The prisoner in the towe.., p.1
The Prisoner in the Tower, page 1
part #3 of Drusilla Davanish Mystery Series
The Prisoner in the Tower
Dawn Harris
Dawn Harris was born in Gosport, Hampshire, but has lived most of her life in North Yorkshire. She was first published in the Yorkshire Post, writing humorous poems and articles, and went on to win two short story competitions in UK magazines. Since then her stories have appeared in many publications in the UK and abroad, including Woman’s Weekly, Woman’s Realm, Best and People’s Friend.
She is married with three grown-up children and two grandchildren. Her daughter, Anne, is also an author, writing children’s books.
Cover copyright © 2019 Anne & Paul Cameron.
With many thanks to my daughter and son-in-law for creating such wonderful covers for all my books.
Text Copyright © 2019 Dawn Harris
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781710565980
Other books by Dawn Harris
The Drusilla Davanish Mystery Series
Letter From A Dead Man
The Fat Badger Society
1930s Mystery Thriller
The Ebenezer Papers
Short Story Collections
Dinosaur Island
The Case of the Missing Bridegroom
Reviews
“Letter from a Dead Man is a delightful murder mystery in an 18th century setting.” Historical Novel Society.
“Letter from a Dead Man has a similar wit to Pride and Prejudice, and Harris holds up a mirror to society in the sort of way that Austen did.” Margot Kinberg, whose Confessions of a Mystery Novelist have brought her many awards in America.
“This story has everything: excitement, mystery, humour and romance. Great stuff!” Sheila Norton, popular award winning author.
“The book sits well within the historical mystery genre, and I have no hesitation in recommending The Fat Badger Society as an enjoyable historical read.” Historical Novel Society.
Website:- www.dawnharris.co.uk
Follow me on Instagram at historicalfictiondawn
CHAPTER ONE
Summer 1794
I t was close to midnight when the messenger arrived from the Alien Office in London. No courier had ever come this late before. Nor had one stood swaying with exhaustion as this poor young man was. That alone made me uneasy. And with good reason. For the letter he carried was one I would never forget.
Messengers had become commonplace ever since Downing Street had asked if a highly secret operation could be run from Westfleet Manor, my home on the Isle of Wight. I had willingly agreed to Mr. Pitt's request, for I was very much involved in the operation and that made it easier for me to play my part.
The letter was addressed to Lord Elvington, the man in charge of the secret operation. As he read it I urged the messenger to be seated and poured him a good measure of brandy, which he accepted with a grateful, ‘Thank you, Lady Drusilla.’
Elvington passed the letter to his assistant, Louis Gauvan, who sat at the card table with Gisele, his stunningly beautiful wife. Gisele, who had no part in the operation, was tidying the table where the four of us had enjoyed a riotous game of lottery tickets. As I rejoined them, Elvington took the letter back from Louis, but instead of handing it over to me, as I’d expected, he slipped it into his pocket, and carefully avoiding my eyes, told the messenger, ‘Fenton, I want you to leave for France first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
‘Good man.’ He took the empty glass from his hand, and said, ‘There’s a bedchamber waiting for you once you’ve eaten.’ Aware that I’d sent the servants to bed after my aunt and uncle had retired for the night at ten, he reluctantly turned to me and asked, ‘Lady Drusilla, could you find Mr. Fenton some supper?’
Gisele took one look at my face and immediately got to her feet, ‘I’ll do that, Jago.’
I was seething at the letter being kept from me, but I managed to control my feelings long enough to thank Gisele, and to ask Louis if he would kindly show Mr. Fenton into the breakfast parlour. If I was going to lose my temper, I preferred to do so in private.
Elvington and the Gauvans, being old friends, were on Christian name terms, and as I was now working closely with the two gentlemen, it made sense for me to be too. But on this occasion, the instant the Gauvans left the room I addressed him with icy formality. ‘Lord Elvington, I would be obliged if you would allow me to read the letter.’
He gazed at me in the superior manner he invariably adopted when addressing me or, indeed, any woman. ‘I really don’t think that would be wise.’ We were of the same height, a fraction under six feet, but his good looks were marred by a pair of forbidding dark brown eyebrows. As a gentleman of only four and twenty summers he was remarkably stuffy, for he believed no woman should play any part in the war against France.
Catching a measure of concern in his voice, I relented a little and assured him, ‘I promise I won’t faint.’
He sat down opposite me, pursing his lips primly. ‘Drusilla, believe me there is nothing you can do about this – er - problem.’
I looked him straight in the eye. ‘May I remind you Jago, Mr. Pitt gave strict instructions that you were to inform me of everything that happened in your secret operation. It was on that understanding that I allowed Westfleet to become your headquarters.’ The great man had also told him I’d recently unmasked a double agent, but I didn’t remind him of that. Nor could I tell him the other task Mr. Pitt had given me. An assignment I could not do unless I was kept fully informed of every tiny detail.
Inclining his head in reluctant agreement, he murmured. ‘Well --- ye-e-s, but......’
‘As Mr. Pitt runs this country, I do feel you should do what he says,’ I declared in as pleasant a manner as I could manage, hiding my clenched fists under the card table.
Heaving a long drawn out sigh, he muttered, ‘Very well, ma’am. If you put it like that.’
‘I do,’ I reiterated firmly. And with great reluctance he took the letter from his pocket and gave it to me.
It was from William Wickham, the recently appointed head of the Alien Office, a comparatively new government department in London. This office organised the activities of all our secret agents in France, and also dealt with the flood of French émigrés fleeing from that country’s violent revolution.
And I began to read the letter in some trepidation.
My dear Jago,
I’m afraid I have some very bad news concerning your secret operation. An hour ago I received information from a highly reliable source, that the turncoat who organised the recent attempt to start a French-style revolution in Britain, has just betrayed all our Paris agents to the French authorities. The French now possess a list of their names and where they were lodging. I am told they will all be arrested at daybreak on the same day. The date is not known, but is thought to be soon.
If they succeed, not only will we lose these fine young men, but obviously we cannot replace them until the turncoat is put out of action. Until then we will have no knowledge whatsoever of what is happening in Paris.
My informant does not know the traitor’s name, but learnt of his treachery through a member of the Committee of Public Safety in Paris, with whom he has managed to become very friendly. Furthermore, he was told this turncoat is not a Frenchmen working for us, as we had believed. That he is, in fact, English.
This appalling act of betrayal, coming so soon after the failed attempt to assassinate the King, makes it even more vital that you identify and catch this traitor with all possible speed. For, he may try again, and next time he might not fail.
Mr. Wickham ended the letter in the usual manner and I handed it back to Lord Elvington with as steady a hand as I could manage, for arrested agents could expect a quick trial followed by a ride in a tumbril through the crowded streets of Paris to the guillotine.
‘Thank you,’ I said. Stuffy he might be, but he was no fool, and had not been at Westfleet more than a few days before realising that one agent in Paris meant more to me than I was prepared to admit. That was why he hadn’t wanted me to read the letter. Perhaps he expected me to swoon, or have hysterics on reading those terrifying details, but I could never see the point in indulging in such reactions, for it solved nothing. I believed in finding solutions to difficulties that occurred, no matter how impossible that might seem.
Jago laid the letter on the card table, but before he could say any more, Louis came back into the room and announced that Fenton was eating like a horse. ‘I’ve shown him where his bedchamber is and he will leave for France at first light.’ He sat down, smoothed his rather dashing black moustache, and informed us that Gisele had gone to bed. Picking up Mr. Wickham’s letter from the table, he asked in a worried tone, ‘What will you do about this, Jago?’
Elvington, normally a calm man, suddenly burst out angrily, ‘Warn them, of course.’
‘Yes, but how?’ Louis demanded. ‘We don’t know which one is the traitor. If we warn them all, the traitor will.....’
I cut in, ‘You’re forgetting Mr. Reevers. He’s the right man to deal with this situation.’ Radleigh Reevers was already in Paris, sent there by Mr. Wickham two weeks ago to seek out the turncoat.
Louis suggested eagerly, ‘Radleigh might have discovered who the traitor is by now. If he has, he can warn the others.’
‘Ever the optimist, Louis,’ Jago said, a faint smile hovering on his lips. ‘But I agree Radleigh is the one man we can safely warn about the betrayal. Fenton will sail for France on the “Arabella” on the early mor
With the decision made Louis left to get some sleep, as he had an early meeting in Cowes with Mr. Arnold, the Island’s Customs Officer. Meanwhile Jago and I went into the library, where he wrote to Mr. Reevers giving him carte blanche to do whatever he thought right, while I made a copy of Mr. Wickham's letter to go with it. Then he wrote a quick note to Captain Barr explaining why Fenton was joining him, although the captain was accustomed to last minute passengers.
I finished first and as I used the silver sand shaker to dry the ink, Jago casually suggested, without looking up, ‘Drusilla, if you wish to write to Radleigh, it can go with-----’
Cutting in quickly, I thanked him, but politely declined the invitation, accompanied by a firm shake of my fair curls. I’d made my decision regarding Mr. Reevers, and I meant to stick to it. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do, for although I had refused to marry him, I had not found a way to stop loving him. Yet I simply could not bear the thought of him not being alive somewhere in the world.
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, ‘Jago, do you think it wise to send Mr. Fenton to Paris? The poor fellow is exhausted.’
‘Yes, but he’s the best man for the job. He left London at four this morning and......’
‘Today?’ I gasped. This involved a seventy mile ride from London to Portsmouth, a sea trip across the Solent, and then another long ride over the Island. No wonder he was worn out.
‘He was told to reach us with all possible speed. I think you will agree he succeeded. He can catch up with sleep on the yacht.’ That gave me great faith in Mr. Fenton. Such a man would do everything in his power to reach Paris as quickly as possible. I prayed he would get there in time.
It was after one when I finally climbed into bed, but I lay awake, my heart thumping with fear. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Reevers, alone in his lodging in Paris, unaware that the entire French revolutionary government, the infamous Committee of Public Safety, now knew his name and where he was living.
Mr. Reevers was a highly experienced agent, accustomed to difficult and dangerous situations, but I was terrified his luck was about to run out. Nor did he know that the turncoat he’d gone to Paris to seek out was now thought to be English, not French. Frenchmen who chose to work for us did so because they were strongly opposed to the revolution in their own country. There was, however, always a risk of a double agent hiding amongst such men. But it was even harder to believe that an English agent would ever go over to the French. Yet, I knew one who had, and the thought of him made me shudder.
Toby East was that agent, and the turncoat put him in charge of the treacherous Fat Badger Society. The society’s aim was to assassinate the King and start a French-style revolution in Britain. But the plot failed, and we simply had to capture the turncoat before he tried again. For, as Mr. Wickham said in his letter, next time he might not fail.
On the very day Lord Elvington was given the task of catching this turncoat, there had been a breach of security at the Alien Office. As a consequence, Jago had categorically refused to run his operation from there. Insisting that, if he was to succeed, his headquarters must be set up in a place where there was no chance of any secret information leaking out.
He wanted to be in a quiet coastal area, as near to France as possible. Where, with the aid of his schooner, he and Louis could keep in contact with Mr. Reevers and our other agents. That was when Mr. Pitt had asked me if I would allow my home to become their headquarters, and I had willingly agreed. For, surely, no-one would ever expect such a highly secret operation to be run from the remote and tranquil Westfleet Manor. The house was over two hundred years old and I loved every inch of it, from the beautiful mellowed stones to the elegantly furnished rooms, mullioned windows, strong oak doors and the wide sweeping staircase.
With all my fears for Mr. Reevers preying on my mind I thought I'd never get to sleep that night, but I must have eventually, for I woke up with a start and could see daylight coming through a tiny gap in the curtains. I prayed Mr. Reevers was still alive to see the start of this day.
I got up and as I drew back the curtains, I saw Louis set off on horseback in a northerly direction for Cowes, where he was to meet up with Mr. Arnold. I liked Louis, for he was of a good-natured cheerful disposition. Slim in stature, his laughing eyes and handsome moustache made him highly popular with women. Although born in France, his family had moved to London when he was two, and he was very English in his outlook and ways, having been educated at Eton and Oxford.
The clear blue sky and a pleasant breeze gave me hope that Mr. Fenton would enjoy a swift passage across to France. Early though it was, I wanted to be sure he left in good time. For Mr. Reevers’ life, and that of the other agents, depended on him sailing on this morning’s early tide. I put on a pale blue dress, brushed my hair, and as I went outside I was very relieved to see Mr. Fenton was already down by the stables, talking to Jago. As I began to walk towards them, they shook hands, and Mr. Fenton climbed straight onto his horse and set off for Yarmouth.
Like any other agent or messenger sailing to France, he would leave his horse at the Dog and Duck inn, which stood about a hundred yards from where Jago's schooner was moored. Louis had arranged with the innkeeper that hired horses could be stabled there at any time of the day or night. These horses were later collected by Roche, the Gauvans’ groom, who returned them to the inn from where they had been hired. Usually that was in Cowes, which was around twelve miles from Yarmouth, and it was a system that worked very well.
On reaching Jago I said how pleased I was that he’d taken the trouble to see Mr. Fenton on his way. ‘It was the least I could do,’ he responded, and murmured enviously, ‘I only wish I could have gone with him.’
But as I knew only too well, that simply wasn’t possible. Not in his present circumstances. And they would never change. Not now. I tried to take his mind away from it by talking about the weather, and in response he glanced up at the sky and pronounced in his customary reassuring way, ‘Yes, it couldn’t be better for crossing the channel. With luck, Fenton will be in Paris in a few days.’
We walked round to the terrace, where we sat talking for a while in the early morning sunlight, until eventually he suggested it was time we had some breakfast. We strolled indoors to the breakfast parlour, where we enjoyed a long leisurely meal. It was far too early for my aunt and uncle, or Gisele, to put in an appearance, and afterwards I went up to my bedchamber and rang for my maid to see to my hair properly.
As I waited I stood for a moment looking at the portraits of my parents. Sadly my mother died when I was three, and my father had suffered a fatal seizure eighteen months ago. I had inherited my mother’s lovely hazel eyes, but in looks I strongly resembled the rather ordinary features of my father. I did not mind that at all, as I had loved him dearly and still missed him enormously.
Once my maid had worked wonders with my hair, I joined Jago in the library, where we dealt with some routine matters concerning our secret operation.
Early that afternoon Luffe came in to inform Jago that Roche wished to see him. Jago looked up from the papers he was studying and said absently, ‘Send him in, Luffe.’
Roche entered cap in hand and addressed Jago in his usual brusque manner, ‘Mr. Fenton’s horse is back at the Rose and Crown, sir.’ Louis, who kept a meticulous record of hired horses used in our operation, had ordered Roche to inform him immediately after he’d returned a horse to Cowes. And if Louis wasn’t there, he was to report to Jago or myself.
