Dead Man's Island: A Lieutenant Oliver Anson Thriller Page 5

  Ludden Hall was just as Anson remembered it: the long, gravel driveway curved round past a small willow-fringed lake and led up to the broad paved steps fronting the iron-studded oak doors framed by large Doric columns.

  The imposing stone-built house stood in several acres of gardens, lawns, flower beds and a walled and gated plot for vegetables and beehives. The whole was well kept but not over-manicured; Josiah Parkin was too keen a naturalist to opt for the clinical geometric styles favoured by some.

  They crunched up the gravel and as they passed the lake Anson thought it wise to tell Hurel to take a seat in an arbour so that he could approach the house alone. To spring a French prisoner-of-war on his friend without some prior explanation could prove something of a shock.

  Although there had not been time to warn the old gentleman of his arrival, Anson was nevertheless greeted with great enthusiasm.

  During his convalescence he had formed a lasting attachment to his host and on his last night there before returning to the Nore they had been joined by Parkin’s orphaned niece Cassandra and enjoyed a most convivial dinner.

  It was a happy memory that had sustained him on many an arduous and boring watch in the Mediterranean and then on blockade duty off the Brittany coast.

  Parkin called for his butler-cum-coachman Dodson to take charge of Ebony and then he and his guest adjourned to the old gentleman’s study where Anson apologised for not being in touch since his escape from France, confessing: ‘It has been most remiss of me, sir, but I have been rather occupied.’

  Parkin dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. ‘I met your father at a gathering of Kentish antiquarians. He told me you had been a prisoner of the French and that since your remarkable escape you have been exceptionally busy sweeping the enemy from the Channel coast.’

  ‘All grossly exaggerated!’ Anson protested.

  ‘Nevertheless, making contact with an old fogey like me must have been furthest from your mind. Suffice it to say that I, and Cassandra of course, are proud to know such a heroic former guest!’

  Anson blushed. He was embarrassed that he had not made contact with Parkin and his niece since his escape from France and hearing that they had been following his adventures, vicariously, rubbed it in.

  Nor did he enjoy praise or notoriety, and again he protested: ‘My father, being a clergyman, does tend to over-egg the pudding, sir. I can assure you that the French would no doubt have been only too delighted to be rid of me and since then I have merely been messing about in boats with as disreputable a bunch of scallywags as you’ll find in any fishing port from here to Cornwall …’

  Amused, Parkin countered, smiling: ‘If your goodly father exaggerates then I am quite certain that you do the complete opposite. The last I heard from you was the most welcome letter you sent from Gibraltar just before your ship was due to sail to join the Channel blockade, and no doubt you played down your Mediterranean adventures in that, too.’

  ‘Not in the slightest … and, by the by, I hope the stuffed specimens I sent with it arrived safely, were to your liking and are now part of your collection of natural history and antiquarian objects?’

  A pained look crossed Parkin’s face. ‘Stuffed …?’

  ‘They did arrive, I hope – the stuffed hoopoe, blue-cheeked bee-eater and greater short-toed lark?’

  Parkin paused before answering, almost apologetically: ‘Oh? So that’s what they were! Such are the wonders of Mediterranean avians, but—’

  Puzzled, Anson ventured: ‘But, what, sir?’

  The old gentleman sighed. ‘Look, I can think of no easy way of breaking this sad news to you. I fear that despite the assurance you received that they had been prepared for display by the master bird-stuffer Louis Dufresne, they did not, how shall I put it …?’

  ‘Did not, what?’

  ‘I am afraid they did not survive the voyage.’

  Anson was mortified. ‘Oh, what a shame! My abject apologies. Was the box not strong enough?’

  ‘Not strong enough for that ingenious creature Rattus rattus, alias the ship rat. One or more of his tribe gnawed their way into the box, perhaps during the sea passage—’

  ‘Rats!’ Anson exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘Exactly. I detected the tell-tale marks of their incisors. And although when they got into the box even they must have noticed that the birds were demonstrably long dead, they nevertheless consumed all but a few feathers, bones and glass eyes.’

  ‘I am so sorry, dear sir. I blame myself entirely. I should have had the foresight to have the specimens packed in a lead-lined box.’

  ‘No, no. Not your fault at all. It was merely nature at work. I console myself that Monsieur Dufresne’s use of arsenical soap to preserve the skins will have given the culprits an extremely bad stomach ache, even supposing it did not prove fatal.’

  Suddenly realising that he had not yet enquired the reason for Anson’s visit, Parkin added: ‘I do hope you have come to stay for at least a few days. You will recall how starved my niece and I are for agreeable company.’

  ‘Indeed I have, sir, if that is acceptable to you. But first I have an enormous favour to ask of you …’

  Parkin was all smiles. ‘Ask away, my dear fellow, ask away, and if it’s within my power of course I will grant it.’

  ‘Well, you see, I have brought a Frenchman, from the hulks.’

  ‘Good heavens, a specimen for me to examine and add to my collection? Now that would be a first!’ And he added mischievously: “Has he, too, been stuffed?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Well, not recently at any rate. This specimen is still very much alive and currently sitting in the arbour beside your driveway, concealed against wagging tongues.’

  Somewhat ruefully, Parkin ventured: ‘Then not a corpse for dissecting, I surmise?’

  ‘Not just at present, sir.’

  Sensing that something far more serious was afoot than bantering about stuffed creatures, Parkin kept silent as Anson explained as much as he felt he could about the fake funeral, the reason for bringing a Frenchman to Ludden Hall and why they needed to stay out of the public gaze for a while.

  The old gentleman was delighted to accommodate them. ‘As you know,’ he told Anson, ‘the most exciting thing that occurs here is when the gamekeeper calls with some dead creatures for dissection, or when I am forced to play-act at being ill when my odious banking cousins come calling, so to have a live Frenchman here – and you, of course – will be a real treat!’

  Their stay at Ludden Hall duly arranged, Anson wrote a note for the old gentleman to send to Seagate requiring spare clothing to be collected from his room at the Rose and brought to him by young Tom Marsh in his pony and trap.

  *

  Hurel, now bathed, his lower deck disguise abandoned, and dressed rather more respectably in an old bottle green tail coat of Parkin’s, with white Nankeen breeches and silk stockings, appeared for a pre-dinner drink with Anson and their host. The Frenchman’s disreputable holey footwear had been discarded in favour of a pair of his host’s silver-buckled shoes that were obviously far too big for him.

  He may have been fitted out to look like a common sailor before he left Chatham, but now at first glance he could be taken for a country gentleman like his host, whose clothes he was wearing.

  Wine glasses in hand, Parkin and his two guests stood together in the library where the Frenchman paid close attention to the framed prints of Roman ruins and the cases of stuffed birds and mammals.

  Hurel showed particular interest in a fox and the badger in a nearby case. ‘I ’ave seen reynard – the fox – many times, but this creature …’

  Parkin offered: ‘You perhaps mean Meles meles – the badger?’

  ‘Ah oui, le blaireau! A creature of the night, is he not?’

  ‘Nocturnal, yes.’

  And Anson interjected: ‘Just as you must be, Hurel, if we are not to give the game away …’

  ‘What game is this? Not something like that ridiculou
s English game of cricket, I ’ope! No-one but the English can begin to understand the rules, if indeed there are any!’

  They laughed and Hurel turned to his host. ‘It is so very gentil of you to allow me to stay ’ere at your charming ’ome, monsieur. The use of your clothes and the delightful room you ’ave made available to me is most kind – most kind indeed. My sojourn as a guest of your King on the ’ulks was a little less comfortable, despite the extensive views of the river.’

  Parkin waved aside his compliment. ‘Perish the thought that we would not welcome a gentleman like yourself, sir, no matter what his nationality. As my particular friend, Anson here, well knows, we country mice are deprived of salubrious company and seize the opportunity of entertaining guests whenever they pop out of the woodwork!’

  Hurel was puzzled. ‘I ’ave noticed various animals in glass cases, monsieur. Perhaps they include these mice you speak of? But I ’ave not seen any, as you say, pop out of the woodwork – so far.’

  ‘A treat to come, perhaps,’ Anson interjected. ‘But I should explain, Hurel, Mister Parkin is using the vernacular when he refers to country mice. His meaning, I believe, is that whereas town mice see many visitors, those who live in the depths of the country see relatively few. Hence his enhanced pleasure at receiving guests – and as circumstances have temporarily reduced you to being as poor as a church mouse, I am sure you are doubly welcome!’

  Now Hurel was totally bewildered. ‘My boyhood tutors assured me after years of study that I spoke English passably well, apart from the dropped “haitches”, whatever they are. But now, well I can see there are depths to the language that I will never fathom! Town mice and country mice coming out of the woodwork … and now you say I ’ave become a church mouse – extraordinaire!’

  Parkin reassured him. ‘Even those of us born to it trip up sometimes and muddle up our mitigates with our militates – and our principals and principles. But may I venture to say, monsieur, that you speak this most difficult language very well – very well indeed, apart from the dropped aitches your tutors spoke of – and many a Man of Kent and Kentish Man shares that habit, or should I say ’abit?’

  Their laughter was interrupted by the arrival of an extremely good-looking young lady wearing a striking blue satin gown with elbow-length frilled cuffs and a kerchief covering her décolletage.

  She paused at the library door. ‘You appear to be having a very jolly time, gentlemen.’ And, turning to Parkin, she teased: ‘I hope you have not been forcing too much wine on our guests this early in the evening, uncle dear!’

  Parkin smiled affectionately. ‘Not at all, my child. Monsieur Hurel, here, has just made a most amusing remark – hence the laughter.’

  He took her hand. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to present my niece, Cassandra. Sadly my brother and his dear wife died of the typhoid fever when she was just a child and she has lived with me ever since. She is like a daughter to me.’

  Anson did a double-take. When he was last at Ludden Hall, Cassandra was a pretty dark-haired girl just turned sixteen, but now, some three years on, she was stunning.

  Despite the enveloping gown she clearly had a most handsome figure and her raven hair and pure, English rose complexion made her a natural beauty, a very attractive woman indeed.

  He had taken to her when they first met, drawn to her enquiring, enlightened mind – so refreshing after the many vacuous females of his acquaintance. She had been pretty then, in a girlish way, but now she had blossomed – and he was riveted.

  Hurel appeared similarly dumbstruck, but only for a moment.

  Anson bowed, but the Frenchman bowed lower, took her hand and kissed it, muttering: ‘Charming, charming …’

  Well, Anson, thought to himself, Hurel had been at sea for some time before being captured and locked up aboard a hulk, so no doubt any female from eight to eighty would charm him – and there was no doubt that Cassandra was charming.

  Fearing that this show of, what to him, were immoderate mawkish French manners might embarrass their hosts, Anson caused a diversion by producing the parcel he had concealed behind his back.

  ‘I have a present for you, sir, er, that is a present for each of you.’

  He noticed that Cassandra used the distraction to free her hand from Hurel’s eager grasp.

  She asked coquettishly: ‘Not, I trust, the remains of more stuffed birds, Mister Anson?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he reassured her. ‘And when the parcels were wrapped on board the hulk there was no sign of rat infestation!’

  ‘The hulk?’

  ‘Yes, I had occasion to go on board the hulk where Hurel, here, had been confined, and there the prisoners run a sort of market where they sell souvenirs they have made to the guards and visitors.’

  She looked concerned. ‘I do hope people do not go along to stare at the poor prisoners as if they were animals in some zoological gardens.’

  Hurel saw another opening for complimenting her. ‘If they were all as charming as you, ma’amselle, we would not ’ave minded the stares at all! In fact …’

  ‘May I? The old gentleman took his pocket knife to the string securing his parcel and pulled back the brown paper to reveal a beautiful model of a frigate, intricately carved out of bone, with rigging made from hair, and flying French colours.

  Anson explained: ‘It was created on board the hulk by poor prisoners out of the animal bone left over from their meagre rations and sold to raise money for a few comforts.’

  Parkin was marvelling at the model. ‘Such craftsmanship, and no doubt using basic tools. Exquisite! It will take pride of place in my collection.’

  ‘I could have bought a model guillotine, also made of bone, but I thought the ship was perhaps, well, less gruesome …’

  The old man chuckled. ‘I trust the guillotine you saw was not made from the bones of some unfortunate who had been decapitated by one!’

  Cassandra had opened her parcel containing what at first appeared to be a volume of poetry but upon examination proved to be a jewellery box with hinged lid and various interior compartments – the whole made out of fine marquetry straw work.

  She was enthralled, murmuring: ‘Thank you so much, sir. This is truly a work of art and I shall treasure it always.’

  Lightening the mood, she teased Parkin: ‘You must find a glassblower to make a dome to protect your frigate from ships’ rats, uncle!’

  They laughed, and, touched by their obvious delight in his gifts, Anson explained: ‘Although the ship is wearing French colours, she closely resembles HMS Phryne, the frigate I joined in the Mediterranean after my earlier visit here. But then, that is only natural, because Phryne was French-built and captured by our navy.’

  Suddenly conscious that he might have offended Hurel, he quickly added: ‘No doubt due to superior force and after a stout defence …’

  But Hurel merely shrugged and laughed. ‘It is of no account to me, mon ami. Please do not forget that I am not a republican, but a royalist. You may capture as many republican Frenchmen as you like. ’Ow do you say, the more the ’appier?’

  ‘Merrier. It’s the more the merrier – and you have dropped another aitch or two, monsieur!’ Parkin corrected him gently. ‘But hark – there goes the gong. Dinner is served.’ And Cassandra took his arm and they led the way into the dining room.

  8

  Careless Talk

  Within minutes of taking their places at the dining table, Hurel had chosen to reveal his true name and pre-Revolution title: Gérard, Baron Hurel de Pisseleu-aux-Bois, to their hosts.

  No doubt, Anson thought, it was in an effort to impress Cassandra. In truth, this was a young woman anyone with blood in his veins would wish to impress.

  He could not mask a slight smirk at the thought that when rendered in an English accent the Frenchman’s surname sounded like a urinal in the woods.

  But Anson quickly dismissed the unkind thought when Hurel, close to tears, spoke falteringly of the loss of his family, estate and title during the Fr
ench Revolution – The Terror.

  Sensing the sadness overwhelming his guest, Parkin tried comforting him. ‘Very sad, monsieur, so very sad. Permit us to share your sorrow with a minute of silence in memory of your dear family …’

  All four bowed their heads and Anson thought he detected a quiet sob from the Frenchman but he did not look up until their host tapped a glass with a spoon.

  ‘Now, gentlemen – and you, my dear, of course – this must be the first dinner Monsieur …’ He hesitated before continuing: ‘Forgive me, the first occasion that you, Baron, have dined in what I hope you will find is civilised company for many a month. On such an auspicious occasion we are all forbidden to be gloomy and may I wish you joy of what I think I can accurately call your resurrection!’

  Another tap on his glass summoned Dodson to fill their glasses and the maids, dressed in their best and blushing whenever the two young male guests so much as glanced at them, brought in the first course.

  During dinner Parkin and Cassandra recalled for Hurel’s benefit their memories of Anson’s first visit to Ludden Hall, at the time of the Nore mutiny when he had been brought there to convalesce after being taken ill on the coach while on his way to stay at his father’s rectory.

  Quizzed by Hurel, Anson revealed that he had then been summoned back to Chatham and tasked with helping to break HMS Euphemus free from the mutinous fleet.

  But he was reluctant to discuss the mission in detail, protesting: ‘I played only a very minor part.’

  Parkin protested: ‘Nonsense, my dear Anson. In reality the small part you claim to have played actually led to the collapse of the whole mutiny, did it not? At least, that is what your father led me to believe.’

  Anson spread his hands in protest. ‘Let us talk of happier things than mutinies …’

  But Hurel had clearly seen a way to steer the attention away from Anson and reveal more about himself to their hosts.

  Clearly forgetting that his host had tried his best to confine conversation to happier things, he spoke vehemently: ‘Your mutinies were no doubt inspired by the republicans who infest France. They are the same people who murdered my father, mother and elder brother.’