T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

The young woman glanced at her sister, as if to say, An odd pastime for a police constable.

“My son and heir, Monsieur Eustache d'Auvraye.”

A slim, thin-faced, mustachioed young man, he looked much like his mother but had an even more impenetrable air of lofty reserve. His bow was so formal as almost to be a parody, Morton thought. But then, he was not the best judge of such things.

“My cousin, Monsieur Henri Pellerin, of La Rochelle, who is doing us the honour of an extended visit.”

A pale, rather flabby middle-aged gentleman, less well dressed, all deference.

“And finally, my private secretary, Monsieur Rolles.”

A short man, clad more in the English fashion, with a sharp face and a few long strands of hair combed over his almost completely bald pate. His bow was quick and efficient.

“Monsieur Rolles and I will receive you in my own cabinet, if you will be so good as to follow.”

He led them through another door, leaving the assembled family without further ado. As they proceeded sedately down the carpeted hallway, Morton tried to imagine the people in the room they had just left. Were they relaxing now? Dispersing to their several pursuits? Or did they merely sit down in those uncomfortablelooking chairs and grimly await the next summons of paternal authority?

Morton let the count enter his room, then turned to murmur confidentially to the secretary: “Monsieur Rolles?”

“Monsieur?”

Morton indicated Presley with a brief gesture of his head. “My… man,” he said quietly in French, “is not normally… present at my interviews. I wonder if he mightn't be entertained in the kitchen, till we are done?”

Rolles bowed and beckoned for a footman. Jimmy Presley, as he and Morton had planned, was led off to see what he might glean from the servants.

The count's private study was dark, formal, and ornamented more with statues and tapestries than with bookshelves. Rolles closed the door gently behind them, and the three men took straight-backed library chairs in a circle in the midst of the room. Morton had a chance now to study the Count d'Auvraye's face more closely. It was a fine face, with a noble brow and wellproportioned mouth, complemented by the exceedingly closely groomed white goatee. He shone, somehow, with the glow of self-conscious dignity and old prestige, like a Van Dyke portrait. But there was, even so, something slightly static and heavy about him, some absence of lively apprehension, as if all his breeding and education had been unable to prevent a certain obtuseness. Morton recalled Darley's assessment of the man-a ponderous thinker. Morton wondered if Lord Arthur was being overly kind.

Rolles spoke first.

“Monsieur, le comte d'Auvraye has condescended to see you on such short notice out of his profound respect for the king whom you serve and for the nation that has rendered our beloved France such signal services of late, at so great a cost of her best blood. However, the calls upon monsieur le comte 's attention are many and pressing just now. His time is very short. I am sure you can appreciate the need for brevity today.”

Morton smiled perfunctorily. “I shall try to oblige monsieur le comte .” This, however, was not entirely candid. Whenever Henry Morton heard that someone's time was short-and he heard it often enough in the course of his duties-he in fact tended to find himself settling more comfortably into his seat, in readiness for a prolonged stay.

Rolles bowed his head in polite gratitude, while the count, very erect in his chair, continued to gaze at them with a fixed and wordless solemnity. “In what manner can we be of assistance to you?” asked the secretary. Morton wondered if the absence of expression on the faces of the two men before him was so complete because it was studied.

“Comte d'Auvraye,” Morton began, “you are acquainted with a young woman of your own nation, Madame Angelique Desmarches.”

“You assume,” began Rolles, “an acquaintance that-”

“Thank you, Monsieur Rolles,” the count interrupted, “but I believe we may speak in all frankness. I know Madame Desmarches, yes.”

For the moment Morton kept his tone scrupulously civil.

“May I presume, then, to ask the nature of your acquaintance with her?”

This question, which might have produced bluster in an English house, seemed not outwardly to trouble the two Frenchmen.

“Madame Desmarches at one time enjoyed my protection.” The count shifted slightly as he spoke, clasping his hands upon his knee. The phrase was stiff enough, of course, but Morton heard a measure of pride in d'Auvraye's voice. Pride, and perhaps… affection? But there was something else, too, that he was not quite able to conceal as he made this admission. Something different. Undercurrents of grief, perhaps disappointment, some still-raw anger.

“You are the owner, then, of the house at number 3, the Hampstead Road?”

A slight pause. This was cutting rather closer. “I am.”

“And a frequent visitor at this dwelling?”

Now, however, Monsieur Rolles interposed, with delicacy. “Monsieur Morton, I am sure you can appreciate that one does not ask a gentleman to speak of such matters in any specific detail.”

Morton had no intention of listening for long to this sort of cant. But he was still interested in the ambiguity in the count's attitude toward his onetime mistress.

The count sat up suddenly, as though he had just wakened. “Monsieur Morton,” he said a bit breathlessly, “why are you asking about Madame Desmarches?”

“She was found dead two mornings ago, monsieur le comte .”

The man's hauteur fell away like a shroud slipping off a body. He turned to his secretary, eyes glittering with tears. He opened his mouth but could produce no sound but a rasping breath.

Rolles stood immediately and reached out to support his employer.

“Our interview is at an end,” the secretary said.

But the count held up a hand, and Morton did not move. It was a long moment before the count could collect himself, and then he turned to Morton. “How did this happen?”

“That is what I wish to learn, Count d'Auvraye. She was found dead a little distance from her home-”

“Could it have been…a suicide?” now Rolles quietly asked.

The count crossed himself. “May God forgive her.”

“It is true that she looked troubled that day-and I believe you know why. But I do not think that self-murder explains her death, messieurs. Nor do I think it was an accident.”

The count shook off his secretary and rose from his chair, unable suddenly to be still. He walked a few paces, restlessly clasping and unclasping his hands. Then he turned back to Morton, blinking quickly.

“Then what, monsieur, was the cause of Madame's death, if I may ask?”

“It seems likely that she died of a fall, but from the window of her home. Her body was then moved to a small sand pit and placed so that it appeared she had thrown herself or fallen onto some rocks.” Morton paused to let these words sink in. The count considered this information, the look of sadness on his face unchanging. Morton glanced at Rolles, who sat on the edge of his chair, eyes fixed on his employer, like a little dog who feared being left behind.

“Monsieur le comte,” Morton said, “I am informed that a man of yours visited Madame Desmarches's house on the day of her death, to evict her.” He turned to the secretary, his voice still polite, but his eye a little harder. “This, I presume, was you, Monsieur Rolles?”

Rolles dipped his head. The count turned to face Morton.

“You ordered Madame Desmarches from her house with but a single day's notice, monsieur le comte ? It is my duty to ask why.”