Free Rebels of Babylon by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters

pleasant-minded young woman …”
    “Do you believe this creature wants to kill me?” I asked bluntly.
    He shook his head decisively, without dropping his smile. “Not in the least, cher. At least, not in this particular instance. See here, now. From what I hear of the past day’s events, you might have been killed a half-dozen times, then three more for good measure, if anybody really wanted you dead.”
    His voice grew almost serious. “If I may presume, Major Jones, I’ll put myself in your place—although I fear I wouldn’t fit in my entirety. If I were you, cher ami, I likely would be asking myself just why it is I’m sitting here, gay as can be, drinking sugar-coffee and eating macaroons, as alive as ever I was. Look at things that way, it strikes me that folks wanted to give you a right-good scaring. Nothing more. If they wanted you dead … well, opportunities were not lacking.”
    “But then …”
    “Why frighten you half to death, then leave you alive to help yourself to another one of Auntie Ottilie’s macaroons? Do help yourself, please. I should be insulted, otherwise. See here, now. You can figure out the answer yourself in another swallow or two. If your reputation is to be believed.”
    Twas Mr. Barnaby, not myself, who blurted out the solution. “Dear me,” he said, “they know who Major Jones is and why ’e’s come amongst us! And they ’ave something to ’ide, they does, something ’e’s been sent ’ere to find out. But it’s better for them to ’ave Major Jones in plain view, but made careful of ’is actions, than to ’ave another secret agent sent, or maybe ’alf a dozen, and them not knowing where to look for the next one. You might say ’e’s the devil they already know …”
    “Mr. Barnaby,” our host declared, “you have the penetrating mind of a scholar within that emaciated frame.”
    It is not the most appealing situation for a confidential agent to find himself in conditions where everyone around him knows more about his lot than he does himself.
    The only thing that saved me from a black-dog sorrow was the arrival of a tray of hot, sugared buns. I did not wish to spurn my host by refusing to eat my share. And the truth is that I was hungry, since I had not taken a bite since the forenoon.
    Still, I did not let our host’s generosity deflect me from my purpose.
    “Mr. Champlain—”
    “‘Papa,’ please. Just suits my ears better.”
    How on earth could I call such a fellow “Papa”?
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “Now, given the extent of your knowledge of local doings … I must ask what else you have heard about Miss Peabody’s murder.”
    “ Was it murder?” he asked quickly. Resurrecting his smile, he reached one hand behind himself—not without some exertion—to scratch unseen parts. “Oh, I expect so. In one form or another. Even if a plain woman—you’ll forgive me that honesty, in regard to Miss Peabody—if a plain woman were to drown herself … over an unrequited love, say … I suppose even that might be murder in a sense. With the guilt accruing to her beloved for his failure to appreciate the depth of her emotions …”
    He paused for a sip of sugar-coffee, which he drank nearly without cease.
    “Of course, the way I hear tell,” he resumed, “love of that nature was not the most evident of Miss Peabody’s emotions. Although still waters run deep, as they say. But let us assume that Miss Peabody’s final immersion wasn’t the result of an affaire d’amour of the sort that leads young ladies to threaten to drown themselves—though few actually do so, since it spoils the complexion. I still have to wonder if her tragic fate didn’t have something to do with desire, if not with love. Understand, cher, I don’t cast even the tiniest stone at Miss Peabody’s reputation.Indeed, I hear tell the young woman was virtuous with a fury. In that sense.”
    I had to wait for him to consume a hot fluff of dough crowned with a snow of