The Shadow of Great Britain

He raised his hand and drew it lightly across his neck.

”Snap!”

The Red Devil laughed gloatingly. ”Then it wouldn’t just be a matter of falling into a coma for a few days and waking up to crawl out of a coffin. Once your head’s off, you’ve got a scar the size of a bowl, and on an occasion like that, Arthur, even I would have no way to stitch you back together. If you’d been born in France, you’d most likely already be a single line of small print at the base of a monument.”

At this point, Agares cleared his throat and, with solemn, mock-mournful gravity, intoned, ”Here lies—Arthur Hastings, friend of liberty, sympathizer of the people, an upright citizen who brought honor to France, a brave soul opposed to all tyranny. For attempting to comprehend both liberty and order at the same time, he was branded an enemy of the people, arrested by the committee for public safety on such-and-such a day in 1793, and executed on the morrow.”

The Red Devil sauntered back to the breakfast table, grinning, eyebrows arched. ”You see, Arthur, had you been born in France, you would probably have died in a most edifying fashion. After all, the cleverest heads in France back then were either standing on the rostrum or lying in the basket. Britain did save your life, but they also neatly deprived you of the qualification to become a martyr.”

Arthur picked up his teacup and finished the last sip of cold tea. ”Is my head really that fascinating to you?”

”Fascinating? No, no, I’ve no particular attachment to your head as such.” Agares reacted as though he had just heard an extremely amusing joke; first he doubled over laughing, then said viciously, ”What fascinates me is the fact that it so very nearly didn’t belong to you.”

Arthur set the cup back on the tray. ”So are you feeling sorry on behalf of the French, or congratulating the British?”

”Neither.” Agares shook his head. ”I’m feeling sorry for you. If you really had died in 1832, they would say you were a martyr, a witness to the faith, an idealist devoured by his age. Even that little business of yours with the gun under the Tower of London, they could prettify as a product of the constraints of the times. But... you chose, most unfortunately, to survive.”

”You must understand, those who survive are the most troublesome.” Agares reached out and patted Arthur on the shoulder. ”Cherish your head, Arthur. It’s a national asset now.”

Before Arthur could speak, in the next instant the Red Devil’s figure faded away like mist in the morning light, silently dispersing.

Arthur turned his head to glance in that direction and muttered under his breath, ”Playing at ghosts.”

His words had barely fallen when the doorbell rang again.

Footsteps quickly sounded from the front hall. Becky’s movements were as brisk as ever, only this time she did not hesitate as long as she had before, and soon returned to the dining-room door.

”Sir, it is Mr. Richard Hoot from the Foreign Office.”

Arthur’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

”Show him in,” Arthur said. ”And bring a fresh pot of tea while you’re at it.”

Becky assented and turned to leave.

Arthur reached out and pushed the tray holding the newspapers a little to one side. A moment later, footsteps came from the hallway and Richard Hoot appeared in the dining-room doorway.

He removed his hat and bowed slightly.

This stalwart of the Foreign Office, formerly of the Russian Military Police, still looked as steady and reliable as ever. His grey coat was neatly cut, his collar fastened with meticulous care. Though he had left the Third Bureau five years ago, he had never abandoned the habits drilled into him in the military police.

”Good morning, Sir.” His voice was not loud, but every word was distinctly enunciated. ”I hope I haven’t disturbed your breakfast.”

”My breakfast has already been disturbed once today,” Arthur said coolly. ”Sit down, Richard. I imagine you’re here on account of the gentleman who disturbed my breakfast earlier, aren’t you?”

Hutter nodded, without denying it.

”Precisely so, Sir.” He sat down at Arthur’s invitation, placing his hat on his knees, his back still ramrod-straight. ”More accurately, this is the most important part of my current duties at the Foreign Office.”

Becky brought in freshly brewed tea; the teapot settled softly onto the table. She did not linger, but quickly withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Only then did Hutter continue. ”Sir, I’ve not come today to make any formal request of you. In fact, if one looked solely at the remit of the Foreign Office, I shouldn’t even be sitting at this breakfast table. But if you hadn’t persuaded Mr. Disraeli to put his signature on that letter of recommendation back then, I’d never have had the chance to enter the Foreign Office at all, so this can hardly be counted a breach of propriety.”

Arthur took out his pipe and began tamping tobacco into it at his own pace. ”You’re here to remind me I ought to keep my distance from Louis, aren’t you?”

”I wouldn’t presume to call it a reminder, for you undoubtedly have your own judgment.” Hutter smiled. ”I merely wanted to give you a word of warning, so you know that the monitoring of members of the Bonaparte Family is not being done only by the Home Office; the Foreign Office has assigned people as well. While I certainly won’t be reporting today’s affair, if it had been some tactless young clerk from the Foreign Office on duty instead of me, this might very well have landed you in quite serious trouble.”

Arthur clamped the pipe between his teeth but did not light it. ”There haven’t been any major shifts in Viscount Palmeston’s foreign policy of late, have there?”

”The same as ever.” Hutter nodded. ”To maintain Britain’s position as Europe’s arbiter, and then to make it the arbiter of the world; and to that end, the Foreign Office is committed, without triggering war, to systematically curbing the international influence of the July Monarchy, and to keeping France fixed in the status of a continental great power on a par with Russia and Austria, rather than allowing it to become Europe’s hegemon.”