"I shall be overjoyed to accept," he answered as he made his farewell bow. He found himself more than curious to tread, as a guest, the quarterdeck he himself might have paced as commander. It would be a bittersweet experience, he expected.