by T. F. Banks
Morton was about to ask with whom, but the count spoke again, his tone flat and filled with sadness.
“I have answered your questions, Monsieur Morton. Now perhaps you can answer one of mine. You say you believe she was murdered. How do you know this?”
In such situations Morton liked to direct the course of the interview, but he intended to tell the count this, any-way-perhaps now was the right time. “The pit where she was found, monsieur le comte, was small and shallow. The height she would have fallen from was not great-likely not great enough to inflict the injuries that killed her-and there was very little blood where she was found. The surgeon who examined her remains was certain there should have been more. But these are not the only reasons I doubt she fell or self-murdered.” Morton paused a second. “You see, upon Madame's person were the unmistakable signs of a most infernal in strument.” Morton glanced again at Rolles, then back to the count. “She had been tortured with a thumbscrew, Comte d'Auvraye. Tortured and then murdered.”
The count gave a small, sobbing cry. His powdered wig fell to the floor, a little storm of snow spreading over the red carpet. D'Auvraye spun and pushed awkwardly through a small door before Morton could even begin to protest.
The Runner was immediately on his feet, but Rolles interposed his small person between Morton and the door.
“This interview is at an end,” the secretary said.
Morton looked down at the small man, who appeared more than a little frightened.
“I have more questions to ask.”
“Tonight monsieur le comte will go to his house at Barnes Terrace. You may find him there, or in three days when he returns. For the moment he needs…to consider all that you have revealed.”
“Then I shall ask questions of you.”
The secretary looked around quickly as though seeking his own method of escape. “I-I shall try to answer them.”
“Indeed you will.” Morton returned to his seat and gestured for the secretary to do the same.
“Tell me, Monsieur Rolles, who would have done such a thing? Was Madame Desmarches in the count's confidence enough that someone would torture her to gain information?”
Rolles looked utterly miserable and kept glancing toward the small door through which his master had retreated. “It is possible, monsieur. Upon the pillow much is said…. Le comte d'Auvraye is an intimate of the King of France. He is acting as the French ambassador to the Court of St. James's until they send another, allowing monsieur le comte to return, finally, to the country he loves.”
“But you have not told me who might have performed this terrible act. Torture, Monsieur Rolles. Who would do this, and to learn what?”
“To learn what, I cannot say, but amp;” Rolles leaned closer. “The Bonapartists, monsieur. Who else hates us so? Poor Madame Desmarches. I'm sure she could tell them little, and yet she paid with her life.” He crossed himself.
“But Bonaparte is a prisoner of my government. He will spend the rest of his life in some kind of confinement. Bonaparte's day is done, Monsieur Rolles. Finis.”
Rolles shook his head, his dark eyes staring earnestly into Morton's. “Bonaparte is a phoenix, Monsieur Morton. He can rise from the ashes. You English do not understand this. There is no safe place to confine him. No place distant enough. He is a phoenix. You will see.”
CHAPTER 10
There must be twenty of them here,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant, gazing down at the paper on his table. It was a list of the names Rolles had given to Morton.
“Twenty-two,” said Morton.
“And he would say no more? He gave no specific reason for suspecting these people?”
“They are partisans of Bonaparte. Or were. At least that was his claim.”
The Chief Magistrate scowled. “He gives every impression of a man trying to protect his master by diverting suspicion to others.”
Morton, standing, gave a shrug of agreement. It was certainly possible. Young Jimmy Presley and the eminent John Townsend nodded from their position in the back of the room.
“Well, I did look into this matter, as Mr. Morton asked,” Townsend said. “D'Auvraye was at Carleton House, just as he claimed.”
“But not for the entire night.” Morton took back his list from Sir Nathaniel's desk. “The secretary, Rolles, cannot account for his time either, except to say he was in his own chamber at Spanish Place.”
“I found one of the serving men as was English,” Presley told them, “and he says the count came in late, around midnight, just as he claimed. But he could have killed her before he came home, couldn't he? Or he could have gone out again to do it. This fellow, Henshawe, an underbutler, had something else to say, too. He was shylike, mind, and just whispered me to wait about a bit and see him round the back in the coach-house.”
The other three men listened closely now.
“Aye, well, this sounded good, didn't it?” Presley was pleased with himself. “So I waited, tried to get the coachman to blow the gab, but he didn't understand a word except his own parlee-voo. Finally Henshawe comes and says that all the servants are supposed to keep quiet about the family, as anybody might be a spy. The count has serious business to do for the French king, and even Bow Street officers might be spies, or might squeak to them as are.”
“Who gave them orders not to speak to Bow Street?” demanded Sir Nathaniel. “The count?”
Jimmy Presley's face went blank for a moment, but then he recovered. “Henshawe didn't say, sir. But I assumed as much, head of the house and all that. At any rate, he was bothered about it, and as a true loyal Englishman he wanted to serve his king and country.”
The venerable Townsend laughed. “How much did ye tip him, Jimmy boy? A shilling? Two?”
Presley again looked disconcerted. “Three, actually.”
“That's steep! I hope the goods were worth it!”
“Proceed, proceed,” the Chief Magistrate demanded impatiently.
“Well, Henshawe tells me, the day before Madame Desmarches died, a man comes and visits the count and his son. He's a Frenchy, seems, but not one Henshawe has ever seen before. Something of a down-at-the-heel Frenchy, with a balding pate with one of those raspberry stains just on the top of it. Not the kind of folk as the count usually entertains, not one of those perfumey aristocrats. He comes to the door claiming to be an importer of French goods. But then he stays with the count an hour or so in his cabinet, and as soon as he leaves, the count storms out in a passion and sends Monsoor Rolly to give his mistress the boot, chuck her right out of the house he gave her, without so much as a fare-thee-well! The servants never saw him in such a rage.”
The young Runner folded his arms now and gave the little group a look of satisfaction, as if he had come close to resolving the whole matter.
“The name of this man with the raspberry?”
“Nay, Henshawe didn't have it. Oh, but he did say the cove told the footman to announce the gent from”- Presley tried to get it right-“from… Mal-mace-on. Or maybe mason, or some such. But Henshawe's warranted to call for me if he sees anything more.”
There was a thoughtful pause all round.
“Should we have brought Count d'Auvraye before you?” Morton asked Sir Nathaniel Conant.
The Magistrate shook his head. “We've not enough cause. Not yet. Why, if he intended to murder her, would he first of all send his man to evict her? And you say he wouldn't have expected her still to be in the house that night.”
“I don't know when Rolles admitted to him that he had not tossed her out on the street immediately, as he'd been ordered. If not for the thumbscrews, I could imagine the count riding out to the home of Madame Desmarches that night. Men who have been betrayed have been known to act out of passion, to do things completely against their character. But why would he torture her? It seems too barbarous a revenge for the man I met, no matter how he'd been wronged. And I was fairly convinced by his reaction that he did not know of her death. He would have to be a masterful act
or to have managed that.”
“I trust your judgement in such things, Mr. Morton. But if not the count, then whom?” Sir Nathaniel turned in his chair to look a moment out the window. “What do we know of this woman?” he asked, turning back to his Runners. “Was she the sort to play the count false? Where did he meet her? Had she been a whore, or a demi-rep?”
“We were told she came over here to stay loyal to the Bourbons,” said Morton. “Her husband was a soldier in Bonaparte's armies, but what happened to him is apparently unknown. It seems to me that if Desmarches had been an officer of any rank, his death or other fate would have been announced in the Bonapartist equivalent of a gazette, or found out otherwise. This suggests the man was a private soldier, even a conscript. His wife was most likely of the same class.”
“Bonapartist camp follower turned royalist mistress?
An odd progression.”
“She was a beautiful woman,” said Morton quietly.
The Chief Magistrate frowned a moment longer, then seemed to summon himself.
“Well, you will certainly have to have another talk with the Count d'Auvraye. But let us first see what else we can turn up. I have reported the business of the thumbscrew marks to the Foreign Office, and they want you to speak to someone, a Captain Westcott over at the Admiralty.”
“The navy? Why are they concerned?”
The Magistrate shrugged. “You'd think they'd have enough to worry about, with Bonaparte himself slinging a hammock in one of their ships. But I suppose they have their own people who look into this sort of thing.” He nodded at the paper Morton still held. “Give your list to him. He's asked that you wait on him at his chambers at three, and I said you would. Let us see what light he might be able to throw on the business. Mr. Townsend? Your views?”
The celebrated old Runner had out his snuffbox and did not respond at once. Those in the room, of course, were familiar with his eccentricities. They were also familiar with his unsurpassed skill in their profession and were prepared to wait.
“I'm sure you all have noticed the oddity in this business,” he remarked, then sneezed loudly. Wiping his nose and putting away his handkerchief as if nothing had happened, he went on. “Betrayal and rejection, yes. Even betrayal, rejection, and then murder. Yes, that still has a certain logic to it. The man's wounded pride festers as he reflects on the enormity of what she has done to him, and then passion erupts and he pursues her for further vengeance-just as Mr. Morton has said. Or if the woman had been subjected to torture and then murdered without ever being rejected by the count, I hardly think we would be sitting here having this discussion. We would all assume, rightly, that she had been tortured by one of his enemies, who hoped to learn some vital piece of intelligence.” He raised his silvery eyebrows waiting for anyone to gainsay this. No one did. “But she was put to the torment immediately after the count had rejected her. If she had already betrayed his secrets, for example, why did they need to torture her? Betrayal, rejection… torture … murder. How do these things sort with each other?”
They all waited for Townsend to answer his own question, but the old man grinned and slowly eased himself up from his chair. He straightened stiffly, and then to no one in particular said, “It is in this odd conjunction of matters that the mystery abides, gentlemen. It is in this peculiarity of timing. I believe we are obliged to reject any obvious suspect or conclusion. We need to look further, reflect more deeply.”
CHAPTER 11
Morton called on Captain Geoffrey Westcott at the Admiralty and, after being left to ponder in the waiting room for a quarter of an hour, was greeted by an officer of perhaps thirty years. Morton's first impression was of the man's height, for the captain was the precise height of Morton himself: six feet and three inches. A longish face, a beaked nose in the style of Wellington, and a disarming smile-these impressed one next. And last, a firm handshake, and a clear eye, blue as the sea itself on a summer day. Westcott was dressed in a uniform so well tailored and spotless that any dandy would have taken the man to be one of their own, impressed into the Royal Navy.
“Henry Morton, Bow Street.”
“Geoffrey Westcott. It is a pleasure. Do you mind if we slip out of this madhouse? My club is just a few paces off, in St. James's.”
Morton had no objections. St. James's Street was home to three of London's most established clubs, White's, Brooks', and Boodle's. It was a street where one seldom saw a woman, and never a woman of qual-ity-at least not an English one. The young bucks who lounged in the club windows, quizzing glasses in hand, had long since given the street its reputation, and no delicately nurtured young lady would dare venture there for fear of her reputation. St. James's and its environs was a masculine preserve, and many a well-to-do bachelor made his home there-often to the detriment of his fortune.
Morton seldom gambled-he worked too hard for his money to chance losing it-but in London he was almost alone in his dislike of this vice. And the city's great clubs were the many beating hearts of this obsession. Not just wealth changed hands within these imposing preserves. Men were driven out of England for the debts that they incurred in White's and Wattier's. Fortunes were lost, and occasionally won as well.
Captain Westcott set a brisk pace as they passed along the border of St. James's Park, onto which the Admiralty building backed. But then, as they gained a little distance from the Admiralty, the seaman turned and stood looking back. Morton's gaze followed. Atop the building the semaphoric telegraph was just then set in motion, the six wooden shutters pivoting upon their central axes so that they appeared either as thin horizontal lines or as dark rectangles.
“Can you read it?” Morton asked.
Westcott nodded, his aquiline nose seeming to lift a little as though he could sniff the message on the air. The shutters held their position for a few seconds, then changed of an instant so that all six showed their dark faces.
“There,” Westcott said, pointing. “That is the letter C.” He turned his head to Morton and smiled. “It will almost certainly be replaced by an improved system within a year.”
Morton could not help but be impressed. “I find it difficult to imagine that there could be a better system. It's said that messages travel along the line of towers at two hundred miles to the hour!”
“Oh, at the very least,” Westcott said. “I've known messages to be sent to Plymouth and an answer received in but half an hour. Of course that is only by day, and then only on days without mist or rain.” He glanced back at the telegraph, which continued its display. “But even so it is a great advancement.” He looked back at Morton and smiled charmingly. “Can you imagine if you had told a man twenty-five years ago that messages would travel across the land at a speed of two hundred miles to the hour what he would have said of you?” He laughed. “It is an age of wonders, Morton. An age of wonders.”
They set off again, speaking of small things as they went-the changes to the city, a fire that had destroyed a row of buildings, the new wines that were arriving at Berry's now that the blockade had been lifted. In this way they were soon in St. James's, through the doors so many aspired to pass, and then into White's itself. The joke among Londoners went that when a boy child was born to an aristocratic family, a servant stopped at White's to enter the child's name in the candidacy book before proceeding to the registry office to record the birth.
Westcott was obviously well known here, and he led Morton to a quiet, walnut-panelled room where brandy was served. A few men sat about smoking, their faces thrust into the daily papers, or talking quietly. One exhausted-looking man, fresh from the gambling room, still wore his coat inside out “for luck” and was just now removing the leather wristbands that protected his lace when he threw the dice. He nodded to Westcott.
“Captain,” he said hoarsely, then bobbed his head to Morton. The young man collapsed in a chair, ordered brandy, and promptly fell asleep.
Recognition dawned on Morton.
Westcott read something in Morton's f
ace. “You know our Robbie, Mr. Morton?”
“Only by reputation.”
This was Miss Caroline Richardson's brother-and
Morton's half-brother. They had never formally met, but Morton had seen him numerous times over the years.
Westcott looked over at the sleeping man, who had now begun to snore softly. “He is gaining something of a reputation. Rather sad for his family.” He offered Morton a bitter half-smile.
A group of three young gentlemen entered the room then, spotted Robert Richardson, and with muffled laughter proceeded to prod and tickle the insensible young man, gaining great levity from the sport. They were finally shushed and driven away by a stern look from one of the senior members, who had previously been enjoying his paper.
Westcott took a sip from his brandy and then pushed the errant sons of the aristocracy from his mind. “So, Mr. Morton, did I understand correctly that this unfortunate young woman you found had been subjected to the thumbscrew?”
“I'm afraid it is absolutely true.”
The captain made a small gesture of amazement. “Have you found out who she was?”
“Her name was Madame Angelique Desmarches,” Morton reported. “And she was the mistress of the Comte d'Auvraye.”
The captain spread his hands along the edge of the table. “Gerrard d'Auvraye?”
Morton nodded.
Westcott lifted his hands to his temples as if stricken by a sudden headache and paused to consider. “Well, that is news.”
Morton thought the man looked a bit shaken. “Do you know the count?” Morton asked. He had no intention of allowing this conversation to be a one-way flow of information.
“I have met him, yes. A few times, in fact. He is a member of Wattier's, as am I.”
Wattier's, Morton knew, was the club to join if you fancied yourself a gourmet. The cuisine was French, of course. The club had actually been started by the Prince Regent, in league with a great chef named Wattier. In recent years it was gaining a reputation as a gambling hell.
