The Dark Secret of Josephine Read online

  Dennis Wheatley

  The Dark Secret of Josephine

  Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones

  DEDICATION

  For

  CECIL BLATCH

  Whose wise counsel and friendship have

  meant so much to me since I came to live

  at Lymington, and for

  CECILIA,

  with my love to you both.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1 Now Robespierre is Dead?

  2 The Silken Cord

  3 Westward Ho!

  4 Trouble Aboard

  5 ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’

  6 Captured by Pirates

  7 Ordeal by Moonlight

  8 A Midnight Marriage

  9 The Harbour where Evil Reigned

  10 A Hand from the Grave

  11 The Crocodile Pool

  12 Night in the Forest

  13 Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire

  14 The Terror-ridden Island

  15 The Choice of Evils

  16 His Excellency the Governor

  17 In the Toils Once More

  18 Enter Robert MacElfic

  19 The Treachery of General Pichegru

  20 The Aftermath of the Revolution

  21 Into the Lion’s Den

  22 The Unforeseen Factor

  23 Midnight Interview

  24 The Brigand in Uniform

  25 Desperate Intrigue

  26 Blackmail

  27 The Cat Gets Out of the Bag

  Epilogue

  A Note on the Author

  Introduction

  Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

  As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

  There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

  There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

  He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.

  Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

  He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

  He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.

  The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

  Dominic Wheatley, 2013

  1

  Now Robespierre is Dead?

  The two men had breakfasted together off Dover soles, beefsteaks weighing a pound each, and cold-house peaches; then as it was a fine August morning, they had taken the decanter of port out into the garden.

  The host was William Pitt the younger, Prime Minister to King George III; the place, his country home, Holwood House near Hayes in Kent; the guest, Mr. Roger Brook, his most successful secret agent; the year, 1794.

  Although only thirty-five, Mr. Pitt had already guided the destinies of Britain for eleven years. During them he had spared himself nothing in a mighty effort which had brought the nation back from near-bankruptcy to a marvellous prosperity, and for the past eighteen months he had had the added responsibility of directing an unsought war, to wage which the country was hopelessly ill-prepared; so it was not to be wondered at that he looked far older than his age.

  The fair hair that swept back from his high forehead was now turning grey, and below it his narrow face was deeply lined. The penetrating power of his glance alone indicated his swift mind, and his firm mouth his determination to continue shouldering the endless burdens of the high office which he arrogantly believed he had been born to occupy. A chronic shyness made him aloof in manner, and as with the years he had gone less and less into society he had become the more self-opinionated and dictatorial. He had the mental fastidiousness of a scholar and an aristocrat, but this did not extend to his clothes and the grey suit he was wearing gave him a drab appearance.

  By contrast his companion, sheathed in a bright blue coat with gilt buttons, a flowered waistcoat and impeccable fawn riding breeches, appeared an exquisite of the first order; but Roger Brook had always had a fondness for gay attire. At twenty-six he was a fine figure of a man, with slim hips and broad shoulders. His well-proportioned head, prominent nose and firm chin proclaimed his forceful personality. Yet at the moment, he looked as though he should have been in bed under the care of a doctor instead of discussing affairs of State with his master.

  That he, too, even when in normal health, gave the impression of being older than his years was due to his having run away from home at the age of fifteen, rather than fol
low his father, Rear Admiral Brook, in the Navy, and the hazardous life he had since led. Danger, and the necessity for secrecy, had hardened his naturally sensitive mouth, although it still betrayed his love of laughter and good living; while his bright blue eyes, with their thick brown lashes that had been the envy of many a woman, showed shrewdness as well as mirth. But now those eyes were pouched, and his cheeks sunken, owing to innumerable sleepless nights; for he had only recently escaped from the horrors of the French Revolution, through which he had lived for many months, never knowing from one day to another when he might be betrayed, arrested and sent to the guillotine.

  Although Roger reported to his master only at long intervals, he was regarded by him more as a friend than an employee, and had come to know his habits well. Being aware that the impecunious but incorruptible statesman could not afford a private secretary, and had such a strong aversion to writing letters that he left the greater part of his correspondence unanswered, he had sent no request for an interview. Instead he had risen early and ridden the sixteen miles across country, south of London from his home in Richmond Park; over Wimbledon Common, through orchards, market gardens and the pretty villages of Tooting, Streatham and Bromley. On previous visits to Holwood he had found that Mr. Pitt kept no secrets from such men as his cousin, Lord Grenville, who had the Foreign Office, his colleague, Harry Dundas, or William Wilberforce, Bishop Tomline and the few other intimates whom he entertained in his country home; so he had felt sure that he would be invited to make his report over breakfast, but it had chanced that the great man was alone that morning, and Roger had had his ear without interruption.

  Stretching out a long, bony arm Mr. Pitt lifted the decanter across the iron garden table towards his guest, and remarked: ‘The nightmare scenes of which you tell me are scarce believable. Yet that four men should have been needed daily to clean the conduit from the guillotine to the sewer, lest the blood clot in and choke it, provides a practical yard-stick to the enormities committed by these fiends. Thanks be to God that at last they are overthrown, and France can look forward to a restoration of sane government.’

  When Roger had filled his glass he shot an uneasy glance above its rim. This was not the first occasion on which he had felt it his duty to endeavour to check the Prime Minister’s habitual but often ill-founded optimism, and he said with marked deliberation:

  ‘It would be rash to count the Terror fully ended, Sir.’

  ‘Oh come!’ Mr. Pitt shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘You have just confirmed yourself what others had already told me, of the populace going wild with joy at the sight of Robespierre being carted to execution.’

  ‘ ’Tis true: and all but a handful of the French are now so sickened of the Revolution that they curse the day it started. The state of dread and misery to which all honest folk had been reduced before the recent crisis had to be witnessed to be believed. With everyone in Paris going in fear of their lives it’s not to be wondered at that the fall of the principal tyrant led to an outburst of rejoicing. Yet, even so.…’

  With an impatient gesture Roger’s master cut him short. ‘No government can suppress a whole people indefinitely, and it is evident that an explosion was due to take place. Now that the great majority have so clearly signified their antagonism to the excesses committed in the past, no new set of masters will be tolerated unless they conform to the general wish for a return to the protection of life, liberty and property by properly constituted courts of law.’

  ‘I grant you that would be the case here, Sir; but, believe me, it does not apply in France. There the people have no means of removing power from the hands of those who have usurped it, except by a counter-revolution; and all the men capable of organising a coup d’état are now either dead, in exile or in prison.’

  ‘You are wrong in that!’ Mr. Pitt spoke cheerfully, and took a quick swig at his port. ‘The events of Thermidor were in themselves a counter-revolution.’

  Roger shook his head. ‘If you think that, you have been misinformed. They were no moves against the political principles by which France has been misgoverned since the Jacobins got the upper hand. It was a purely domestic upheaval in which a group of unscrupulous demagogues succeeded in seizing the leadership from others of their own party. Those who are gone and those who remain have all subscribed to the extremist policy of the Mountain, and with others of the same kidney have been jockeying among themselves for power for many months past. It began with an intricate three-corner fight. The Hébertists were the first to succumb. They were the brains behind the sans-culottes, and with their fall the mob became a headless monster. One might have hoped then for better things, but the Terror continued unabated. In April the Dantonists followed them to the scaffold. That may have appeared a setback for more moderate councils, but I assure you that had they triumphed they would have continued to slaughter everyone who attempted to oppose their plundering the nation like a gang of robbers and turning Paris into one vast brothel. There remained the triumvirate of Robespierre, Couthon and St. Just. None of these so-called ‘incorruptibles’ was as venal as Danton or as vile as Hébert, yet they used the guillotine more ruthlessly than either. They had to, in order to keep themselves in power. Now they too are gone, but only to be replaced by others all of whom are steeped in innocent blood up to the elbows.’

  For a moment Mr. Pitt continued to gaze placidly across the close-cropped sunlit lawn, then he said with an air of reasonableness: ‘Mr. Brook, the extraordinary position you achieved for yourself enabled you to follow the inner workings of the Revolution so closely that I count you the first authority in England upon it. Yet I believe you to be wrong in your assessment of the future. The necessity you were under to escape from France via Switzerland, followed by your long journey home via the Rhine and the Low Countries, has placed you out of touch with events. You can know little of what has occurred in Paris since you left it towards the end of July, wheras I have had many more recent advices; among them that a strong reaction to the Terror has definitely set in, and that no less than ninety-five of Robespierre’s associates have followed him to the scaffold.’

  ‘That is excellent news.’ Roger smiled; but added the caution: ‘Yet its true import depends on who they were. Should they have been only the Incorruptibles’ personal hangers-on it means little. If, on the other hand, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois, Fouché, Barère, Vadier, Carrier, Fouquier-Tinville, Fréron and Tallien were among them, then there are real grounds for your optimism.’

  ‘Fouquier-Tinville has been-impeached; but in this connection I recall no other of the names you mention.’

  ‘In that case, Sir, it would be wrong of me to encourage your hopes. When I left, Billaud and Collot had, by opposing Robespierre, retained their seats on the all-powerful Committee of Public Safety. The one superintended the massacres at the prisons in September ’92, during which the Princess de Lamballe with scores of other ladies, priests, and nobles were brutally butchered; the other, jointly with Fouché, organised the mitraillades at Lyons, whereby many hundreds of Liberals were destroyed en-masse with grapeshot. Tallien, while proconsul at Bordeaux, decimated the upper and middle classes of that city; and last winter, after Admiral Lord Hood was forced to abandon Toulon, Fréron turned that port into a blood bath. Carrier, as you must know, has become forever infamous for his mass drownings of men, women and children in the Loire. It is said that during four months of his tyranny at Nantes he has slain not less than fifteen thousand people. While such monsters still have the direction of affairs, what possibility can there be of a return to the humanities?’

  A frown creased the Prime Minister’s lofty brow, and he said a shade petulantly: ‘I find your assessment of the situation most disappointing, Mr. Brook; particularly as you played no small part yourself in bringing about the downfall of Robespierre. For that all praise is due to you; but you would have risked your head to better purpose had you chosen as your co-conspirators men whose qualities would have made them less likely to f
ollow the policies of their predecessors after the blow had been struck.’

  Roger would have been angry had he not known how little his great master understood the involved development of the Revolution. Having with one of his riding gloves, swatted a wasp that was displaying interest in his port, he replied with commendable patience: ‘When I last waited upon you, Sir, at Walmer Castle, it was agreed that I should do what I could to weaken the regime in France by setting her rulers against one another. But this was no case of pitting a few game terriers against a pack of giant rats. I had to deal with a single hydra-headed monster, and all I could do was to induce its heads to attack each other.’

  ‘Very well, then. Tell me now more of the men you picked on to serve your ends. What sort of a fellow is this Barras, who has suddenly become so prominent?’

  ‘He is a ci-devant Count who has seen military service in India. Last winter as a general at the siege of Toulon he showed considerable ability, and it was there I met him. I chose him because he is ambitious, fearless and a good leader; but he is the most dissolute and unscrupulous man one could come upon in a long day’s march.’

  ‘And Dubois-Crancé?’

  ‘Although a civilian, he too has played a prominent part in directing the revolutionary armies, and instilling some degree of discipline into them. It is to that he probably owes his life, as he is one of the few moderates with a first-class brain who has survived the Terror, His value lay in his ability to rouse the cowardly deputies of the Plain from their lethargy, so that they would support the attack that was to be made on Robespierre in the Convention.’

  ‘He sounds a promising man; but need you have approached an avowed terrorist, like Tallien?’

  ‘It was essential to include one of the original mobleaders. Only so could the base of the movement be made broad enough to insure against the sans-culottes rising in defence of the Robespierrists. I chose Tallien for the role because the beautiful aristocrat whom he is said to have married lay in prison under sentence of death, and in joining us lay his one hope of saving her.’