Dennis Wheatley - The Dark Secret of Josephine

THE DARK SECRET OF JOSEPHINE

The Parisian intrigue as a result of which Napoleon received his first great command—that of the Army of Italy—and the devilish scheming of a pirates' "moll' queening it among outlaws of the Spanish Main, may seem worlds apart. Yet in this story of Roger Brook—Mr. Pitt's most daring and resourceful secret agent—they are knit together by a mysterious episode in the early life of the Empress Josephine.

She was born in Martinique. Mention is made in her own memoirs of her mulatto foster-sister Lucette, and Lucette's brother who later black­mailed her in Paris. They also give an account of her love affair with William de Kay. But how far did it go? It is certainly a fact that her first (or was he her second?) husband, the Vicomte de Beauharnais, endeavoured to rid himself of her on a charge of bigamy.

It was in far from happy circumstances that Roger first heard of Josephine. He had sailed for the West Indies on pleasure bent, with a party that included three lovely ladies; but in those days the blue Waters of the Caribbean were infested with sea-rovers and, as contemporary accounts record, many a terrible scene of torture, rape and murder was enacted among its palm-fringed islands.

The "Sugar Isles" were then in the throes of negro slave revolts—resulting from the French Revolution—and the particulars of these are, of course, taken from authoritative histories. So, too, are the glimpses of Paris in 1795, of Napoleon's early life, and of the street fighting on 13th Vendemiaire.

Once again Dennis Wheatley gives us his fascinating blend of full-blooded romance, swift action and breathless suspense against a back­ground of actual fact; a form of story-telling in which he is the world's acknowledged master.

THE DARK SECRET OF JOSEPHINE

by

DENNIS WHEATLEY

DEDICATION

For

CECIL BLATCH Whose wise counsel and friendship have meant so much to me since I came to live at Lymington, and for

CECILIA, with my love to you both.

made amd printed in great britain by morrison and gibb limited; london and edinburgh

chapter I

NOW ROBESPIERRE IS DEAD?

The two men had breakfasted together off Dover soles, beefsteaks weighing a pound each, and cold-house peaches; then as it was a fine August morning, they had taken the decanter of port, out into the garden.

The host was William Pitt the younger, Prime Minister to King George III; the place, his country home, Holwood House near Hayes in Kent; the guest, Mr. Roger Brook, his most successful secret agent; the year, 1794.

Although only thirty-five, Mr. Pitt had already guided the destinies of Britain for eleven years. During them he had spared himself nothing in a mighty effort which had brought the nation back from near-bankruptcy to a marvellous prosperity, and for the past eighteen months he had had the added responsibility of directing an unsought war, to wage which the country was hopelessly ill-prepared; so it was not to be wondered at that he looked far older than his age.

The fair hair that swept back from his high forehead was now turn­ing grey, and below it his narrow face was deeply lined; The penetrating power of his glance alone indicated his swift mind, and his firm mouth his determination to continue shouldering the endless burdens of the high office which he arrogantly believed he had been born to occupy. A chronic shyness made him aloof in manner, and as with the years he had gone less and less into society he had become the more self-opinionated and dictatorial. He had the mental fastidiousness of a scholar and an aristocrat, but this did not extend to his clothes and the grey suit he was wearing gave him a drab appearance.

By contrast his companion, sheathed in a bright blue coat with gilt buttons, a flowered waistcoat and impeccable fawn riding breeches, appeared an exquisite of the first order; but Roger Brook had always had a fondness for gay attire. At twenty-six he was a fine figure of a man, with slim hips and broad shoulders. His well-proportioned head, prominent nose and firm chin proclaimed his forceful personality. Yet at the moment he looked as though he should have been in bed under the care of a doctor instead of discussing affairs of State with his' master.

That he, too, even when in normal health, gave the impression of being older than his years was due to his having run away from home at the age of fifteen, rather than follow his father, Rear Admiral Brook, in the Navy, and the hazardous life he had since led. Danger, and the necessity for secrecy, had hardened his naturally sensitive mouth, although it still betrayed his love of laughter and good living; while his bright blue eyes, with their thick brown lashes that had been the envy of many a woman, showed shrewdness as well as mirth. But now those eyes were pouched, and his cheeks sunken, owing to innumerable sleepless nights; for he had only recently escaped from the horrors of the French Revolution, through which he had lived for many months, never knowing from one day to another when he might be betrayed, arrested and sent to the guillotine.

Although Roger reported to his master only at long intervals, he was regarded by him more as a friend than an employee, and had come to know his habits well. Being aware that the impecunious but incorruptible statesman could not afford a private secretary, and had such a strong aversion to writing letters that he left the greater part of his correspondence unanswered, he had sent no request for an interview. Instead he had risen early and ridden the sixteen miles across country, south of London from his home in Richmond Park; over Wimbledon Common, through orchards, market gardens and the pretty villages of Tooting, Streatham and Bromley. On previous visits to Holwood he had found that Mr. Pitt kept no secrets from such men as his cousin, Lord Granville, who had the Foreign Office,; his colleague, Harry Dundas, or William Wilberforce, Bishop Tomline and the few other intimates whom he entertained in his country home; so he had felt sure that he would be invited to make his report over breakfast, but it had chanced that the great man was alone that morning, and Roger had had his ear without interruption.

Stretching out a long, bony arm Mr. Pitt lifted the decanter across the iron garden table towards his guest, and remarked: 'The nightmare scenes of which you tell me are scarce believable. Yet that four men should have been needed daily to clean the conduit from the guillotine to the sewer, lest the blood clot in and choke it, provides a practical yard-stick to the enormities committed by these fiends. Thanks be to God that at last they are overthrown, and France can look forward to a restoration of sane government."

When Roger had filled his glass he shot an uneasy glance above its rim. This was not the first occasion on which he had felt it his duty to endeavour to check the Prime Minister's habitual but often; ill-founded optimism, and he said with marked deliberation:

"It would be rash to count the Terror fully ended, Sir."

"Oh come!" Mr. Pitt shrugged his narrow shoulders. "You have just confirmed yourself what others had already told me, of the popu­lace going wild with joy at the sight of Robespierre being carted to execution."

"Tis true; and all but a handful of the French are now so sickened of the Revolution that they curse the day it started. The state of dread and misery to which all honest folk had been reduced before the recent crisis had to be witnessed to be believed. With everyone! In Paris going in fear of their lives it's not to be wondered at that the fall of the principal tyrant led to an outburst of rejoicing. Yet, even so. ..."