T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

Morton waved down a servant and called for bread and a rasher of bacon. They had some pork pie, too, so he took that, a cherry tart, and a mug of cider to wash it all down.

When the servant left, Presley leaned forward and said, “The young count had Henshawe dismissed earlier this day-the stableman I talked to.”

Morton tried to fight off weariness. This day? Could this really still be the same day that had begun with himself and Presley on the river? He considered closing his eyes and having a brief sleep while he awaited his meal.

But instead he asked Presley, “Henshawe knew about the old count's death?”

“Oh, aye. Seems just after the news came, the young count had Rolles make him walk the carpet, then sent him on his way.”

“Curious. It would not be many men's first reaction to hearing of the death of their father.”

“Aye, well, Henshawe says if he hadn't talked to me, he might have been all right.”

“I thought the two of you met somewhere out of sight.”

“So we did, but not out of sight enough, seems. That Henshawe's a bit of a clever cove. He's not a man I much take to, but I will say for him, he's sharper than a saw. Serving in the d'Auvraye house, he's managed to gather up enough threads and scraps of their parleevous to patch it a bit. But they never knew it. So when Rolles gives him his wages, just as he's turning away, he mutters to himself, in their lingo, ‘Tell that to the English. ’ ” Presley drained his mug of beer. “That's what Henshawe took from it, anyway.”

Morton frowned. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“The day the old count went up to Barnes, he and his son had a row. 'Twas heard all over the house.”

Morton's tired brain tried to keep it straight. This must have happened the day he and Presley paid their first visit to Spanish Place. “What was their dispute?”

Presley gave a grunt of laughter. “Appears Hen-shawe's French is not so fine as all that. He couldn't say. Apparently 'tweren't so strange for them to quarrel, although never so badly as this, from the sound of it. He thinks maybe they were arguing about his mistress.”

Morton's food began to arrive, and he ate and drank as he listened.

“What I don't understand,” Presley went on, “is why the son would care. Henshawe told me all these Frenchy swells is like that, having their madge on the side, it being their privilege, as they think. Well, English lords, too, for that matter.”

Morton grimaced slightly. This last was hardly a proposition he was in a position to dispute. Of course, his young colleague knew nothing of Morton's own parentage or of his current domestic arrangements.

The bacon dealt with, Morton tucked hungrily into his pork pie. A tall naval officer entered the smoky room, and Morton realised it was Westcott. The man walked past the table of midshipmen, who all stood to acknowledge a superior officer. After that, their drunken banter fell quiet.

“Ah, Morton, there you are,” Westcott said.

“Do you know Mr. Presley?”

The navy man shook hands with Presley and sat down, calling for a glass of wine. He regarded Morton for a moment, his manner rather grim.

“I must tell you, d'Auvraye's murder has caused something of a row in the halls of government. Have you learned anything more of it?”

Morton took a pull of his cider and shook his head. “The count's son and his secretary were not terribly helpful, other than to say it was the Bonapartists, of whom they have already given me a list. The finer points of law seem to elude them. Even if we could find these men, we would still have to have some proof that they committed the crimes. Being on a list is not a crime in this country.”

Westcott rubbed an eye delicately, as though he were as tired as Morton.

“What do you know of Jean-Baptiste Lafond?” Morton asked the seaman.

Westcott stopped rubbing his eye and made an empty gesture with his hands. “Lafond is a tool of the Count d'Artois, the brother of King Louis. They worked secretly against Bonaparte all these long years and had a formidable league in France. Lafond himself is a bit of a mystery. Not many have met him. He was in England briefly years ago but has not been seen in some time.”

“I spoke with him this afternoon.”

Westcott sat back in his chair, a smile of admiration appearing as he regarded Morton. “Well, I don't know why I'm telling you anything. Lafond is here, in London?”

Morton continued to eat, too hungry to worry about manners. “Yes, and I'm wondering why. The only possible answer I can find is that Bonaparte is in England. Do you think that Bonaparte could be shot from a small boat as he takes his daily turn on the deck of His Majesty's ship Bellerophon ?”

This brought Westcott up short. He took a sip of his wine, considering.

“Well, I suppose it is possible-these rifled barrels are much more accurate. But even if someone did manage it, he would never get away. The press about the ship is great, and small boats are locked in. There would be no escape. And the assassin would have to be quick, or someone nearby would stop him before he took aim.”

“But if someone did not care what happened to him? If he did not care that he was caught or killed or hung, then it could be done?”

“Possibly, yes. Do you know of such a plot?”

“No, but Lafond is not in England to take the waters. D'Auvraye, a prominent royalist, is murdered, as is his mistress. Jean Boulot, a French national once known to have been an admirer of Bonaparte, seems to have had something to do with at least one of these murders if not both. I can think of no other explanation than the royalists are plotting to kill Bonaparte, and the Corsican's supporters are trying to stop them. You should alert the Admiralty to this.”

“You know, Morton, the royalists are something of a speciality of mine. I've worked with them in many capacities for much of my time in the service. They have been our allies throughout the war. Are you now suggesting that they've become our enemies?”

“Mr. Morton, sir?”

Morton looked up to find one of the boys who cleared the tables and swept the floors standing respectfully at his elbow.

“A wee squib of a boy in a ruined topper is asking for you at the door. He won't tell me his name.”

Morton lifted his mug and indelicately gulped down some cider, then rose. “Excuse me a moment.”

Outside the door he looked around in the dim street.

“Mr. Morton?” came a small voice.

“Wil?”

The child emerged from a shadow, somehow not his brazen self. And where were his gaggle of followers?

Morton crouched down. “What brings you here at such an hour?”

“A man at Bow Street said you might be here.”

The boy came a little closer, and in the light from the Golden Apple, Morton saw the shadowy pool of bruise around his eye, and his lip was swollen and split.

“What's happened to you, lad?”

“Some of the flash men found out I'd been taking dust from a horney,” he said quietly, his manner subdued, “and this bandy dubber and a lumper give me a drubbing. I told them it was just the Frenchies I was peaching on, but they was half-seas-over and didn't listen. You mightn't come around Maiden Lane looking for me, Mr. Morton. I'll come to you, if you don't mind, sir.”

“Step into the light, Wil. Let me look at you. Can you see out of that eye?”

“Well enough, sir. Well enough to know those two bastards who did me over. I shan't be a minikin all me life. They should have thought of that.”

Poor child, Morton thought. He would always be small, like so many children of poverty in this city.

Unsure of what to do, Morton reached into a pocket and took out some silver, feeling low and mean as he did so. The boy closed his fingers around the coins, which shone dully in the poor light.