Napoleon's Police Read online

  Napoléon’s Police

  Michèle McGrath

  Copyright © Michèle McGrath 2015

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Most characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Some are real.

  My books are fiction set in history.

  Front cover artwork:

  Copyright © Sheri McGathy 2015

  All rights reserved

  No part of the cover image may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the illustrator.

  Written in English (UK)

  Published by Riverscourt Publishing

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  http://www.michelemcgrath.co.uk/contact.html

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandfather,

  Louis McGrath (Dadda)

  The longer I live, the more I realise he was right about so many things.

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Duval and the Infernal Machine

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Duval and the Empress’s Crown

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Duval at Waterloo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About Michèle McGrath

  Napoléon’s Police

  Preface

  I have always been fascinated by the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Empire ever since I first studied this period of history at the University of California in Berkeley. I started writing the forerunner of these books when I was a student in Grenoble, many years ago. I remember warm lunchtimes, sitting at an outside table in a little café near the centre of the city. I used to sip café au lait and scribble away, perfectly happy. Grenoble was a romantic place then, especially to a young foreign girl like me. The chasseurs alpins would stroll around in their long cloaks and huge berets, called pie, figures from the exciting past in a more mundane world. I used to imagine I was madly in love with one of these soldiers, sharing kisses with him while I was wrapped up in his cloak. Sadly it never happened to me in reality.

  In those days, I was researching the triumphant return of Napoléon from Elba at the local archives. The Emperor’s route to Paris passed through Grenoble and gave me my excuse to spend several months in this wonderful city. I have never forgotten my visit and I return when I can, although the place has changed greatly in the time between. Part of the last book in the series, Duval at Waterloo, is set in Grenoble and naturally enough, my main character, Alain Duval, is a native of the city. The Napoleon's Police series is intended to contain 15 books, spanning the years 1800 to 1815.

  Three books have been written so far and are contained in this volume:

  Duval and the Infernal Machine (1800)

  Duval and the Empress's Crown (1804)

  Duval at Waterloo (1815)

  The next book, Duval and the Italian Opera Singer (1806) is currently being written.

  Further titles are planned. These include:

  Duval and the Innocent Man (1801)

  Duval and the Missing Englishman (1803)

  Duval and the Empress’s Rose

  Duval and the New Messiah

  Duval and the Polish Count

  Duval in Russia (1812)

  Duval

  and the

  Infernal Machine

  Michèle McGrath

  In memory of my beloved aunt

  Nora McGrath (Nonnie),

  Who loved adventure stories & wanted to rule the world!

  Duval and the

  Infernal Machine

  Chapter 1

  It was a strange scent, part smoke, part filth, part densely-packed humanity. My nostrils twitched with distaste at the sour odour. We still had miles to go, yet the stench of Paris came out to greet us like an evil cloud. I lived in a city once, although Grenoble was really only a small provincial town. Smells never bothered me then, for I grew up with them. Now I wondered how I would be able to breathe with so many people sharing the same air. For a moment, my mind wandered to the high mountain valley I’d camped in before my last battle. I longed to be back there again. It was hard to accept that those days had gone forever.

  Then I called myself stupid, to be so affected by a scent. I’ve smelled far worse. Stinking corpses on old battlefields reek and I’ve seen enough of them. I’d get used to Paris. I came once before with my father, when he had business in the city. We stayed in a pleasant house near the river. I remembered the bridges, the tall white buildings and the open squares. I also recalled the hovels and all the ragged people whom I wouldn’t be able to avoid this time. I had little money left from my army pay, which seemed to melt away before my eyes. I must have groaned aloud at the thought.

  The old man sitting opposite me, pointed to my stiff leg and asked, “Does your injury trouble you much?”

  A foolish question, for he saw me hobbling about before we got into the coach. Yet the old buffer looked kind and concerned. So I answered him civilly enough, “Not now.”

  In truth, the pain had gone; only the stiffness remained. I'd been weeks on my back before the bones fused and the muscles became strong enough to bear my weight again. For most of that time, I feared I would spend the rest of my life as a helpless cripple. If I was unable to walk, I'd be good for nothing. Better to have been shot.

  “What happened to you?” the old man asked.

  “The wheel of a gun carriage ran over my ankle.”As I said the words, I felt again the wet smack of mud on my face. I heard the crack of the bone, as the metal rim drove my leg down into the ground. I shuddered.

  “You were lucky not to lose your leg.”

  I nodded. “Heavy rain softened the ground and that saved me. I can still get about, although I’m no use to the army now.” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I realised I hadn’t succeeded when he said,

  “That’s hard on a youngster like you. What will you do now?”

  I hesitated because I don't like telling too much about myself to strangers. Then I shrugged. What harm could it do? I was unlikely to meet any of these people a
gain. “I’ll get a job where my lameness doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, there are plenty of jobs in Paris…” The old man started to describe all the things I might be able to do. It startled him a bit to find out how few useful skills I had, except for fighting, of course. Swordplay isn’t much use in a city among law-abiding citizens.

  “What did you do before you joined the army?” a woman passenger asked kindly, trying to help me.

  “I was apprenticed to my father. He’s a locksmith.”

  “That’s a good trade. Lots of money in keeping people’s possessions safe,” said the small man with the narrow face. He had been silently listening up to now. “A good trade — good if you’re honest and good if you’re not!”

  “Joseph! What a dreadful thing to say,” his wife exclaimed reprovingly. “Anyone would think you were a thief!” The small man laughed.

  “Why not go back home?” the old man suggested. “Your foot wouldn’t be much of a problem as a locksmith.”

  “My father disowned me,” I said. His face flashed into my mind, contorted with rage as usual. “Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. My cousin was more skilful and the favoured one. Papa was grateful when I ran away.” I tried to keep the resentment out of my voice, but again the perceptive old man heard it.

  “You're not the first son to disagree with his father, lad, or the last, come to that,” he said. He sighed, as if the words brought back some painful memory.

  “No, indeed,” the woman agreed. “My brother was just the same, but he was glad he made his peace with Papa. Tempers cool, if you give them enough time. Perhaps your father would be happy now if you returned.”

  A strange and totally unexpected pang of longing shot through me at her words. I saw again the villa with the fruit trees blossoming beneath the snow-covered Belledonne. Then I pushed the thought away. I knew how unlikely such a welcome would be. My father prided himself on never going back on his word, especially with me. I shook my head. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My father gives orders and expects to be obeyed instantly. I found that difficult enough when I was growing up. Now I’ve been in the army, we’d come to blows within days, if not hours.” I grinned. “My mother always used to say we were far too alike, when she tried to make peace between us.”

  “Wouldn’t she want you to come home?” the woman persisted.

  “She’s dead.” I frowned. I try to forget my mother’s untimely death as much as I can.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman faltered. People always do so when you tell them such things.

  I shrugged, “It all happened a long time ago,” I said dismissively, hoping she would let the subject drop.

  “Couldn’t you go back to the trade under a different master?” the man called Joseph asked me.

  “I’m too old to be an apprentice now and I wasn’t very good at the job anyway. My father was correct about that.”

  “Well, let’s see what else you can do,” the old man said, dispelling the sudden awkwardness. He had a good imagination and the other people in the carriage joined in, making a game of it.

  “So, you write a fair hand and figure accurately,” the old man concluded, as the coach clattered onto cobbles. “Many people need those skills in Paris, merchants and tradesmen and counting houses. You should have no trouble.”

  I smiled and agreed with him. He had tried to help me, although I knew his optimism to be false. Other men, who’d been invalided out of the army before me, could find nothing to do at all. I left the remark unchallenged, though, because the people in the carriage were pleasant folk, especially the old man. They made the tedious journey pass more quickly with their speculations. I even gathered a few facts which might prove useful in days to come. They did not need to discover how uneasy I truly felt about my future.

  The thought made me clutch at my breast pocket, to make sure the Colonel’s letter was still there. I was flat on my back in the convent when he came and gave it to me. The regiment was moving out, leaving the wounded behind for the nuns to look after and he didn’t have much time.

  “I’m sorry to lose you like this,” he told me. “You’ve been a good soldier and a useful aide to me. This letter may be of some help to you in the future.” The colonel knew part of my story and realised that I wouldn’t be going home.

  “What is it?” I asked, taking the wafer from him and trying to smile.

  “My cousin in Paris might be able to give you employment or, if not, to put you in the way of finding it elsewhere. This is the best I can do for you at the moment.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good of you to think of helping me whatever happens.”

  “No trouble. A small repayment of the debt I owe you. I am only sorry I cannot do more.” I smiled. Once, a few months ago, I’d saved the colonel’s life in a skirmish. He made me his personal messenger afterwards and I thought I had a bright future in the army.

  I shook the Colonel's hand, we wished each other well and said goodbye. I felt sorry as I watched him leave. He had been my commander for over three years and always treated me fairly. Many others would have left me behind without a thought, once my usefulness to them had ended — debt or no debt. I wondered if I would ever meet him again.

  Later on, when I looked at his letter properly, the name seemed to leap off the paper at me and I gasped. Everybody in France knew the name he'd written down; few people were more infamous or feared. I’d just been recommended to the devil himself!

  ‘Joseph Fouché’ I read. Fouché – the man who ordered the mass executions at Lyon during the Terror. A Jacobin regicide, he was now the Minister of Police. I stared at the letter in disbelief. Could Fouché really be the colonel’s cousin? For a second, I wondered if two men in Paris shared the same name. Yet the letter was addressed to the Ministry of Police, so there was no mistake. I cursed inwardly. Why on earth couldn’t the colonel have a less alarming relative?

  Like it or not, though, I would have to use this recommendation. No one else would speak for me. My disgrace was common knowledge in Grenoble. No merchant in that city would give me work, for fear of offending my father. I’d moved around too much in the army to make civilian friends. I was fortunate the colonel had been decent enough to try to help me.

  I decided, not without some misgivings, to go to Paris. Would Fouché employ me? Did I want him to or would I be better off somewhere else? Whenever I thought about the future, an icy shiver ran down my spine. I said nothing of this to my companions, of course. It amused me, though, to imagine how their faces would change if I told them about the letter.

  In any case, I had no time to do so. The carriage clattered through the city gates and everyone started gathering up their parcels, ready to leave. The guards waved our coach onwards and we entered the city itself. The carriage went slowly now, for the streets were winding and narrow. We made several sharp turns before we came to a shuddering stop. I climbed down, stiff and sore from all the jolting. One of the ostlers lifted down our baggage. I hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulders and picked up my swordstick. I said goodbye to the old man and the other travellers. They called out their good wishes to me, as I limped off to find some accommodation for the night.

  Paris had changed a lot since my last visit. The Revolution saw to that. Many of the buildings bore the scars of fighting on their stonework. Everything seemed to be patched up and seedy. I remembered very little of the place and I became hopelessly lost. I wandered the streets for a while. The pavements were uneven and crowded, with people jostling and shoving to get past. I needed to concentrate just to keep on my feet. Carts and horses passed me by in the narrow roadway, some of them cutting close to the seething mass of people. More than once I had to jump briskly out of their way, in order to avoid being run down. I tired easily now and I knew I would not be able to keep going much longer. I had to find somewhere quieter. So I turned down a side street. It was unlighted, but a faint glimmer at the far end looked like water. T
his alley might lead me to the river. I had a vague memory of our previous lodging house being alongside the Seine. That thought tempted me into foolishness.

  I was half way down the street, when I realised my mistake. Footsteps sounded behind me and a voice said, “What have we here?” The words were slurred and guttural. I reacted instinctively to their tone, rather than their meaning. As I turned round, I saw three men, burly and dressed in rags coming towards me. One carried a cudgel and swung it menacingly back and forth, like a flail. Cursing myself for a fool, I stood against the wall and raised my stick. The odds weren’t good, but I was damned if I would go down without a struggle.

  “Going to fight are you? Let’s see what a stripling like you can do!”

  One man advanced and one circled around to my left, preparing to jump me from the side. This was an old trick I had often used myself. I clenched the stick in my hand and clicked the lever set into the handle. A foot of sharpened steel sprang out from the end. The first man had already started to leap towards me and did not stop in time. He squealed as my bayonet pierced his shoulder. Before I managed to pull the blade out, another man landed on top of me. I ducked and took the blow meant for my head on my upturned arm. If I hadn’t, the fight would have been over right away. The impact forced me to my knees and the pain made my eyes blur. I knew I had lost, but I still struggled to raise my sword for a last thrust. Then someone yelled.

  “Christ, not another one,” I thought, but I was wrong. The press of bodies around me lessened and I managed to scramble to my feet. My sight cleared. Three men were struggling, one against two. The newcomer had joined the fight on my side. What an unexpected mercy! I charged back into the fray, whipping my blade into the arm of the man with the club. He dropped it, as I hoped he would, and squealed. At the same time my rescuer felled his own opponent with a mighty punch and left him lying on the ground. The first man still lay slumped against the wall, with his hand clapped to his wound. When I moved towards him he scrambled up and ran off.