T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“Morton,” Darley said, rising from a chair and setting aside a newspaper. “What an unlooked-for pleasure. I am having a late tea-would you join me?”

“I would, and gladly, though I must say that I am on police business and have come only to beg a little information.”

“Begging shall not be necessary.” He gestured to the servant. “Mr. Morton will sit down to tea.”

They were immediately alone, seated by a large window that looked out over the green park in the centre of Portman Square.

“I was wondering if you had seen this,” Darley said. He held up his folded newspaper.

“What is it?”

“The Times , of a few days past.” Darley opened the paper. “A letter addressed to the Prince Regent from Bonaparte himself. ‘Your Royal Highness; A victim of the factions which distract my country, ’ et cetera, et cetera, ‘I come, like Themistocles-’ ”

“Ah,” Morton interjected, “I like that.”

“ ‘-to throw myself upon the hospitality of the British people…to put myself under the protection of their laws, which I claim from your Royal Highness, as the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of my enemies. ’ ”

“Well, he has given us the acknowledgement we are due, and recognised us for what we are,” Morton said.

“He has recognised man's susceptibility to flattery and rhetoric. I don't think it will work here as it once did in France, but he has no army at his back now, so he must resort to other tricks.” Darley looked up from the paper and recognised something in Morton's manner. “But you have not come here to listen to fallen emperors rant.”

“I do apologise…,” Morton began, but Darley swept this aside with a wave and a smile.

“Do you know anything of your near neighbour, the Count d'Auvraye?”

“Gerrard d'Auvraye over in Spanish Place off Manchester Square? Well, I have met him a few times. He is a… favourite would be too strong a word. Let us say that d'Auvraye is a supporter, well known to the present French king. Do I dare ask why you are interested?”

“The count's mistress has been murdered.”

Darley sat back in his chair, wincing a little. Tea arrived.

“But that is not the strangest thing,” Morton continued as the servant left. “This young woman had upon her person the marks of a thumbscrew.”

Darley's cup stopped on its path to his mouth.

“My reaction was much the same,” Morton said. “ Thumbscrews! The poor woman was subjected to an unspeakable agony before she died.”

Darley's cup rattled down into its saucer, contents untested. “You can't think d'Auvraye would do such a thing?”

“I have accused no one, Lord Arthur. Nor have I yet had the chance to speak with the count.”

“Well, I know where he is-or was, earlier this day. He was at Whitehall, as I was myself.”

Morton's interest was piqued. “And what business would take him there, I wonder?”

“I'm told he is acting as the unofficial ambassador of the French court, of our good friend Louis the Gouty, whose throne has been restored to him by the Duke of Wellington's prowess on the field of battle. I don't know specifically why d'Auvraye was at Whitehall, but it was assumed to have had something to do with our dilemma over Bonaparte-though of course, it could have been anything, really. Louis has great need of our continuing support. There is still an army wandering round in the south of France, ostensibly loyal to the deposed emperor.” Darley raised his cup again, suddenly very thoughtful. “What else might I tell you?”

“Anything would help. I know nothing of d'Au-vraye.”

Darley turned and looked out the window in the direction of Spanish Place and Manchester Square. “D'Auvraye is a few years older than I, though a great deal stouter. He is of a good family, though his wife's, I think, was even better. I can't claim to know him well. He is a bit progressive for a French aristocrat: I suspect all his years living in exile in London have led to that- he's been here since the Revolution itself, some twentyfive years now. Oh, certainly he is a monarchist, but he once privately professed great admiration for our form of government and even suggested that France might benefit from such a system. He is no fool, I would say, though his manner belies this a little.” Darley paused as he considered this last remark, as though wondering himself what he meant. “He is a ponderous thinker. That is my opinion. Not quick of mind-say, like Fox- but that does not mean he will not arrive at the correct answer if given enough time. He needs to contemplate matters before committing himself.

“I will tell you one peculiar story. I had dinner with the count at his house in Barnes Terrace, really the only prolonged social contact we have had. The conversation was not contemptible, not at all. I have never been in his town house, but I'm told he has good marbles and, of course, a superior cellar.”

“There is a countess?” asked Morton.

“Oh yes, there is a countess.” Darley's tone suggested this was a fact of limited interest. There was a Lady Darley, too, if one cared to ask, although in her case her husband “retreated” to town. Lord Arthur passed on smoothly. “D'Auvraye has weaned himself of much of the pomp and conservative thinking that most of the French royalists brought to England, but this is not true of everyone in his family or in his circle. It is really quite extraordinary, the manners some of them have preserved, even after twenty-five years: the toasts, the order of precedence, the rituals.

“At any rate, there was a visitor, the evening I was there, a most eminent man by the name of Bayarde, a monarchist who fought against Bonaparte. Now, Monsieur Bayarde was a soldier and a philosopher, and he had done much for their cause, both in his actions and in his writings. But he was a commoner, you see, and a Huguenot, to boot. It wasn't clear who had invited him, but he was the only untitled person in the party. When the count's son Eustache got wind of his being there, he refused point-blank to allow him to be seated at table, and made a great fuss, quarrelling with his father and insisting that if Bayarde were seated, he could not be. ‘This is what we are fighting against! ’ he argued. ‘This dissolution of all distinctions, this levelling! ’ Can you credit that?”

“With difficulty,” admitted Morton.

“But so it was. In the end the countess supported her son, and he had his way. Monsieur Bayarde pretended not to take offence and had his dinner separately, but I do believe he left that house an embittered man. It is very much as Talleyrand said, you know, they have forgotten nothing and learned nothing .”

“But you say that the count does seem, at least in degree, an exception.”

“In some small degree, yes,” Darley agreed.

“Do you know enough of him to pass judgement on his character?”

Darley poured tea for both of them. “He is rather kindly and inoffensive. The French will replace him here with someone… who will care less if he is well liked, if you know what I mean.”

Morton looked out over the sunny park, leaves ashiver in the fresh breeze. Nursemaids watched over children at play. “Can you think of any way that his position would lead to his mistress being tortured?”

Darley rubbed a finger into the corner of his eye as though he had a stray lash. Morton had seen this before and recognised a habit that allowed the man time to collect his thoughts. “Well, I can't really think how d'Auvraye's rather nominal position would lead to such an act. One might imagine that someone could believe the poor woman had enough of the count's confidence that she would know certain things-but I can hardly imagine d'Auvraye knows anything worth torturing a person to learn. The King of France has only just crossed the Channel. It just isn't feasible that he is planning to, say, make war against… anyone. France is a shambles and will remain so for some time. It is the most damnably strange thing I have ever heard.”