HS03 - A Visible Darkness by Michael Gregorio Read Free Book Online

their breasts, and French blood had been quaffed as if it were the finest Madeira wine.
    I closed my eyes, thinking of Helena, and the tribulations she must suffer in my absence. The children, the unborn child, the flies and insects, the foreign occupants, the stench which hung over Lotingen. I recalled the details of our parting. Of necessity, I had told her of my meeting with General Malaport.
    ‘I must go the coast,’ I announced. ‘A woman has been murdered there.’
    ‘Do you know who she was?’ she asked. ‘Was she married? Did she have children?’
    ‘I only know that she was employed collecting amber,’ I said.
    ‘She was Prussian, then.’ She placed two fresh shirts in my bag, and closed the strap. ‘There, that’s everything. Except for the promise you must make me.’
    ‘To be back soon . . .’
    ‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘I want something else from you.’
    She had made me promise that I would find the killer before the baby was born.
    When not pretending to sleep, I sat in silent isolation looking out of the carriage window. The road was unusually busy, the travellers almost exclusively French. While we drove north and east, French troops, cavalry and baggage-trains flowed by in the opposite direction. There was nothing surprising in that river of marching Frenchmen—though it did make the direction being taken by my travelling companions all the more mysterious. After serving two years in East Prussia, where they had besieged the city of Königsberg, then mercilessly crushed a more recent rebellion in Kamenetz, the marching troops were going down to Spain. I had seen the same battle-worn faces every day for the last month as they marched or rode through Lotingen, turning left towards the interior on the long road that would lead them eventually to Paris and beyond, or wheeling right towards our port and the galleys which would race them to Spain.
    As dusk came on, a heavy sea-fog rolled in off the sea, and the coach slowed down to walking-pace. Not long afterwards, we turned off the main highway, heading out towards the shore along a sandy lane. The Frenchmen grew ever more anxious, shouting up to the driver, warning him to take care of the ‘beak,’ and go more slowly. I did not ask what they were referring to. As I was climbing up into the coach in Lotingen, handing my bag to the coachman on the roof, I had caught a glimpse of a long, slender object made of metal. Rolled up in heavy canvas, it had been tied to the vehicle with a great many ropes. The further down that lane we went, the more loudly this metal tube began to clank and judder as it pulled against its moorings.
    On every occasion, French conversation died in an instant.
    Their eyes rolled up to the ceiling, they spoke in worried whispers,and the man sitting next to the window dropped the sash, leaning out to see that nothing had come adrift above us, reaching up to check that the ropes were holding, calling to the driver, ducking back inside to announce that all was secure, and that, despite their worst fears, nothing had happened to upset their plans.
    Plans?
    One thing was clear to me: their military careers would be at stake if any damage were done to the ‘beak.’ At the same time, I began to feel that they feared for more than just their careers alone. They spoke of the officer that they were delivering it to as some sort of ogre, who might eat them all if any harm came to his metallic plaything. It gave me unexpected pleasure to hear the thrill of fear in their harsh voices.
    Suddenly, a loud shriek split the night.
    Leather brakes bit harshly on the steel rims of the wheels. The carriage creaked, rocked, skidding from side to side on the sandy surface of the road. The smell of burning took the place of salt and sea air. Above our heads, instruments, tools and boxes began to clash like warring bands of medieval knights locked in a battle to the death, coming to a crashing, rowdy climax as the vehicle lurched to a