T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“So you think d'Auvraye was lobbying our government to have Bonaparte executed, and somehow the ex-emperor's supporters caught wind of it and killed him?”

Townsend made a gesture with mouth and shoulders that appeared somewhat noncommittal.

“But why would they torture Angelique if they al ready had wind of this? It doesn't make sense.”

“Particulars,” Townsend said.

Morton felt an eyebrow rise. “Particulars?”

“Aye. Whatever the count was up to, there must have been some particulars that the emperor's supporters needed to know. Or at least they believed they needed to know.”

“Or maybe they needed particulars to plan their murder of d'Auvraye,” Morton said. “I've been wondering all day if the count's murderers had a key. No one heard them knock.”

“Did this poor, misused woman have a key to the house in Barnes?”

“I don't know. Her servants said that she had sometimes gone away for short periods of time-a day or two-never telling them where. Visiting the count at Barnes Terrace seems a likely possibility. The servants there might know. I never thought to ask them. Boulot visited the count there, though. About a week ago. He would have had the lay of the place.” Morton realised that Townsend was gazing at him thoughtfully, while he was staring off into the void.

“The odd thing is that Boulot did not seem terribly keen to co-operate with the men I overheard. He finally gave them a man's name and then bade them leave him in peace.”

“Still, he knows who the men are, assisted them knowingly. Did they not say they would assassinate a man?”

“I heard the French word assassiner but little more.”

“Well, that is clear enough. They needed a boat, Boulot gave them a name, and the next morning the count is murdered by men who then escape by boat. Find Boulot. That will give you your answers.”

“Yes, it will, but at the moment all I have is a question: Where is Boulot?”

Two hours of sleep on the floorboards of a wherry was not nearly enough, and Morton felt the effects. His mind was sluggish, words slipping away just as he went to utter them. His brief discussion with Sir Nathaniel left him feeling chagrined-he had not come at all close to solving the murder of Angelique Desmarches, and now the Count d'Auvraye was dead as well. What made it worse was that he had heard the men planning the murder and had not realised it or managed to apprehend a single one of them.

Mistress and man both dead, and Morton did not know why.

Geoffrey Westcott arrived as Morton left the Magis-trate's presence. He looked red-faced, as though he had run all the way.

“Is this true?” the navy man blurted out before even uttering a greeting. “D'Auvraye is dead?”

“Yes, murdered, and if I'd been but a few minutes earlier, I might have prevented it.”

Westcott strode away a few paces, too agitated to be still. “Well, this will cause an uproar,” he said to no one in particular. He turned back to Morton. “And who do you think has done it?” he demanded, his tone a little accusatory.

“I was going to ask the same question of you.”

“Bonapartists,” Westcott said.

“That is the obvious answer,” Morton said.

“Meaning what, Mr. Morton?”

“I don't know.” Morton's exhausted brain could not find words for what was barely more than a vague uneasiness. “I suppose I distrust the obvious sometimes.”

Westcott stood looking at him for a moment, his face unreadable. “How will you proceed now?”

“I will interview the count's son and continue searching for Jean Boulot. There is also this man Berman on the quay, whom I overheard them speaking of at Paul's Court, when his friends visited Boulot. I have men out beating the riverbank looking for any man who goes by that name, and the River Police are offering their assistance.”

Westcott took a long breath and appeared to turn pale. “The King of France will be writing to the Prince Regent, Mr. Morton, and to the First Minister, lamenting the murder of his erstwhile ambassador. Louis will be demanding justice.”

“And we will deliver nothing less, Captain Westcott,” Morton said.

Westcott nodded, his face softening. “I'm sure you will. I have no doubt of it. I'm just amp;” He shifted his hat from beneath one arm to the other. “My superiors at the Admiralty will want to know how a man of d'Auvraye's importance could be assassinated here without my having wind of it.”

“And what will you tell them?” Morton wondered.

“I will tell them that it is a mystery we will quickly solve. And that the men who pursue these murderers are the finest in England. We can do no better.”

Morton offered a small bow to this compliment and went off to write a note to the coroner.

Turning from the comparatively quiet thoroughfare that was Bow Street, Henry Morton made his way into the redolent hubbub of Covent Garden, where London's busiest food market was in full cry. He himself was hungry to the point of distraction and decided to seek out some quick sustenance in one of the chop houses beyond. As he worked his way through the clamour of barking market folk and their teeming customers, a seemingly unsupported top hat emerged from the throng and appeared to hover about the Runner's waist.

“Oy! Oy!” The piping voice rose shrilly over the racket. “Remember Wil?”

“I never forget a hat,” Morton said, stopping to gaze down at the freckled, gap-toothed urchin. “And what brings young Wil to my eye today?”

“I've summat for ye!”

But it was clearly too loud, and too public, to talk here. Forsaking ceremony, the tall Runner bent and hoisted the child onto his shoulders. Skirting the barrows and bulling through the crowd, he found them some sanctuary in the stinky shadows of the portico on the north side of the Garden.

“That French cully was back sniffing around Maiden Lane!” Wil burst out, as soon as he had been set on his pins again. A couple of his confederates had somehow followed and now stood silently at his back, apparently in awe of his audacity.

“Boulot?”

“That's him. Came sniffing around his old doss house, but some 'un warned him off.”

Morton still had a man in Boulot's room. He cursed under his breath.

“No need for oaths, yer honour. We followed him, didn't we, lads?” His silent followers nodded enthusiastically.

“Followed him where?”

“To a snoozing ken!”

Morton was a little surprised to hear Boulot would go to a brothel. Not that such an establishment wouldn't make a good place to hide, but he wondered how Boulot could afford the fare.

“And where might this snoozing ken be?”

“It's by that slap-bang shop on Oxendon Street.”

“Mrs. Mott's?” Morton said, incredulous.

“Aye, that's she.”

Morton fished some coins from his pocket. “If this turns out to be true, my friend William, you shall have greater reward than this.” He dropped the coins into the boy's small hand.

Morton looked once longingly in the direction of the chop houses, ignored the growling of his stomach, and set off toward Long Acre to find a hackney-coach.

Alittle to his shame, Henry Morton had once been to Mrs. Mott's in Oxendon Street himself. It was some years past, and he had been under the influence of a certain curiosity, a dark impulse, and rather too much brandy, in about that order. And even then the thing was perhaps aided a bit by proximity, as Mrs. Mott's establishment was but a block away from Morton's own lodgings in Rupert Street. A longer journey, and he might have turned back before he'd got there, if only on consideration of expense.

Mrs. Mott's was not quite an ordinary house of entertainment. It was not aimed at any well-defined taste. In fact, it was a place whose reputation was all in its ability to surprise, in its sometimes exotic and always shifting bill of fare. It was discreet, of course, and folk could merely rent a chamber for whatever purpose they contemplated. But for the initially unattached, it was a place where one might hope to encounter… well, not the usual sorts of choices. An equally curious, darkly influenced female adventurer, of one's own or a better class, likewise experimenting? Or, if not quite so singular a thing, perhaps a stranded traveller from some foreign shore, genteel, but far from the judging eyes of her native land and needing a smallish sum to tide herself over or buy her passage home? Or at the very least, an actress and dancer languishing a little between engagements, perhaps just arrived in town and of as-yet-underappreciated talents. At any rate, whoever it was, she would be new. It was one of Mrs. Mott's principles (if such a word applied) never to allow her house to become a habitual recourse for any female visitor. A week was the utmost limit of her stay, so a man could be sure never to see the same face twice, unless it were Mrs. Mott's own. That man, though, was of course himself very welcome to come back as oft as he pleased. And pay high for the privilege.