T.F. Banks: The Emperor's assassin

He did know that the morning seemed especially fine, the sky a vivid blue, clouds chalked across the azure in thin wavering lines. The grass was living green, and the hills looked like the most perfect land on earth. No doubt this euphoria would pass in a few days.

The farmer took them to the local magistrate's, where to Morton's surprise, they found Arabella and Lord Arthur Darley.

“What are you doing here?” Morton asked.

It was agreed they should repair to a hotel to discuss it-as soon as Morton had told all that had happened to the magistrate and written a letter to Sir Nathaniel Conant in London.

Some hours later Henry Morton found Arabella and Darley seated at a table in a private dining room in the Royal Hotel on George Street. It was, of course, supposed to be Plymouth's finest: Darley had chosen. Their window gave them a fine view out over the sound.

“You look positively amp;” Arabella did not finish, but Morton could tell by the look of concern that his present appearance was not what he might hope. He'd not seen a mirror-or for that matter a razor or a clothes brush- for quite some time.

Morton dropped into a chair and gazed at his two friends. Well, he was properly tired now. Darley and Arabella looked like man and wife sitting there. A handsome, pleasant-looking aristocrat and his beautiful, much younger bride. Arabella could play this part to perfection when she chose to. There with the white linen and delicate bone china, the gleaming, monogrammed silver.

“What brings you to Plymouth?” Morton repeated, as soon as he had sent an offended waiter off to bring him bangers and mash-hardly a specialty of the Royal's renowned kitchens.

Arabella still looked at him as though he'd been discovered in a hospital, badly injured. She reached out and squeezed his hand for a moment. “I had the most extraordinary visit-when? Three nights past? A young woman called on me at the theatre after our performance. She claimed to be Honoria d'Auvraye. In her possession was a letter that she wanted me to deliver to a certain Mr. Henry Morton-why she thought I would have amongst my acquaintances someone so vulgar as a Bow Street Runner, I don't understand. She said a man had brought the letter to her father a few nights before his death and that the letter had caused a great deal of distress in her household. I took the liberty of reading this missive.”

Darley produced a folded sheet of paper from a pocket and handed it across the table to Morton, who skimmed it quickly. “It is from Fouche,” he said, feeling rather obtuse. “What does this mean? ‘Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote place with his suite of followers’?”

Darley made an odd shrugging motion. “I think it means that Fouche has found some way to have Bonaparte murdered.”

“Assassiner!”

Darley and Arabella looked at him oddly.

“That is what the men I overheard from outside Boulot's door said: ‘they will assassinate him. ’ I thought they were talking about their own confederates planning a murder, and later I thought it was the count they murdered, but I was wrong. They were talking about this.” He struck the letter with the backs of his fingers. “Boulot had this letter somehow.”

“It is not difficult to guess how,” Arabella said. “It is a copy made, I am certain, by Madame Angelique Desmarches. She passed it to her friends the De le Coeurs, who either gave it to Boulot or to others who gave it to Boulot.”

“The latter, I think,” said Morton. He stared down at the letter, at the elegant hand. “So this is what set it all in motion. This and Boulot's betrayal. He told Gerrard d'Auvraye about this-gave him the letter apparently- and the count cast off his mistress. Boulot must also have told the count that the supporters of Bonaparte in England planned to rescue their hero: this was the coin he would trade for his return to France. The son, Eustache, and Rolles were followers of this man Lafond, or admirers of him. They tortured Madame Desmarches to find out who was planning this rescue of Bonaparte and where they could find them.” He looked up at his companions. “But do you know what Boulot told me? That Madame Desmarches leapt to her death rather than betray her compatriots.” Morton glanced at the letter again, then set it carefully on the brilliantly white tablecloth. His tired mind was racing, connecting up the chain of events. “They were then in trouble. The old count wrote me from his house in Barnes to come visit him, for he had decided, no doubt, to tell me that Madame Desmarches was a spy for the Corsican, as deeply embarrassing as this admission would be. Rolles knew the contents of the count's letter and perhaps his master's intentions as well. Once I learned about it, I would want to know why Rolles had given me a list of Bonapartists as the probable murderers of Madame Desmarches, when he knew perfectly well that she was a Bonapartist herself. The count had to be stopped then. And so it went. The count's servant had to be killed because he recognised Rolles or whoever it was that accompanied Pierre to murder the count.”

Morton's meal arrived, and he took a moment to fortify himself, apologising to his companions.

When he had done, Morton pushed away his plate and stared out over the harbour, filled with warships returning now from their duties blockading the coasts of France. Small boats plied among the great ships, like skimmers on a pond. The fishing boats wandered out into the Channel on this bright day, returning to the immemorial rituals of their peaceful trade, now that Bonaparte was gone.

“What will we do with this letter?” Morton said.

“I sent a copy to certain members of the government,” Darley answered. “I don't know what they shall do. Perhaps try to find out who amongst Bonaparte's followers might be inclined to murder his master.” Lord Arthur reached down for his teacup. “Perhaps they will do nothing.”

Morton told the rest of the story, the chase out to Plymouth, the encounter in Bovisand Bay. The pistol that hung fire.

“What became of Westcott?” Darley asked.

Morton shrugged. “He's not been seen. Nor can anyone find Berman's boat. Admiral Lord Keith thinks he set out across the Channel, which he assured me could be done given the weather and Westcott's abilities. He can pass for a Frenchman, so perhaps he will find a place to hide there.”

“Oh, he'll be found out eventually.”

“A nobleman who came to the aid of those trying to kill Bonaparte?” Morton mused. “I rather doubt King Louis's police will be much interested in flushing him out. And we mustn't forget Lafond and the other royalists. Westcott knew them well. He was the liaison with these men for many years. They will protect him if they can.” Morton closed his eyes for a moment, the dancing glitter of sun on water still visible. “Even Boulot is gone, it seems. The smugglers have whisked him away. Perhaps back to France at last. I hope Fouche does not find him. But then, perhaps he will not care. Who is Boulot, after all? A drunkard. A man whose wretched loneliness led him to… these insignificantly small acts of betrayal, that brought about the deaths of eight people.”

As the little party lapsed into thoughtful silence, sipping their coffee, Morton's eye wandered again to the window, the sound, the blue Channel beyond. A ship of the line loosed her sails as he watched, the wind filling them. The great dark ship gathered way and shaped her course for the southwest. It passed across the glittering path of the reflected sun, like a shadow, and was off, in few minutes rounding the headland, heading for the open sea.

Morton brought two members of the Foot Patrole as well as Vickery. He left them all before the house, standing by the hackneycoach, its door yawning open. A servant answered, pretended not to know Morton, and went looking for the master of the house. In the vestibule the Runner waited impatiently, leaving the door conspicuously agape.