T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“I was about to send John off for the local constables,” she said, her voice deflated. “Madame has been gone now for more than a day.”

“Why didn't you send for the constables earlier?”

The woman looked acutely embarrassed. “Madame has gone off unannounced before,” she said, hardly seeming to move her lips, as though what she confessed should not be heard by others. “But mind my manners. Do come in.”

Mrs. Johnson, for that was her name, led them into a small front parlour whose light, graceful appointments spoke of a French influence. On every side lookingglasses reflected their movements. Madame Desmarches apparently did not find her own appearance unseemly.

Tea was produced next, a stir audible in the other rooms as the arrival of the Runners became known.

Mrs. Johnson composed herself in a chair, crossed her arms, and said, “What has happened to my mistress?”

“At the moment we are not certain.”

“We thought it might be self-murder-” Presley broke in but at a look from Morton fell silent.

“What might I do to help?” Mrs. Johnson asked, visibly shaken by the mention of suicide.

“Answer all my questions as honestly as you can. Leave out no detail, whether you think it relevant or not-I will be the judge of that, Mrs. Johnson, if you don't mind. Now tell me everything you can about Madame Desmarches, beginning with how long you have been in service here.”

The woman thought a moment before she began. “Three years three months,” she said. “I have the exact date written down somewhere.”

“That is accurate enough for now. If you have served her so long, you will know much of her character.”

The woman nodded, as though this were a compliment to her own judgement. “Madame was a good person, Mr. Morton, and a good mistress. Oh, she put on some continental airs, but for the main she was kindly, and never cold or haughty.” She glanced at Presley. “I saw no sign that Madame was desponding, although 'tis certainly true she seemed very uneasy the last day I saw her.”

“And which day was that?”

“Day before yesterday, Mr. Morton.”

She glanced over at a chair set by a window, as though she expected to see her mistress there. “Even so, I would be very surprised if she would have committed the deeply dyed sin of self-murder.”

“She was a papist-a Catholic?”

Mrs. Johnson shrugged. “I'm not sure, Mr. Morton, though her church certainly was not the Church of England and must therefore have been who knows what tottering pile of heathen or papist superstition, which would be no strong fortress against the cruel buffets of this world.”

“She came from France. Do you know where?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head, as though ashamed to admit such ignorance.

“Do you know anything of her family?”

“Not a thing, sir. She never spoke of them. I thought the memories might be… painful to her.”

“Perhaps they were. What became of Monsieur Desmarches?” Morton wondered. “Madame Beliveau told us that Madame was a widow.”

“As for him, Madame said only that he'd vanished in the French wars. The Corsican had swallowed him up into his armies, and she had never heard more of him. If he died on campaign, she had not been informed, as she herself had chosen to flee France and stay true to her anointed king. For that sentiment, at least, sir, I honoured her. It showed a good and faithful heart, even if deprived of the succour of true religion.”

“The last day you saw her, you say she was uneasy. In what way? What led you to believe this?”

“She were distracted, sir. Not unhappy, or not deeply so, but twice I spoke to her, and she did not notice, which was very unlike her.”

“Was there anything more? Anything at all unusual?”

“No, sir. Not that I can think…”

“How did she pass that day?”

“She spent some time sitting in the garden. She cut and arranged some flowers before the supper hour. She read for some time in the garden-a French book, sir. Gave me instructions for supper.” She shook her head. “A most common day it was, Mr. Morton.”

“No visitors?”

“None.”

“And the next morning, what happened then?”

“Madame was not here, Mr. Morton. Nothing else was amiss.”

“Not a thing? Think very carefully, Mrs. Johnson. This might be terribly important.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Morton, but the house was in perfect order.” A gnarled finger shot up. “No, that is not true. The vase containing the flowers had been broken and cast away. I found it and the flowers behind the kitchen, which, now that you mention it, is odd.”

“Why so?”

“Well, it is not where we would normally dispose of broken glass, Mr. Morton. I thought Florrie, the scullery maid, had done it, for she is a thoughtless little thing, but I asked, and she claimed to know nothing of it.”

“What did you think had happened to it?”

“That Madame had somehow knocked it over and broken it, Mr. Morton. Such accidents happen.”

“Indeed they do. When you realised your mistress was not here, what did you think?”

“That she had gone to visit friends. It has happened before, though she would always leave a note saying when to expect her back and giving any other instructions she might have.”

“And whom did she visit?” Morton wondered.

“I don't know, sir. Madame never said.”

“But certainly her friends came to visit her?”

“Only Madame De le C?ur or her daughter. They came most often to fit her for garments-she dressed very well, Mr. Morton, and was a beautiful young woman. Madame De le C?ur or her daughter visited occasionally when there appeared to be no business. No one else.”

Morton glanced over at his young companion.

“Who was in the house two nights past, when last you saw Madame?” asked Jimmy Presley.

“Just Florrie, who I've mentioned. She sleeps in the pantry. The rest of us live out. I'll grant you 'tis not a common arrangement, but this is how Madame wished it. Perhaps 'tis done this way in foreign parts.”

It was done this way in parts of England, too, Morton reflected, when discretion was desired.

“John, the footman, and the cook Francoise and I generally arrive just about six o'clock each morn and leave after our supper at nine of an evening. If Madame wants-wanted… anything in the night, she could ring for Florrie. We were given thirty shillings extra, in place of lodgings, and we had our board. Madame was generous, as any of us will tell you. We have our wages now till the end of the month. After that”-she sighed-“we will be put to sore shifts to find positions as good again. But the Lord will provide.”

Morton tried to phrase his next question delicately.

“Did Madame ever mention if… she owned this house outright?”

A look of indignation flared in Mrs. Johnson's eyes. “I should never have spoken to Madame about such things, nor she to me.”

“No, certainly not. Well, we would have a word with Florrie, if she be here.”

Mrs. Johnson led them back through the servants' door, along a covered walkway, and around into the kitchen, which was in a brick annex at the back and to the side of the main house. The cook Francoise was here, a gaunt middle-aged woman, whose awkward grin revealed very bad teeth as she nervously curtsied to the two visitors. It seemed Florrie was in the herb garden, and Francoise went for her. While Morton and Presley waited, they looked about. As kitchens went, Morton thought, it must be a reasonably pleasant place to spend the long hours of drudgery that were the lot of women like these-and of his own mother in years past. A fairly clean and spacious room, cool even in July, and well enough lit by the long row of windows set in one wall, even if the view was just of the tall green wall of privet. The only disadvantage would be the distance to the main house and thus the extra steps, many times a day, as trays and teacups and a thousand other things were carried into and out of the presence of the mistress.