T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

The count raised his eyes again. “It was not kind of me, monsieur. It was not just. I acted in anger. In fact, I commanded that she be dismissed upon the very hour, but Monsieur Rolles, who has the truest instincts of a Christian gentleman, took it upon himself to offer her the shelter of that house for another night, so that she might properly arrange for her departure. When my choler had passed, I respected this decision.”

“I salute Monsieur Rolles's humanity-”

“Monsieur Morton,” Rolles interrupted, “I can assure you that the count has not been to the house of Madame Desmarches in several days. He has not seen her at all.” He glanced at the count, as though wondering if he were overstepping himself. “Only I have been to see Madame Desmarches, and that is why immediately I suggested self-murder… because I saw Madame when she received the count's decree.” Again a glance at the count as though in apology. “She was disconsolate.”

“I see. And you, Monsieur Rolles? Where were you, the night of the twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth of July, this two nights past?”

The man looked more than surprised that Morton would even consider asking him. “Why, I was here, in my chamber, preparing monsieur le comte 's correspondence.”

“And who can confirm this?”

The man looked utterly confused. “I-I don't know. I shall have to ask the servants. I was alone, as I often am.”

Morton turned to the count, but Rolles answered for his master, as though having to account for his presence were too great an indignity.

“ Monsieur le comte was with your sovereign, monsieur, attending the fete at Carleton House, upon the express invitation of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent. Men of the highest standing will be able to vouch for his presence there. At some hour near upon midnight he returned here and retired.”

Morton looked to the count.

“That is correct,” d'Auvraye said softly.

Well, Morton thought, John Townsend knew the Prince Regent personally. The old Runner would be able to verify the count's claim.

“Who would have wished to harm Madame Desmarches, Count d'Auvraye?”

The count shook his head, his gaze rising to the ceiling for a few seconds. “I cannot say, monsieur. She-she was a woman of great beauty and charm.” The man put a hand to his brow, hiding his eyes a moment.

Long ago John Townsend had impressed upon Morton that it was not his duty to be respectful and considerate in such situations. It was his duty to find out the truth.

“Why did you cast her off, sir?”

It took d'Auvraye a long moment to answer, but finally he looked up. “She betrayed me, monsieur. She betrayed me.”

Morton was about to ask with whom, but the count spoke again, his tone flat and filled with sadness.

“I have answered your questions, Monsieur Morton. Now perhaps you can answer one of mine. You say you believe she was murdered. How do you know this?”

In such situations Morton liked to direct the course of the interview, but he intended to tell the count this, any-way-perhaps now was the right time. “The pit where she was found, monsieur le comte , was small and shallow. The height she would have fallen from was not great-likely not great enough to inflict the injuries that killed her-and there was very little blood where she was found. The surgeon who examined her remains was certain there should have been more. But these are not the only reasons I doubt she fell or self-murdered.” Morton paused a second. “You see, upon Madame's person were the unmistakable signs of a most infernal in strument.” Morton glanced again at Rolles, then back to the count. “She had been tortured with a thumbscrew, Comte d'Auvraye. Tortured and then murdered.”

The count gave a small, sobbing cry. His powdered wig fell to the floor, a little storm of snow spreading over the red carpet. D'Auvraye spun and pushed awkwardly through a small door before Morton could even begin to protest.

The Runner was immediately on his feet, but Rolles interposed his small person between Morton and the door.

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

Morton looked down at the small man, who appeared more than a little frightened.

“I have more questions to ask.”

“Tonight monsieur le comte will go to his house at Barnes Terrace. You may find him there, or in three days when he returns. For the moment he needs…to consider all that you have revealed.”

“Then I shall ask questions of you.”

The secretary looked around quickly as though seeking his own method of escape. “I-I shall try to answer them.”

“Indeed you will.” Morton returned to his seat and gestured for the secretary to do the same.

“Tell me, Monsieur Rolles, who would have done such a thing? Was Madame Desmarches in the count's confidence enough that someone would torture her to gain information?”

Rolles looked utterly miserable and kept glancing toward the small door through which his master had retreated. “It is possible, monsieur. Upon the pillow much is said…. Le comte d'Auvraye is an intimate of the King of France. He is acting as the French ambassador to the Court of St. James's until they send another, allowing monsieur le comte to return, finally, to the country he loves.”

“But you have not told me who might have performed this terrible act. Torture , Monsieur Rolles. Who would do this, and to learn what?”

“To learn what, I cannot say, but amp;” Rolles leaned closer. “The Bonapartists, monsieur. Who else hates us so? Poor Madame Desmarches. I'm sure she could tell them little, and yet she paid with her life.” He crossed himself.

“But Bonaparte is a prisoner of my government. He will spend the rest of his life in some kind of confinement. Bonaparte's day is done, Monsieur Rolles. Finis. ”

Rolles shook his head, his dark eyes staring earnestly into Morton's. “Bonaparte is a phoenix, Monsieur Morton. He can rise from the ashes. You English do not understand this. There is no safe place to confine him. No place distant enough. He is a phoenix. You will see.”

There must be twenty of them here,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant, gazing down at the paper on his table. It was a list of the names Rolles had given to Morton.

“Twenty-two,” said Morton.

“And he would say no more? He gave no specific reason for suspecting these people?”

“They are partisans of Bonaparte. Or were. At least that was his claim.”

The Chief Magistrate scowled. “He gives every impression of a man trying to protect his master by diverting suspicion to others.”

Morton, standing, gave a shrug of agreement. It was certainly possible. Young Jimmy Presley and the eminent John Townsend nodded from their position in the back of the room.

“Well, I did look into this matter, as Mr. Morton asked,” Townsend said. “D'Auvraye was at Carleton House, just as he claimed.”

“But not for the entire night.” Morton took back his list from Sir Nathaniel's desk. “The secretary, Rolles, cannot account for his time either, except to say he was in his own chamber at Spanish Place.”

“I found one of the serving men as was English,” Presley told them, “and he says the count came in late, around midnight, just as he claimed. But he could have killed her before he came home, couldn't he? Or he could have gone out again to do it. This fellow, Henshawe, an underbutler, had something else to say, too. He was shylike, mind, and just whispered me to wait about a bit and see him round the back in the coach-house.”

The other three men listened closely now.

“Aye, well, this sounded good, didn't it?” Presley was pleased with himself. “So I waited, tried to get the coachman to blow the gab, but he didn't understand a word except his own parlee-voo. Finally Henshawe comes and says that all the servants are supposed to keep quiet about the family, as anybody might be a spy. The count has serious business to do for the French king, and even Bow Street officers might be spies, or might squeak to them as are.”