T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“I agree entirely. Who, though, might be considered the enemies of this restored French regime?”

“Well, the governments of the continent welcome King Louis. He is not Bonaparte, and this makes him, at least for the moment, a considerable improvement. Though of course they have set him on the throne themselves, with our help. Enemies? Any crowned head has his rivals, I suppose, even if no one is sure yet that he will hold France. If I were he, I'd be watching my own family and my own supporters closely, I think. They've fought long and hard against Bonaparte all these years, the royalist opposition, but even longer and harder for position amongst themselves. Even so, I can't imagine any of them are quite so foolish as to attack their own man just yet.”

“What about Bonaparte himself? He has a few supporters still, surely.”

“More than a few-English, French, of every nation. Political radicals, old soldiers, camp followers… anyone but aristocrats. But without their great leader they are a rabble, a serpent without a head. The body might twitch and thrash about for a while, but that is all-they need Bonaparte himself. At the moment I suspect his followers are scattering, seeking places to hide or trying to ingratiate themselves with the new regime.”

“I'm sure you're right, though I notice our government is not treating the deposed emperor as a spent force quite yet.”

Darley looked reflective.

“Indeed, no. That would be folly, wouldn't it?”

Aletter awaited Morton upon his arrival at number 4 Bow Street. He broke the seal and opened it, to find only a few lines in a graceful hand.

My dear Mr. Morton: Excuse the brevity of this note, but I do hope we will have an opportunity to speak at length. An art object of some value has been stolen from my family, and I hope to engage your services for its recovery. The Viscount is traveling so this duty has fallen to me. I will be at home this day until the supper hour, if it is possible for you to call; 17 Lincoln's Inn Fields.

It was signed Miss Caroline Richardson.

Morton stared at the note in disbelief. His first reaction was anger, but this was quickly followed by an almost overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. He read the note again and almost threw it into the waste.

Caroline Richardson was his half-sister. That is to say, Morton was the offspring of Miss Richardson's father and a servant-Morton's mother. He had spoken to Miss Richardson once, when they were children-she had been but a small girl at the time, for she was at least half a dozen years younger than he was himself.

Looking around, he realised that he'd wandered into the Runners' ready room. Tucked away in the rear of the building behind the hearing room and Sir Nathaniel's chambers, this was where the Bow Street men took their ease, awaiting commissions, sharing information, and biding their time before giving witness.

“Good day, Morton,” a voice said, and Morton looked up to find Vickery, a fellow Runner, perched on one of the hard-backed chairs, with his booted feet propped up against the grate of the unlit hearth.

“Ah, Vickery,” Morton said, trying to smile, “just the gentleman I was looking for. Have you time for a bit of private work?”

The older man shook his head of grey hair, as he lowered his feet to the floor. “With difficulty. I was just about to set off to see some of my favorite peachers.” And then: “Is it private work worth doing, do you think?”

Morton had almost begun to hand the man the note but drew it back. “Perhaps not. Let me look into it a little further.”

Vickery smiled and rose, reaching for his hat from its peg. Tipping it to Morton, he walked purposefully out.

Morton stood a moment, wondering why he'd not given the job away. He took out his watch and assured himself of the time. It was but a short stroll to the house where his mother had once toiled as a servant-until she was set out on the street for the crime of being young and falling victim to the desires of the master of the house.

Outside the Magistrate's Court he was met by a pleasant, warm London day. Towering white clouds, tattered and torn, scattered across the pale summer blue. The streets streamed with traffic of every sort. At the entrance to Great Wild Street a barrel dray lay at an odd angle, half its cargo spilled onto the cobbles. Hackney-coach drivers cursed, horses struggled, and men milled about, trying to right the situation. At the turmoil's centre a Charlie ostentatiously diverted carriages and carts, making the most of his position.

The street life of Morton's native city had little appeal to him that afternoon. His attentions were drawn inward, into a confusion of resentment and desire, anger and hurt. Though he walked toward the house of his half-sister, he was not at all sure why.

In a few moments Morton entered the comparative quiet of Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was a square of large mansions surrounding a green park on three sides. The prominent architect and art collector Sir John Soane dwelt at number 13, and other notable Londoners lived their privileged lives behind other doors in the same street. At the door of number 17 Morton hesitated. “Viscount Richardson is away,” he assured himself, having no desire to meet the man who'd put his mother out in the street.

A footman answered, and Morton proffered a calling card.

“Ah yes, Mr. Morton. Miss Richardson is expecting you.”

A surprised Morton was led into a sun-drenched drawing room, the sounds of London retreating into the vague distance. It was very unlike the home of Arthur Darley, at once both more opulent and less tasteful-at least less currently tasteful, for it was done up in an older style. Morton stood by the window a moment, watching the people pass, wondering what it would have been like to have this view from childhood, this room in which to contemplate one's future.

A light footfall behind him, and Morton turned to find the little girl of memory banished by a young woman. She did not look unlike him: that was his first thought. Oh, a feminine rendering, to be sure. But she had the same dark hair and eyes-his “poet's eyes,” as Arabella called them. She was of good height for a woman, erect in her carriage, her dress hinting at a lovely feminine shape beneath. A smile, nervous and hesitant, but more disarming for all that.

She was looking at him, too, and Morton was certain he knew her thoughts-he had heard often enough from his mother that he looked like the Viscount Richardson.

“It is so very kind of you to come, Mr. Morton,” she said in a pure, refined voice. “I feared you would not.”

“I very nearly didn't.”

“And you would have had every reason to make that decision-but I'm glad you are here. I have wanted to meet you again for some time. Do you remember…?”

Morton nodded. “Yes. I got quite a smack from old Mrs. Collicott for talking to you when I was told never to.”

She shook her head. “I didn't know about that.”

“A lifetime ago,” Morton said, and smiled. “You wrote of an art object.”

“A painting, yes. A Vernet-one of his sea storms. A…a very powerful canvas, really. I-we all thought it quite sublime. It was taken from our house sometime in the last few days.”

“You don't know when, exactly?”

A slight look of embarrassment. “No, it was hanging in the viscount's study. No one had been in there since he departed, four days ago.” She met his eye and smiled charmingly. “But let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Morton. Certainly a Runner must need to rest his feet occasionally.”

Morton was as susceptible to charm as the next man, when his mood allowed it-but his mood was very low this afternoon. “Why have you called on me, Miss Richardson, if you don't mind me asking?”