T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

Houde sighed and seemed to consider a moment. “No, probablement pas . Probably they are not entirely wrong. But suspicion is one thing. Who knows what the truth is?”

Morton nodded. “It is hard to unravel. I ask myself the same questions. Why would lovers of the republic, or adherents of the fallen emperor, be attacking the emigres now ? The battles are over. I am told that most of the agents, spies, and troublemakers have left England.”

“They tell you there will be no more trouble here in England? But it is not true! Not true at all. I don't know why they tell you such a thing. Perhaps they are idiots . The danger has not pass, 'Enri, and surely you, as a man who listens to le peuple , surely you know this in your 'eart. The danger 'as not pass. For Angleterre, the danger is just begin.”

Henry Morton smiled grimly. “So our streets will run in blood, as yours did?”

“I am simply telling that the war is not over. Not 'ere, and not in France, neither. It is a war that never end. That is why I retire from it, and I make war now just on the quails and the snails and the trout. And these fat 'appy English I cook for, they make war on the foxes. That is why I like this club. These English, they are stupid and proud, and they are 'appy. You see, I am finish with politics, 'Enri. But it is not finish.”

“I am not fighting a war, Marcel, just trying to keep the king's peace. The name of the man with the raspberry mark?”

“If I tell you, I do not tell you because I care one dried-up bean for the whole canaille of imbecile, parasitic royalists. I hope the ocean rise up and drown every one of them. They 'ave France again now because a great man-a great man, 'Enri!-has fallen, destroyed by 'is own destiny, because the 'eavens 'ave say, Not yet . But these royalists, they are not worthy to untie 'is shoe latchet, as one say.”

Morton took another sip of his wine and waited.

“ Non , and I do not tell you because I believe your country is correctly govern, or just, or generous to its people. It is not true, and any man with eyes in his 'ead can see this. I do not tell you because tyranny 'as been- but I think you 'ave 'eard my speeches before, 'Enri.”

Morton shrugged acquiescence. “Perhaps you tell me because I am your friend,” he suggested.

“Well, well, or because I know that you will find 'im anyway, with a mark on 'im like that, and you such a clever, puissant police. And really, I care nothing at all for this person, pas de tout . Alors . The man with that mark on his pate is name Jean Boulot. He live for many years in the City, in Maiden Lane, or somewhere nearby there, where there are some others like him. I 'ave not ever been there to see them, but this is what people say. Boulot, he is a supporter of the emperor, an ardent supporter. Or so I 'ave always heard.”

“If he is a supporter of Bonaparte, then why has he been in England for so long?”

Marcel shrugged. “I don't know. 'E say so many things when 'e drink-”

“You know him, then?”

Houde looked slightly embarrassed. “You drink French wine during the war, 'Enri?”

“You know I have.”

“Then you 'ave come close to know 'im yourselves. Boulot is an ami of the smuggler. I buy the wine and brandy from 'im for many year, but 'e became too drunk and-'ow you say?-unreliable.”

“I see. What else can you tell me about him?”

“What can I tell you? What will I, you should say.” Marcel Houde laughed, his old, more cheerful self beginning to return. “I will tell you this. 'Is friends would be very surprise to 'ear that he go about calling 'imself the gentilhomme de Malmaison . They will not be please with 'im. Unless it is part of some plan.”

“What manner of plan? What kind of capers do this Boulot and his friends get up to?”

“Ah, I do not know that. Maybe all they do is smoke their pipe and talk about les droits de l'homme and sing ‘ca Ira’ and ‘ La Marseillaise .’ Sometime people talk, that they have connections to Fouche, and Veyrat, and the rest of the secret police in Paris. Or at least, that they once did. But, 'Enri, you must not listen to this talk. It is exagere . Perhaps some of them were sent over here from Paris- years ago. Now? Impossible! They all used to be fighting against le comte d'Artois, the brother of King Louis, and against his spies, his royalist underground in France, and those idiots, the Chevaliers de la Foi and their master, Abbe Jean-Baptiste Lafond. But what does that matter now? Now they are all gone back to France. You understand who I am speaking about, 'Enri?”

In fact, Morton was getting a little lost in the names, and it was hard to keep up with his friend's volubility. He was a London police man, not an intelligence officer in the foreign service, like Westcott. So Houde was forced to explain a bit further. Fouche was chef of the French security police, and Inspector-General Veyrat was in his service. In the course of the long war they had struggled against the agents of the Bourbon spymaster Artois, who was next in line for the French crown after his gout-ridden brother Louis. Many had died, on both sides. Neither party had been less ruthless than the other, and there were crimes of every kind. But now all had changed. Fouche, who many years before had helped overthrow Robespierre, the bloody tyrant of la terreur , had only a few weeks ago performed the same manoeuvre against the defeated Napoleon. It was Fouche who had forced Bonaparte's second abdication, and Fouche who had now, yet again, changed sides and smoothed the path for the return of the Bourbons, who hated and distrusted him but could not do without him.

“What might all this have to do with the current situation in London?”

“ Rien! Rien de tout! Nothing! All the important royalists 'ave gone back to the continent. I can see no cause for old Bonapartiste spies to do anything but slip away into the woodwork, like cock-a-roaches, and 'ope they will be forgotten. If there are republicans and Bonapartistes in England now, 'Enri, it is not because they are 'ere to do espionage or to kill people. It is because they are running away from France.”

Morton frowned in perplexity.

“All the same, can you tell me the names of any of Boulot's friends, these Bonapartist folk?”

“What, 'ow much betrayal do you want in one day? For one plate of canetons ?” And now Houde's anger seemed genuine. Henry Morton backed away.

“Marcel, mon cher , I had not thought of asking you for betrayal at all. Pray, disregard the question. I am very grateful for your assistance, and I promise you, I shall use what you have told me only to catch a murderer, not to influence the course of political events.”

“Per'aps to do one is to do the other.”

“Well, I cannot judge of that. A person has been killed. My duty is simple.”

Houde relented a little. “Well, 'Enri, I hope that it remain so. Alors ,” he sighed, “if my old friends the republicans have done a murder, then I give them my curse. Remember you the words of Madame Roland, 'Enri? Madame Roland, as she stood at the foot of la guillotine ?”

Morton smiled ruefully.

“ ‘O liberty, ’ ” quoted Houde, “ ‘what crimes are committed in thy name! ’ ”

“Do you recall the words of Shakespeare?” asked Morton.

“Ah, Shakespeare! Tres bien! But which?”

“ ‘A plague on both your houses. ’ ”

Marcel Houde gravely raised his glass in approval.