T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“Who told you this?”

“It is my job to know these things.”

“The Comte d'Auvraye was a royalist. I am a royalist. We had common cause.”

To Morton as well, the royalists would seem to have common cause, but both Westcott and Houde had said they fought amongst themselves, sometimes violently. “But you are an ally of the Count d'Artois, whose brother, Louis, ascended the throne. Louis's faction won.”

“God will set the right man upon the throne of France. You need not fear.”

“So you are not such an ally of the Count d'Auvraye after all.”

“Nor am I enough of an enemy to have him killed.”

Morton tapped his baton in the palm of his hand.

“Why did Boulot visit you?”

“Jean Boulot has been a traitor to his God and to his king,” Lafond replied tonelessly. “But it came to my attention that he was wishing to repent his sinful folly and make amends. Had he done so-made proper penance and bent his will to divine instruction-I might have been prepared to take steps toward his reinstatement as a French subject and as a Christian.”

Morton wondered how he could not have seen this before. “He came to you after the Count d'Auvraye had refused him. Why?”

“D'Auvraye was utterly without influence in court.”

“Or in heaven, no doubt, unlike yourself.”

“Why are you here, sir? Is someone attempting to attribute these murders to me?”

“Or to your faction, les Chevaliers.”

Lafond swore, shaking his head in disgust. “Let me be very plain with you, Mr. Morton. The brotherhood you have just named is a friend to your government. We have done much to assist your government during the recent wars. Our activities have always been confined to France-”

“Then what are you doing in England, Father?” Morton's eyes glanced toward the now-deserted bed. “Sight-seeing?”

The man stared at him defiantly. “Yes, that is what I do.”

“I think you are in England because Bonaparte is here. What else could draw you away from France at this critical time?”

The priest removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses on his shirttail. “It is our hope that your government will not fail us in the matter of the Corsican.”

Yet another Frenchman hoping to influence British policy. But would he kill d'Auvraye over this? Only if the count had been recommending leniency in Bona-parte's case, and Morton could hardly imagine that was true.

“Why did you ask ‘upon which ship will you sail’? Is Jean Boulot about to embark for France?”

“What Monsieur Boulot does is of no concern to me.”

“Did you know the late Madame Desmarches and the count?”

“A whore and a fool, Mr. Morton. Why would I associate with such people?”

“You are in a brothel, Father, in case you did not know.”

“Beware whom you judge, monsieur,” said the priest evenly. “My master and my purposes are greater than you comprehend.”

“You serve them in curious ways,” observed Morton. “Do you know a man named Gilles Niceron?”

Father Lafond, still sitting in his chair, bent his head in thought again for a moment. “This name…is familiar. But it is… from some time past. He was amongst the enemies of God and our king.”

“If the Chevaliers de la Foi did not murder the Count d'Auvraye or Madame Desmarches, who might have done such things?”

“I don't know. Finding them is your duty, not mine. I suggest you do it.”

Morton eyed Lafond for a moment. And then on an angry impulse, he asked, “Do you hurt women in the service of your king, Father Lafond, or only for your own private purposes?”

Lafond for a moment said nothing and seemed almost to drop into a reverie. “I do not feel a need to answer any further questions.”

“Perhaps you don't. But Angelique Desmarches was tortured before she was murdered, Father Lafond, and that makes you, a man with your vices, a suspect in her murder. In a court of law you will answer all my questions, and no English judge will care that you are a priest. They will grant you no earthly immunity. Good day, monsieur.”

You could almost feel it at a distance,” Arabella said. “The power of the man was-well, it made my head swim a little, though I hope you won't repeat that,” she said to Amelie De le C?ur. The two women were drinking tea in the boudoir of Arabella's town house on Theobald's Road. Swatches of fabric lay all about them, as though they took their leisure upon a rainbow.

“That is what others have said,” Amelie agreed. “That he has a magnetism, a greatness that cannot be denied.”

“Everyone felt it, in all the boats. We even raised a cheer, spontaneously.”

Amelie clasped her hands together in rapture. “Ah, madame!”

“Oh, I'm glad to find another who feels as I do,” Arabella said confidentially. “What the English government is doing to him amp;” She shook her head. “I don't mind telling you that whenever I find myself in the company of anyone of influence, and of course they all come to the theatre, I tell them that justice is paramount. We must not cast our own laws aside. If the emperor cannot be brought before an English court, then he is innocent and must be released. I suppose I've had no influence at all, but I cannot help but speak out.”

Amelie nodded, eyes aglitter. She glanced reverently over at the picture of Napoleon that Arabella had purchased and hung on her wall that very morning. The sunlight streamed in the tall windows and washed over the room, illuminating the image of the now-fallen hero. It was a copy of the celebrated portrait of Bonaparte on the battlefield of Eylau by Baron Gros, and showed the emperor on horseback, gesturing as a follower kissed his boot and dying soldiers lay all about, some of them raising faltering hands toward him, like Lazarus reaching out to Jesus. Actually, it was a wretched daub, even from the point of view of technique, but Arabella was trusting that young Amelie wouldn't know the difference. Or care.

“I wish I had been with you!” said the dressmaker's daughter. “My mama made gowns for Josephine. Did you know?”

“I did not. Did she ever meet…?”

Amelie leaned a little closer. “Once, yes. The emperor came into Josephine's salon at Malmaison-well, he was not yet the emperor-and they spoke for a time with my mama present. He nodded to her as he left. She was amp;” There did not seem to be a word in either French or English that could describe what she was, but the near rapture upon the young woman's face was enough. Finally Amelie gave up the search and shrugged. “She has never forgotten.”

“I would imagine not!” Arabella said. “Would you not do anything to free him now?”

“Anything,” the younger woman agreed.

Arabella reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Does it not offend you to see these royalist women, these arrogant, empty-headed cows, traipsing back to France as though they have conquered? As though the natural order has been restored!”

“It is very difficult, yes, but…”

Arabella said nothing, only raising her eyebrows and nodding a little in encouragement.

Amelie's gaze fell away. “But look at the hour! I must be off.” The young woman rose to her feet.

“When you find a fellow spirit amp;” Arabella offered as she stood, but Amelie only smiled. In a few moments she and her servant had bustled out the door.

“Well,” Arabella said to the empty room. The dress-maker's daughter had slipped out before Arabella could ask her question-not that she really felt she needed to now. It was all perfectly obvious to her. She crossed to the small desk and began writing a note to Henry Morton.

Christabel came in to clear away the tea service.