‘For the moment there are no such rumours. It should be added that I have taken every possible precaution. The person who discovered the body was the innkeeper with whom the victim lodged, a certain Maroveski. I had him arrested and he’s being held in an isolated farmhouse. Officially, he robbed an officer. His gaolers speak only Italian, so he can’t tell them anything. On seeing the body, this Maroveski informed a picket of soldiers on duty, who immediately alerted a captain on guard. The officer was completely out of his depth and informed my general staff. I had these witnesses interrogated by one of the captains from my Royal Guard. They told him nothing. The sentry was a long way from the murderer, it was dark and the scene lasted only a few seconds. All he noticed was that the man was between five foot six and six foot in height. A remarkably precise piece of evidence indeed!’
That leaves a mere five hundred suspects, thought Margont.
‘The soldiers who kept watch at the spot until the arrival of my grenadiers, the captain on guard and this sentry were all transferred to Spain at daybreak.’
Margont managed to restrain his anger. ‘But it’s essential for me to question these men personally, Your Highness!’
‘Well, you’ll just have to do without what they would have been able to tell you. I had to nip the rumour in the bud. They are on their way to Vieja Lamarsota, Vieja Lamarora. In a word, you could say they’re off to “Vieja Go-to-Hell”!’
‘I regret to inform Your Highness that I decline to carry out this investigation.’
The prince gave him a taunting look, as if daring Margont to stick to this position.
‘Because you think there’s still time for you to set off for Vieja Something-or-Other, do you? If you refuse to help me, it won’t be the road to Spain for you but the nearest wall!’
The Viceroy of Italy broke off. Margont’s silence confirmed that he could continue.
‘When one of my aides-de-camp, General Triaire, gave the order to go to fetch you, he led the messenger to believe that he wanted to inform you personally of the death of your brother.’
‘I don’t have a brother.’
‘Well, you do now. Major Henri Margont, killed in an ambush on the road to Madrid a few days ago. That band of guerrillas led by the famous Mina again. Your brother was a close friend of General Triaire. That’s why you were sent for. You have my deepest sympathy.’
‘My friends know I don’t have a brother, so if they hear that—’
‘Do as Triaire does: make it up!’
The prince eventually sat down. He seemed eager to see the back of this captain who was going to lighten his burden considerably.
‘To summarise, my grenadiers are guarding the innkeeper and that poor woman’s bedroom. The body has been buried …’
The captain looked up to the heavens.
‘The body has been buried!’ the prince repeated unequivocally. ‘All that a few soldiers and the inhabitants of Tresno know is that a woman has been murdered. They do not know that an officer is the suspect and that the victim was found in a grisly state. Now you may ask any questions.’
‘Why not put the military police in charge of this case?’
‘Impossible! There would inevitably be leaks. This investigation must not be carried out by a whole host of people. I need a single sleuth answerable only to me. Leaks would produce rumour, which I fear almost as much as I do the Russians. Besides, the leaks might come to the attention of the murderer, who would then discover that we knew he was an officer. We would lose our only trump card.’
Margont guessed a third reason. He was under Prince Eugene’s orders; there was no one else he could talk to about this business, so to antagonise the prince could cost him dearly. Conversely, an investigator from the military police would be accountable to his own superiors. By choosing Margont, the prince ensured total control of the investigation. He would have complete freedom in deciding the fate of the culprit if he were unmasked. But if he proved to be a high-ranking officer, would he be fairly tried and sentenced, or would he be discreetly transferred to ‘Vieja Go-to-Hell’?
‘Why choose me, Your Highness?’
The Viceroy stood up and grabbed a document case lying on the sofa. He swiftly opened it and took out fifteen or so sheets of paper.
‘You have been chosen for a number of criteria. I know everything about you, Captain. Your childhood, your short and enforced career in the Church, your military record, your opinions, the books you read, the names of your friends …’
‘May I know how Your Highness obtained all this information? You could not have found out my life story overnight.’
The prince had the triumphant look of someone who sees his predictions coming true, giving him the misleading but exhilarating feeling of being in total control.
‘A few years ago I got Triaire to draw up a secret list of individuals with various skills. My idea was to create my own network of spies. But in the end the ones the Emperor uses proved so efficient – Schulmeister is the prime example – that I abandoned my plan. However, Triaire continued to keep this register, striking out the names of those killed in combat and adding others. One day, your name cropped up.’
‘Is there really only one way of being struck off the list?’
The prince ignored the question. He casually pulled the reports from his file as if pulling the petals off a daisy. The reports were in such small, compact handwriting that they looked like pages from a bible. Triaire had conducted his investigation meticulously. With every page that the prince skimmed through, Margont felt a little more exposed. At last the Viceroy looked up.
‘I don’t have time to go into the details of your life, even if it does seem to have been of keen interest to the good Triaire. Let’s talk about the battle of Eylau, which you took part in, or rather, the aftermath of Eylau. It was at this point that you became a little more critical of the Emperor.’
Margont stared in disbelief. Only his best friends, Saber, Lefine and Piquebois, had such a clear idea of his opinions. Which one had given the information to Triaire’s men? Lefine, without a doubt. In any case, he had to respond.
‘Your Highness, I have always been faithful to the Emperor and to the ideals of the Revolution and I—’
‘I know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be on my list! Let’s just say that you are not one of those who think that everything – absolutely everything – that the Emperor does is faultless and admirable. And, cautious as you are, you keep your criticisms for your closest friends.’
‘Not close enough, it would appear.’
‘The only close friends who keep secrets are dead ones.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as that with the one who betrayed me.’
There was a change of attitude in the prince. His features softened. The Viceroy temporarily gave way to the man.
‘Why this change of heart in 1807? It was the battle of Eylau, wasn’t it? I have to admit that I myself … One may admire the tactical genius of generals, the heroism of certain soldiers and epic feats of arms, but one cannot ignore the slaughter that goes with all this. The human spirit is like blotting paper: it can absorb blood up to a point but in the end it will become saturated and overflow.’
This was not what Margont was fighting for. But Eylau had shown him what reality could sometimes do to noble feelings and good intentions. Ten thousand dead and forty thousand wounded was not just a slaughter; it was the end of the world. As a result, the Emperor had forbidden the wearing of white uniforms. Officially, it was because they were reminders of the old regime, but also it was because they made the bloodstains too obvious.
The prince had fallen silent. Was he back at Eylau or on the shore of another sea of blood? Maybe all this was a carefully staged attempt to make him more likeable in Margont’s eyes. It was difficult to fathom this illustrious figure: sometimes calculating and manipulative, haughty and disdainful; sometimes sympathetic and humane. Margont was unable to say which of these facets was more genuine or to tell which would win out in the end.
‘Eylau justifies the criticisms you occasionally make of some of the Emperor’s decisions,’ the prince concluded.
He turned over a sheaf of pages.
