T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“He just sh- shot him, without so much as a word, and th-then amp;” Her tears were even stronger now, as some greater crisis in her story seemed to have been reached. Morton leaned forward, his bowels tightening. Another young woman, another violent intruder. “And th-then, he… produced another pistol, and pointed it at me , and-” Again she had to pause, as Morton waited, his face set. “I th-think he was going to…to do something… but then Andrea, Mrs. Barkling, that is…was calling up from below the stairs… and he stopped… and he went down… and there was another shot…and I thought he had killed her… and I can't remember any more!”

“Nay, good lass, good, 'tis well done. There was no more.” Mrs. Barkling gave another reassuring squeeze with her arm before removing it, while others in the room sniffed and dabbed at their eyes in sympathy.

“Now, Miss Boynton,” said Morton, “did you know this man who came into the room?”

She shook her head.

“Are you certain that the Count d'Auvraye and he had no words, no words at all?”

“Yes-I mean no, they had none. The master and me just stared at him, so surprised we were.”

“And what did he look like?”

The attempt to recall the scene was obviously upsetting, and tears rose again. “I don't know! He were big!”

“I believe I may have seen him better, sir,” said Mrs. Barkling, and even smiled grimly. “I'll warrant I did.”

“Yes. Thank you, Miss Boynton.” Morton looked thoughtfully at her, as she dried her tears on Mrs. Barkling's proffered apron. He turned to the older woman.

“Mrs. Barkling, then, if you please. Perhaps from the start.”

“Very good, sir.” The contrast of the cook's voice and manner with that of young Gladys could hardly have been greater. Mrs. Barkling's self-possession was complete. There was even an edge of resentment in her tone as she told her story, a resentment whose source Morton could not quite discern. Was it the usual dislike of the Runners? Yes, probably, but something a bit more, as well. Something habitual, and just slightly contemptu-ous-part of the attitude with which this formidable woman faced the world.

“I had come up from the kitchen, sir, from the cellar, after finishing the count's omelette, and I was standing at the back garden door for a breath of air. Just here.” She pointed out the place, behind and around the corner from where Morton sat. “I heard Armand speaking to someone in the front hallway. He spoke in French, sir, which I don't understand. But he sounded surprised, which made me heed. His voice rose at the end, as if he were asking a question. The last word of what he was saying was monsieur , and 'twas a short sentence.”

“Was he angry? Frightened?”

“No, sir. Surprised.”

“Did the other answer?”

“Not so as I heard. Not in like manner.”

“Can you recall any of the other words Armand said, or what they sounded like?”

“I should not like to venture, were it a matter of evi dence before the bar, sir.”

“But merely as a guess, to assist us in our enquiries?”

“Very well, as such, then. I believe the other sounds may have included something like poor-kwah and zeesee .”

“Pourquoi etes-vous ici, monsieur?” ventured Henry Morton, after a moment's thought. “Did it sound like that?”

Mrs. Barkling's estimation of Morton's abilities seemed to rise. “Indeed, sir, it was very like that. And what does that mean, sir, if I may ask?”

“ ‘Why are you here, sir? ’ Please go on, ma'am.”

“Then there were two loud noises, shots, and I heard someone fall down the steps. Directly I went back downstairs and fetched my small cleaver, which lay on the cutting-board below, as I had been using it for the onions. 'Twas the first thing to come to hand, although there were better implements in the rack, I expect. While I did so, I heard a third report, from higher up in the house. As I came back up, I could hear Armand groaning in the front hall.”

“You did not stay in safety, in the kitchen?”

Mrs. Barkling's indignation rose. “Miss Boynton was upstairs, sir! I called to her as I came, telling her to hold fast and I would soon be there. As I came into the drawing room, I could hear the man coming down the stairs. I feared the worst, sir. I mean, that he'd done some harm to Gladys.” It was not fear that Morton saw in her bluntfeatured face now, but anger, the hunger for battle rising in her again as she remembered.

“Pray, continue.”

“The man and I reached the doorway from the drawing room together. We faced each other. There were no words between us, sir, as it was perfectly clear what both of us were about. He had pistols in both his hands, and he raised the one in his right hand and pointed it at my face, while at the same instant I struck at him with my cleaver. I hit his arm, here”-she patted her fore-arm-“and at the same second his pistol discharged and took off part of my ear.” Morton could see now the proof of this, dark stains on the back of her collar that were out of view before. He could see burns on that side of her cheek, too, from the closeness of the muzzle-blast. Mrs. Barkling had obviously tidied herself, washed off the black powder, and put on a fresh apron to cover most of the blood, but the angry red marks on her face remained.

“So,” she said, “then we stood a moment taking breath and looking at each other. The pistol had fallen from his grip-here it is.” Morton reached for the weapon on the little table and examined it as Mrs. Barkling continued. “For my own part, I still had my cleaver in hand, so I think he decided to try no more throws with me. He ran out the door. Then upstairs I heard the blessed sound of Miss Boynton's voice, weeping and wailing. I thought of going up to her at once, but as she was giving such hearty voice, I felt sure she was not hurt, and it seemed better to fetch the constable from around the corner first. Then, after Mr. Wainwright went running on ahead, my legs went all to jelly, and I had to rest against a railing. 'Twas pure weakness, sir, and with my Gladys wanting me, but I admit it to you. After that I came on and arrived back here just as she ran back downstairs, and you gentlemen were helping Armand.”

“How much time had elapsed, ma'am, do you think?”

“It seemed long, but mayhap 'twas not. A matter of a few minutes. But you wished to know the appearance of this man, with whom I had the set-to. Firstly, he was a stranger to me-I never laid eyes upon him before. Secondly, he was a very large man, as Miss Boynton has said, above six feet, and eighteen or nineteen stone. He wore tradesman's garb, sir, or that of a mechanic- rough breeches and an old woolen shirt, open at the neck. He had no proper beard, but he had not shaved of several days, neither. His hair was… no, sir, I cannot recollect anything of his hair. His eyes-they were black, or brown. Yes, I can aver so. Not blue. Oh, yes. His teeth were crooked, and gappy, and stained. Yes, his mouth was a fright.”

Morton waited as Mrs. Barkling considered. But she could call back nothing more, so he asked: “The other man, ma'am. Did you see him?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Are you quite sure there were two?”

“There were four shots fired in all, sir. Does that not suggest two men, each with two pistols? I think the second man had already gone out the house door when I encountered the other. The door was open.”

“Did the count say or do anything that seemed unusual or out of place to you, Mrs. Barkling?”

“Well, sir.” She considered. “He were… moody, Mr. Morton. Not his usual self, and he and Monsieur Rolles were closeted up, talking-even more than usual.”