T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“What was his name?”

“Oh, I knowed nothing of that.”

“What do you remember of him?”

Archibald thought a moment. “Oh, well, when he saluted me that one time, his voice were Frenchy-like, same as the young mistress. He's one of them Frenchies, sure.”

“Did he come the day she died?”

“Not as I saw, sir.”

“Did anyone else?”

Archibald Gedge rubbed his jaw.

“One cove did, I think. That day, unless t'were the day before. Another of those Frenchies, I should guess.”

“Who was this man? What was his name?”

“Oh, he gave me his card, and I took it up to her, I think. He stayed p'raps half an hour, is all. If it were the same day. Short, dapper cove. Ask Francoise, constable. She took them in some tay, as Mrs. Johnson were out just then.”

He knew nothing more, and Morton let him go, asking for the cook. He drew out a chair for her, before seating himself.

“How long have you been in this house, madame?” he began politely.

“A year, monsieur, a little longer. I am recommend by my employer who went back to France when Bonaparte first fell and went to Elba.”

“And you did not wish to go with your former employer?” Morton asked, curious.

“Ah, monsieur le constable , you see,” she nervously explained, “we 'ave been living here so long, many of us. We 'ave, how do you say, les connexions . Our friends, our homes. Many of us, we joost decide to stay. Me, I 'ave been in Angleterre since twenty-five year. The English milords, they treat me vary well, they like ma cuisine .” She again revealed her excruciating teeth, in the slightly apologetic smile that seemed her most natural expression.

Morton nodded. And besides, one might want to wait, just to see who really ended on top of the heap in France. Bonaparte had come back once. Who could say that he wouldn't come back again?

“Now, madame, I know you wish to protect the honour of your mistress. But it is very clear to me that she had un ami , a gentleman, who visited her. I expect also he provided this house for her. Now, were it for any other reason, I would not think of asking about such things. An affaire de coeur is no concern of mine. But Madame Desmarches did not do herself to death. Someone came here and did her harm. I must have the name of her… protector.”

“ Vous dites -you say… she was murdered? It was not some accident?” Francoise gazed at him in distress.

“It was no accident, madame. She was murdered, so young and so beautiful.”

“Ah oui, elle etait belle,” murmured the cook. “C'est tragique.”

“I am sure you knew the name of her gentleman,” said Morton flatly.

She looked up at him, brushing at a tear with the heel of her palm, and sighed. “Ah, oui -yes, I did. It was le comte d'Auvraye. He live… not too far, near Square Manchester. But, monsieur. He did love her, I think, yes, he did. I do not understand why he would have cast her off! I do not understand that, pas de tout. But non, non , he would not 'ave killed her. This I can not believe.”

“He cast her off, you say? When?”

“Oh, the very day, monsieur. That very day. A man came, from him, in the morning. None of the other servants ever knew, because she said nothing to us, but I heard her and him talking, in her parlour, behind the door. She is crying pourquoi, pourquoi , very angry. And he speaking back, low. And when I went in with the tea, he is saying that she might stay tonight, but no longer. Then she must be gone. And we domestiques , too. He asked her about us, how many of us there were, and for how long had we been paid, and such things. She was angry, furieuse , but he said it was so, and le comte d'Auvraye had decided it, and it could not be changed.”

Morton's face must have shown his surprise.

“ Alors, oui , monsieur, so it was,” she said with a shrug. “She was going to have to leave this 'ouse. And us, too. I did not want to tell the others, because… alors , because that was for her to do. I thought she would announce it the next morning. But of course… poor lady!”

“What was the name of this man?”

“I do not know, but he came from le comte .”

“Do you know why the count was dismissing her? Did she have… some other lover?”

Francoise shrugged and sighed. “Ah, monsieur. Mais you must understand, I could not know that. But I never saw 'im, if there would be.”

“And yet you think that the count could not have killed her, or had her killed?”

“ Non, non , I do not think ever he could do this!”

“But how do you know?” She wrung her hands a little in discomfort. “From time to time, because we spoke together the language, Madame say things to me, little things, things a woman says to a woman, about how he treat her, about how he love her…. She say… adore … that he… adore her.”

Morton frowned.

“Then who do you think could have killed her?”

The cook looked anguished and shrugged in eloquent helplessness.

They could not get in the door of the London home of Count Gerrard d'Auvraye. It was a white stuccoed town house in the new Nash style, just around the corner from the austere bulk of Manchester House on as eminently respectable a little street as the West End could offer. The liveried footman who answered insisted-in exquisitely accented En-glish-that the count was not home, and nor was his secretary. Morton left a calling card and instructions to inform the count that he would return in the morning at ten o'clock and would expect to speak with him regarding a matter of the most serious nature.

The Count d'Auvraye was clearly a man of some fashion-his address and his home announced this clearly-but Morton could bring the force of the law against him if required and was fully prepared to do so. He made a great effort to impress this fact upon the servant.

The two Runners retreated into the street, but Morton brought them up there.

Jimmy Presley had an ingrained distrust of the French of any stripe. “If he's guilty, as I dem well guess he is,” he said, “then he'll likely light out for France as soon as he hears that Bow Street has come calling.”

The young Runner stared back defiantly at the imposing home. A clatter of traffic passed-tradesmen's carts, delivery wagons, and elegant private carriages. The street life of London varied starkly from neighbourhood to neighbourhood but never ceased. The greatest city in the world, Morton was certain, alive with flash men and princes, foreigners and kings. And two Bow Street Runners, staring with some envy and even greater puzzlement at this grand home off Manchester Square.

“I'm not quite so ready to convict him,” Morton said, “but I think it wise that we keep this house under our eye. Can you stay until I find Farke or some other to come take your place?”

Presley nodded grimly, looking around for a spot where he might loiter inconspicuously. “I can and I will. But why would a man with so much to lose do something so foolish as murder his mistress?”

“It is a good question, Jimmy, and one worth asking. But even more important, why would such a man use thumbscrews on his mistress? Now that does make one wonder.”

Morton left Presley to his vigil and was about to set out for Bow Street when he had another thought. It was late afternoon, but there was a chance that Arthur Darley might be home, and he lived only a short walk away, barely the other side of Baker Street.

Morton was standing on the step of Portman House in a few moments and was immediately let in to speak with the amiable master of the house.