T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“Who gave them orders not to speak to Bow Street?” demanded Sir Nathaniel. “The count?”

Jimmy Presley's face went blank for a moment, but then he recovered. “Henshawe didn't say, sir. But I assumed as much, head of the house and all that. At any rate, he was bothered about it, and as a true loyal Englishman he wanted to serve his king and country.”

The venerable Townsend laughed. “How much did ye tip him, Jimmy boy? A shilling? Two?”

Presley again looked disconcerted. “Three, actually.”

“That's steep! I hope the goods were worth it!”

“Proceed, proceed,” the Chief Magistrate demanded impatiently.

“Well, Henshawe tells me, the day before Madame Desmarches died, a man comes and visits the count and his son. He's a Frenchy, seems, but not one Henshawe has ever seen before. Something of a down-at-the-heel Frenchy, with a balding pate with one of those raspberry stains just on the top of it. Not the kind of folk as the count usually entertains, not one of those perfumey aristocrats. He comes to the door claiming to be an importer of French goods. But then he stays with the count an hour or so in his cabinet, and as soon as he leaves, the count storms out in a passion and sends Monsoor Rolly to give his mistress the boot, chuck her right out of the house he gave her, without so much as a fare-thee-well! The servants never saw him in such a rage.”

The young Runner folded his arms now and gave the little group a look of satisfaction, as if he had come close to resolving the whole matter.

“The name of this man with the raspberry?”

“Nay, Henshawe didn't have it. Oh, but he did say the cove told the footman to announce the gent from”- Presley tried to get it right-“from… Mal-mace-on . Or maybe mason , or some such. But Henshawe's warranted to call for me if he sees anything more.”

There was a thoughtful pause all round.

“Should we have brought Count d'Auvraye before you?” Morton asked Sir Nathaniel Conant.

The Magistrate shook his head. “We've not enough cause. Not yet. Why, if he intended to murder her, would he first of all send his man to evict her? And you say he wouldn't have expected her still to be in the house that night.”

“I don't know when Rolles admitted to him that he had not tossed her out on the street immediately, as he'd been ordered. If not for the thumbscrews, I could imagine the count riding out to the home of Madame Desmarches that night. Men who have been betrayed have been known to act out of passion, to do things completely against their character. But why would he torture her? It seems too barbarous a revenge for the man I met, no matter how he'd been wronged. And I was fairly convinced by his reaction that he did not know of her death. He would have to be a masterful actor to have managed that.”

“I trust your judgement in such things, Mr. Morton. But if not the count, then whom?” Sir Nathaniel turned in his chair to look a moment out the window. “What do we know of this woman?” he asked, turning back to his Runners. “Was she the sort to play the count false? Where did he meet her? Had she been a whore, or a demi-rep?”

“We were told she came over here to stay loyal to the Bourbons,” said Morton. “Her husband was a soldier in Bonaparte's armies, but what happened to him is apparently unknown. It seems to me that if Desmarches had been an officer of any rank, his death or other fate would have been announced in the Bonapartist equivalent of a gazette, or found out otherwise. This suggests the man was a private soldier, even a conscript. His wife was most likely of the same class.”

“Bonapartist camp follower turned royalist mistress?

An odd progression.”

“She was a beautiful woman,” said Morton quietly.

The Chief Magistrate frowned a moment longer, then seemed to summon himself.

“Well, you will certainly have to have another talk with the Count d'Auvraye. But let us first see what else we can turn up. I have reported the business of the thumbscrew marks to the Foreign Office, and they want you to speak to someone, a Captain Westcott over at the Admiralty.”

“The navy? Why are they concerned?”

The Magistrate shrugged. “You'd think they'd have enough to worry about, with Bonaparte himself slinging a hammock in one of their ships. But I suppose they have their own people who look into this sort of thing.” He nodded at the paper Morton still held. “Give your list to him. He's asked that you wait on him at his chambers at three, and I said you would. Let us see what light he might be able to throw on the business. Mr. Townsend? Your views?”

The celebrated old Runner had out his snuffbox and did not respond at once. Those in the room, of course, were familiar with his eccentricities. They were also familiar with his unsurpassed skill in their profession and were prepared to wait.

“I'm sure you all have noticed the oddity in this business,” he remarked, then sneezed loudly. Wiping his nose and putting away his handkerchief as if nothing had happened, he went on. “Betrayal and rejection, yes. Even betrayal, rejection, and then murder. Yes, that still has a certain logic to it. The man's wounded pride festers as he reflects on the enormity of what she has done to him, and then passion erupts and he pursues her for further vengeance-just as Mr. Morton has said. Or if the woman had been subjected to torture and then murdered without ever being rejected by the count, I hardly think we would be sitting here having this discussion. We would all assume, rightly, that she had been tortured by one of his enemies, who hoped to learn some vital piece of intelligence.” He raised his silvery eyebrows waiting for anyone to gainsay this. No one did. “But she was put to the torment immediately after the count had rejected her. If she had already betrayed his secrets, for example, why did they need to torture her? Betrayal, rejection… torture … murder . How do these things sort with each other?”

They all waited for Townsend to answer his own question, but the old man grinned and slowly eased himself up from his chair. He straightened stiffly, and then to no one in particular said, “It is in this odd conjunction of matters that the mystery abides, gentlemen. It is in this peculiarity of timing. I believe we are obliged to reject any obvious suspect or conclusion. We need to look further, reflect more deeply.”

Morton called on Captain Geoffrey Westcott at the Admiralty and, after being left to ponder in the waiting room for a quarter of an hour, was greeted by an officer of perhaps thirty years. Morton's first impression was of the man's height, for the captain was the precise height of Morton himself: six feet and three inches. A longish face, a beaked nose in the style of Wellington, and a disarming smile-these impressed one next. And last, a firm handshake, and a clear eye, blue as the sea itself on a summer day. Westcott was dressed in a uniform so well tailored and spotless that any dandy would have taken the man to be one of their own, impressed into the Royal Navy.

“Henry Morton, Bow Street.”

“Geoffrey Westcott. It is a pleasure. Do you mind if we slip out of this madhouse? My club is just a few paces off, in St. James's.”

Morton had no objections. St. James's Street was home to three of London's most established clubs, White's, Brooks', and Boodle's. It was a street where one seldom saw a woman, and never a woman of qual-ity-at least not an English one. The young bucks who lounged in the club windows, quizzing glasses in hand, had long since given the street its reputation, and no delicately nurtured young lady would dare venture there for fear of her reputation. St. James's and its environs was a masculine preserve, and many a well-to-do bachelor made his home there-often to the detriment of his fortune.