T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

Morton swirled his brandy in his crystal glass. “I'm sure you have, Captain. You at least have served during the wars. It was my lot to chase criminals through the streets of London, and very few of them were even French, let alone agents of Bonaparte.”

Westcott raised a glass to Morton. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Morton. And it seems that we might be of assistance to each other as well.”

“I will tell you honestly that I would be grateful for any help,” Morton admitted. “I'm something out of my depth in this. D'Auvraye's secretary suggested that Madame Desmarches was murdered by Bonapartists. He even provided a list of names of men he thought likely. But what confuses me is that Bonaparte is in chains-figuratively, at least. What could possibly induce his supporters to torture and then murder d'Auvraye's mistress? Could d'Auvraye, in his rather nominal position, be in possession of… state secrets that others would kill to know?”

“Well, there are secrets and there are secrets, aren't there? Of the more trivial kind, he might possess many; of the genuine variety, rather fewer, I would guess. Certainly someone might think the count knows more than he actually does.”

Westcott caught the attention of a servant and asked for more brandy. He sat back in his comfortable seat; the clubs vied with one another to provide the most luxurious chairs. “I shall have to look into this. At the moment there is nothing I know of d'Auvraye's activities that would justify someone torturing his mistress in hopes of gaining information. However, there are gentlemen, even within the confines of these walls, who might tell me differently. Let me see what can be learned.” He looked over at Morton. “The count's secretary gave you a list?”

Morton retrieved the list from his waistcoat pocket and slid it across the polished table. Westcott unfolded the paper and examined it. A smile crossed his face. He laughed in spite of himself.

“I'm pleased this entertains you,” Morton said.

Westcott could not stop smiling, and Morton, though not sure of the joke, found himself smiling as well.

“Do excuse me, Mr. Morton. It appears to have taken quite a number of Frenchmen to torture and murder this poor woman. How many names are here?”

“Twenty-two.”

“She must have been formidable.” He laughed softly. “Some of the men whose names are recorded here have been dead for not a few years.” Westcott looked up at Morton over the paper. “How did the secretary arrive at this list?”

The memory of Rolles diligently writing at the small desk came back to him, and Morton found his anger beginning to simmer. “Are none of them, then, agents of Bonaparte?”

“Several of them are-or were-suspected of this, yes.” Westcott waved a hand at the list. “But look here: Pierre-Etienne Lalidreaux. We put him in front of a firing squad in Halifax in the year eleven. I'm glad to know he's still suspected in a murder that happened this week!”

Morton tried to smile. “I'm told these royalists have long memories.”

“Yes, yes, I know-‘they've forgotten nothing and have learned nothing. ’ But this is extraordinary even by that standard.”

“I have wondered if Rolles gave me this list to divert my attention from his master.”

“Perhaps so, though when you have the mistress of a prominent royalist subjected to thumbscrews, you can't help but look to the Bonapartists. Let me see,” said Westcott more seriously, and studied the list again. “There are only so many men who could do such a thing. It takes a colder heart than most would realise. You will want to have words with De la Touche, and this man Niceron. They have both been busy in England as recently as last year, and they would apply thumbscrews to an infant if they thought it would further their cause. Mind, much has changed in a year. If not them, perhaps Guillet de la Gevrilliere-he'll probably be going under the name William Roberts over here. He passes for an Englishman almost as easily as I pass for French.”

“And where would I find these gentlemen?”

“They move about, never lodging in the same place more than a few days. They are wary and rather ruthless, though they do not like to draw attention to themselves, which keeps their worst inclinations under control. I should add that at this point they are likely desperate and perhaps disillusioned. I wish I could offer you more assistance, Mr. Morton, but at the moment what we have here is merely a somewhat suspicious murder. If you gain information that indicates with some surety that it was politically motivated and not merely an act of personal revenge… well in that case, please contact me immediately and I will speak with my superiors.”

“Kind of you to give me the time you have, Captain.” Morton placed hands on the arms of his chair as though about to rise. “I realise it is not the function of the Royal Navy to solve murders for the Bow Street Magistrate.”

Westcott raised his hands, as though he'd accidentally offered offence. “I should like nothing more than to assist you in every way, Mr. Morton, but I was ordered by my superior to merely enquire into this matter just to see if it might be of interest. Personally, you may ask anything of me, and if it does not compromise my duties to the Admiralty, I shall do everything in my power to assist. I will certainly ask about to see if I can find more of d'Auvraye's activities here. You may count on that.”

“Very generous of you, Captain Westcott.”

Westcott smiled. “But of course, gentlemen say such things all the time and don't mean them. I rather go against my caste in that regard. I've always been damnably earnest.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped him.

The two men rose, Westcott motioning for Morton to precede him. On the way out they passed Morton's dissolute half-brother, still snoring in his chair, sprawled like many a drunk Morton had seen in less lofty surroundings. He could not help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight-and a sharp jab of the resentment that never quite went away.

As Morton stood on St. James's Street, where he had parted with Geoffrey Westcott, the sight of the Honorable Robert Richardson, fresh from the gaming room and insensible from drink, would not leave his mind. The young buck's demeanour had not been suggestive of a successful night at the tables.

When he was certain Westcott was out of sight, Morton went back into the club, greeting the footman who had just seen them out.

“Sir?” the man asked, for Morton had both the manner and dress of a gentleman, if not the property.

“I believe I left my snuffbox on our table.”

“I'll have someone fetch it-”

But Morton slipped by the man with a smile, trusting that Westcott's standing would grant him a brief immunity from exclusion. “No need to trouble yourself. I know right where it is.”

Morton had spent many hours talking to servants in his capacity as a Runner-not that men and women in service were more larcenous than those in other occupations, but they always knew more of the functioning of a house than the people who employed them. As such, their knowledge was invaluable. Perhaps Morton's own history made him particularly suited to dealing with the servants, but no matter how it was explained, he had a touch with them, whether it was through flattery, his apparent respect for their work, or by bribery and “persuasion.”

The servant he required was quickly found-the keeper of the gambling book.

“Do you wish to make a wager?” the man asked, eyeing Morton, who was certainly not a member, at least not one who frequented the club with regularity. He was, however, too polite to simply ask, for fear of giving offence. A nearby door swung open, and the clatter of Hazard dice echoed hollowly.