Chapter 19: The Italian Job

Selling the Star of David eradicated my financial problems, and even if unemployed I could now subsist quite well on half pay.
Nevertheless, I made a call on John Stafford at Scotland Yard to enquire, first, if there were any prospect of employment at MI6, even in a temporary, part time position. Next, if he had any information regarding the whereabouts of my sister Becky. Finally, what results, if any, came from the search of the caves at West Wycombe.
However, it was the last query on my list which became the first answer on John Stafford’s agenda.

“Exsanguinated?” The word was one I had not heard before, and I enunciated each syllable slowly and carefully.

“It means to be drained of blood. All six girls were found exsanguinated, which was the cause of their deaths.” John Stafford’s voice quavered as he spoke. “The poor girls were murdered by being bled to death.”

“Who would do such a foul deed – and why?” I then recalled the West Wycombe caves had been the scene of sexual and bacchanalian orgies, and ceremonies designed to raise Satan. “Was it some Devil worshiping ritual that went awry, and the girls died by accident – although it will still be seen as murder in a court of law?”

“Their deaths were not accidental. The girls were drained so someone – probably Eloise de La Zouche – could bathe in their blood.”

“No, not even Eloise would carry out such a horrific act.” I shook my head in shocked disbelief.

John Stafford gazed at me; tears, sadness and sorrow, in his eyes.
“Have you ever heard of Elizabeth Bathory? Not many people have. She was a Hungarian countess some two hundred years ago who was convicted of killing hundreds of young women, and it was rumoured she bathed in the blood of virgins to retain her youth.”

“Eloise de La Zouche must be well into her forties, but still possesses skin as soft, smooth, and as unblemished as a young girl’s. I remember Timothy Whyte-Taylor remarking on her flawless complexion. Could she really believe her beauty is maintained by bathing in the blood of virgins?”

Stafford shrugged his shoulders. “The six girls discovered in the caves were not virgins, which is a possible reason why Sigismund von Metzendorf was killed by Eloise de La Zouche. Metzendorf obviously had not planned on the girls being examined to see if they were still intact, and when Milady discovered her ‘virgins’ had been deflowered she took her revenge. You told me virgins had been part of the ‘entertainment’ at Taplow Court?”

“According to the magistrate John Bailey the girls had been deflowered by the more ‘noble’ and affluent of the guests, before being handed down to the lesser guests, like him, to take their pleasure — “ I paused in thought, “but Eloise knew the girls had been deflowered before they were taken to the West Wycombe caves. She and Metzendorf had argued about the girls no loger being virgins, and the effect it would have on the ceremony, yet she still bathed in their blood.”

“Presumably she was assured the girl’s loss of virginity would make no difference to the efficaciousness of their blood, so why murder Metzendorf?”

“One does not cross Eloise de La Zouche and live to boast of it. Metzendorf merited death because of his disobedience.” For a few moments I considered the manner of the death of those innocent girls, and my heart was heavy, and full of vengeance.
“The poor girls must have been terrified. Abducted, kept manacled until being raped, and then handed around as sexual playthings for a group of depraved men before being bled to death by a mad woman who believes blood can preserve her youth – they must be avenged, John.”

“And so they shall, Jack. Three of the girls were English, one abducted from Hemel Hempstead, one from Aylesbury and one from Tring. The others three were possibly Polish or Hungarian. We will now pursue Eloise de La Zouche for the suspected murder of the English girls, and the Foreign Office will order our consuls and ambassadors in Europe to ascertain her whereabouts. Stand on me, Jack, we will find her and bring her to justice.”

I reminded John Stafford that Eloise de La Zouche, under her alias of Louise, Comtesse de Montebello, was already wanted for the murder of Octavius Hardy, then put forward my theory of Cadiz being the entry port for White Lady. I followed that supposition with another.
“Eloise de La Zouche is an important employee of the cabal of rich and powerful men behind the manufacture and distribution of White Lady, and could be living in or near the port.”
John Stafford agreed with my hypothesis, and sent his man Cameron to the Foreign Office with a request the British Consul in Cadiz make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Eloise de La Zouche, including her aliases, Helen de Troyes and Louise, Comtesse de Montebello.

Unfortunately, Stafford was unable to offer me a position with MI6.
The Home Office, which controlled the department, was in a state of flux. Not an unusual event, but due this time to a change of Home Secretary.
Lord Sidmouth had finally been dismissed – in all but name – and Robert Peel named as his successor. Peel was to take office on the 1st of January 1822, and as John Stafford would be spending Christmas with his wife and family at Muscovy House in Stogumber we agreed I would apply for a position with MI6 on his return, the 8th of January.
Neither was there news pertaining to Becky, although, as she was not mentioned in any of the reports from Italy, it seemed she was neither with Lord Byron nor with the Shelleys.

“We were under the impression you had left Somerset on the third of December — “ the speaker made a great play of looking at the calendar on his desk, “seventeen days ago. Did you perhaps walk all the way from Bristol?”
Major Aloysius Montmorency Darby-Smythe-Snape, the Deputy Assistant Adjutant General, was an arrogant, supercilious, pompous, upper class nincompoop, the sort of person who has given the English a bad name throughout the world, as most foreigners are convinced his type are the archetypal Englishman.
Coupled with his natural haughtiness was the fact he was an officer of the Life Guards, the Sovereign’s bodyguard, and senior regiment in the British Army. Officers of Guard regiments think themselves a cut, or two, above the rest of the army. In fact, they consider the rank they hold equivalent to the next highest rank in the rest of the army. Major Aloysius Montmorency Darby-Smythe-Snape would therefore assume himself my equal in rank, and as I had been commanding a Militia regiment he would place me even lower than a Lieutenant-Colonel of the regular army.

To say I was annoyed by the man’s impertinence and disrespect would be an understatement. I was livid, but nothing showed on my face. However my demon had awakened, and it took a measure of self-control not to take my knife from my boot top and slit the moron’s throat.

“Would that be the royal ‘We’, major? Have you and his Gracious Majesty been awaiting my arrival with bated breath, or do you suffer from delusions of grandeur, and think yourself royalty?”
My answer was affable, but my demon was stirring and my hand had found the hilt of my boot knife.

“No, of course not.” He blustered and huffed.”The ‘we’ I referred to was the Office of the Adjutant General...”

I interrupted him by pulling my orders from my pocket and sticking the document under his nose.

“You see, do you not, my orders state I am to report to the Adjutant General’s office no later than the twenty first of December?”
I grabbed him by his tunic collar and pulled his face against the calendar on his desk. “Would you mind telling me todays date, Major?”

“The twentieth of December.” His voice was strained by my grip on his collar.

“You know, Major, I am deliberating between whether to slap your face before or after resigning my commission. If I struck you before resigning then you would be well in your rights not to call me out to have satisfaction for my insult, as duels can only be fought between officers of equal rank, and I outrank you. On the other hand, should I resign before striking your insolent face you could call me out, for I would then be a civilian. I am minded to take the second option, because, in the subsequent duel, no matter what weapon you choose – sabre, pistol, axe, bludgeon, knife, or bayonet – I will kill you stone dead.”

His face was turkey cock red, for I was twisting his tunic collar tighter and tighter while speaking. I let go, and he gasped for breath.
He was about to shout for assistance, then saw the demon in me and shuddered. He took a deep breath.

“I must apologise, Colonel, if I have inadvertently offended you by what was intended to be light hearted banter. I was insubordinate, and I humbly beg the Colonel’s pardon.” The man was not as asinine as he appeared to be, for I would have carried out my threat.

“Very well, Major. I shall overlook your bad manners and insubordination, and not take the matter any further.” My demon gave a sigh of regret.
The major regained his composure and shuffled the papers on the desk.

“Although you have been replaced as Colonel of the Lincolnshire Militia, at your own request to go onto the Register of In- Waiting Officers on half pay, the Commander in Chief requires you to present yourself to Major General Fitzwarren, Officer Commanding the Allocation Department. His office is in room fourteen, and I will ring for someone to escort you.”
He picked up the hand bell on his desk and rang it with vigour, and great relief.
Moments later a corporal of the Second Foot Guards appeared and showed me to room fourteen.

Major General Norton Fitzwarren was a small, bald headed, foul-mouthed man. He had enlisted as a private in the army thirty years previously, and was as far in character and breeding from the likes of Major Aloysius Montmorency Darby-Smythe-Snape as the moon is from the sun.
Norton Fitzwarren had commanded a brigade, of which the 2nd/69th was a part, at the battle of Vitoria, but shortly after the battle was promoted and appointed governor of Barbados.
I knocked on the door of his office, and on ‘enter’ marched in and saluted.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Greenaway, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

He peered at me closely, and then pointed to a chair opposite his desk.

“Sit you down, Colonel.” He continued to inspect me. “Hmm, well, the Duke of York speaks highly of you, but I cannot see why he should. Half pay Militia Colonels are not usually sent to my department. They return to their counties and go back to breeding pigs, or whatever they do in the country.”

“I was first commissioned into the Sixty Ninth Foot, General, and hold a regular army commission.”

His whole demeanour changed at that information.
“Were you, begad? Did you serve in the Iberian Peninsula?”

“Yes sir, and at Vitoria my regiment was under your orders when you commanded the Third brigade of the Eighth division.”

He got from his chair, came around the desk and shook my hand.
“Any man who fought by my side is a comrade and a friend – especially when we were the victors.” He smiled and rubbed his chin. “It is generally agreed the actions of the Eighth division led to our success at Vitoria. Burroughs, the divisional commander, acting on my suggestions I might add, initiated the turning movement that began the French retreat.”
He went back to his chair, and then picked up a flask from his desk. “This is ‘grog’, watered rum as served to seamen in the Royal Navy. I spent several years afloat with the Forty-First, and got a taste for the stuff. Shall you try a glass?”