by T. F. Banks
For a few moments he paced up and down the street, considering what to do next. He was also trying to remember where he had heard the name Lafond before. He sifted through the conversations he'd had with Westcott to no avail, then tried to recall the details of his conversation with Marcel Houde. The chef had dropped so many names. But, yes! Jean-Baptiste Lafond. Abbe Lafond. A royalist connected to some secretive faction.
Morton decided that it was time to try the front door.
Morton was shown into Mrs. M.'s intimate first-floor salon, where the Lady Abbess herself sat at piquet, her tea things at her side, and her fellow players-all women- ranged a bit uneasily about her. Mrs. Mott, however, was very much at her ease, like any other woman of fashion at home to a select circle of her friends. Or almost like. A large woman, dressed in a low-cut gown in which her massive bosom was just a trifle more than modestly gleaming, she gave Morton a slightly harder look than many ladies might have bestowed upon a guest. He suspected that, like himself, Mrs. Mott never forgot a face.
Nonetheless she smiled toothily and bade the Runner welcome. What manner of… introduction might he be seeking?
“I will speak with a Frenchman named Jean-Baptiste
Lafond.”
Mrs. Mott did not seem pleased.
“Here is not the place for such capers,” she remarked bluntly. The anomalous women round the piquet table all frowned a little.
“You mistake me. I merely wish to speak to him, upon a private matter. But madame, permit me to say this much. I am from Bow Street, and while I expect you operate more or less within the bounds of the law here, I'm sure you recognise that there are ways I could make your life exceedingly difficult. Lafond is here. Do not trifle with me, as I can come back with a force. You know how your… reputation might suffer.”
Mrs. Mott's expression was now very sour.
“There are those as might be interested to know their fine Bow Street man 'as been an intimate of this house on past occasions,” she muttered darkly.
“One occasion. And you're welcome to tell anyone you can find to listen. But if you slander me, I'll have you before the Magistrate double quick. Now, is Monsieur Lafond here or not?”
A moment of hesitation. “I can enquire. He may or may not wish to be disturbed.”
“Do not enquire. I shall disturb either him or your entire clientele for some time-the choice is yours.”
Mrs. Mott glared at him for a moment but finally chose the lesser of evils and called for a servant. A little stick of a serving-girl was summoned and led Morton up the stairs.
Morton ascended silently, on steps heavily muffled with a rich Oriental carpet. At the top was a dim, sumptuous hallway, with sinumbra lamps in golden brackets. The first door on the left was ajar. Morton tapped on it. From within a muffled voice. “Who is it?”
“C'est moi,” Morton said in his best accent.
“Entrez” came the reply, and Morton went in.
It was a bedchamber, and in its centre stood a richly draped four-poster, with a green top valance and rich swags of silk curtaining. At a desk against the far wall, with his back to Morton, sat a man in black breeches and a loose linen shirt, bent over and apparently writing. The bed was in disorder, its pillows fallen to the floor and its coverlets swept aside down to the blue-grey sheets. Along their surface stretched the very white form of an unclothed woman.
She was reclining on her side with her face toward Morton, leaning on one elbow and watching him with blank eyes. As he quietly closed the door behind him, he took her in. She seemed almost without hair-on her head, it was drawn back so tightly as hardly to be visible, between her thighs the merest wisp-which made her that much more starkly, somehow embarrassingly naked. Her face was sharp and almost masculine, and her long shape was boyish too, chest just dimpled with small pointed breasts, jutting hip angular and gaunt. To Morton she seemed like a parody of an erotic painting, a bleached and bony odalisque, a meagre Venus striking the incongruous pose of the goddess of love. Her age was unguessable but not young, and the empty gaze with which she met his regard was quite without shame, or self-consciousness, or human response of any kind. Above one breast an ugly blue half-circle showed in stark relief.
Without turning, the man in the chair said, “Alors, tu as decide. C'est assez tard. Mais”-and here he sighed with impatience-“mais il faut prendre un navire, ou un autre. Il faut choisir.”
Morton did not reply but stood just inside the door with folded arms. Except for the bed and its nude, the chamber was very orderly, almost prim. The man's buckled shoes were arranged neatly together beside the unlit fireplace, and Morton noticed his black frock coat hung very precisely over the other chair in the corner.
The priest made a final stroke and set his pen down, blotted his work briefly, and turned, still speaking.
“Bon. Maintenant-”
And then he stopped, seeing Morton.
“Now?” softly asked Morton.
The other stared at him, his face set but showing no particular alarm. Jean-Baptiste Lafond's face was triangular, his broad white brow narrowing through high cheekbones to a small, almost lipless mouth and a sharp, closely shaven chin. His head was tonsured, and he wore small round golden-framed spectacles. They stared at each other a long moment, before Morton spoke.
“Henry Morton, of Bow Street. Monsieur Lafond?”
“Abbe Lafond, yes.”
“Ah, Father Lafond,” murmured Morton, and his eye could not help another brief, sardonic glance to the naked woman.
A flicker of irritation crossed the Frenchman's face- not embarrassment-and without turning he made a curt gesture to her with his hand, motioning toward the door. The woman obediently swung her bare feet over and sat up. She rose stiffly, as if weary, and bent slowly to gather up the articles of feminine dress that were scattered on the floor amongst the bedclothes. As the two men waited in silence, she began to transform herself. A filmy undershift she arranged slowly, then pulled it over her head and drew it down over her nakedness, rather awkwardly. Then a silk pelisse and belt, sandal shoes, and a neck scarf, and the whore began slowly but certainly to disappear, to be replaced by the woman of fashion, a hard-featured but well-bred Englishwoman, a little past her prime, Morton could now see, perhaps five and forty even, a bit brittle but refined, erect. Now from the side cabinet she took up her discarded ornaments, slipped rings onto her fingers, and over her flat breast draped a thin silver chain, from which depended a small silver cross. Fully clad, transformed, she turned toward Lafond, head bent. He extended his ring-hand. She curtsied and bowed to kiss it, without ever raising her eyes to him. As she limped toward Morton, he stepped aside. The sourness of her sweated body, and the odour of venery, faint but unmistakable, touched his nostrils as she passed him.
When she was gone, he pulled the door closed again and turned back to Lafond, repugnance and suspicion stirring within him.
“What is it you want, Mr. Morton?”
Morton frowned. “Your countryman, the Count d'Auvraye, is dead, as is his mistress, and Jean Boulot is suspected of aiding the murderers. Boulot recently visited you, and I wish to know why.”
The priest tilted his sharp chin very slightly downward, causing the lens of his spectacles to glint for a moment and deny Morton the sight of his eyes. But it was only a moment, and then Lafond was once again meeting his gaze steadily.
“Is everyone who has had speech with Jean Boulot a suspect, then?”
“No, but you are affiliated with the Chevaliers de la Foi, who have resorted to violence and murder in the past.”
“Who told you this?”
“It is my job to know these things.”
“The Comte d'Auvraye was a royalist. I am a royalist. We had common cause.”
To Morton as well, the royalists would seem to have common cause, but both Westcott and Houde had said they fought amongst themselves, sometimes violently. “But you are an ally of the Count d'Artois, whose brother, Louis, ascended the throne. Louis
's faction won.”
“God will set the right man upon the throne of France. You need not fear.”
“So you are not such an ally of the Count d'Auvraye after all.”
“Nor am I enough of an enemy to have him killed.”
Morton tapped his baton in the palm of his hand.
“Why did Boulot visit you?”
“Jean Boulot has been a traitor to his God and to his king,” Lafond replied tonelessly. “But it came to my attention that he was wishing to repent his sinful folly and make amends. Had he done so-made proper penance and bent his will to divine instruction-I might have been prepared to take steps toward his reinstatement as a French subject and as a Christian.”
Morton wondered how he could not have seen this before. “He came to you after the Count d'Auvraye had refused him. Why?”
“D'Auvraye was utterly without influence in court.”
“Or in heaven, no doubt, unlike yourself.”
“Why are you here, sir? Is someone attempting to attribute these murders to me?”
“Or to your faction, les Chevaliers.”
Lafond swore, shaking his head in disgust. “Let me be very plain with you, Mr. Morton. The brotherhood you have just named is a friend to your government. We have done much to assist your government during the recent wars. Our activities have always been confined to France-”
“Then what are you doing in England, Father?” Morton's eyes glanced toward the now-deserted bed. “Sight-seeing?”
The man stared at him defiantly. “Yes, that is what I do.”
“I think you are in England because Bonaparte is here. What else could draw you away from France at this critical time?”
The priest removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses on his shirttail. “It is our hope that your government will not fail us in the matter of the Corsican.”
Yet another Frenchman hoping to influence British policy. But would he kill d'Auvraye over this? Only if the count had been recommending leniency in Bona-parte's case, and Morton could hardly imagine that was true.
“Why did you ask ‘upon which ship will you sail’? Is Jean Boulot about to embark for France?”
“What Monsieur Boulot does is of no concern to me.”
“Did you know the late Madame Desmarches and the count?”
“A whore and a fool, Mr. Morton. Why would I associate with such people?”
“You are in a brothel, Father, in case you did not know.”
“Beware whom you judge, monsieur,” said the priest evenly. “My master and my purposes are greater than you comprehend.”
“You serve them in curious ways,” observed Morton. “Do you know a man named Gilles Niceron?”
Father Lafond, still sitting in his chair, bent his head in thought again for a moment. “This name…is familiar. But it is… from some time past. He was amongst the enemies of God and our king.”
“If the Chevaliers de la Foi did not murder the Count d'Auvraye or Madame Desmarches, who might have done such things?”
“I don't know. Finding them is your duty, not mine. I suggest you do it.”
Morton eyed Lafond for a moment. And then on an angry impulse, he asked, “Do you hurt women in the service of your king, Father Lafond, or only for your own private purposes?”
Lafond for a moment said nothing and seemed almost to drop into a reverie. “I do not feel a need to answer any further questions.”
“Perhaps you don't. But Angelique Desmarches was tortured before she was murdered, Father Lafond, and that makes you, a man with your vices, a suspect in her murder. In a court of law you will answer all my questions, and no English judge will care that you are a priest. They will grant you no earthly immunity. Good day, monsieur.”
CHAPTER 21
You could almost feel it at a distance,” Arabella said. “The power of the man was-well, it made my head swim a little, though I hope you won't repeat that,” she said to Amelie De le C?ur. The two women were drinking tea in the boudoir of Arabella's town house on Theobald's Road. Swatches of fabric lay all about them, as though they took their leisure upon a rainbow.
“That is what others have said,” Amelie agreed. “That he has a magnetism, a greatness that cannot be denied.”
“Everyone felt it, in all the boats. We even raised a cheer, spontaneously.”
Amelie clasped her hands together in rapture. “Ah, madame!”
“Oh, I'm glad to find another who feels as I do,” Arabella said confidentially. “What the English government is doing to him amp;” She shook her head. “I don't mind telling you that whenever I find myself in the company of anyone of influence, and of course they all come to the theatre, I tell them that justice is paramount. We must not cast our own laws aside. If the emperor cannot be brought before an English court, then he is innocent and must be released. I suppose I've had no influence at all, but I cannot help but speak out.”
Amelie nodded, eyes aglitter. She glanced reverently over at the picture of Napoleon that Arabella had purchased and hung on her wall that very morning. The sunlight streamed in the tall windows and washed over the room, illuminating the image of the now-fallen hero. It was a copy of the celebrated portrait of Bonaparte on the battlefield of Eylau by Baron Gros, and showed the emperor on horseback, gesturing as a follower kissed his boot and dying soldiers lay all about, some of them raising faltering hands toward him, like Lazarus reaching out to Jesus. Actually, it was a wretched daub, even from the point of view of technique, but Arabella was trusting that young Amelie wouldn't know the difference. Or care.
“I wish I had been with you!” said the dressmaker's daughter. “My mama made gowns for Josephine. Did you know?”
“I did not. Did she ever meet…?”
Amelie leaned a little closer. “Once, yes. The emperor came into Josephine's salon at Malmaison-well, he was not yet the emperor-and they spoke for a time with my mama present. He nodded to her as he left. She was amp;” There did not seem to be a word in either French or English that could describe what she was, but the near rapture upon the young woman's face was enough. Finally Amelie gave up the search and shrugged. “She has never forgotten.”
“I would imagine not!” Arabella said. “Would you not do anything to free him now?”
“Anything,” the younger woman agreed.
Arabella reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Does it not offend you to see these royalist women, these arrogant, empty-headed cows, traipsing back to France as though they have conquered? As though the natural order has been restored!”
“It is very difficult, yes, but…”
Arabella said nothing, only raising her eyebrows and nodding a little in encouragement.
Amelie's gaze fell away. “But look at the hour! I must be off.” The young woman rose to her feet.
“When you find a fellow spirit amp;” Arabella offered as she stood, but Amelie only smiled. In a few moments she and her servant had bustled out the door.
“Well,” Arabella said to the empty room. The dress-maker's daughter had slipped out before Arabella could ask her question-not that she really felt she needed to now. It was all perfectly obvious to her. She crossed to the small desk and began writing a note to Henry Morton.
Christabel came in to clear away the tea service.
“Christabel?”
“Ma'am?”
“Tell me, why would a woman who made gowns for Josephine, and is an admirer of Napoleon, come to London and claim to be a staunch royalist, making gowns for the wives of all the prominent royalists-the people who have opposed Bonaparte from the beginning?”
“I don't know, ma'am. Why?”
“Because she is a spy, Christabel. She has been spying on Bonaparte's enemies here in England and is no doubt hoping that no one will ever learn the truth. I wonder what these foolish royalist women have been telling her? And all through the war she has had her French fabrics and lace-carried to England by the smugglers. Mr. Morton's friend Boulot is known to
her, and he was a smuggler or a dealer in their wares. Who better to carry the things she learns back to France than a smuggler? And she was acquainted with Madame Desmarches, who was the mistress of the Count d'Auvraye. Too many coincidences. She is a spy, and perhaps her daughter is, too.”
Cristobal looked pensive, her pretty brow wrinkled in thought. “Who is Boulot, ma'am?”
“Never mind.”
Christabel turned to take her tea tray out.
“Christabel?”
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Would you take that bloody painting off the wall?”
“With pleasure, ma'am.”
CHAPTER 22
News of the death of the Count d'Auvraye must have reached Spanish Place by midmorning, but when Morton arrived in the late afternoon, the house seemed strangely untroubled, with no obvious signs of disorder or upset. A footman in mourning ribbons showed him silently into the same white and gold retiring room in which he had waited two days before. This time it also held John Townsend, who was quietly smoking and reading a copy of the Times.
“Ah, Morton, here you are. Good, good.” He tapped his paper before folding it. “Still no decision about Bonaparte. The cabinet in constant session, and the city in a turmoil. And now this Scotsman trying to get him ashore with legal stratagems! It is like a farce. Should he succeed, it appears His Majesty's government would be on very shaky legal ground indeed, as far as holding or charging him goes. Strange days, are they not?”
Morton nodded, then gestured upward, toward the private part of the house. “Have you spoken to them yet?”
“No, but we are promised an interview with the son, Monsieur Eustache.”
“I presume he has taken the title and is the Count d'Auvraye now.”
“ 'Tis so,” muttered the old man. Townsend's mood had grown more subdued since one murder had become three. “At any rate, he wanted to wait until you came, that he might hear directly about matters in Barnes.”
