Leaning back against a low stone wall, the ringing in his ears abated a little and he looked across the gardens.
There was a man on the floor, struggling in vain against a heavy-set fellow who Avers recognised from the bench, kneeling on his back. Thrown a little distance away lay a pistol, still smoking. Across the way, two other men were manhandling a third into submission.
“You there!” shouted the Commissioner. He, too, had been taking in the scenes across the garden. “Release my man at once! He had nothing to do with the shooting.”
The Commissioner started away from him toward where the three men struggled. Unable to focus on anything but breathing through the pain, Avers closed his eyes, a faint whiff of sulphurous gunpowder entering his nostrils.
“John!”
His eyes sprang open and there was Wakeford bounding towards him. His friend came to his side, kneeling before him, worry etched into his pale face.
“You’ve been shot.”
“So it appears,” said Avers on a groan.
“I must see if the bullet has exited.” Wakeford began teasing Avers’ fingers and bloody handkerchief away from his arm. “A knife!” he barked at one of his men who had followed closely behind and was now standing over them.
The man ran off immediately to procure the object.
“Well,” murmured Wakeford, turning back to his friend and replacing the handkerchief over the wound causing Avers to grunt in pain. “That did not go according to plan.”
“A plan to kill me?” asked the Commissioner who had come up behind Wakeford, his now freed man standing a little in front of him in a protective manner. “Your man is a poor shot. Perhaps now you’ll do me the service—after trying to assassinate me—of ordering your men to allow me to leave the Île.”
“Not our man,” Avers said, eyes rolling back as Wakeford tied the handkerchief around his arm to staunch the flow of blood. “Or our assassination attempt.” He managed a crooked half-smile.
“And for your protection,” said Wakeford testily, “we will not allow you to leave the gardens until my men have ensured the shooter and all his accomplices are in our custody.”
At that point, the man who Wakeford had sent in search of a knife returned and handed over the requested instrument.
“You mean to tell me that I have not been lured here under false pretences for you to kill me?” snapped the Commissioner. “I recognise you, Lord Wakeford. You are a King’s man.”
Wakeford did not answer immediately. He had removed the handkerchief from Avers’ arm again and was taking hold of the sleeve, pulling the fabric taut.
“I’m sorry to ruin such a beautiful suit,” he said, and then ran the knife as high up the sleeve as he was able, parting the fabric and revealing the bloodied limb below. After wiping as much of the blood away as he was able, he examined the wound, pulling and prodding, causing Avers to flinch. “Thank the Lord, it’s a graze. Just caught the edge of your arm. Probably hurts like the devil and bleeding no end, but not a direct hit.”
“I shall have a scar, I hope?” Avers asked, that crooked smile still upon his lips.
“Yes, you’ll have a scar,” Wakeford replied ruefully. “Here.” He undid his cravat and used the length of linen to bind up Avers’ arm. He doubled it over with the cravat of the man who had fetched the knife and nodded, satisfied, when he had finished.
“We should get the doctor to see you.”
Finally feeling as though the pain was no longer increasing, and being told the wound was not serious, Avers began to think more clearly. The only people who had known about this meeting were the Comte’s men, Avers and Wakeford. It followed that it was one of them who orchestrated the attempted assassination.
“I demand you allow me safe passage off this island,” said the Commissioner, making both Wakeford and Avers realise he was still standing there.
Wakeford rose. “As I said, not until we know there is no further danger to your person.”
“You English—ordering us about as though we are still your subjects when we have declared independence from you. And now you expect me to believe you did not attempt to assassinate me? It would benefit your King and his government very well if me and my colleagues did not succeed in securing King Louis’ backing.”
“Benefit?” Avers murmured.
Who benefited from the Commissioner’s death? Perhaps Britain in the short-term, but ultimately it would only promote more anger in the Colonies and a determination to fight their cause. It would also undermine Britain’s relationship with France if they were seen to be interfering with the colonialists on French soil. And that is exactly how it would appear, because it was an English noble who had arranged a meeting with one of the Commissioners to share supposed secrets. An English noble who had lured him somewhere to be assassinated… The animosity between the age-old enemies Britain and France would be stoked and the repercussions would start with trade embargoes and…
Trade.
War with France would mean the boom of free trade and the Comte and his cronies were perfectly positioned, with their operations already in place, to make a fortune. All the parts of this nefarious plan began to fall into place in Avers’ mind. He had been their pawn all along. They had never really trusted him. That test of loyalty in Buc was nothing but show. They had wanted him as a scapegoat for their assassination. How could he not have seen it? He had thought he had played the game well, but instead he had been played a fool.
“At least we have the Comte in custody now,” Avers murmured, head leant back against the wall and eyes closed.
“Avers, where are the papers?”
He cracked open his eyes and saw a flash of anxiety pass across Wakeford’s face.
“There.” Avers gestured with his good arm to where the portfolio lay on the path a little way away.
Wakeford stood and walked quickly to pick them up, untying the leather strap and allowing the soft covers to fall open in his hands.
“Curse it!”
Avers’ eyes were fully open now. Something was wrong. He struggled to his feet, light-headedness making him lurch sideways.
“What is it? You do have the Comte?”
Wakeford held the open portfolio out to him in silence and Avers saw what his friend had seen. It contained pamphlets, half a dozen of them, all displaying grotesque cartoons mocking King Louis and his Austrian wife.
“You lured me here with filthy pamphlets?” the Commissioner asked, peering over Wakeford’s shoulder.
Both Avers and Wakeford ignored the Commissioner.
