Death And Damnation: Book 2 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 6: The Artefacts free porn video
Zinnia soon repaid my confidence in her abilities. She had discovered a document that presented Colonel Slade with the reason for having the appeal of habeas corpus refused. St Olave's is probably the oldest church within the walls of the City of London and over the centuries had been granted many privileges. In this particular case a Charter, from the time of Richard the Second -- or it may have been Richard the Third, I always confuse those two, allowed for 'miscreants and heretics' to have their right of habeas corpus denied when arrested in the precincts of St Olave's Church.
The bawdy house in Shoe Lane, which is also within the city walls, stood on land owned by St Olave's and the 'miscreant and heretic', which in this case was the footpad who had been born in the parish but not christened, was duly handed over to Colonel Slade. Interrogation swiftly obtained the location of the house from which the forged documents had been stolen. A visit by the Runners found the place deserted, with more copies of forged documents and seals of state lying strewn around. Slade had the landlord brought in for questioning, but all he could tell us was the house had been rented to a tall, red headed, well-built young German by the name of Erich von Stroheim.
Krish's account, of how grateful and appreciative the Davenports had been when the body of their son had been brought home, reminded me of the young French officer we had buried on the battle field of Waterloo. I had taken compass bearings at the time in order to be able to locate the burial plot again but at the time I did not really think I would return. Now the thought that I had the means to ease the suffering of a family who had been grieving over the loss of a son for nearly two years made me ashamed that I had done nothing to find the family of the dead youth.
I said as much to Krish. "We have four items belonging to the boy. I still have his snuff box and pistol, and I assume you still have that fine sword and the painted miniature of the young girl?"
I nodded, but in truth I had not looked at them since putting them in my travel trunk the day after burying the lad.
"We should be able obtain some information regarding his family from at least one of the items," said Krish. "I had hoped that the snuff box itself would lead us straight to the family as it bore a hall mark, maker's mark and date stamp."
He fished into his pocket and came up with a piece of paper. "I took the liberty of consulting Mr Dunhill of Piccadilly. His firm imports my cheroots, and he is an acknowledged expert on all things pertaining to tobacco." Krish read from the paper. "The snuff box was made in 1788, by Garrard's of London, considered to be the finest silversmith in the country."
"Then it belonged to an Englishman?"
"Probably not. I contacted the firm, and their records show that this box was one of a batch dispatched to Italy in 1789, ordered by a merchant of Venice. Interestingly the snuff contained in the box was produced in Alexandria. It is a well-known and popular blend, according to Mr Dunhill, and is no more than three years old."
"So the box was sold to an Italian who likes Alexandrian snuff?"
"Possibly. However the lid of this box was either decorated in Venice or Rome, according to my Mr Dunhill. It may have been bought by some fellow doing the Grand Tour, or by an Italian dandy."
"Well, that is a dead end as far as the identity of the family is concerned, then?" My tone of exasperation indicating my disappointment.
"Yes, but we also have the two weapons which may lead us towards the goal we seek. I will arrange a meeting with the Keeper of The Royal Ordnance at the Tower of London. He is an expert on swords and firearms."
As ever Krish's calming words gave optimism and hope to our quest.
The huge black ravens, hopping about on the green in front of The Bloody Tower, reminded me of the prophecy that states that when the ravens leave the Tower of London the kingdom will fall. Stuff and nonsense you might say, but the wings of all the ravens are clipped so that they cannot fly away and the old prophecy comes to pass.
The Keeper of The Royal Ordnance was a tall, cadaverous man, with a triangular shaped head and a large, prominent, nose. In fact in silhouette he resembled one of the many halberds that decorated the main hall of the White Tower, where the meeting took place.
I handed the sword, taken from the young Frenchman, to The Keeper, and I swear he salivated as he slowly slid the blade from out of the scabbard, gazing at the naked blade as it was exposed like a man watching his mistress disrobing.
He pulled the sword fully from the scabbard and stared entranced at the damascened blade. His fingers lightly traced the whorls and scrolls on the blade as a man would stroke the breasts of a lover. I thought he was going to kiss the blade, but he just gazed along the length, felt the edge with a thumb and finally said. "This sword is the finest of its type I have ever seen. Where did you obtain it?"
I told him the sword had been recovered from the field of Waterloo.
"Who did it belong to; Ney? d'Erlon-Lobau? Reille?"
"No, it was on the body of a sous-officer of the Fourth Chasseurs of the Guard."
His voice mirrored the surprise on his face at this news. "That is impossible! This is a sword worthy of a Marshal of France."
"Nevertheless it was from the body of a young sous-officer that I took this sword."
He shook his head in wonder. "It is amazing that such a lowly rank should carry such a treasure." He raised the sword and gazed in fascination at the scrolls and whirls of the patterned blade. "In my opinion this sword was made in Persia, rather than Syria, and is at least a hundred years old. We in Europe have no idea how they manufactured such strong, supple and sharp swords. Their edges remain razor sharp and their temper remains true, which is probably due to the metal used in their construction. The metal ingots come from Northern India I believe, and comprise of some elements that we in the west are completely ignorant of - wootz steel it is called by the sword smiths of Damascus and Isfahan."
"How on earth does a sword made in Persia come to end up on a battlefield in Europe?" I asked in surprise.
The Keeper pursed his lips. "How it got from the Orient to Waterloo is easily answered. This sword would have been the property of a Mameluke, possibly even the caliph's own weapon. It would have travelled to France in the possession of one of those officers who accompanied Napoleon when he left Egypt. It is a work of art, and it is ironic to think such a wonderful piece of workmanship and craft should have been produced solely to kill."
He gave a slight smile, while still gazing at the sword in his hand. "Although, if I had to die I would opt to be struck by such a sword; it would be a quick, clean and painless a death. This blade can cut through bone and flesh as easy as a hot knife would go through a tub of butter." He reluctantly replaced the blade in the scabbard, and made to hand it to back to me.
"I think, Master Keeper that such an object deserves to be viewed and appreciated in a place more appropriate than on my sword belt. I offer it to the Royal Ordnance."
The Keeper's mouth dropped open in shock, and then a huge smile engulfed his face. He eventually got back his breath and stammered his thanks. "My dear sir, you are too generous. It will remain here on display, so that others might marvel at the skill of the maker." He continued in this vein for some time. Eventually, keeping a tight hold of the sword and scabbard, he called for one of his minions to 'go fetch the Highland broadsword'.
A few minutes later the minion returned bearing a basket handled broadsword, as carried by officers of Highland regiments. The Keeper handed it over to me. "This is as fine an edged weapon as ever produced in this country and will serve you well."
I took hold of it, and managed to get it to sit in my sword belt, while the damascened sword was carried off, watched by the longing eyes of the Keeper. He turned and faced us after the door had closed on his 'beloved'.
"Now, to more mundane things - the pistol that you brought in for my examination. Well, it is a well-made piece, designed in 1802 by Adolphus Krupp, one of the best gun smiths on the Continent, although not as skilled as our own Mister Purdey. It was manufactured at the Prussian Royal Arms Works at Potsdam for the Semenovsky Regiment of the Imperial Russian Guard judging by the insignia on the hand grip. I would suggest that this pistol saw service at Austerlitz or Borodino, or at any other battles that involved the Imperial Russian Guard."
We left the Tower, no wiser as to the family of the owner of the weapons; but at least I had a sword more in keeping with my status.
"All three of the items we have investigated appear to be booty or plunder taken from the battlefield. They could have been acquired during the time the French were fighting in Italy, Egypt or Russia." Krish said rather ruefully. "In fact the only artefact that could be really a family heirloom is the miniature. We must get some expert to look at it, and maybe the name of the sitter will be revealed."
I will say this of Krish - no sooner said than done, and two days later we presented ourselves with the miniature at the Royal Academy, the home of experts in landscape, portrait, huge battle, and miniatures painting. Many fine examples of all those genres were displayed in the galleries, with others kept safe in the basement. We were honoured to have Benjamin West himself, the current President of the Academy, examine the miniature. He was a well-respected painter of miniatures, besides being in great demand to paint family portraits.
"Hmm, this is a very well executed piece. It looks rather like the work of the French painter Jean-Baptiste Augustin, although it could equally be by Francois Boucher. Both artists were employed by King Louis Quinze of France." He laughed. "If people think that Henry the Eighth or Charles the Second were rakes and libertines they know nothing of Louis Quinze. He kept a veritable harem at Versailles, known as the Parc aux Cerf, the Stag Park. Suitable girls around the age of fifteen were recruited to 'serve', and when they reached the age of nineteen they were married off to some deserving courtier and another young girl would take her place. The activities carried out in Stag Park would make a satyr blush. I can put a date and a possible painter to the miniature, but alas, not a name of the rather attractive girl."
He took another closer look at the miniature. "By the manner and style of her dress, and her age, she could well be a contemporary of Marie Louise O'Murphy, whom we know was a member of the harem. It is quite likely that the young woman in the miniature was also an inhabitant of the Parc, and mistress of Louis. We do have a large portrait of Marie Louise O'Murphy in the Academy; unfortunately it is now kept down in the basement. She certainly was a bonny girl, with beautiful rounded buttocks ... which is one, or rather two, reasons we do not keep her on general display."
He passed me back the miniature. "I'm sorry I can't give you more information, but I will give you the card of someone who may be able to further your investigations."
He handed me a visiting card, and I read 'Gerard De Pardieu, Baron d'Abbeville', with an address on the south bank of the Thames.
"The Baron left France in August Seventeen Ninety Two; he had been a courtier at Versailles and was himself married to a former member of Parc aux Cerf. I'm sure he will know the identity of the girl in the picture."
Krish thanked Mr West for his help and we left the building with nothing to show for our research into the four artefacts taken from the body of the young French officer other than the visiting card of an old French émigré.
"We seem to be on a wild goose chase." I said, somewhat truculently, as we left the Royal Academy. "I'm beginning to tire of this constant whirligig of meetings."
"Come now, Jack, you will have the reward of seeing the family's joy when the body of their son is returned, and all this rigmarole will be forgotten in your feeling of accomplishment." Krish could always come up with a remark that would both shame and sooth me.
Baron d'Abbeville was an elderly man, spry and still quick witted, and with an excellent grasp of English, with only a slight accent. I asked him why he had not returned to France when the monarchy was returned for the second time.
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