Flashman and the Cobra Read online

  “Do you think Bonaparte will be attending the reception tonight?” asked Sarah. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. She was the younger of the two sisters, now aged eighteen.

  “I doubt it,” I replied. “They seem to be having these events every week now that there are so many people visiting Paris.”

  It was the first formal function we had been invited to since we arrived. There would be some members of the French government there, but the first consul seemed to stay away from these events, although he would make a few public appearances each week.

  “It will give us the chance to try out the new French fashions,” said Louisa, who looked unusually excited about the prospect. Louisa was the same age as me and my favourite of the two. I would have expected Sarah to be the most interested in clothes, but Louisa seemed quite flushed at the idea of her new outfit.

  “That is assuming that Father does not find out. Where is he, by the way?” enquired Sarah.

  “The last time I saw him he was at the other end of the garden,” I replied, which was not untrue.

  I wanted to enjoy some time with the girls without the old tyrant before we started the inevitable run-around to get him released. But my plans were immediately thwarted by a rotund, middle-aged woman who could be seen rushing towards us. She had the self-important look of someone who was bursting to share bad news, and as she was coming from the end of the garden where Berkeley had been arrested, with a sinking heart I could guess what that news would be.

  “Ladies, ladies, your dear papa has been arrested! I saw Lord Berkeley being hustled away by some soldiers. He seemed wounded.” She paused to catch her breath. “I asked where they were taking him and they said he was going to prison. You must go at once to the ambassador to get his release.”

  This announcement was greeted by gasps of astonishment from the ladies and a muttered curse from yours truly.

  “What had he done to be arrested?” asked Louisa.

  “They say he was fighting the soldiers. One of the men with them had a cut mouth and he kicked at Lord Berkeley when I asked. He kicked his lordship like a man would kick a dog, the villain.”

  “Father would not fight soldiers,” said Sarah, sounding outraged. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Louisa gave me a glance that indicated that she did not think this possibility was as outlandish as her sister, but then a more suspicious look crossed her face.

  “Did you hear Father getting arrested when you were at that end of the garden?” Louisa asked me shrewdly.

  “Well, I did hear some shouting, but I did not go to investigate.”

  The fat lady tutted at my tardiness in protecting a fellow Briton, but Louisa gave me a hard look as she had seen instantly through the half-truth. We had known each other since we were children and she knew me far too well. She politely thanked the old lady, who walked back to her friends, and then, when the woman was out of earshot, Louisa turned back to me.

  “I can’t believe you let Father get arrested.”

  “He thumped a park-keeper and a soldier. There was nothing I could do.”

  “So you even saw it happen and you were not going to tell us.”

  “I would have told you... eventually... I just wanted to enjoy some peace and time with you without the old goat.”

  “That is our father you are talking about,” cried Sarah hotly.

  “Yes, the father you have lied to about going to the opera tonight, knowing he would not want to come, so that you can go to the reception without him. So don’t play the dutiful daughters with me.”

  “All right, all right,” said Louisa, holding up her hands in surrender. “We are all fed up with his constant complaining, but we can’t leave him to languish in jail.” She looked at me with those appealing eyes that I could not resist. “Please, Thomas, can you go to the British embassy and do what you have to do to get him released?”

  “Couldn’t we leave him in jail for just a couple of days?” I asked hopefully.

  “You know we can’t,” said Louisa, smiling. “He is going to be really cross, so please, for my sake, try not to annoy him. I want you two to get on.”

  “I’ll go, but you owe me some big favours for this,” I said, trying to still look angry but failing as a wry grin crossed my face.

  “Don’t worry,” said Louisa enigmatically. “You will get plenty of favours tonight.”

  Chapter 2

  I took my time going to the embassy, first going back to my hotel to change into more formal clothes and then stopping for a pastry along the way. Paris was full of foreign visitors, some more welcome than others. The British seemed low down in the popularity stakes, with many French citizens seeing us either as people to be insulted or, like the pastry seller, to rob by overcharging. But even the inflated prices were no worse than London, and the pastries were infinitely better.

  The British embassy, located on Rue Jacob, was a very busy place. It was a historic building, having been the site where Britain signed the Treaty of Paris back in ’83 acknowledging the independence of the United States. Partly abandoned during the recent years of war, it was now a hive of activity with builders and decorators restoring years of damage and neglect while mixing with a throng of visitors and officials. The first three people I asked for help turned out to be fellow visitors, but eventually I found a harassed clerk surrounded by people asking questions who directed me to a room on the first floor.

  As I was climbing the stairs I heard a voice call my name. “Thomas Flashman? Yes, it is you. Well, if this doesn’t show the power of prayer I don’t know what does. I have just been looking to find someone I know and trust in Paris.”

  I looked up, searching for a familiar face, and saw William Wickham smiling down at me from the top of the stairs. Then his last few words penetrated my consciousness and I felt a cold chill of alarm run down my spine.

  Wickham was officially Britain’s under secretary of state for the Home Department, but in reality he was Britain’s spymaster. The last time we had met he had sent me on a supposedly simple courier mission. Instead I had narrowly escaped murder and been ambushed, half-garrotted, threatened with torture and rescued in one of the most audacious raids of the war. Along the way I had killed two enemy agents and, with my friend Thomas Cochrane, probably Britain’s best seaman, had a series of other adventures. Wickham thought I was a resourceful agent and capable killer when in truth most of my actions had been driven by fear or anger or because the alternative was even worse. His need of someone he ‘trusted’ could only be bad news, but it would be hard to refuse without damaging my ill-gained reputation.

  “William,” I called. “I hope that does not mean that you have one of those straight-in-and-out jobs like the one you promised me last time.”

  He laughed, recalling the wild optimism of his previous mission briefing, and I smiled back. You could not help liking Wickham despite the fact that danger seemed to follow him around like a shadow. For a spy he seemed very open and engaging with those he knew well.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “One of the people I am travelling with has been stupid enough to get himself arrested for punching a park-keeper. I am here to try to get him out.”

  “Ah, Welling should be able to help with that. I will take you up to his office. Are you in Paris to see the sights?”

  “Yes, I am here with Lord Berkeley and his two daughters. They live on the neighbouring estate and the girls wanted to look at the fashions, while I think Berkeley wanted to avoid some troubles at home.”

  “Ah yes, I heard about the problems he was having with the American.” I was not surprised by this as Wickham was always up to date with news and gossip, despite spending most of his time on the continent. “I take it that it was his lordship who plugged the park-keeper?”

  “Yes, the fool was arguing about picking flowers.”

  “Hmm, I never imagined him as the flower-picking kind. You are not keen on him, I take it.” His eyes twinkle
d as he added, “I have heard his daughters are very pretty.”

  “They are quite easy on the eye,” I admitted. I had no wish to get into my personal life with Wickham and so I asked, “Is Welling’s office down there?” indicating a corridor that we had now reached.

  “Yes, but I would like a private word with you first, if you don’t mind.” Wickham opened the door of another room, which was unoccupied but had some chairs and a desk. We both went in and sat down on the visitor side of the desk.

  “What do you know about India?” he asked, getting straight down to business.

  “Well, I know that Castlereagh suspects that the East India Company is not declaring about a million pounds of profit. I also know that the Company is in conflict with the governor general of India as the costs of the Company army are rising fast now that he is governing the province of Mysore in the south of India.”

  “Ah, of course, I forgot that you are still working with Castlereagh at the Board of Control.”

  Lord Castlereagh was president of the Board of Control, responsible for resolving disputes between the governor general of India, Richard Wellesley, Lord Mornington as he was known, and the East India Company with its avaricious board of directors in Leadenhall Street. He was also my patron in the Government, although there had been precious few opportunities for patronage of late. My modest income came from letting some properties that my father had helped me buy in London.

  “Yes, from what I hear,” I said. “Mornington is concerned by the French influence in the Mahratta states, but the Company does not care about that and just wants to maximise profits from trade.”

  “Do you know much about the French influence in the Mahratta states?” asked Wickham.

  “Absolutely nothing, and before you start with another of your tempting offers of foreign adventure, I have to point out that I am escorting the Berkeley girls at the moment and their father has ably proved that he cannot be relied on to escort them alone.”

  “Yes, if he found another florist all could be undone,” said Wickham, laughing. “No, I was just hoping that you could join me for a meeting tomorrow morning with an old French general who has served in India. He tells me he has information that I would find useful, but I am not sure why he would want to help us. You would be able to hear first-hand about French influence from someone who was there. Then you could pass back details to Castlereagh at the Board of Control when you are back in London.”

  “So you just want to use me as a courier to London?” I said, feeling very relieved. “Yes, I would be happy to do that,” I continued. “It would be a pleasure. We are due to travel back in around ten days. Just as long as you are not going to try to send me to India afterwards.”

  “Well, someone will probably have to go. But don’t worry, I appreciate that would be a big commitment, probably at least a year to get there and back.” He grinned knowingly. “Who is to say whether the Berkeley girl you are after would wait for you.”

  “Well, I hope getting the old man out of jail will work in my favour.”

  “Yes, fate turns on the strangest things. Maybe the bruised nose of a French park-keeper will lead you to your heart’s desire. We had better get you to Welling without delay, but thank you for your help tomorrow.”

  Welling, it turned out, was another harassed embassy official who was very familiar with the process for getting British visitors released from jail. While peace had been declared it seemed that old animosities took longer to die down and there had been various incidents and brawls across the city since the British visitors started arriving.

  “Sometimes they are started by the British, sometimes by the French,” he said. “It is only to be expected. After all, we have spent years trying to kill each other. You cannot simply expect people to forget and turn the other cheek over night.” He gave a little sigh of despair at such naiveté shown by both governments. “We have been buying people out of prison as the most expedient way to solve these problems, and the French government has turned a blind eye as they do not want to damage the new friendship with court cases. But now I think some officials are seeing this as a money-making opportunity and we are seeing more British imprisoned for petty offences, all released for a fee.”

  He looked through some papers on his desk until he found the note he was looking for. “Ah here it is, the latest list that came in an hour ago: British citizen Berkeley arrested for brawling in royal gardens,” he read out. “I am sure that this is a fabricated charge, sir. It is outrageous to think a gentleman would do such a thing.”

  I recalled the sight of Berkeley punching the park-keeper – it was a damn fine blow – but decided that describing it would not enhance his lordship’s reputation with this fawning official.

  “Good, that is him. Where has he been sent and how can we get him out?” I asked.

  “He has been taken to the Conciergerie, sir.”

  I was surprised to hear this as even I knew that the Conciergerie was the main prison where they kept people waiting for the guillotine. Like many tourists, the other day I had been to look at it and then gone to the Place de la Revolution where the guillotine had been in daily use during the ‘Terror’. The square was currently empty with just a stone plinth where a statue of Louis XV had once stood.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Welling, seeing my expression. “The Conciergerie holds all types of prisoners and is often used to hold British people as it is in the centre of Paris, and because their detention is normally only for a day or two before payment is made.”

  “How much are they likely to want to release him?”

  “The cash fee is likely to depend on whether they know he is wealthy, sir. They call all people citizens in official documents these days, but if they know he is a British lord then the fee will be higher. Do you think he will have revealed he is of the nobility, sir?”

  I confirmed that I thought that was highly likely.

  “That is unfortunate, sir. Then they will probably start negotiations at around a hundred guineas or the equivalent in gold in francs.”

  “Good grief!” I exclaimed as I did not have anything like that on me.

  “Don’t worry, sir, you can usually negotiate down to half of the figure they start with, as long as his lordship has not antagonised them in any way.”

  In that case we were probably up to two hundred already, I thought.

  “If you need help getting the gold we can arrange that in exchange for a note on your bank, sir,” Welling added helpfully.

  I would get a note from Berkeley before negotiations were concluded so that he would pay his own damn ransom. I thanked Welling for his help, and as the embassy was only a ten-minute walk away from the Conciergerie I decided to go on foot. There were plenty of soldiers on the streets, and while I got the odd hostile look from some who guessed from the cut of my clothes that I was one of the many British visitors, I felt safe on the streets.

  The Conciergerie was an intimidating medieval-looking building and its recent past made it look even more forbidding. The walk there had given me time to reflect and at this point I should declare to you, dear reader, that I have been less than honest so far in this account. I promised myself when I started writing this chronicle that it would be ‘warts and all’, as Cromwell once said, including the good and the bad, and so there is one more fact I must add here. My feelings for the Berkeley sisters, and Louisa in particular, are not as casual as I have made out. To start with I looked upon the girls almost as sisters as we have known each other since childhood, but once I came back from my Mediterranean adventures we spent a lot of time together and things changed. Louisa was a stunner and, as the daughter of an earl, would be a great match. While I was in no rush to get married, I was desperate to get her into bed but she was holding out at least for betrothal first. Traditionally I would have gone to Lord Berkeley to ask for her hand, but given his temperament and the fact that he rarely refused his daughters anything, Louisa sounded him out first. I turned out to be
one of the rare exceptions. He absolutely refused to consider the match of his eldest daughter to the third son of a local landowner, describing our family background as ‘murky at best’. It is true that the Flashman fortune has probably been tainted with piracy and even slave trading, but that was back in the past. Louisa was told by her father that she had to set her sights much higher, while I was filled with resentment at my lack of status in a very class-conscious world.

  Now here I was facing the bitter irony that I had to get out of prison a man who felt I was too inferior to marry his daughter. There were some soldiers at the prison gates but I explained my business in French, which seemed to be understood, and I was shown inside. They gave me directions that led to a hallway with what looked like cell doors down one side. To be honest I did not need the directions for the final few turns as a familiar voice could be heard bellowing.

  “Send another note to the British embassy! They should have got me out of here hours ago.”

  There was a pause followed by another shout: “Get me some food and wine! You can charge that to the embassy too.”

  As I turned the final corner I saw a weary grey haired army sergeant with a big, bushy moustache shaking his head at the tirade coming from the first cell in the row. The cell doors all had little barred windows in them. Berkeley’s cell was the only one with a rag stuffed between the bars, in what seemed to be a futile attempt to muffle the noise.

  The soldier looked up hopefully at my approach. He asked in halting English, “You are ’ere for ze prisoner?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “How much to release him?”

  “In English gold it eez one ’undred guineas. I should charge two ’undred for he is a very bad prisoner and it is a serious crime. But I just want to get rid of ’im and his moaning, so it is one ’undred, in your guineas or French gold.”

  Berkeley must have heard us talking for now he suddenly bellowed, “Flashman, is that you? Where the hell have you been, man? I have been here for hours.”