T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“Even though he has made war against us for twenty years?” Arabella said.

“Oddly, war is not a crime. Bonaparte was the head of a foreign state.”

“Then we can do nothing to him?” Arabella looked a little disgusted by this foolishness.

Darley held up a finger. “Ah, but that is the very centre of the debate. Bonaparte is not on English soil. Not really in England, or so His Majesty's government claims. He is, at present, subject to the law of the Admi-ralty-which is very different from the laws that govern you and me, as Mr. Morton will no doubt tell you.”

Morton leaned forward in his chair. “But I have read that some, even prominent men of law, say that the gov-ernment's argument is fallacious. That I, for instance, could arrest a man on a ship in Plymouth harbour with every expectation that he would go to trial. Various authorities claim that the government considers Plymouth Sound part of England at their convenience, but at the moment it is not convenient, so they have excluded that bit of water from our borders.”

“But the argument is even more specific than that.” Darley was clearly fascinated by this debate. “The government claims that the ships of the Royal Navy are excluded from the laws of England, whether in an English harbour or not. And certainly Mr. Morton could not go aboard the Bellerophon and arrest a man, even a murderer. The navy have their own courts and due process. And upon this fact lies the government's case.” Darley waved a hand in the general direction of Cornwall. “Bonaparte, of course, wants to be allowed ashore. He wants-I daresay, even expects-the protection of English law. But I do not think he shall have it. No, our deposed emperor shall be sent off to some remote place to live out his days under guard.”

“But can we even do that?” Morton wondered aloud. “We return prisoners of war to their country of origin once the war is concluded. Should we not do the same with Bonaparte?”

“The French don't want him. Are afraid of having him in the country, in fact. But it is an interesting argument. I should point out, however, that the war with France was already over when Bonaparte surrendered to Captain Maitland.”

“Well, if he is not a prisoner of war,” Arabella said, “then what is he?” She was clearly less interested than their host in the finer points of law.

“Exactly, my dear. What is he indeed, legally speaking? And do the Admiralty have the right to send him off to some outpost to spend the rest of his days? The security of the nation might so be served, though justice might not. Even so, I think Bonaparte will be sent off- it is only a matter of deciding where.”

“Let his exile not be too comfortable, I say,” Arabella offered with feeling.

“For a man such as Bonaparte,” Darley said, and his smile disappeared again, “I think any place of exile would be a torture, were it as comfortable as man's ingenuity could make it.”

Morton did see Arabella home, although until they had entered the hackney-coach, the issue had been far from certain, at least in the Runner's mind. Darley, of course, said good night to them as though not a thing were amiss, as though they were two of his dearest friends in the world-an actress and a Bow Street Runner. As though sending one's mistress home with another man were not at all unusual.

“He is a mystery to me, your friend Darley,” Morton said.

Arabella had been lost in some other path of thought, but she glanced over at Morton now with her lovely green eyes, dark in the shadowy coach.

“He is not really such a mystery if you give up your expectations of a man in his position. Arthur cares nothing for the approval of others, and he is utterly dis-creet-you can tell him anything and it will go no farther-and so he is approved by everyone. Yes, his association is not what one might expect, too many writers, and even journalists and actresses, but for that he is admired for his independence of mind. Darley's genius is that he can take the measure of others-perfectly- and then reveal only what he wishes them to see.

“When first we met, he did not realise how carefully I observed human nature: a requirement of my calling. Darley thought he would confound me as he did all the others.” Arabella laughed softly. She leaned her head against Morton's shoulder, as though suddenly tired from her long day of observing mankind. “He sees you, Henry Morton, for what you are-and do not think he is the least mistaken on that score. He sees that you are a man of great integrity and uncommon dedication to the concept of justice. That you are loyal to your friends and colleagues, yet sympathetic to the less fortunate. He also sees your great desire to be considered a gentleman. What you do fascinates him-solving great puzzles- and he is oddly attracted to the danger, and the base and disreputable world in which you walk, for in his life he has known only comfort and safety. Darley is not such a mystery. He is a little bored with his coddled existence. If he could accompany you as you prowl the flash houses looking for miscreants, he would do so in a second. You see, Henry, your life looks to him very… rich.”

“Rich? I wish I could say it were so!”

“Well, it is rich, though not in silver.” She sat up and met his eyes, a smile of triumph spreading over her face. “But I have not told you about the clothes! I have found the woman who made them, or at least have her name and instructions to find her. We might go see her tomorrow before I attend the theatre.”

“Give her address to me, and I will go,” Morton said.

“I will not hear of it. You will need a lady along to relieve the woman's apprehensions. And besides, she is French, and you know my French is so much better than yours.”

In fact Arabella's French was not nearly as good as she believed-certainly not as good as his. But she was clearly so pleased with herself, and Morton so wanted to please her at that moment, that he smiled in acquiescence. Arabella leaned forward and kissed him, at once passionately and tenderly.

“You must come up, Henry. It has been too many days since I have had your company. I will feed you in the morning, and we may go off together to see the dressmaker. You shall have your mystery solved by noon, and then you may see me to the theatre and thank me as I deserve.”

Morton encircled her in his arms and pulled her close. “My dear,” he murmured, “that sounds like a perfect world.”

The dressmaker, Madame Madeleine De le C?ur, plied her trade from the back of a milliner's shop in Oxford Street. Morton wondered who her clientele might be: expatriate French noblewomen, most likely. But what would become of her now, Morton did not know. With the restoration of Louis XVIII, the French nobility were returning to France; many had already gone. Perhaps, like a camp follower, she too would soon be on her way.

They found Madame De le C?ur in a large workroom where high windows let the morning sun angle in, setting the dust motes to dancing. She was examining the work of her dozen seamstresses, holding spectacles in one hand. A handsome if severe-looking woman, she was thin, grey of hair, and surprisingly plainly dressed.

The young woman who had shown them into the workroom cleared her throat quietly and said, “ Maman ?”

“Oui?” Madame De le C?ur said, not raising her eyes from the stitching she examined.

“Madame Arabella Malibrant of Drury Lane to see you. And Monsieur Henry Morton…of Bow Street.”

The woman turned and stared at Morton as though he were some urchin found thieving her wares. “Bow Street,” she pronounced with little accent. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Before Morton could answer, Arabella stepped forward.