Chapter 12: The Black Coach

A long, heavy silence followed the Professor's story, during which time he had kept his gaze fixed on the top of the desk, and his hand clutching the bottle of Jenever. At last he stirred and poured himself a glass.

"Although the notes are in a cypher of my own design a skilled mathematician would not take too long to break the code, and then every apothecary in Europe would be free to manufacture Satan's Breath. I wrote to Henry Addington over three months ago, and God knows how far and wide the powder has been distributed since then."

"Is there news of such an occurrence? All you alchemists 'have ears open and eyes on your competitors', surely the production of Satan's Breath would soon be known to your peers?" I asked, in an attempt to rouse the Professor from his obvious despair.
His face and mood lightened. " True, no news is good news. Even when deciphered the notes would not be readily understood by a common apothecary, but several apothecaries in Europe ... Bayer in Munich, Pfizer in Zurich, Poulenc in Paris ... are as skilled as I, and well enough able to produce the substance if given my notes."

"Yet neither of those gentlemen, to your knowledge, or of anyone else in the fraternity of apothecaries, is manufacturing Satan's Breath. Perhaps Helen de Troyes' employers are unable to have your code deciphered or analyse the 'wrap' she stole." I got from my chair. "I shall pass on your warning to the authorities in England, but without evidence of the capabilities that you ascribe to the substance, and with no evidence of production in Europe let alone in England, I doubt the authorities will do anything."
The professor jumped from his chair fuming with rage, his face red and his fists clenched. "You doubt my word? Are you accusing me of being a charlatan?"

"Not at all, Professor, but as a scientist you know evidence must be produced to substantiate any scientific claim."
He acknowledged the truth of that and calmed down. "Short of getting Henry Addington to snort a line of Satan's Breath, and then letting him judge for himself if his sexual performance is improved, no evidence can be presented." He said ruefully.

"Is there powder available to take to an apothecary in England for examination? John Boot of Nottingham is reported to be highly skilled."
The professor looked rather embarrassed at my question. "Unfortunately only one wrap is left, which is reserved for my own use. I will bid farewell to Paloma tonight, and want to leave her with a bang and not a whimper. The few wraps unsold I gave to Gertrude DuKyper, who now whores for a living along the canal. The euphoric effect of the powder may enable her to endure whatever bestial acts her clients perform on her."

Rob and I made our way to the front door.

"Wait!" The professor's voice stopped us in our tracks. "I do possess irrefutable evidence of the power of Satan's Breath." He fumbled in a drawer of the desk and brought out a ledger. " This is a record of all the 'guinea pigs' used in experimentations.It lists names, dosage given, reactions of the subject, how long the effect of the powder lasted, and sundry other pieces of information."

"Well, that will be something to show to the Home Secretary but..."
Before I had finished speaking he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hall.
"Come up to my studio, where the real evidence lies." He bounded up the stairs, and after exchanging bewildered looks Rob and I followed him up the stairway and into his studio.

Paintings, mostly in oil but also several water colours, hung on all the walls.
A sheet covered, rectangular shaped, object stood on an easel in the middle of the room. In one corner of the room was a multi drawered desk, standing about 4 feet high.

The Professor took a painting from off the wall.
"What do you think of this?" The subject was Paloma: a head and shoulders study completed in oils. I appreciated the drawing skill, but the painting certainly didn't do justice to the beauty or the personality of the sitter. "I painted this without the benefit of Satan's Breath." He placed the picture back on the wall. "Whereas this one..." he removed the sheet from the object on the easel " ... was produced while under the influence of the powder."
'This one' was also a portrait of Paloma, but what a difference. Paloma had posed nude. The sensuality of the scene seized me by the throat – and by the plunger. She had been depicted so true to life I half expected to see her breath and to hear her speak. The colours glowed, lucent and radiant; Paloma glowed, with such soul and life that I had an overwhelming desire to touch her soft smooth skin. Pompidou stopped me as I reached out a hand. "The paint has not yet fully dried."
The difference in the two paintings astounded me. The first had been produced by an artist with considerable ability – the other by a master with the genius of a Goya or Rembrandt. The paintings appeared to be the work of two different artists, but I'm sure art experts would agree the same hand wrought both works, even if not guided by the same intellect.

"In the morning, when the paint is dry, you may take both paintings to England. Let Henry see the difference in the quality of the paintings, and explain to him Satan's Breath enhances the faculties for only a short time.
The Devil tempts you with a fleeting moment of supreme achievement, and when you reach out to recapture the moment he seizes your soul. His powder, Satan's Breath, becomes a powerful and insatiable master when you attempt to recreate that feeling of being close to perfection." He gazed longingly at the perfect painting of Paloma. "Alas, without the assistance of Satan's Breath I will never again attain the peak of pleasure with this seductive temptress ... indeed not even with the whores at the Sweating Bodies. Tonight will be my last chance of visiting paradise, so forbear calling on me until after nine tomorrow morning, when I will have made my slow, sorrowful, way home from her embrace. I will then hand over the ledger and the two paintings into your custody."
We left him gazing at Paloma's picture, and returned to The Woolpack.

Next morning we set out for Professor Pompidou/ Whyte-Taylor's house as the clock struck 9. Approaching his house we became aware of a turbulent crowd of people milling about, and spilling over the pavement onto the carriageway outside 7 Rue de Steenport. I jumped down from the coach and pushed through the crowd. On the steps of the Professor's house I was shocked to see a sheet partly covering the bloodied body of Timothy Whyte-Taylor.

"What's your business here?" An officious looking man in a uniform I recognized as the City Watch barred my way.
I pulled myself up to my full height and answered in the cold, arrogant tone of voice which I find disarms petty officials. "I am Major Greenaway of His Britannic Majesty's Sixty Ninth Regiment of Foot. I'm here on a diplomatic mission, and demand that you summon your senior officer to attend me immediately."

My high handed arrogance did the trick, and he scuttled away. Moments later a harassed looking cove, dressed in a similar uniform to the first man but adorned with more braid, appeared.
I explained to him, in my dubious French, the late Professor Pompidou had been a subject of His Gracious Majesty King George III, and I had arrived to collect important documents to deliver to the British Home Secretary – I translated that as 'Minister of the Interior'. The braid covered cove nodded his understanding. He in turn, in English not much better than my French, introduced himself as Commissaire Mitterand of the Brussels City Watch.
He informed me Pompidou had been attacked an hour earlier; stabbed to death as he returned home from a night at the Paradise Regained.
The murderer, a woman of the streets identified as Gertrude DuKypur, had since been apprehended. The reason for her frenzied attack was unknown, although witnesses reported her shouting something about a white lady before she butchered the professor, who had been staggering as if drunk or exhausted when the woman approached him. DuKypur had appeared deranged, and thus might escape the gallows, but would spend the rest of her life in a lunatic asylum.
A horse and trap arrived during Mitterrand's account of Pompidou's death, and the unfortunate professor's body was unceremoniously heaved up on the cart and removed. A bucket of water swilled away the blood stains from the steps of 7 Rue de la Steenpoort, and Professor Whyte-Taylor, spy, alchemist, apothecary, artist and lover, passed from the ken of man.
And may God have mercy on his soul, if he still retained one.

The crowd dispersed. I exchanged salutes with Commissaire Mitterand, then Rob and I entered the now empty house. I left Rob to collect the ledger while I went up into the studio and took the painting of Paloma from the wall, and the glowing portrait of Paloma from the easel.
As I waited for Rob my curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled out the top drawer of the desk in the corner of the studio. Dozens of sketches of French senior officers were revealed. I recognised many of the names of the generals, including the gilded popinjay Murat, besides that of Ney and Soult. I could only identify one of the sitters – Napoleon Bonaparte.
What a different image I now viewed than the poor specimen of the species who had struggled aboard HMS Hazard after his failed attempt to escape St Helena. In the drawing in front of me he was slim, vibrant, and exuding confidence: the sketch was dated 17th Ventôse VI, two months prior to his ill-fated expedition to Egypt in May 1798.
I replaced the drawings in the drawer and closed it, then pulled out the next below. Most of the sketches in this drawer were of a handsome looking woman in a nun's habit, who I took to be the late Sister Agnetha. It was obvious Whyte-Taylor had possessed an extraordinary talent, as these quickly drawn sketches captured the essence of his subjects in just a few strokes of his graphite pencil. I opened the bottom drawer, took out the first sheet of paper and froze.