Emma by Gaslight Ch 3

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 3 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

Part Three:

You Can't Go Home Again

I.

Emma Peel sat alone at a table just beside the entrance doors to the Milano restaurant. She'd requested the table deliberately - her back was to the wall, and she'd be able to see anyone who entered the restaurant before they saw her. And she'd be able to make a quick exit if she had to.

Precautions that she never thought she'd have to take again, but due to the event of this morning…

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that lined the wall on the other side of the large room, and stared at it, as if she'd never seen it before.

Unbidden, a voice rose in her mind. "You can't go home again." She'd come to Monte Carlo as Mrs. Emma Peel, and she'd more than half expected to leave it as Emma Knight, but…

Emma lifted a glass of champagne in a toast to her solitary reflection. "No…you can't go home again."

It was 8 pm., and she was dining alone. She'd come to Monte Carlo alone, and she intended to stay alone, now and for the next six months, if not longer.

It was a new experience. She'd never been on her own before.

First there had been her parents, always there when she needed them while she was growing up. Then they had died in a car accident and she'd become head of Knight Industries…but within months she'd married test pilot Peter Peel. Would she have found that quick wedding to have been a mistake…if they'd been together for more than six months? Or would everything have

been so different…what sort of a person would she be now…?

She shook her head quickly. Too late to think about that now.

Six months. That's all the time they'd had together until he disappeared whilst test flying a plane over the Amazon jungle. Even then she hadn't been alone, at least not for long. Within weeks, she'd met secret agent John Steed, and spent three years in close partnership with him…saving the world…

And then Peter had returned, and like the dutiful wife that she'd wanted to be, she had returned to him, leaving Steed behind.

She had wanted things with Peter to be exactly the same as they had been…but they weren't. She'd changed too much…and she didn't want to change back. After six months of stilted co-habitation, they'd decided on a trial separation.

She needed to think things through.

She had no need to work. A millionaire, she had a steady income coming in from the business that now ran smoothly without her. But work was a joy, not a burden, and in any event one must keep active - something Peter hadn't wanted to accept. Or rather - it was which activities she chose that he'd seemed to have problems with...

So she'd decided to "get outta town," spend some time as a roving journalist, contributing articles to the many magazines that one of her subsidiary companies published, and she'd decided to start with an investigative report into the luxurious tax haven of Monte Carlo.

Only to see someone that she thought had been dead for over a year. A fellow agent, who'd supposedly died in a car crash. But unlike her prodigal husband, that man's body had been found - albeit burned to a crisp. Identification had been made via dental records. That was the thing - identification had been made. And yet she'd seen him getting into a taxi not five hours ago.

She'd reacted instinctively - jumping off the roof and running for another cab. She spared a smile at the thought of what her table companion must have thought of her.

II.

Her driver had been marvelous…she smiled at the memory of it.

"You are a James Bond girl, eh?" he'd asked, in a rapid-fire monologue of questions that left her no time to answer. "Or the Princess, in charge of the Network? A secret agent on the trail of a master criminal? Always I have dreamed of such a moment as this…trailing the desperate criminals in my little cab…what has he done…broken the bank at the Casino, perhaps?"

"No, I…"

But he'd merely pressed on with his monologue.

"We are passing through many historic districts, madame," he'd commented finally, while the tires squealed as he took a corner on two wheels. "Shall I describe them all to you?"

"Perhaps another time, Pierre," she'd told him with amusement. "Right now I want to concentrate on that cab in front of us."

"Yes, yes, never fear. I do not…. Sacre bleu!" He stomped on the brakes as a lorry cut them off. Several precious seconds went by as the lorry did, and then several more seconds as Pierre leaned out of the window and hurled abuse at its driver as it proceeded, unheeding, up the road.

Emma had peered around anxiously, to no avail. The other cab was gone.

"Do not distress yourself, madame," Pierre said airily. "You forget I know the driver of that cab. It is Phillipe Reynaud. When he returns to his space at the port - that is our…how you say… home base…. I will ask him where he take his passenger."

"Pierre. That's marvelous! Such an easy solution."

"Of course! I will ask him…and then I will tell you. How can I get in touch with you?"

"I'm at the Grand Hotel. Leave a message for me at the desk. Mrs. Emma Peel."

"I shall, Madame. I shall be the Watson to your Holmes, eh?" and he'd laughed cheerfully.

"Well, I think I'll get out here…" she peered into her purse for money, and remembered for the first time that she had not brought her tablet with her. She'd left it on the table at the Grand's roof-top café. She needed that tablet.

"On second thought," she said briskly, "I'll return with you to the hotel."

III.

She'd breathed a sigh of relief to see the same maitre-d as before, and she gave him her most charming smile.

"Messieur, I am so ashamed. This morning I left without paying for my breakfast."

"It is all right, madame," he'd said cheerfully. "M'sieu King, he paid it for you."

"Did he? How kind of him."

"Oh, Mr. King, he is a gentleman. You must have heard of him. He is the creator of Mark Caine."

Emma shrugged her shoulders. She didn't read much non-fiction.

"He is better than James Bond," the maitre-d said enthusiastically. "The bookstore in the lobby carries all his books - in French translations of course. You should look at them."

"Yes, I will. Now, tell me….did he by any chance turn in a tablet that I'd left on the table."

"No, madame, he did not."

"Ah, well. Anyway, I can't let him pay my debts for me. If you'll give me the bill…"

The maitre-d searched through his tickets, and took out one. He glanced at the bottom line before handing it to her. "Not very much, for a coffee and a brioche."

Emma scanned the bill, and saw the writing across it.

Jason King, Room 382.

She handed over the money.

"Merci, madame. I shall remove this from M'sieu King's account."

Emma had left the roof-top café and went immediately to room #382. She knocked briskly. No reply.

Well, she'd stop by later.

Emma returned to the harbor, and sought out the MonteCarlo Sailing Club, where she proceeded to rent a sail-boat. She didn't feel like setting up appointments to talk to bankers today...that could wait until tomorrow. She felt like tasting the freedom of the seas. And indeed, she spent the rest of the day sailing close to the coast of the French Riviera…enjoying the sun and the wind and the intricacies of coaxing more knots of speed out of the little boat.

She returned to shore and, her appetite burgeoning, went immediately to the Milano for dinner, as it was a restaurant that catered to the yachting crowd, and it was not necessary to dress formally to dine there.

Finally, she walked back to her hotel, and stopped on the corner to pick up a newspaper. She paused to read the headlines.

Cab driver drives into harbor, drowns

Oh, no...

Emma read the article quickly, standing there at the street corner, fingers crumpling the pages with the force of her grip - then she looked up and stared blindly at the taxis still waiting at their stands for possible customers.

His death was her fault. She should have seen how eager he was, how convinced that he was playing some kind of game. He must have done more than ask the other cab driver a simple question...he must have tried to snoop. And been killed for his pains.

This was what came of letting amateurs get involved in serious business. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She'd discover what was going on, without involving anyone else. And poor Pierre Jouvert would be avenged.