by T. F. Banks
The Runner retreated out onto the street and wondered a moment. Houde was responsible in the extreme- to desert his post would be so out of character that Morton would have bet considerable sums against it.
“Marcel, my friend,” he whispered, “what is it you do?”
CHAPTER 23
Morton made his way back to the Magistrate's Court at number 4 Bow Street, where he found two notes. First, from Arabella:
Dear Henry: Here is some news that I think will cheer you. Madame De le C?ur and her daughter are unquestionably great admirers of that short
man I saw in Plymouth Harbour but a few days ago. Do you think they could have been using their access to the wives of both the
royalists and London's powerful to gather information for the Corsican? And did you not say that this Frenchman (Bol-something) was
smuggling French goods, such as French lace and fabrics, things the De le C?urs possess in quantity? You are invited to Portman House after the
theatre, where I expect to be suitably rewarded for my efforts.
Love, Arabella
Morton sat down heavily upon a bench. His head swam from lack of food and rest. Were the dressmakers spying for the French-or more specifically, for Bonaparte? Had they learned something from Madame Desmarches that had led to her torture and death?
The second note was brief: Westcott asking if Morton could meet him at White's that evening. His belly empty and mood sour, Morton scribbled a note and had it delivered to White's saying that he would be at the Golden Apple in the Strand. There he hoped to fill the void in his stomach and find some fellow Bow Street men with whom to commiserate.
As it turned out, Presley was happily ensconced at a corner table, nursing a mug and watching a gang of bitter midshipmen-all without futures in the navy now- get foully drunk.
“Morton!” the young Runner said, his great ham of a face lighting with a smile, a smile that quickly disappeared. “What's happened?”
“I have not eaten since we broke our fast this morning, and I am as confused as I have ever been in my days at Bow Street.”
Presley looked sympathetic. “Well, I was hoping you might explain all these doings to me.”
Morton waved down a servant and called for bread and a rasher of bacon. They had some pork pie, too, so he took that, a cherry tart, and a mug of cider to wash it all down.
When the servant left, Presley leaned forward and said, “The young count had Henshawe dismissed earlier this day-the stableman I talked to.”
Morton tried to fight off weariness. This day? Could this really still be the same day that had begun with himself and Presley on the river? He considered closing his eyes and having a brief sleep while he awaited his meal.
But instead he asked Presley, “Henshawe knew about the old count's death?”
“Oh, aye. Seems just after the news came, the young count had Rolles make him walk the carpet, then sent him on his way.”
“Curious. It would not be many men's first reaction to hearing of the death of their father.”
“Aye, well, Henshawe says if he hadn't talked to me, he might have been all right.”
“I thought the two of you met somewhere out of sight.”
“So we did, but not out of sight enough, seems. That Henshawe's a bit of a clever cove. He's not a man I much take to, but I will say for him, he's sharper than a saw. Serving in the d'Auvraye house, he's managed to gather up enough threads and scraps of their parleevous to patch it a bit. But they never knew it. So when Rolles gives him his wages, just as he's turning away, he mutters to himself, in their lingo, ‘Tell that to the English. ’ ” Presley drained his mug of beer. “That's what Henshawe took from it, anyway.”
Morton frowned. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“The day the old count went up to Barnes, he and his son had a row. 'Twas heard all over the house.”
Morton's tired brain tried to keep it straight. This must have happened the day he and Presley paid their first visit to Spanish Place. “What was their dispute?”
Presley gave a grunt of laughter. “Appears Hen-shawe's French is not so fine as all that. He couldn't say. Apparently 'tweren't so strange for them to quarrel, although never so badly as this, from the sound of it. He thinks maybe they were arguing about his mistress.”
Morton's food began to arrive, and he ate and drank as he listened.
“What I don't understand,” Presley went on, “is why the son would care. Henshawe told me all these Frenchy swells is like that, having their madge on the side, it being their privilege, as they think. Well, English lords, too, for that matter.”
Morton grimaced slightly. This last was hardly a proposition he was in a position to dispute. Of course, his young colleague knew nothing of Morton's own parentage or of his current domestic arrangements.
The bacon dealt with, Morton tucked hungrily into his pork pie. A tall naval officer entered the smoky room, and Morton realised it was Westcott. The man walked past the table of midshipmen, who all stood to acknowledge a superior officer. After that, their drunken banter fell quiet.
“Ah, Morton, there you are,” Westcott said.
“Do you know Mr. Presley?”
The navy man shook hands with Presley and sat down, calling for a glass of wine. He regarded Morton for a moment, his manner rather grim.
“I must tell you, d'Auvraye's murder has caused something of a row in the halls of government. Have you learned anything more of it?”
Morton took a pull of his cider and shook his head. “The count's son and his secretary were not terribly helpful, other than to say it was the Bonapartists, of whom they have already given me a list. The finer points of law seem to elude them. Even if we could find these men, we would still have to have some proof that they committed the crimes. Being on a list is not a crime in this country.”
Westcott rubbed an eye delicately, as though he were as tired as Morton.
“What do you know of Jean-Baptiste Lafond?” Morton asked the seaman.
Westcott stopped rubbing his eye and made an empty gesture with his hands. “Lafond is a tool of the Count d'Artois, the brother of King Louis. They worked secretly against Bonaparte all these long years and had a formidable league in France. Lafond himself is a bit of a mystery. Not many have met him. He was in England briefly years ago but has not been seen in some time.”
“I spoke with him this afternoon.”
Westcott sat back in his chair, a smile of admiration appearing as he regarded Morton. “Well, I don't know why I'm telling you anything. Lafond is here, in London?”
Morton continued to eat, too hungry to worry about manners. “Yes, and I'm wondering why. The only possible answer I can find is that Bonaparte is in England. Do you think that Bonaparte could be shot from a small boat as he takes his daily turn on the deck of His Majesty's ship Bellerophon?”
This brought Westcott up short. He took a sip of his wine, considering.
“Well, I suppose it is possible-these rifled barrels are much more accurate. But even if someone did manage it, he would never get away. The press about the ship is great, and small boats are locked in. There would be no escape. And the assassin would have to be quick, or someone nearby would stop him before he took aim.”
“But if someone did not care what happened to him? If he did not care that he was caught or killed or hung, then it could be done?”
“Possibly, yes. Do you know of such a plot?”
“No, but Lafond is not in England to take the waters. D'Auvraye, a prominent royalist, is murdered, as is his mistress. Jean Boulot, a French national once known to have been an admirer of Bonaparte, seems to have had something to do with at least one of these murders if not both. I can think of no other explanation than the royalists are plotting to kill Bonaparte, and the Corsican's supporters are trying to stop them. You should alert the Admiralty to this.”
“You know, Morton, the royalists are something of a speciality of mine. I've worked with them in ma
ny capacities for much of my time in the service. They have been our allies throughout the war. Are you now suggesting that they've become our enemies?”
“Mr. Morton, sir?”
Morton looked up to find one of the boys who cleared the tables and swept the floors standing respectfully at his elbow.
“A wee squib of a boy in a ruined topper is asking for you at the door. He won't tell me his name.”
Morton lifted his mug and indelicately gulped down some cider, then rose. “Excuse me a moment.”
Outside the door he looked around in the dim street.
“Mr. Morton?” came a small voice.
“Wil?”
The child emerged from a shadow, somehow not his brazen self. And where were his gaggle of followers?
Morton crouched down. “What brings you here at such an hour?”
“A man at Bow Street said you might be here.”
The boy came a little closer, and in the light from the Golden Apple, Morton saw the shadowy pool of bruise around his eye, and his lip was swollen and split.
“What's happened to you, lad?”
“Some of the flash men found out I'd been taking dust from a horney,” he said quietly, his manner subdued, “and this bandy dubber and a lumper give me a drubbing. I told them it was just the Frenchies I was peaching on, but they was half-seas-over and didn't listen. You mightn't come around Maiden Lane looking for me, Mr. Morton. I'll come to you, if you don't mind, sir.”
“Step into the light, Wil. Let me look at you. Can you see out of that eye?”
“Well enough, sir. Well enough to know those two bastards who did me over. I shan't be a minikin all me life. They should have thought of that.”
Poor child, Morton thought. He would always be small, like so many children of poverty in this city.
Unsure of what to do, Morton reached into a pocket and took out some silver, feeling low and mean as he did so. The boy closed his fingers around the coins, which shone dully in the poor light.
“Thank ye, Mr. Morton,” the boy said softly.
“Don't thank me, Wil. It was your association with me that gained you the drubbing.”
“I've had worse for less,” the boy said. “But I'm forgetting, Mr. Morton. I'm forgetting why I've come for you. I've found your Frenchy again! The cully with the raspberry pate!”
“Boulot? Where?”
“Cheapside, sir! Not so far off, not so far. At the White Bear, sir, there in Basing'all Street. He come prowling back round his old doss house-he's a friend there seems he was trying to touch for money. And I followed him again.”
“Well done!” Morton reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “You keep away from these flash men, Wil. Can't have anyone as valuable as you getting beaten. Now you be off, and keep that silver out of sight!”
Morton retreated inside to find Presley and Westcott and tell them his news. Westcott had his coach, it turned out, and he hurried off to bring it round while Morton tried to swallow a few more mouthfuls of his now-cold pie. A few moments later the officer drew up before the Golden Apple, himself up in the driver's bench, four in hand.
“What's become of your driver?”
“I've just sent him off with regrets to friends. I shan't be meeting them for supper as I'd hoped this evening.”
Morton climbed up on the bench beside him, leaving Presley to ride in state.
“Should we be rushing into this unarmed, do you think?” asked Westcott, as he snapped his whip and put the vehicle in motion. “I could swing us round to the Admiralty and fetch a cutlass or my carriage pistols.”
Morton considered. “Yes, I agree,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the clatter of hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the cobbles. “We should not go unprepared, this time. Who knows who else might be there? And if Boulot was involved in the murder of d'Auvraye, he will not likely come peaceably. But the Admiralty is too far. Take a turn by Bow Street, if you will.”
CHAPTER 24
Arabella gazed at her face in the looking-glass. Makeup would be the ruin of her complexion. It dried her skin terribly, the putting it on, then washing it off. “I shall look seventy at thirty-five,” she lamented to her reflection.
A soft knock on her dressing-cabinet door interrupted her lamentation. She was annoyed, but then it occurred to her it might be Morton.
“Yes?” she sang out.
“Mrs. Malibrant, a young woman to see you.”
Arabella looked at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Some nights she was simply too exhausted at the end of a performance.
A whispering outside her door.
“Mrs. Malibrant? The young woman's name is Miss Honoria d'Auvraye, and she assures me she is here on a matter of utmost importance.”
Arabella rose immediately and swept open the door. A young woman stood there accompanied by a man who worked for the theatre. She was dressed entirely in black.
“My apologies, Mrs. Malibrant,” the woman said without trace of accent. “I am Honoria d'Auvraye. May I have a moment of your time?”
“Yes, by all means. Please come in.”
The space was small, hardly room for Arabella to apply her makeup and dress. Costumes hung on the wall or were spread over a miniature divan provided for the star to rest upon when not needed on the stage. Arabella swept up the costumes.
“Please-”
“I cannot,” the young woman said. “I am on my way to church for midnight mass. It was with great difficulty that I arranged this meeting.”
Beneath her hat and veil Arabella could see a handsome young woman, dark-eyed, full-mouthed. She was glad Henry was not here.
“Among your acquaintances you count Mr. Morton, the Bow Street Runner?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have something for him,” she said, reaching into a small reticule, from which she withdrew a folded sheet of paper.
“I removed this letter from my father's study. It has caused a great deal of trouble. A man brought it to my father, the Count d'Auvraye, a few nights before he was killed.” She crossed herself, her eyes pressing closed for just an instant. “Please give it to Mr. Morton.”
Honoria turned to go, her black-gloved hand coming to rest on the door handle.
“But have you nothing more to say?” Arabella said. “Do you know who killed your father?”
The young woman leaned her cheek against the door for a second as she pulled it open. “I-I hope I do not know, madame,” she said.
“Mrs. M.?” came a familiar voice from beyond.
Honoria nodded to Arabella and swept out past a surprised Arthur Darley.
“Do you need a few more minutes?” Darley began, but then regarded her strangely. “Has something distressed you, my dear?”
“I don't quite know. Come in, please.” She reached out and drew the nobleman into her small chamber. “That was a daughter of the Count d'Auvraye. She left me this letter, saying Henry must have it.” Arabella unfolded the letter, holding it up to the light. She lowered herself to the chair before the mirror, and Darley sat upon the divan, where he read over her shoulder.
“It is signed by Fouche!” Darley said.
“That I can see. But who is he again?”
“The man who forced Bonaparte to abdicate and smoothed the way for the Bourbons to return. The great survivor. It was Fouche who brought down Robespierre. He has served as head of the secret police to every French government since: Republican, Bonaparte, Bourbon. It does not matter. They are all too afraid of him to do him harm. It is said of Fouche, if he were stranded alone on a desert island, he would form a conspiracy against the sand.”
Arabella puzzled over the French a moment. “I don't understand. What does it say, exactly?”
Darley took a corner of the paper, angling it a little his way. “It's a bit ambiguous, but essentially:
My dear Comte d'Auvraye: Events move very quickly now, and we must not hesitate or they will sweep beyond our control. The
/> government of England must not be allowed to falter or to permit their own petty notions of justice to stop
them from doing what is right. Bonaparte must be sent off to some remote station and as quickly as
possible. The longer he remains on a ship in an English harbour, the more likely it is that legal
arguments will allow him to escape true justice.
Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote
place with his suite of followers. Do not fail in this. History will judge us harshly.
Fouche
“It hardly seems momentous,” Arabella said, wondering why it was so important that this reach Morton.
“No,” Darley said, taking it from her and examining it closely, “but there is a great deal written between the lines; most importantly this last: ‘Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote place with his suite of followers. ’ ”
“They've arranged his murder,” Arabella said.
Darley looked very grave and troubled. “It is certainly the interpretation that I would choose.”
Arabella leaned closer to Darley so that their shoulders touched and their heads came gently together. She stabbed a finger at the paper. “But this was not written by Fouche,” she pronounced. “It is the hand of a woman-look.”
Darley turned the paper so that it caught the light. “It is rather elegant and feminine, I must agree.” Darley turned the letter over. “And it has no sealing wax. It is a copy.”
“A copy made by a woman amp;” Arabella said, the realisation dawning. “And not young Honoria, for she says she snatched it from her father's desk. The woman must be Angelique Desmarches. That is why Honoria wants Henry to see it. She doesn't care about what happens to Bonaparte. She wants her father's murderer found. That man Boulot brought this to d'Auvraye, I will wager you anything. Boulot came by it somehow and carried it to d'Auvraye to prove that the mistress was spying on him. And the mistress was a friend of the De le Coeurs, who are almost certainly spies for Bonaparte.”
