T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

There was a sharp tick as flint struck steel; a feeble white spark flared and fell. But the gun did not go off. Eustache d'Auvraye's arm drooped, and the muzzle swayed away from its target, as if the effort to hold it up were beyond his power. An instant later the pistol fired. Pebbles scattered about Morton's boots, and they were encircled in a cloud of smoke, which then rolled off on the breeze. As it cleared, Morton saw the young count sliding down the stone, the weapon dropping from his fingers, clattering onto the gravel.

The gun had hung fire. Had d'Auvraye been able to hold it up a moment longer, Morton would be dead.

D'Auvraye crumpled onto the wet beach, limp, unseeing, gone into the darkness.

Rolles, too, was gone-wedged into the crevice he had been climbing-slain by Jimmy Presley's first shot. The young Runner climbed up into the dark and pulled the little secretary free, letting him tumble into the water below. The Runners dragged the bodies of the two Frenchmen round the small headland back to Bovisand Bay, where they laid them out above the high-tide line.

Along the beach the fire still burned, and Morton could see figures moving there.

“Shall we load our pistols, Morton?” Presley asked as they set off toward the firelight.

“I don't think we'll need them now, but perhaps prudence dictates we should take no chances. Here, take one of mine.” Morton handed the young Runner a pistol. “I won't promise that it will fire, but just waving it in the air might be enough. I think the murderers are all dead.”

But when they reached the fire, the boat was gone, and they found only Berman, feeding wood onto the blaze, and nearby a small man wrapped in a blanket.

“Ah, 'Enri,” that man said. “I thought it would be you.”

“Marcel?” Morton would have been less surprised to find Bonaparte himself. It was Houde, the chef from Boodle's.

“ Oui, c'est moi. It is I, your old friend.”

Morton stood looking down at the chef, who seemed very small there in the flickering light. “Where is Bonaparte? And where has everyone gone?”

Houde was cradling an arm, Morton realised.

“Bonaparte?” the little chef said. He shook his head sadly and hunched over his injury. “Gone. Taken out to sea this very night by the Navy Royale. Who knows what they have done with 'im. Transported 'im, perhaps, as they said they would.”

“Then amp;” And then Morton realised: “That was you in the boat!”

“Yes, it was Houde, unluckily. That royalist fool shot me before I could point out the small differences between myself and Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Are you badly wounded?”

“My arm. Not so bad, I think. His hand was shaking with excitement, and 'e missed mon c?ur . Not by much. Le bon Dieu like 'is little joke and keep me alive.”

Morton whistled softly as he bent to look. Houde was right. He too had been fortunate, and Morton remembered well the deliberate shot, before the three had fled.

“Now at least I have a wound from the wars. Not many chefs can say that. What of those royalists?”

“All dead, I'm afraid.”

Houde shrugged, a splendidly expressive Gallic ges ture, despite his hurt. “ Tant pis. But no great loss. Royalist scum. Who were they?”

“Count Eustache d'Auvraye. His secretary, Rolles. A third man I did not know.”

“And how did you find us?”

“Boulot.”

“Ah, but how did the royalists find us?”

“Boulot.”

“How helpful he has been to everyone.”

Morton sat down on the gravel, letting the fire warm his sodden legs. All at once he was deeply weary. “Where is Westcott?” he asked.

“Went off in my boat,” Berman said.

“You let him take your boat?”

“He told me to come over here and be what help I could. He'd be back with marines.”

Presley laughed. “Marines! 'Tis Westcott they'll be chasing.”

“And who was this?” Houde asked.

“A navy captain who fell under the influence of Lafond. A disappointed man, passed over too many times. So he thought he saw a chance for glory. Glory to spite the service, who would condemn him for it. Maybe hang him, even. But glory all the same. One of the men who killed Napoleon and saved England.”

“Ah, but they only managed to wound a French chefcook named Marcel Houde. How glorious was that, 'Enri?” Houde opened up his blanket and looked at his arm.

Morton knelt to examine it in the firelight. Houde's soft white skin was puckered and red where the ball had cut a trough in the outer arm below the shoulder muscles. Not serious unless it became septic.

“How could a man like Westcott ally himself with such a pack of murderers?” Presley wondered. “Or did he not believe Eustache and Rolles had dished up Madame Desmarches and the others?”

Morton sat back on his heels and shrugged. “He did not want to believe. After all, it looked very much like they had been killed by the supporters of Bonaparte.” He glanced up at the sky. “It will be light in two hours.” He turned to Berman. “Is it far back to Plymouthtown?”

“A goodly stroll.”

Morton turned back to Houde. “Are you up to it, Marcel?”

“Ah, oui. A little discomfort, it is the least price to pay for folly like mine.”

Morton frowned. But Houde had brought it up. “I must say I am sorry to see you here, Marcel. I thought you had given up politics.”

“I had, but politics 'ave not given up me, evidemment .”

“Breaking the peace of the land that harbours you. Trying to bring their bitterest enemy into that land. Not to mention betraying the trust of your friend. To what end, Marcel? More crimes in the name of liberty ?”

Houde scowled and looked down, unhappy. “I am sorry for these things. Especially I am sorry to deceive you, not to tell you more, when you were in ma cuisine . But you cannot know what it was, 'Enri, to be un francais , when 'e led us to glory. You can never know. Such 'opes, such dreams as ours. Oui , in the end, there was no liberty. Oui , 'e was a tyrant. But I joost could not see such a man as 'im murdered by those canaille , those vile scum. That is why I help. Let 'im die in exile, but save 'im from the revenge of those arrogant poseurs who should, each night, lick clean 'is boots!”

“I see there is much to tell. Where should we begin, I wonder?”

“Every story begin the same way,” Houde said. “A man or a woman is born. It is 'ow they travel through life after that make the story. How they get to this beach 'ere in England one night when they are almost old, but still young enough to make the fool.”

“And you, Marcel, where were you born?”

“In Chartres. 'Ave you been there?”

“No, but I understand there is a great cathedral in that city.”

Houde blew air through his lips. “The cathedral is nothing. You must taste my father's potisseries !”

It was indeed a “goodly stroll” to town. They found a farmer with a cart who bore the bodies. Marcel Houde rode, too, though he continued to be ready to do penance by walking the whole way. Berman, having put them on the road, slipped away, no doubt to make his way back eastward along the coast to the smuggling dens. Morton and Presley were left to ride shank's mare. He was not sure if it was the excitement of the night, but Morton felt oddly light-headed as they trudged into Plymouth. It was as though the events of the night had not been real. As though he had wakened from a strange dream and found himself far from the bed in which he had fallen asleep.

Perhaps having a pistol hang fire when aimed at his heart could be expected to leave a man in such a state. Perhaps that was all it was. He didn't know.