Free The Ghost of Waterloo by Robin Adair

said stubbornly. ‘Today I found, not a mile perhaps from here, an artefact that thirty years ago became the prized possession of the man who was to be Emperor of France – and the Devil of all Europe … If
it
is here … so, too, I believe, is
he
. Yes, Old Boney is back.’
    Ralph Darling attempted to calm, perhaps humour, the distressed Owens. ‘Very well, Doctor,’ he said soothingly, ‘What is it, exactly, this horrible relic of the past that so concerns you?’
    ‘Sir,’ said Owens, ‘it is a package of poison that a Dr Yvan prescribed – if that word can be applied here – for General Bonaparte as he went to war in Egypt in ’98. It was a destructive draught he desired to have with him in the event of failure or capture, even perhaps to thwart a wound that was too grievous. Some will say that the mixture was given to him before the Russian campaign of 1812. My belief, however, is that Cairo was the true setting.’
    The Governor cut in. ‘Why did he not use it, then, either in Egypt or Russia? He failed spectacularly in both areas – in Aboukir Bay he lost his entire fleet and on the winter retreat he lost his army!’
    The doctor nodded. ‘It is known that he tried to use the substance in 1814, just after he was beaten and about to go into his first exile, on Elba. And some say that he attempted self-murder again a year later, after Waterloo.’
    He took the small coloured bag from a pocket and his audience crowded in to stare and prod at it. ‘I have analysed a sample of the contents and it is a powerful poison, right enough – several, in fact, and they tally with those described all those years ago, in Dr Yvan’s papers.
    ‘And …’ he added, pointing to the tiny metallic button that decorated the pouch, ‘there is this.’
    Captain Rossi caressed it with gentle fingertips and shrugged. ‘It’s handsome for its size, perhaps it is gold – but what is it, a butterfly, or some such?’
    Owens smiled. ‘Look again, closely. And consider it very carefully.’
    They all examined the challenging curiosity.

    ‘We yield,’ said the Patterer finally.
    ‘It’s a bee!’ cried the doctor in triumph. ‘And a very special one. It is an exact representation of the industrious insect the Emperor Napoleon had sewn in gold on the robes for his coronation in 1804.’
    ‘Oh, that’s as may be,’ said Rossi, but Owens could see that the others were inclined to accept that point, at least.
    ‘Even so,’ persisted Darling, ‘How can you be sure that “your” package is his, the original? And even if it were, that someone did not take it from him on St Helena – or after his death there?’
    Owens nodded again, composed now, as if he were on more comfortable ground, confronting a disease or an injury in a patient. ‘That is a valid point, Excellency. People would be eager to take some small, squalid “souvenirs” away with them – and certainly, while he was alive, the General was generous with personal gifts to visitors.
    ‘No, I believe that the sachet only left the island with its owner, and I admit to being a very careless, unobservant medical man for not realising that until this very day. For an event that occurred the morning after his official death should have alerted me to the fact that something was terribly wrong.’
    Captain Rossi, fearing that his spent emotions may have been wasted on a wild goose chase, was becoming irritable with his friend’s strange story. ‘Now, see here, Owens, how do you know all this for certain? For that matter, how do you know anything about his death, an event the world so far has accepted?’
    The doctor smiled thinly. ‘I know,’ he said simply, ‘because I was there. I saw – or thought I saw – Napoleon Bonaparte dead, gutted and buried.’
    Only he could break the shocked silence and he did. He told them a strange story, dreamily detached, lapsing into the third person, almost as if he were talking about someone else, not himself.