T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“It would greatly surprise me, monsieur, if the ladies of this house were any better informed upon these matters than I. In le comte d'Auvraye's conception of his role as head of this family, it was his privilege, and no doubt also his duty, to keep strictly to himself all such concerns, as well as the decisions related to them. In any case, I am sure you will appreciate that for the moment the ladies are deeply distressed and indisposed to converse with strangers. At the present time the effort would be insupportable for them.”

“Ah yes, monsieur, this is quite to be understood. Of course.” But now, as he and Morton seemed poised to go, Townsend asked in a considerate tone, “Will monsieur le comte be returning soon to France?” The young count blinked at him a moment. For some reason, of all the questions they had posed, this seemed the one he was least prepared for.

“I-I-do not know, monsieur. I have not thought so far. Perhaps I shall. Yes, perhaps. But I believe I would prefer to remain in your country, at least until vengeance is exacted for le comte d'Auvraye's murder.”

“In England, monsieur le comte ,” muttered Morton, “we would rather speak of justice.”

Instead of taking umbrage, Eustache d'Auvraye looked straight at Henry Morton, and the polite smile he had been maintaining faded. There was a kind of appeal in the slightly melancholy expression that remained, and as their eyes met, Morton felt an odd moment of connection, of unexpected sympathy.

“I humbly beg Monsieur's pardon,” d'Auvraye corrected himself. “He is entirely in the right. Even on such a day as this, it is of la justice we should speak. This was, in fact, one of le comte d'Auvraye's most cherished notions. Let justice be done, though heaven should fall .”

Outside the house on Spanish Place, Morton looked over at the worn and lined face of his fellow Runner. “What is it they are not telling us, I wonder.”

“A great deal, I think,” Townsend answered, and reached for his pipe. As they walked, he filled the bowl, tamping the tobacco down expertly. “But why they are keeping things from us might be more interesting than the information they will not divulge.”

“If it is relevant to the count's murder, you would think they would be more forthcoming.”

Townsend lit his pipe and drew deeply of the scented smoke. Three carefully formed rings appeared before him. “In my experience families hide certain kinds of truths. A family such as the d'Auvrayes might have even more reasons to keep things back. They have great pride, Mr. Morton, a terrible failing. What if the old count had flirted with the republican cause or had tried to return to France during Bonaparte's reign? Some did, you know. But given present circumstances such knowledge would best be kept to themselves. Perhaps Jean Boulot had wind of this and was blackmailing them.”

“Well, I had not considered that. Though it has occurred to me just now that Boulot was very likely one of Bonaparte's spies. The cook Marcel Houde told me Boulot was a well-known supporter of Bonaparte, yet Boulot claimed to be exiled here even though his hero was in power. Does that not seem odd?”

“Indeed, though if I were a spy for Bonaparte, I should not come to England and go about calling myself an admirer of the Corsican. It seems a sure way to draw attention to oneself.”

“I suppose.”

Morton and Townsend walked down the comparatively quiet street.

“What will you do now?” the old man asked.

“Why, I will go back to my friend the chef de cuisine .”

Townsend turned his charming smile on Morton and, from the centre of a cloud of smoke, said, “Well, ask him who murdered the count and his mistress so that we can stop chasing our tails through the streets of London.”

Boodle's in St. James's Street was thus Morton's next destination, hurrying, as the evening wore quickly on. He felt at a loss for motives in this sea of French names and faces. Their politics and sense of honour and pride were all foreign to him. So he returned, looking for Marcel Houde.

As he entered the door, he narrowly escaped a collision with a bowl of soup, carried by a rushing servitor who shouted an insult at him over his shoulder as he careened onward.

“You ask me where Houde is?” shouted a harried young manager over the busy confusion of the kitchen at late supper hour. “No! I ask you ! Where in God's name is he? We've not seen him all day! Do you think we can keep this up?” he demanded, indicating the crowded room with a sweep of his arm. “Do you think we can produce that menu by ourselves?”

“He's gone?” Morton said, utterly surprised. “Have you tried his lodgings?”

“Do you think I'm a stark, staring idiot? Of course I've tried his bloody lodgings. But look now, what a bit 'o luck. Here's bloody Bow Street. Why don't you find him, before every man jack in this room loses his place and is thrown out onto the street!”

And it was certainly true that, even to Morton's unpractised eye, the kitchen looked dangerously illregulated, almost chaotic. People were running, whereas in Marcel's presence they seemed only ever to walk. In one corner an underchef was berating one of his assistants in a voice that seemed dangerously near hysteria, shouting over and over, “Non! Non! Non!” Indeed, there was something wrong in the aromas in the air, too-the odour of burning, not just cooking food.

The Runner retreated out onto the street and wondered a moment. Houde was responsible in the extreme- to desert his post would be so out of character that Morton would have bet considerable sums against it.

“Marcel, my friend,” he whispered, “what is it you do?”

Morton made his way back to the Magistrate's Court at number 4 Bow Street, where he found two notes. First, from Arabella:

Dear Henry: Here is some news that I think will cheer you. Madame De le C?ur and her daughter are unquestionably great admirers of that short

man I saw in Plymouth Harbour but a few days ago. Do you think they could have been using their access to the wives of both the

royalists and London's powerful to gather information for the Corsican? And did you not say that this Frenchman (Bol-something) was

smuggling French goods, such as French lace and fabrics, things the De le C?urs possess in quantity? You are invited to Portman House after the

theatre, where I expect to be suitably rewarded for my efforts.

Love, Arabella

Morton sat down heavily upon a bench. His head swam from lack of food and rest. Were the dressmakers spying for the French-or more specifically, for Bonaparte? Had they learned something from Madame Desmarches that had led to her torture and death?

The second note was brief: Westcott asking if Morton could meet him at White's that evening. His belly empty and mood sour, Morton scribbled a note and had it delivered to White's saying that he would be at the Golden Apple in the Strand. There he hoped to fill the void in his stomach and find some fellow Bow Street men with whom to commiserate.

As it turned out, Presley was happily ensconced at a corner table, nursing a mug and watching a gang of bitter midshipmen-all without futures in the navy now- get foully drunk.

“Morton!” the young Runner said, his great ham of a face lighting with a smile, a smile that quickly disappeared. “What's happened?”

“I have not eaten since we broke our fast this morning, and I am as confused as I have ever been in my days at Bow Street.”

Presley looked sympathetic. “Well, I was hoping you might explain all these doings to me.”