by T. F. Banks
“There is a countess?” asked Morton.
“Oh yes, there is a countess.” Darley's tone suggested this was a fact of limited interest. There was a Lady Darley, too, if one cared to ask, although in her case her husband “retreated” to town. Lord Arthur passed on smoothly. “D'Auvraye has weaned himself of much of the pomp and conservative thinking that most of the French royalists brought to England, but this is not true of everyone in his family or in his circle. It is really quite extraordinary, the manners some of them have preserved, even after twenty-five years: the toasts, the order of precedence, the rituals.
“At any rate, there was a visitor, the evening I was there, a most eminent man by the name of Bayarde, a monarchist who fought against Bonaparte. Now, Monsieur Bayarde was a soldier and a philosopher, and he had done much for their cause, both in his actions and in his writings. But he was a commoner, you see, and a Huguenot, to boot. It wasn't clear who had invited him, but he was the only untitled person in the party. When the count's son Eustache got wind of his being there, he refused point-blank to allow him to be seated at table, and made a great fuss, quarrelling with his father and insisting that if Bayarde were seated, he could not be. ‘This is what we are fighting against! ’ he argued. ‘This dissolution of all distinctions, this levelling! ’ Can you credit that?”
“With difficulty,” admitted Morton.
“But so it was. In the end the countess supported her son, and he had his way. Monsieur Bayarde pretended not to take offence and had his dinner separately, but I do believe he left that house an embittered man. It is very much as Talleyrand said, you know, they have forgotten nothing and learned nothing.”
“But you say that the count does seem, at least in degree, an exception.”
“In some small degree, yes,” Darley agreed.
“Do you know enough of him to pass judgement on his character?”
Darley poured tea for both of them. “He is rather kindly and inoffensive. The French will replace him here with someone… who will care less if he is well liked, if you know what I mean.”
Morton looked out over the sunny park, leaves ashiver in the fresh breeze. Nursemaids watched over children at play. “Can you think of any way that his position would lead to his mistress being tortured?”
Darley rubbed a finger into the corner of his eye as though he had a stray lash. Morton had seen this before and recognised a habit that allowed the man time to collect his thoughts. “Well, I can't really think how d'Auvraye's rather nominal position would lead to such an act. One might imagine that someone could believe the poor woman had enough of the count's confidence that she would know certain things-but I can hardly imagine d'Auvraye knows anything worth torturing a person to learn. The King of France has only just crossed the Channel. It just isn't feasible that he is planning to, say, make war against… anyone. France is a shambles and will remain so for some time. It is the most damnably strange thing I have ever heard.”
“I agree entirely. Who, though, might be considered the enemies of this restored French regime?”
“Well, the governments of the continent welcome King Louis. He is not Bonaparte, and this makes him, at least for the moment, a considerable improvement. Though of course they have set him on the throne themselves, with our help. Enemies? Any crowned head has his rivals, I suppose, even if no one is sure yet that he will hold France. If I were he, I'd be watching my own family and my own supporters closely, I think. They've fought long and hard against Bonaparte all these years, the royalist opposition, but even longer and harder for position amongst themselves. Even so, I can't imagine any of them are quite so foolish as to attack their own man just yet.”
“What about Bonaparte himself? He has a few supporters still, surely.”
“More than a few-English, French, of every nation. Political radicals, old soldiers, camp followers… anyone but aristocrats. But without their great leader they are a rabble, a serpent without a head. The body might twitch and thrash about for a while, but that is all-they need Bonaparte himself. At the moment I suspect his followers are scattering, seeking places to hide or trying to ingratiate themselves with the new regime.”
“I'm sure you're right, though I notice our government is not treating the deposed emperor as a spent force quite yet.”
Darley looked reflective.
“Indeed, no. That would be folly, wouldn't it?”
CHAPTER 8
Aletter awaited Morton upon his arrival at number 4 Bow Street. He broke the seal and opened it, to find only a few lines in a graceful hand.
My dear Mr. Morton: Excuse the brevity of this note, but I do hope we will have an opportunity to speak at length. An art object of some value has been stolen from my family, and I hope to engage your services for its recovery. The Viscount is traveling so this duty has fallen to me. I will be at home this day until the supper hour, if it is possible for you to call; 17 Lincoln's Inn Fields.
It was signed Miss Caroline Richardson.
Morton stared at the note in disbelief. His first reaction was anger, but this was quickly followed by an almost overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. He read the note again and almost threw it into the waste.
Caroline Richardson was his half-sister. That is to say, Morton was the offspring of Miss Richardson's father and a servant-Morton's mother. He had spoken to Miss Richardson once, when they were children-she had been but a small girl at the time, for she was at least half a dozen years younger than he was himself.
Looking around, he realised that he'd wandered into the Runners' ready room. Tucked away in the rear of the building behind the hearing room and Sir Nathaniel's chambers, this was where the Bow Street men took their ease, awaiting commissions, sharing information, and biding their time before giving witness.
“Good day, Morton,” a voice said, and Morton looked up to find Vickery, a fellow Runner, perched on one of the hard-backed chairs, with his booted feet propped up against the grate of the unlit hearth.
“Ah, Vickery,” Morton said, trying to smile, “just the gentleman I was looking for. Have you time for a bit of private work?”
The older man shook his head of grey hair, as he lowered his feet to the floor. “With difficulty. I was just about to set off to see some of my favorite peachers.” And then: “Is it private work worth doing, do you think?”
Morton had almost begun to hand the man the note but drew it back. “Perhaps not. Let me look into it a little further.”
Vickery smiled and rose, reaching for his hat from its peg. Tipping it to Morton, he walked purposefully out.
Morton stood a moment, wondering why he'd not given the job away. He took out his watch and assured himself of the time. It was but a short stroll to the house where his mother had once toiled as a servant-until she was set out on the street for the crime of being young and falling victim to the desires of the master of the house.
Outside the Magistrate's Court he was met by a pleasant, warm London day. Towering white clouds, tattered and torn, scattered across the pale summer blue. The streets streamed with traffic of every sort. At the entrance to Great Wild Street a barrel dray lay at an odd angle, half its cargo spilled onto the cobbles. Hackney-coach drivers cursed, horses struggled, and men milled about, trying to right the situation. At the turmoil's centre a Charlie ostentatiously diverted carriages and carts, making the most of his position.
The street life of Morton's native city had little appeal to him that afternoon. His attentions were drawn inward, into a confusion of resentment and desire, anger and hurt. Though he walked toward the house of his half-sister, he was not at all sure why.
In a few moments Morton entered the comparative quiet of Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was a square of large mansions surrounding a green park on three sides. The prominent architect and art collector Sir John Soane dwelt at number 13, and other notable Londoners lived their privileged lives behind other doors in the same street. At the door of number 17 Morton hesitated. “Viscount Richardson is away,
” he assured himself, having no desire to meet the man who'd put his mother out in the street.
A footman answered, and Morton proffered a calling card.
“Ah yes, Mr. Morton. Miss Richardson is expecting you.”
A surprised Morton was led into a sun-drenched drawing room, the sounds of London retreating into the vague distance. It was very unlike the home of Arthur Darley, at once both more opulent and less tasteful-at least less currently tasteful, for it was done up in an older style. Morton stood by the window a moment, watching the people pass, wondering what it would have been like to have this view from childhood, this room in which to contemplate one's future.
A light footfall behind him, and Morton turned to find the little girl of memory banished by a young woman. She did not look unlike him: that was his first thought. Oh, a feminine rendering, to be sure. But she had the same dark hair and eyes-his “poet's eyes,” as Arabella called them. She was of good height for a woman, erect in her carriage, her dress hinting at a lovely feminine shape beneath. A smile, nervous and hesitant, but more disarming for all that.
She was looking at him, too, and Morton was certain he knew her thoughts-he had heard often enough from his mother that he looked like the Viscount Richardson.
“It is so very kind of you to come, Mr. Morton,” she said in a pure, refined voice. “I feared you would not.”
“I very nearly didn't.”
“And you would have had every reason to make that decision-but I'm glad you are here. I have wanted to meet you again for some time. Do you remember…?”
Morton nodded. “Yes. I got quite a smack from old Mrs. Collicott for talking to you when I was told never to.”
She shook her head. “I didn't know about that.”
“A lifetime ago,” Morton said, and smiled. “You wrote of an art object.”
“A painting, yes. A Vernet-one of his sea storms. A…a very powerful canvas, really. I-we all thought it quite sublime. It was taken from our house sometime in the last few days.”
“You don't know when, exactly?”
A slight look of embarrassment. “No, it was hanging in the viscount's study. No one had been in there since he departed, four days ago.” She met his eye and smiled charmingly. “But let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Morton. Certainly a Runner must need to rest his feet occasionally.”
Morton was as susceptible to charm as the next man, when his mood allowed it-but his mood was very low this afternoon. “Why have you called on me, Miss Richardson, if you don't mind me asking?”
The young lady struggled with a look of distress, then said in a slightly trembling voice, “Your recent legal triumph has proven you to be a man of unimpeachable integrity, Mr. Morton. And I was being entirely honest when I said I had long wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Curiosity?”
“Perhaps. Was it not something like that that drew you here?”
Morton shrugged. “Something like.”
“Well, here we are, curious. The only way to satisfy our curiosity would be to have speech, I believe.”
Morton fought off the temptation. “I mean no offence, Miss Richardson, but I'm engaged in another matter of some importance, and my time is very short.”
“Ah,” she said. “And what foul crime calls the formidable Mr. Henry Morton today?”
“The murder of a lovely young woman, I regret to say.”
“Oh,” she said, “I'm sorry to hear it.”
“May I ask some questions?”
She nodded her assent.
“How many servants do you employ?”
“A good number. I will have a list drawn up.”
“And who else lives in the house?”
“Myself, the viscount, of course, my brother Lord Robert, and my aunt, Mrs. Eugenie Childers. I rather suspect Aunt Eugenie myself, though she is more than a little infirm and can't get around of her own-but she has an eye for a good painting.”
Morton smiled in spite of himself. “Might I see the room from which it was stolen?”
The viscount's study was shadowed by oak panelling and books. Morton was a bit abashed to find how widely his father read. The scent of pipe smoke emanated from carpet and furniture. Upon the desk were some neatly stacked papers beneath weights and an almost new blotter. All was perfectly ordered. Nothing was out of place but the missing painting, which was marked by a light rectangle upon one wall.
“Nothing else is missing?” Morton wondered.
“Not that we know of. The viscount would have to say, but the painting seems to be the only thing that was taken.” She stood tentatively by the door, as though this room were forbidden to her. She looked somewhat younger, hovering there so hesitantly.
Morton took a last look around the study. “I wonder how they got access to the house.”
“Through a service door that opens onto Whetstone Park, the street that runs behind. They broke a small window and managed to unlatch the door from there.”
“Would you have a servant show me?”
“I'll show you myself.”
They wound downstairs to the servants' domain, a world familiar to Morton. This was where his mother had been employed-perhaps where she had been seduced.
“Anyone new belowstairs?” Morton asked.
“No. Most have been with us forever. Charles, the footman who answered the door, joined us a little more than a year ago, I think. He would be the most recent addition.”
The glazier had already been by to repair the shattered pane, and all signs of the breakage had been swept away. Morton sighed. He looked briefly outside but found that the glazier's efforts had erased or muddied any signs of the burglary.
An hour was spent talking to servants, taking names and histories. None of them seemed the type, to Morton's practised eye, though he had been initially mistaken before. When done with the servants, he sat a moment alone. The afternoon was wearing on to early evening.
Caroline Richardson let herself into the room and took a seat on a divan.
“You look troubled,” she said.
Morton let his gaze wander over the opulent surroundings. He was troubled. What did this rather too perfect young woman want of him? “As you know, Miss Richardson, I am a Bow Street Runner in the employ of the Magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant. My livelihood is derived from rewards I receive for the conviction of criminals I have caught. I live alone in rooms I let-not uncomfortable, but not so lovely as this. I read, I attend the theatre, a small circle of friends takes up much of my time. I don't shoot-not at game, at any rate-nor do I spend summers in the country. I am a member of no clubs other than Gentleman John Jackson's Boxing Club, and I've only travelled abroad on one occasion, and I was, at the time, pursuing a murderer.” He looked at her, raising his hands a little. “That, in brief, Miss Richardson, is my life.”
“And you do a great deal of good within the city of London,” she said after a moment. “I'm told you are a friend of Lord Arthur Darley's.”
“We are acquainted.”
“He is a man well respected within prominent circles.” As she paused to consider, the look of trouble or distress passed over her face again, wrinkling her fine brow. But she took up his challenge, all the same. “I wish I could reveal something that would distinguish me from all the other young ladies of my station, but the truth is I cannot. I'm told that my conversation is adequate, my social graces barely so-I laugh at all the wrong things. My dancing is better, but I find it rather tedious. I play the piano with some artistry, though it is immodest of me to say so. My father despairs that I am not married, but I detest Almack's and the conniving seven dragons. Oh, and I paint-as does every other young lady of my acquaintance.” She looked at him rather directly. “I hope I have not imposed upon you overly, Mr. Morton. It is just that, since my mother passed away… well, I wanted to know who you were, and when I read in the Times of the recent events…” She shrugged.
“You read the papers?”
“Shh,” she sa
id theatrically. “Of course not. What proper young lady would subject herself to the vulgar goings-on of the nation?”
Morton smiled. “It is most likely that the thief will advertise in the Morning Chronicle, describing the painting in some cryptic way that only someone who knows it well would recognise. This will allow him to deny possession should he be found. He will ask for a reward for the painting's return. I will look in recent editions of the Chronicle. Perhaps the thief has advertised his wares already.”
“Do you think there is any chance we will get it back?” she asked.
“There are some things that you can never get back, Miss Richardson,” Morton said. “But the painting? I think there is a good chance. Let me look into the matter a little more. I shall send you a note if I learn anything at all.”
They both rose of the same instant, then stood awkwardly. Their gazes kept sliding around the room, touching lightly on each other, then slipping quickly away.
“I'll see you to the door,” Miss Richardson said, so softly that Morton could barely hear. They went in silence to the entry hall.
Morton bowed as he left, then found himself out on the street. Behind him the lock ticked closed.
Arabella lounged on Morton's divan, her head propped upon a hand, the exquisite petals of her mouth hinting at dissatisfaction. Night spread over the city of London, a warm summer's night, close and dark and starless.
“If Madame Desmarches had merely been murdered, well then, I would suspect her lover, the Count d'Auvraye. But the thumbscrews-” She paused. “You know, Henry, there are men who gain pleasure from hurting women.”
“Yes, and if the count has this predilection, we will quickly uncover it. There are certain places in the city frequented by such men.”
“I suppose one must consider the countess: she might have found this woman a threat.”
“According to one of Madame Desmarches's domestics, the count had just cast off his mistress. She would not have been much of a threat.”
