T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

A Bow Street Runner, of course, was not the sort of man who would ever be proposed for membership at a Mayfair gentleman's club. But Morton had done some services for Monsieur Houde in a matter of some delicacy, involving a female relative of his who had been persecuted by a rejected English lover. An English justice of the peace, at that. And since then Morton's visits to the master-cook's domain, if only through the servants' entrance, were always welcome. Now and again he sat at Houde's plain oaken worktable and, as the clamour and steam of a great club's kitchen swirled around him, sampled some of the most astonishing delights available to the palate of man.

Morton had declined to try the seven or eight courses currently being readied, despite Marcel Houde's vociferous protests.

“Ah, 'Enri, 'Enri, where is your soul? What could be so important, compare to the embrace of a transcendental cuisine? Allez, mon cher! ”

A plate of roast duckling was being set before Morton even before he could answer.

“Very well, Marcel, very well. But you must sit with me a moment.”

“Deux secondes,” the chef promised, and went off to inspect the row of burnished copper kettles ranged along the stovetop that ran down the centre of the big room. Morton could hear his voice above the clatter and rattle of plates and implements, exhorting, shouting insults, laughing sarcastically. Other, subordinate voices were once or twice raised in protest, but resignation predominated in their tones. By the time Houde returned a few minutes later, looking pleased and wiping his reddened face with the sleeve of his open shirt, the Runner had eaten the entire duckling. He pronounced it food for the gods. As his host beamed and turned to call up something else, Morton reached to put a hand on his forearm, restraining him.

“No, no, mon ami , we really must have some words. I am pressed, and I am sure you are, too.”

“Ah, if you insist. But un petit verre. ” Houde poured them both a glass from a bottle of red wine that stood open on the cluttered tabletop.

“I thank you. And this is…?”

“ Un -let me say it as you poor English do, un ‘Burgundy, ’ from Beaune, Ropiteau Freres. Good. Not the very best of that vignoble , but good.”

And of course he was right. Morton savoured it a moment, then set the glass down.

“Perhaps you can assist me, Marcel. There have been some bloody doings amongst your lot.”

“ Comment? The chefs, they are killing each other now?”

“You know that I mean your compatriots. Les Francais . And not in France, but here in England.”

“Ah.” Marcel Houde's manner changed. Morton knew little of his past, but they had occasionally talked on serious themes, and he gathered that the chef had once been a man of passionate conviction-and perhaps of passionate deeds as well. Now he professed to be entirely apolitical and to have brushed such matters from his coat like crumbs, as so many other artists and poets and thinking men had done. All the same, it was apparent that he still favoured the French republicans, and possibly even Bonaparte, at least in his heart. And this made his knowledge, and his acquaintance amongst the expatriates, quite different from Geoffrey Westcott's.

“In fact, there has been a murder,” Morton told him.

“ Alors , this is very vile,” breathed out the chef, and sat back. “Who, a royalist? This is why you are coming to me?”

“Yes. We do not know who is responsible, but there are some men we want to have words with. I am in hopes that you can help me find them. Antoine De la Touche. Gilles Niceron. And Robert Guillet de la Gevrilliere.”

Houde blew air through his lips and shook his head.

“ Mais , 'Enri. Men like these. Maybe I 'ave 'eard of them, but you know, these are not my friends, not my camarades .”

“I'm sure they're not. But perhaps you can still assist me?”

“Well, well. Attend. I think. Guillet de la Gevrilliere, now he I 'ave not 'eard to be in England for-what? Two year, at least. In fact, nobody know what become of 'im, except it is spoken that 'e is in prison, in France.”

“The others?”

Marcel Houde sighed. “De la Touche. Bon. 'E 'as change of 'eart, conversion. This is a great scandal, for some people. 'E become religious, and 'e love King Louis now, and 'e is in France, too, gone to Provence to be acolyte in the Abbaye de Senanque. Do not smile. This is true, and I 'ave 'eard many people say it. But, now… Niceron. Oui , Gilles Niceron, 'e may be in Londres, or near-yes, I think so.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, no, not certainly. But I think 'e once was living with some farmer, some old Huguenot, out in the north of la ville , near the Stamford 'ill Turnpike. There is un petit village over there, let me think- oui , who is called Walt'amstow. Niceron, 'e live there, on the farm, and 'e work for the Huguenot, but I don't know that man's name. But you find 'im, I think, if you go there.”

“What manner of a man is he? Niceron.”

“Oh, I do not know. I 'av 'eard' he is grand , and powerful. Some people are afraid of 'im, but I do not remember why. To me, 'Enri, 'e is just a name.”

“Is he active in French matters? In politics?”

“ 'Enri! I tell you, I do not know about 'im!” Houde was exasperated.

Morton smiled. “No matter. We shall pay a visit to Citizen Niceron. There is another man, too, whose name we don't know. But he is going about saying he is from what I take to be Malmaison, and he is distinguished by a red stain in his skin, a raspberry mark, on the head.”

Now Marcel Houde did not look very happy. He leaned on his elbow and closed his eyes, rubbing his broad forehead vaguely with two fingers. “Ah, oui, oui ,” he murmured.

“I must take it that you do know him, mon ami .”

Houde opened eyes that suddenly looked weary. “You know what Malmaison is, 'Enri?”

“I was hoping you could help me there, too.”

“It is, or it was, a palace of the emperor, west of Paris.

Or plus precisement , of his stepdaughter 'Ortense. I forgive you , of course, but any Frenchman would know this.”

“So,” said Morton slowly, “this man is a Bonapartist?”

“Let me ask you this, 'Enri. Would you say that a person who loved Bonaparte, in this country, would be wise to go about introducing 'imself this way?”

“Was the name used in irony, then?”

“ Non, non, jamais. It is ridiculous, yes. Ironique , no. No, 'Enri, I know quite well this man. But listen to me a minute, before I give you 'is name and you go rushing off to arreter 'im. Because I can tell you he is an imbecile , a nothing, a crazed man who is drunk always. You know, don't you, that these royalists 'ate each other even more than they 'ate the rest of us?”

“I have heard it said.”

“ Bon . So why don't you think maybe they are killing each other ?”

“Perhaps they are. But the royalists I talked to seem to hate Napoleon as thoroughly as one could ask.”

“Well, but you are right, of course,” the chef went on. “They 'ate the emperor. They 'ate the ideals of the republique , too, and they 'ate nine-tenths of the French people. They want to go back to the days when the peasants were made to beat the marshes all night, so the aristocrats could sleep without the sound of frogs. They really did that, you know. If you ask me, they 'ate France herself, although no doubt they did not tell you that.”

“Anything but. And they don't suspect other royalists. They suspect the followers of Bonaparte. Do you really think they are wrong to do that?”