T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

sky.

“No, Bow Street. On this night of nights, you find me in a very philosophical state. Welcome aboard the Nancy .”

“They left you nothing to drink, I expect.”

Boulot shifted to reach behind himself, and as he did the chain that held his ankle clanked quietly. He produced a bottle, open but almost full. “Voici,” he said. “Have it.”

Morton released a short, humourless laugh. “You have reformed?”

Boulot pointed to the low deck above him. “There are others besides your fat young colleague. Who? Even more police? Why do they not come to see me, too?”

“I want privacy. It is time for you and I to have some serious talk, Boulot. No more lies, no more obfuscation. Time to speak up.”

“I wonder how you found me, Bow Street.”

“It seems one of your smuggling friends likes you enough to have saved your life.”

“Why you think my life en danger ?”

“We saw what was done to the man Gervais and his companion in a barn on Dartmoor. These royalists will not need you after tonight. Are you ready to tell the truth?”

“ In vino veritas . So said the Romans, Bow Street. Though I think in French wine there are more lies than truths. Give me a drink, and we will see.”

Morton slid the bottle back across the tiny table, and Boulot pulled the cork. He put it up to his lips and was about to tip it back but then set it down, his look haunted and infinitely sad.

“Where have the rest of them gone, Boulot? Have they gone to kill Bonaparte?”

“Bonaparte is already dead-the dream is dead.” He looked up and saw Morton's reaction. “No, Bow Street. The man who made himself emperor still breathes and speaks-you should ask him to tell you the truth.” He rubbed a hand back over his sweaty neck, grimacing as he did so. “I tell you la verite , the truth-what little truth I know. I tell you because you are an honest man and, although this surprise you, so am I. Yes, I, Jean Boulot, of Malmaison, votre serviteur . Honest, mainly. But first you must tell me something. Did you like my song? I sing it well, I think. Now, it is not une chanson d'opera , not an opera song, but a love song, very sad, from the Auvergne. The lyric is in langue d'oc , but I translate. The man sings to the woman he has betrayed, to the woman he has betrayed with another. But he does not ask for forgiveness, no. He tells her only that he loves her. I have betrayed you; I love you . Is that not strange? He never love her, not truly, till he has betrayed her. This is sad, bien sur .”

Morton scowled in impatience. “Five people have been slain now, Boulot. Make your choice. I told you before, you can help us find the guilty, or you can hang by their sides.”

Boulot grunted. “I am glad you do not assume I am one of these guilty, Bow Street. That is sympathetic. That is gentil . And you know, you 'ave reason. It is true, I never kill”-but he hesitated-“I was going to say no one. But perhaps that is not so true. I kill la belle Desmarches, perhaps. La belle Angelique. Not with my hands. But perhaps I did. And perhaps I will kill the emperor, too. But that does not matter so much, I think.”

“How did you kill Madame Desmarches?”

Someone stepped across the deck above their heads, distracting the Frenchman, and he stared upward for a moment. Then he said flatly, “I betray her. Like the man in the song. She was passing intelligence from her royalist lover to the friends of Bonaparte in London. They tell me, to gain my aid, and I tell le comte . He do not believe me, at first, but I prove to him by showing the letter he had receive from Fouche, that she copied. It was really very simple thing. And now, yes, just as in the song, I love her, I sing to the stars about her. You know, I did tell an untruth to you, before. I was once her lover, and I am not fou , not mad, as I say this. Just one night, two year ago in a room in the Pulteney Hotel. Mon Dieu , I never forget this night. I weep to think. But I tell you truthfully, Bow Street, I think I she forget. I was nothing to her. A mistake. Une bagatelle .”

“Who killed her?”

Boulot mused. “But no, I am something to her now. Her betrayer, her destroyer. That is something very intimate. Do not mistake me, Bow Street, I did not do it for revenge, not at all. I had no idea it would happen this way. Perhaps I 'ad some fool's idea that le comte would throw her aside and then… who would she go to?” He shook his head sadly. “I treasured her, she was mon beau ideal . My dream. It is the most terrible thing, that I have destroyed her, the most terrible thing that I can imagine.” And his voice did almost crack as he said it. “And yet, also, there is something… glorious. You should know this sensation, monsieur la police . A great, great betrayal. It feel like nothing else. You should know it. It help you in your work.”

“How did it happen? Who killed her, dem you!”

But Boulot's head had sunk to his breast now, and Morton could see that his shoulders were shaking. He waited. Then when it seemed to have subsided, he repeated more quietly.

“Who killed her?”

“ Le comte d'Auvraye and his shadow, Rolles.”

“And then your friends, the supporters of Bonaparte, killed the count in revenge.”

Boulot looked at him in dull surprise, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve. “No, no, Bow Street. Le petit comte -the son. Eustache. He killed her.”

“Eustache d'Auvraye? He and Rolles? How do you know this?”

“Because they tell me. They tell me to frighten me, but I believe them. They say the old man, the father, 'e write a note to Bow Street telling you to come to 'is 'ouse in Barnes. He will tell you that Angelique Desmarches was a Bonapartist-a spy. The old man he would tell you she must have been killed by people who wanted to know about her friends, the other Bonapartists. How long would it 'ave taken you then to find your way to Rolles? Not long.”

“Eustache killed the count?”

“ 'E had 'im killed,” Boulot said, as though this were unimportant. His gaze lost focus. “Do you know the irony, Bow Street? They did not mean to kill her. Just to find out the things they need to know, but she throw herself out the window so that she would not tell. That's why they needed me, Jean Boulot. I am not so brave. Not so… engage -committed. I would tell them what they wanted. But they could not find me, Bow Street. You had to do it for them.

“I tell you something. Gervais was also my friend. And I also betray him, par accident. I lead Monsieur Eustache there, to his hiding place, his grange out in the moors. I lead them there, these monstres , this parricide and his little lackey, to the home of my friend. I had not betrayed enough people yet. For money I hoped this old friend of mine would help us, provide the boat we needed, arrange our escape to France. But Gervais is like me, he once was a supporter of Bonaparte, who lost his faith when the man he worshipped-the champion of egalite -put a crown on his head. He ran in trouble of the secret police and escaped 'ere. He did not like these royalists and took up an axe to send them away. But he did not know Pierre. Pierre is fou , a killer, a man who take pleasure from it. Pierre attacked 'im, and Gervais was forced to kill 'im with his axe. Rolles and d'Au-vraye, they carried pistols and amp;” He rubbed his trembling hands over his face, head bowed. Reaching out, he snatched up the uncorked bottle, but again he stopped. He merely cradled it in his hand, almost tenderly.