T.F. Banks: The Emperor's assassin

“Mr. Skelton is certain? Beyond doubt?”

“I believe he is, Sir Nathaniel.”

The Magistrate gave a visible little shiver. Morton's respect for his superior had grown in last month's business about the corrupt Runner George Vaughan. Sir Nathaniel's moral compass was certain.

The Public Office's most celebrated police man, John Townsend, sat to Morton's right, listening quietly.

“And you don't know who this woman might be?” the old Runner asked, his deep, smoky voice echoing in the small chamber.

“I hope that I shall know soon. Her clothing was distinctive. It is very possible that it was French.”

Sir Nathaniel stirred his bulky person uncomfortably in his chair. “Is she a citizen of France, do you think?”

“Many people have a partiality for things French, Sir Nathaniel.”

“Of course.” He splayed a large-knuckled hand across the blotter on his desk. “Why in the world would anyone apply a thumbscrew to this woman? What had she done?”

“What did she know, is the question I would ask,” John Townsend said, and then continued, with that bland and oblivious pedantry of his that to Morton always sounded faintly ironic: “The thumbscrew is a small iron implement that compresses the digit for which it is named between two hard surfaces. Why the thumb? Because it is bigger and more convenient than the other fingers. The flesh below the protective nail on any digit is far and away the most sensitive part of a human body, so this is done for only one purpose-to cause pain of such intensity that one will tell all, betray a brother or even a lover. It is a terrible device, and the men who applied it are either desperate or monstrous. I do not know which I would hope for.”

Sir Nathaniel continued to stare at his hand on the desk, then picked up a quill. “Didn't Presley fetch the body in? If you feel the need, Mr. Morton, employ young Presley. I should like some answers in this matter as soon as may be.” He nodded to the Runners, who rose and left.

In the antechamber outside, Morton touched his old friend on the shoulder before he could take his leave.

“You had more to say, I think, Mr. Townsend,” Morton ventured.

The venerable old Runner paused to think, rooting about in his frock coat for his snuff and examining his younger colleague as he did. “I will tell you this, Morton-you are beyond the realm of common crime now. Torture is imposed for reasons either of religion or of state. The Spanish Inquisition is a thing of the past. You have entered the world of politics, I would say.”

Morton nodded slowly, trying to take it in. He respected Townsend immeasurably. The little man's mannerisms were impossibly eccentric, and some of their younger colleagues snickered behind his back. But Morton knew his worth and knew just how discreetly successful this odd old dandy had been. Townsend was an intimate of the highest circles in London, a friend and servant of the Prince Regent himself, and he had been quietly putting away his ample reward monies for more than five decades. He could probably buy up Sir Nathaniel and the whole lot of them, if he so chose. When he spoke in serious tones, as he did now, Morton listened.

“The world of politics is a different and more dangerous world altogether.” Townsend paused and nodded, as if to himself. “Your common London malefactor will not give his life for a cause. No, he will preserve his life at all costs, and we Runners have come to depend on that. Knowing this tells us a great deal about what a criminal will do and what he will not. The world you enter now has different rules. Men who have been afflicted with the madness of politics might choose to take your life at the cost of their own, just to preserve their cause.” He met Morton's eye. “Be wary, sir. I know I have cautioned you before in different circumstances, but mark what I say: none of those situations were as dangerous as this.”

Morton arrived at Portman House, Lord Arthur Darley's elegant West End home, at the hour of ten o'clock in the evening. It was a house that Morton could never dream of possessing, and one that he admired more than he cared to admit. In truth, Lord Arthur was a man Morton envied, and envy, he well knew, was not the healthiest of human emotions. It was fortunate that Morton's envy was leavened by a strong liking and respect. Darley was a man of such enormous charm that Morton could hardly waste a moment resenting him. Even their peculiar understanding about the lovely and broad-minded Mrs. Arabella Malibrant did not spoil his liking of Darley.

A liveried servant let him in and took his top hat. It was a warm, humid July night, and the coolness of the house was welcome. A smiling Darley appeared before Morton had been led across the entry. He was a pleasant, greying gentleman, impeccably dressed but somehow as relaxed as a man out for a country walk with his gun and hounds.

“Morton! It is so good of you to come. Please”-he gestured toward a door-“Mrs. Malibrant awaits. She tells me that she is an acting Bow Street Runner and has all manner of news for you.”

“I said no such thing,” Arabella protested as they entered the small withdrawing room that looked out on the garden.

“Well, perhaps you can explain better than I,” Darley said.

Morton kissed Arabella's hand, took an offered glass of port, and sank into one of Darley's comfortable chairs.

Darley raised his glass in silent salute. “We were, to be fair to Mrs. M., discussing the bit of history we witnessed whilst delivering Lucy to her new school.”

Arabella's face, slightly flushed, lit like a candle. “You will not believe it, Henry,” she said.

“You saw Bonaparte,” Morton offered.

Arabella sat back in her chair, a bit deflated.

“It's in all the papers,” Morton apologised.

“Surely even the London papers have not begun reporting all my activities,” Arabella said. It was one of the charms of her particular humour that she could say anything without a hint of a smile. People who did not know her often couldn't decide if they were to laugh.

Morton smiled. “You really saw the scoundrel?”

“Indeed we did,” Darley said. “Large as life, or small as life in the Corsican's case. He appeared on the deck of the Bellerophon in the company of Captain Maitland, I believe. There was a great row-”

“And a woman was drowned!” Arabella interjected.

Darley nodded, the quiet satisfaction that he habitually displayed dissolving into a look of utter desolation. “Yes, very sad. With her child looking on.”

Morton found himself affected by Lord Arthur's sudden show of feeling for a woman he certainly did not know. But then Darley shook it off and smiled at his guests, his eyes glistening just noticeably.

“And what will they do with him, do you think- Bonaparte?” Morton asked softly, trying gently to steer the conversation away.

Darley shrugged. “It is the subject of intense debate, I can tell you, though little more.”

“He knows more than he is saying,” Arabella stagewhispered to Morton.

Darley's playful smile returned. “If I knew half as much as you believe, my dear, I would be the bestinformed man in England.”

“The papers say that Bonaparte wants to live quietly in England.” Morton sipped his port.

Darley laughed. “Well, you can be sure that will not be allowed. No, he will be transported-somewhere remote, I think.”

“But why not imprison him here?” Arabella asked. “Would that not be the safest course?”

Darley turned to her, shifting in his chair. “Undoubtedly, but there is a small matter of English common law. You see, according to our own laws, no man, no matter his nationality, can be imprisoned without first being convicted of a crime by a court of law. And it is very doubtful that Bonaparte could be so convicted under our present laws.”