by T. F. Banks
“Securing their nation, I should say.”
“As right as morning. And what will they do to accomplish this?” the old man asked. “Raise an army to protect them from their own people, whom they now greatly fear. And rid themselves once and for all time of this scoundrel Bonaparte! For the first they need gold; for the latter they need we English to find some way of securing Bonaparte that will last. But how would a people, even a people as clever as the English, accomplish that?”
“There is only one sure way,” Morton said, happy to play the foil. “A noose around his neck.”
“There are, no doubt, a hundred sure ways, but they all amount to the same thing-Bonaparte dead. I fear we English will not oblige them in this, for we have our laws, and those laws cannot be twisted quite enough to allow it. No, we will not execute Bonaparte, but there are many within France who wish we would and are applying pressure to our government to do them this favour. Do it here on English soil, out of sight of the French people. Do it and let the rabble find out after. I would think that the French king would be chief among those demanding that our government do away with Bonaparte. And who is the voice of the French king on these shores but the late Comte d'Auvraye?” The old man sat back in his chair and looked directly at Morton as if to say, Find a hole in that!
“So you think d'Auvraye was lobbying our government to have Bonaparte executed, and somehow the ex-emperor's supporters caught wind of it and killed him?”
Townsend made a gesture with mouth and shoulders that appeared somewhat noncommittal.
“But why would they torture Angelique if they al ready had wind of this? It doesn't make sense.”
“Particulars,” Townsend said.
Morton felt an eyebrow rise. “Particulars?”
“Aye. Whatever the count was up to, there must have been some particulars that the emperor's supporters needed to know. Or at least they believed they needed to know.”
“Or maybe they needed particulars to plan their murder of d'Auvraye,” Morton said. “I've been wondering all day if the count's murderers had a key. No one heard them knock.”
“Did this poor, misused woman have a key to the house in Barnes?”
“I don't know. Her servants said that she had sometimes gone away for short periods of time-a day or two-never telling them where. Visiting the count at Barnes Terrace seems a likely possibility. The servants there might know. I never thought to ask them. Boulot visited the count there, though. About a week ago. He would have had the lay of the place.” Morton realised that Townsend was gazing at him thoughtfully, while he was staring off into the void.
“The odd thing is that Boulot did not seem terribly keen to co-operate with the men I overheard. He finally gave them a man's name and then bade them leave him in peace.”
“Still, he knows who the men are, assisted them knowingly. Did they not say they would assassinate a man?”
“I heard the French word assassiner but little more.”
“Well, that is clear enough. They needed a boat, Boulot gave them a name, and the next morning the count is murdered by men who then escape by boat. Find Boulot. That will give you your answers.”
“Yes, it will, but at the moment all I have is a question: Where is Boulot?”
Two hours of sleep on the floorboards of a wherry was not nearly enough, and Morton felt the effects. His mind was sluggish, words slipping away just as he went to utter them. His brief discussion with Sir Nathaniel left him feeling chagrined-he had not come at all close to solving the murder of Angelique Desmarches, and now the Count d'Auvraye was dead as well. What made it worse was that he had heard the men planning the murder and had not realised it or managed to apprehend a single one of them.
Mistress and man both dead, and Morton did not know why.
Geoffrey Westcott arrived as Morton left the Magis-trate's presence. He looked red-faced, as though he had run all the way.
“Is this true?” the navy man blurted out before even uttering a greeting. “D'Auvraye is dead?”
“Yes, murdered, and if I'd been but a few minutes earlier, I might have prevented it.”
Westcott strode away a few paces, too agitated to be still. “Well, this will cause an uproar,” he said to no one in particular. He turned back to Morton. “And who do you think has done it?” he demanded, his tone a little accusatory.
“I was going to ask the same question of you.”
“Bonapartists,” Westcott said.
“That is the obvious answer,” Morton said.
“Meaning what, Mr. Morton?”
“I don't know.” Morton's exhausted brain could not find words for what was barely more than a vague uneasiness. “I suppose I distrust the obvious sometimes.”
Westcott stood looking at him for a moment, his face unreadable. “How will you proceed now?”
“I will interview the count's son and continue searching for Jean Boulot. There is also this man Berman on the quay, whom I overheard them speaking of at Paul's Court, when his friends visited Boulot. I have men out beating the riverbank looking for any man who goes by that name, and the River Police are offering their assistance.”
Westcott took a long breath and appeared to turn pale. “The King of France will be writing to the Prince Regent, Mr. Morton, and to the First Minister, lamenting the murder of his erstwhile ambassador. Louis will be demanding justice.”
“And we will deliver nothing less, Captain Westcott,” Morton said.
Westcott nodded, his face softening. “I'm sure you will. I have no doubt of it. I'm just amp;” He shifted his hat from beneath one arm to the other. “My superiors at the Admiralty will want to know how a man of d'Auvraye's importance could be assassinated here without my having wind of it.”
“And what will you tell them?” Morton wondered.
“I will tell them that it is a mystery we will quickly solve. And that the men who pursue these murderers are the finest in England. We can do no better.”
Morton offered a small bow to this compliment and went off to write a note to the coroner.
Turning from the comparatively quiet thoroughfare that was Bow Street, Henry Morton made his way into the redolent hubbub of Covent Garden, where London's busiest food market was in full cry. He himself was hungry to the point of distraction and decided to seek out some quick sustenance in one of the chop houses beyond. As he worked his way through the clamour of barking market folk and their teeming customers, a seemingly unsupported top hat emerged from the throng and appeared to hover about the Runner's waist.
“Oy! Oy!” The piping voice rose shrilly over the racket. “Remember Wil?”
“I never forget a hat,” Morton said, stopping to gaze down at the freckled, gap-toothed urchin. “And what brings young Wil to my eye today?”
“I've summat for ye!”
But it was clearly too loud, and too public, to talk here. Forsaking ceremony, the tall Runner bent and hoisted the child onto his shoulders. Skirting the barrows and bulling through the crowd, he found them some sanctuary in the stinky shadows of the portico on the north side of the Garden.
“That French cully was back sniffing around Maiden Lane!” Wil burst out, as soon as he had been set on his pins again. A couple of his confederates had somehow followed and now stood silently at his back, apparently in awe of his audacity.
“Boulot?”
“That's him. Came sniffing around his old doss house, but some 'un warned him off.”
Morton still had a man in Boulot's room. He cursed under his breath.
“No need for oaths, yer honour. We followed him, didn't we, lads?” His silent followers nodded enthusiastically.
“Followed him where?”
“To a snoozing ken!”
Morton was a little surprised to hear Boulot would go to a brothel. Not that such an establishment wouldn't make a good place to hide, but he wondered how Boulot could afford the fare.
“And where might this snoozing ken be?”
“It's by t
hat slap-bang shop on Oxendon Street.”
“Mrs. Mott's?” Morton said, incredulous.
“Aye, that's she.”
Morton fished some coins from his pocket. “If this turns out to be true, my friend William, you shall have greater reward than this.” He dropped the coins into the boy's small hand.
Morton looked once longingly in the direction of the chop houses, ignored the growling of his stomach, and set off toward Long Acre to find a hackney-coach.
CHAPTER 20
Alittle to his shame, Henry Morton had once been to Mrs. Mott's in Oxendon Street himself. It was some years past, and he had been under the influence of a certain curiosity, a dark impulse, and rather too much brandy, in about that order. And even then the thing was perhaps aided a bit by proximity, as Mrs. Mott's establishment was but a block away from Morton's own lodgings in Rupert Street. A longer journey, and he might have turned back before he'd got there, if only on consideration of expense.
Mrs. Mott's was not quite an ordinary house of entertainment. It was not aimed at any well-defined taste. In fact, it was a place whose reputation was all in its ability to surprise, in its sometimes exotic and always shifting bill of fare. It was discreet, of course, and folk could merely rent a chamber for whatever purpose they contemplated. But for the initially unattached, it was a place where one might hope to encounter… well, not the usual sorts of choices. An equally curious, darkly influenced female adventurer, of one's own or a better class, likewise experimenting? Or, if not quite so singular a thing, perhaps a stranded traveller from some foreign shore, genteel, but far from the judging eyes of her native land and needing a smallish sum to tide herself over or buy her passage home? Or at the very least, an actress and dancer languishing a little between engagements, perhaps just arrived in town and of as-yet-underappreciated talents. At any rate, whoever it was, she would be new. It was one of Mrs. Mott's principles (if such a word applied) never to allow her house to become a habitual recourse for any female visitor. A week was the utmost limit of her stay, so a man could be sure never to see the same face twice, unless it were Mrs. Mott's own. That man, though, was of course himself very welcome to come back as oft as he pleased. And pay high for the privilege.
Morton descended from his hired coach, paid the driver, and stood staring a moment at Mrs. Mott's. It appeared to be but another house on this obscure street. The home of a minor barrister, perhaps. Morton walked a few paces down and found the second address he was seeking-or at least the door to it, which was hidden down a few stone steps. A slap-bang shop was commonly an establishment where no credit was given. Cash had to be paid down, slap-bang on the counter. But in the cant of thieves, the name applied to a thieves' cellar-a place where stolen goods were bought, sold, or traded. No credit was offered there, either.
Certain thieves' cellars had their usual patrons, as did Mrs. Mott's no doubt, and a few were by so frequently that Morton was confident he could find one to help. The local flash men all knew Mrs. Mott, and though they might not have the finances to afford her wares, they “procured” things for her as needed, so a warm little friendship grew up between the local thieves and the brothel matron.
Morton waited about for half of the hour, his stomach grumbling of its need for food, his head bemoaning its lack of sleep. And then an angler he recognised appeared on the street, a sack over his shoulder. Morton stepped behind a slow-moving cart and, when he judged his position right, set off across the thoroughfare to nab this unwary angler from behind.
“Well, well. Aberdeen Sumner Fox. And what have you caught today?”
The youth cringed away in surprise, collapsing against the wall of a house as he staggered back from the Runner. The look of utter shock and consternation was immediately replaced by one of defeat and anguish. The young man, barely more than a boy, cursed under his breath and looked as though he might weep.
Morton stared at him a moment, his hand keeping a strong grip on the boy's jacket. Anglers used a hooked stick to steal goods from shop windows and from between gratings. As London's criminal classes went, they were of a lower order-small fish, so to speak-but they had a quality that Morton had to admire: They were almost invisible, even in the smallest gathering. The angler was the man whose face you would never recall. But Henry Morton was possessed of almost perfect memory, and criminals of all stripes were his business in more ways than people realised. And he was about to transact a piece of business with this dismayed young man.
“Have you mackerel in there? I ask myself. Or oysters, maybe?” Morton sniffed the air. “No, doesn't smell like either of those. Doesn't smell like fish at all. You know what I think you have in there? A stay in Newgate Prison-if you're lucky. If the magistrate thinks what you have is worth more than forty pounds-well then, it's a hemp necktie.”
“It's nothing, Mr. Morton, sir,” the young man said, overcoming his initial distress. “Hardly worth a pound. And I found it on the street. Fell off a wagon, I judge.”
Morton gave the man a shake, banging him roughly against the wall. “Do the flash men tell you that Henry Morton's a fool?”
“No, Mr. Morton, they don't say that.”
Morton eased his hold on Fox, though not enough that he might twist away. For a moment the Runner regarded the sandy-haired youth, perhaps eighteen years old. He was slight and quick, his features almost unnaturally regular-neither handsome nor plain. His cap had fallen off, and Morton noted his hair was already thinning.
“I'll tell you what, young Mr. Fox. If you can offer me a little of what I need to know, I might be induced not to look into your sack at all.”
The youth glanced up at him, measuring, wondering if he was being lied to. But Morton had a reputation for keeping his word. He only hoped news of it had reached this young man's ears.
“I don't know much, Mr. Morton, and that's the truth.”
“I don't want to know anything about your thieving friends, if that's your worry.” Morton motioned with his head. “The snoozing ken down the street.”
“Mrs. Mott's?”
“Yes, Mott's. Is it not said that you spend a bit of time there?”
“It's a bit rich for the likes of me,” the boy said.
Morton tightened his grip.
“But I know one of the maids.”
“Good. We need have a little talk with her.”
Morton escorted the young man along the street, the afternoon sun glancing off high windowpanes and throwing rectangles of light down onto the uneven cobbles. Morton, who'd been poisoned with religion when a child and would not partake of this unguent now, wondered if some higher power cast these little patches of divine light down on the city of London. Perhaps he and this petty thief with the ridiculous name could walk through one and achieve a state of grace. But it did not seem to be so. It was nothing but the reflected glory of some greater power, and when Morton and Fox had passed through, the Runner felt unchanged, no more charitable or at peace with the world.
They took the steps down to the cellar door and rang. A moment later a man's face appeared. Morton kept back, out of the man's line of sight.
“Mr. Fox!” the man said. “And what have you for us today?”
“Nothing, nothing. I only wonder if Katie's in, is all.”
“Well, she's a busy girl, you know.”
“I know. It is most important that I see her.”
“I'll tell her, but you mustn't expect her to come running down.”
Fox nodded.
Morton must have underestimated the attractions of Aberdeen Sumner Fox, for the maid Katie appeared a few moments later, and to the Runner's surprise, she was a maid-that is to say, a servant.
“Aberdeen Fox,” she said. “I thought you'd forgotten my name.”
“Not at all, Katie lass. Not at all.” He looked nervously back at Morton, whom the girl could not see.
“I'm in a bit of trouble,” the thief blurted out.
The girl noticed his gaze flicking back up the steps and chanced
a look out from the door. She dodged back in and would have slammed the door, but Morton was quick enough to get his baton in the opening.
Morton had hold of the girl now and pulled her outside onto the narrow landing at the stair's foot before she could scream.
“You've nothing to fear from me,” Morton said soothingly. “I'm a Runner, it's true, but I've no cause to disturb our good Mrs. Mott or her fine establishment. I'm just looking for a man who's staying here. Frenchman named Boulot, though he might be calling himself something else. He's a bald cully with a raspberry stain on his pate. Do you know him?”
The frightened girl nodded. Morton released his hold of her.
“Just tell him what he wants,” Fox implored her. “I'm for Newgate otherwise.”
“He was here,” the young woman whispered. “But he's gone.”
“Where?”
She shook her head. “The priest might know.”
“What priest?”
“French priest, named Lafond, though we're not sup posed to know his real name. Your man visited him.”
“And where is the priest?”
Her eyes went upward, and she cocked her head a little.
“Inside?”
“Yes.”
“Can you take me to him?”
“No, I'd be seen. Mrs. Mott'll have for me as it is, talking to a horney about her patrons.”
“All right, Katie girl. You've done well. Well enough that I'm thinking of letting your friend here go free.”
“Thank you, sir,” she breathed.
But Morton had a last thought. “What name was Boulot using here, do you know?”
“No name. Mrs. Mott just called him the Frenchman. No, wait. I heard her call him the man from Malmaison. Does that sound right?”
“Indeed it does, I'm afraid.” He let the girl go, and she slipped back in the door, frightened and angry.
“She won't be speaking to Aberdeen Sumner Fox again,” the boy lamented.
“Let me have a look in your sack, Fox,” Morton said. He assured himself that the stolen property was of little value and not likely something that he would find an owner for, and sent the angler on his way.
