T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“Thank ye, Mr. Morton,” the boy said softly.

“Don't thank me, Wil. It was your association with me that gained you the drubbing.”

“I've had worse for less,” the boy said. “But I'm forgetting, Mr. Morton. I'm forgetting why I've come for you. I've found your Frenchy again! The cully with the raspberry pate!”

“Boulot? Where?”

“Cheapside, sir! Not so far off, not so far. At the White Bear, sir, there in Basing'all Street. He come prowling back round his old doss house-he's a friend there seems he was trying to touch for money. And I followed him again.”

“Well done!” Morton reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “You keep away from these flash men, Wil. Can't have anyone as valuable as you getting beaten. Now you be off, and keep that silver out of sight!”

Morton retreated inside to find Presley and Westcott and tell them his news. Westcott had his coach, it turned out, and he hurried off to bring it round while Morton tried to swallow a few more mouthfuls of his now-cold pie. A few moments later the officer drew up before the Golden Apple, himself up in the driver's bench, four in hand.

“What's become of your driver?”

“I've just sent him off with regrets to friends. I shan't be meeting them for supper as I'd hoped this evening.”

Morton climbed up on the bench beside him, leaving Presley to ride in state.

“Should we be rushing into this unarmed, do you think?” asked Westcott, as he snapped his whip and put the vehicle in motion. “I could swing us round to the Admiralty and fetch a cutlass or my carriage pistols.”

Morton considered. “Yes, I agree,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the clatter of hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the cobbles. “We should not go unprepared, this time. Who knows who else might be there? And if Boulot was involved in the murder of d'Auvraye, he will not likely come peaceably. But the Admiralty is too far. Take a turn by Bow Street, if you will.”

Arabella gazed at her face in the looking-glass. Makeup would be the ruin of her complexion. It dried her skin terribly, the putting it on, then washing it off. “I shall look seventy at thirty-five,” she lamented to her reflection.

A soft knock on her dressing-cabinet door interrupted her lamentation. She was annoyed, but then it occurred to her it might be Morton.

“Yes?” she sang out.

“Mrs. Malibrant, a young woman to see you.”

Arabella looked at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Some nights she was simply too exhausted at the end of a performance.

A whispering outside her door.

“Mrs. Malibrant? The young woman's name is Miss Honoria d'Auvraye, and she assures me she is here on a matter of utmost importance.”

Arabella rose immediately and swept open the door. A young woman stood there accompanied by a man who worked for the theatre. She was dressed entirely in black.

“My apologies, Mrs. Malibrant,” the woman said without trace of accent. “I am Honoria d'Auvraye. May I have a moment of your time?”

“Yes, by all means. Please come in.”

The space was small, hardly room for Arabella to apply her makeup and dress. Costumes hung on the wall or were spread over a miniature divan provided for the star to rest upon when not needed on the stage. Arabella swept up the costumes.

“Please-”

“I cannot,” the young woman said. “I am on my way to church for midnight mass. It was with great difficulty that I arranged this meeting.”

Beneath her hat and veil Arabella could see a handsome young woman, dark-eyed, full-mouthed. She was glad Henry was not here.

“Among your acquaintances you count Mr. Morton, the Bow Street Runner?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I have something for him,” she said, reaching into a small reticule, from which she withdrew a folded sheet of paper.

“I removed this letter from my father's study. It has caused a great deal of trouble. A man brought it to my father, the Count d'Auvraye, a few nights before he was killed.” She crossed herself, her eyes pressing closed for just an instant. “Please give it to Mr. Morton.”

Honoria turned to go, her black-gloved hand coming to rest on the door handle.

“But have you nothing more to say?” Arabella said. “Do you know who killed your father?”

The young woman leaned her cheek against the door for a second as she pulled it open. “I-I hope I do not know, madame,” she said.

“Mrs. M.?” came a familiar voice from beyond.

Honoria nodded to Arabella and swept out past a surprised Arthur Darley.

“Do you need a few more minutes?” Darley began, but then regarded her strangely. “Has something distressed you, my dear?”

“I don't quite know. Come in, please.” She reached out and drew the nobleman into her small chamber. “That was a daughter of the Count d'Auvraye. She left me this letter, saying Henry must have it.” Arabella unfolded the letter, holding it up to the light. She lowered herself to the chair before the mirror, and Darley sat upon the divan, where he read over her shoulder.

“It is signed by Fouche!” Darley said.

“That I can see. But who is he again?”

“The man who forced Bonaparte to abdicate and smoothed the way for the Bourbons to return. The great survivor. It was Fouche who brought down Robespierre. He has served as head of the secret police to every French government since: Republican, Bonaparte, Bourbon. It does not matter. They are all too afraid of him to do him harm. It is said of Fouche, if he were stranded alone on a desert island, he would form a conspiracy against the sand.”

Arabella puzzled over the French a moment. “I don't understand. What does it say, exactly?”

Darley took a corner of the paper, angling it a little his way. “It's a bit ambiguous, but essentially:

My dear Comte d'Auvraye: Events move very quickly now, and we must not hesitate or they will sweep beyond our control. The

government of England must not be allowed to falter or to permit their own petty notions of justice to stop

them from doing what is right. Bonaparte must be sent off to some remote station and as quickly as

possible. The longer he remains on a ship in an English harbour, the more likely it is that legal

arguments will allow him to escape true justice.

Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote

place with his suite of followers. Do not fail in this. History will judge us harshly.

Fouche

“It hardly seems momentous,” Arabella said, wondering why it was so important that this reach Morton.

“No,” Darley said, taking it from her and examining it closely, “but there is a great deal written between the lines; most importantly this last: ‘Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote place with his suite of followers. ’ ”

“They've arranged his murder,” Arabella said.

Darley looked very grave and troubled. “It is certainly the interpretation that I would choose.”

Arabella leaned closer to Darley so that their shoulders touched and their heads came gently together. She stabbed a finger at the paper. “But this was not written by Fouche,” she pronounced. “It is the hand of a woman-look.”

Darley turned the paper so that it caught the light. “It is rather elegant and feminine, I must agree.” Darley turned the letter over. “And it has no sealing wax. It is a copy.”

“A copy made by a woman amp;” Arabella said, the realisation dawning. “And not young Honoria, for she says she snatched it from her father's desk. The woman must be Angelique Desmarches. That is why Honoria wants Henry to see it. She doesn't care about what happens to Bonaparte. She wants her father's murderer found. That man Boulot brought this to d'Auvraye, I will wager you anything. Boulot came by it somehow and carried it to d'Auvraye to prove that the mistress was spying on him. And the mistress was a friend of the De le Coeurs, who are almost certainly spies for Bonaparte.”