The Last Queen of England by Steve Robinson Page B

in.”
    “We’re no good to you if we do,” Tayte said.   “And we don’t need another escort.   They draw too much attention and I don’t want anyone else’s death on my conscience.”
    Christ , Fable thought.   I need a cigarette .
    He was about to suggest they at least meet up somewhere to share information.   He had plenty to tell them about his investigation into the death of Douglas Jones twenty years ago and he thought they must have something for him by now.   But what he heard at the other end of the line cleared all thoughts from his mind.
    “Tayte!”
    He heard gunshots.   Two, in quick succession.   The sound was unmistakable.
    “Tayte!”
    His phone clicked and fell silent.   He heard static.   Then the call went dead.
      
    Frenchman Michel Levant was reclining on a Louis XIV chaise somewhere in southwest London, sipping chocolate from a delicate golden tulip cup.   The sweetly rich drink, made in the old style of part cream, part bitter chocolate and sugar, was one of the many decadent pleasures he afforded himself.   His thin lips pursed as he swallowed the warm liquid.
    He was thinking about the American and Professor Jean Summer.   He wondered how productive their day had been; what they had discovered on their predictable visit to The National Archives and on their telling visit to the Royal Society of London.   He pondered these things at great length, but most of all he wanted to know who this American was and Michel Levant was not the kind of man who waited long for anything.
    Levant was an avid collector of French antiques from the Baroque period.   He admired the delicate craftsmanship and the opulent gilding that embodied the style.   He often thought that his appreciation came not from the furniture itself but from his adulation for the man after whom it had been named.   Louis XIV, known as the Sun King , took many mistresses and had a highly favourable opinion of himself.   He was a man who knew what he wanted and he took it.   At just five years of age, when called to his father’s bedside and asked his name, he told him that it was Louis XIV - to which his father replied, “I did not die yet, my son.”   As far as Levant was concerned, the man who had reigned as King of France for seventy-two years was to be greatly admired.   His portrait hung in every room.
    Levant sat up sharply when the expected knock came at his study door.   He swung his legs around and slipped his bare feet into a pair of blue velvet slippers that, like his silk gown, were emblazoned with the crest of his family coat of arms.
    “Un moment,” he called.
    Despite living in London much of the time he insisted that the language of his forebears be used exclusively within the walls and grounds of his far from humble abode.   As far as his staff were concerned, to speak any other language in his presence was an offence that would earn their instant dismissal.   He sauntered to the regal writing desk that dominated the room and set his chocolate cup down.
    “Entrez!”
    It was Françoise, of course.   The beautiful Françoise, whom he had taken in several years ago and so delicately broken at the tender age of just fourteen.   Françoise, his secret, whom he had named after the Sun King’s young and secret wife, Françoise d’Aubigné , Marquise de Maintenon.   She wore a flowing cornflower-blue dress with flat patent shoes and pure white ankle socks.   How tantalising he thought she looked today as every day.   She came to him and Levant slowly extended his hand, offering out the ring he always wore on his left index finger: a thick banded gold ring with black enamel detail.   It was the size of a full sovereign and bore a likeness of Louis XIV, centred within a flaming sun.
    Françoise bowed her head and kissed the ring.   “Monsieur,” she said, smiling, always smiling for him.   “Il y a quelqu’un pour vous .”
      Levant knew that she had brought someone to see him as