by T. F. Banks
And Berman was off, scrambling across the raft of boats, jumping from gunwale to stem, his boots clattering on the wood. Boatmen made way for him, even offered hands for balance. The coxswain nudged the bow up to the stern of a larger craft, and Morton grabbed the rail and scrambled over, Jimmy right behind. The men and women in the little ship made no effort to ease his passing, and around about men began to jeer and curse the “bloody horneys!”
Morton pushed through the crowd and climbed quickly down the side, his foot finding the gunwale of a small boat that rocked dangerously beneath his weight. He could see Berman, fifty feet ahead now and moving nimbly over the boats. If he opened the gap to a hundred feet, he'd be lost in the fog, and then one of his fisherman friends might carry him ashore.
Presley came clumsily down the side, almost pitching Morton into the water as he landed heavily on the boat. The occupants were all thrown to one side and squealed with fright. Unlike Morton, most people could not swim and had a terrible fear of drowning.
Morton leapt to the next boat and was about to step over a small gap of water when someone grabbed his coattail, throwing off his already precarious balance. One foot went into the water, and Morton fell forward into the next boat, which was packed with gawkers.
“I'll break your bleeding pate for that!” Presley roared, and the sheer volume and passion of his cry opened a path for Morton. He scrambled up and, pushing off men's shoulders, was across this boat and into the next. Leaping, he put one foot on a narrow stem and vaulted up the steep side of the lugger.
He pounded across the deck, the onlookers muttering imprecations. The Runner realised now that passing among the people was what slowed him, and he skirted the edges of boats so that he could step off the stern or the stem. He used the crowds of bodies as handholds, grabbing shoulders and heads, ignoring the curses and threats. Even so, Berman was almost lost in the fog. If he ducked down somewhere and no one gave him away, he'd be gone.
Vaulting over the heads of two small children, Morton landed on the stern of a boat, his foot slipping down onto the floorboards, his calf smarting from a long gouge. In an instant he was up, balancing along the stern, stepping awkwardly onto the next boat. Men tried to close ranks enough to slow him, forcing Morton to shove two men roughly aside.
“Drown the bastard!” someone called, and Morton was sure they didn't mean Berman.
He leapt onto the gunwale of an open boat. Only at the last second did he see the sweating faces of the men, the glazed eyes. As he tried to step across the boat, the smell of liquor engulfed him. The men to either side grabbed his legs, and Morton struggled to keep his balance, trying to fumble his baton out of its pocket.
Tumbling forward, Morton struck hard wood, and men piled on him, shouting drunkenly. He was struggling against unfair odds, in no position to strike out or even to push himself up.
A spatter of blood sprayed across the planks and frames by Morton's face, and the man who had taken to thumping him on the back fell limply away. Another was jerked roughly into the air, and Morton heard Jimmy Presley cursing loudly. The drunken men were falling back, trying to stay out of range of the young Runner's truncheon.
“I'll spill all your brains!” Presley was shouting. He threw another man bodily aside and pulled Morton up by his shoulder.
Not pausing to even look at his partner, Morton leapt into the next boat, his baton out now and his choler high. People took one look at him and shrank away.
Morton could just see Berman's dark blue jacket as he climbed over a crowd on the far edge of the circle of visibility. Morton's anger propelled him on, and he leapt and thrust his way forward, heedless of his own safety.
Berman's turn of luck came then. As he scrambled up the side of a big trawler, he managed to lose his handhold and fall into an opening between the boats. The sea washed out as he hit the surface, then rolled back over him. He was gone like a stone. People on the nearby boats stared down into the translucent green, dumbfounded, waiting, perhaps, for him to reappear-but he did not.
Morton peeled off his coat and boots as he came up to the water's edge. He dove into the cold water between the boats, hoping that there would still be an opening when he surfaced. The sea was shadowy from the boats overhead and the mist that blotted the sky. He could see the hapless Berman sinking slowly a few yards away. The man waved his arms ineffectively, but his boots were dragging him down.
Morton struck out and in a moment had hold of the man's collar. He broke for the surface, dragging the dead weight of the fisherman, kicking furiously as he felt the need for air overwhelm him. He broke the surface and pulled in a lungful of air. Jimmy Presley reached out a hand to him, and they soon had Berman laid out in a crowded boat. The man choked and coughed, spewing seawater like a ship's pump.
Jimmy helped Morton over the side, where he sat catching his breath, water running from his hair and clothing.
“Morton? Are you whole?”
“Aye, Jimmy,” Morton gasped. “Just need a minute to catch my breath.”
Westcott hailed them then, having brought the gig as close as he could. Morton raised a hand in response, ignoring the horrified stares of the people around him. Presley held Morton's still-dry coat, boots, and baton in one hand, their captive in the other.
“Have I still pistols in my pockets, Jimmy?” Morton asked.
Presley quickly felt the pockets of Morton's coat. “You have them yet.”
Morton turned to Berman. “Innocent men don't run,” he said, his breath rapidly returning.
“Here on the Devon coast we've lived in fear of the press gangs for twenty years and more.”
Morton stood, dripping, and took his boots, coat, and baton from Presley. “We're not the press gang, Berman. We're from Bow Street, and well you knew it. Bring him on, Jimmy.”
To much muttering and cursing from the crowd, they dragged the fisherman over the boats to the waiting gig and deposited him in the bow.
“You've no cause to be-” But Morton cut him off with a glare. The Runner was still angry at his treatment by the mob, and this fisherman had a healthy respect for angry men.
“Gervais is dead,” Morton said as the oarsmen set out into the fog and gathering dusk.
A startled Berman rocked back a little in his seat. “What's that?”
Morton was glad to see his guess was not wrong. “Gervais is dead. He was murdered by the men Boulot travels with-three royalists trying to pass themselves off as common Frenchmen. Where have you taken them?”
This unsettled the man, Morton could see. “And who are you, sir?” he asked.
“Henry Morton of Bow Street. But I'm not here to enquire into your activities, however illegal they might be. I'm chasing murderers. These Frenchmen with Boulot-did they carry firearms?”
The man did not answer.
“Demmit, man, those men are royalists and travelled here to kill a man. They likely intend to kill Jean Boulot, though he doesn't know it. You were seen taking Boulot and these others out in your boat. I have sworn witnesses. If they commit a murder, you will be tried for aiding them. A capital crime, man!”
Berman crossed his arms and stared at Morton a moment. “How do you know those men are royalists?”
“The young one is Eustache d'Auvraye, son of the late count. The small man was the old count's secretary, a man named Rolles. They brought Boulot with them against his will-at least so it was to begin. There is a fourth man, I believe, but of him I know nothing.” Morton could see the man was not swayed by Morton's claims. “I saw the body of Gervais last night. As terrible a scene as I have ever witnessed. He had been shot, and another hacked to death with an axe. The other dead man was unknown to me, but he had a wound on his arm, all bound up, that makes me believe he was one of the men who murdered the Count d'Auvraye.”
The fisherman had gone pale as a wave crest. “I-I know nothing of these men.”
Already they were lost in the fog. Morton knew they would get nothing from this man if they deliver
ed him to the local magistrate-nothing in time, anyway-but his anger had not yet ebbed.
“Take hold of him, Jimmy. We'll see how well he floats.”
Presley did not hesitate but grabbed Berman by the arm and the seat of his pants.
“I've broken no law!” Berman struggled against the two larger men. “You can charge me with no crime!”
They hefted him half over the gunwale, but paused there, his hair dangling in the water.
“Aiding and abetting murderers will gain you the same penalty as the killers themselves,” Morton said. “Have you ever seen a man hang before Newgate Prison, Berman? It's a lonely sight. A man's last moment on earth comforted only by the hangman and a minister who'll publish your ‘last confession’ for a few pounds.
“But if you aid us now, I will see you are no more than a witness, if such is needed. You can choose which side of the courtroom fence you'll stand on, Berman. Only tell us where you've taken Jean Boulot and these others. If you have any friendship for Boulot, you will tell us where they have gone, for these men are ruthless and are as like to kill him as not.”
Berman had stopped struggling, his face a few inches above the passing sea. Morton could sense that his words were sinking in-with the help of a little persuasion. Morton nodded to Jimmy, and they pulled the man back aboard, red-faced, and set him on the thwart.
“I give you my word this is no deception, Berman. I am not paid to chase down smugglers, as you must know. There will be a murder this night if we cannot stop it.”
“Whose murder?” the man asked softly.
“Boulot's, almost certainly,” Morton said. “Perhaps another.”
Berman's gaze turned out toward the sound, obscured still in fog. “Him?” he said quietly.
Morton did not answer but only stared at the man. Perhaps it was imagination, but he felt understanding passed between them.
The fisherman nodded. “I'll take you where I took Boulot.”
Morton looked up at Westcott, who'd been listening from the stern. The officer had a watch in his hand and thumbed open the cover.
“This gig must be returned,” Westcott said. “I've placed an officer in a bad situation, borrowing it as I have against all regulations.”
“I'll get us a boat,” Berman said, “if they'll take us to the quay. Boulot is a drunk, but once he was a worthy man-a friend.” Berman looked around as though he were afraid of being seen with the Runners. “ 'Tis almost night,” he said.
“Yes. Pray we are in time,” Morton answered.
The coxswain soon deposited them on the stone quay, and Berman led them quickly through the gathering gloom to a small open boat. They clambered down into it, the landsmen rocking it overly. Westcott surprised Morton by taking up the second set of oars-the blades hovered an instant in the air while he caught the smug-gler's rhythm, and then they dipped into the calm waters, propelling the vessel forward. Distant bells chimed the hour of ten. Night would wash out of the fog momentarily, like another layer of obscurity-like this whole matter, the truth hidden by layers of deceit and misapprehension.
The dark stain of night bled into the fog around them, enclosing them in silence and stillness. Only the metronome of oars dipping measured their movement, the breathing sea beneath them lifting and falling and lifting. How Berman could even guess their direction was beyond Morton's comprehension, but the smuggler carried them on without hesitation. They passed a few boats at anchor, and then they saw no more.
Wherever he took them, it was not near, for some time passed. Morton felt the press of it as he wondered how the assassination would be accomplished. Perhaps this was what he'd missed. They would shoot Bonaparte at night, through the stern gallery windows. How easy it would be to slip off into the darkness then, no fleet of gawkers to get in the way, no one to identify them in the dark.
A small wind rippled the sea, stirring the dark fog around them. A star appeared overhead and, as though it were a sign, a voice lifted in song not far distant.
As the fog tore to ribbons and fluttered away in the growing breeze, a long, sleek hull appeared before them. Starlight illuminated spars thrust up toward the sky.
“Who is that singing?” Westcott asked quietly.
“That,” Morton said, “is Jean Boulot.”
CHAPTER 31
What, not drunk?” Henry Morton adjusted the wick of the lamp swinging from a deck beam in the lug-ger's cramped cabin. In the brighter glow Jean Boulot's face was very white, and the stain on his bald head very red. He was stretched out on a narrow berth, his arms folded behind him, watching the Runner. Overhead the hatch was open, through which he had been singing to the night
sky.
“No, Bow Street. On this night of nights, you find me in a very philosophical state. Welcome aboard the Nancy.”
“They left you nothing to drink, I expect.”
Boulot shifted to reach behind himself, and as he did the chain that held his ankle clanked quietly. He produced a bottle, open but almost full. “Voici,” he said. “Have it.”
Morton released a short, humourless laugh. “You have reformed?”
Boulot pointed to the low deck above him. “There are others besides your fat young colleague. Who? Even more police? Why do they not come to see me, too?”
“I want privacy. It is time for you and I to have some serious talk, Boulot. No more lies, no more obfuscation. Time to speak up.”
“I wonder how you found me, Bow Street.”
“It seems one of your smuggling friends likes you enough to have saved your life.”
“Why you think my life en danger?”
“We saw what was done to the man Gervais and his companion in a barn on Dartmoor. These royalists will not need you after tonight. Are you ready to tell the truth?”
“In vino veritas. So said the Romans, Bow Street. Though I think in French wine there are more lies than truths. Give me a drink, and we will see.”
Morton slid the bottle back across the tiny table, and Boulot pulled the cork. He put it up to his lips and was about to tip it back but then set it down, his look haunted and infinitely sad.
“Where have the rest of them gone, Boulot? Have they gone to kill Bonaparte?”
“Bonaparte is already dead-the dream is dead.” He looked up and saw Morton's reaction. “No, Bow Street. The man who made himself emperor still breathes and speaks-you should ask him to tell you the truth.” He rubbed a hand back over his sweaty neck, grimacing as he did so. “I tell you la verite, the truth-what little truth I know. I tell you because you are an honest man and, although this surprise you, so am I. Yes, I, Jean Boulot, of Malmaison, votre serviteur. Honest, mainly. But first you must tell me something. Did you like my song? I sing it well, I think. Now, it is not une chanson d'opera, not an opera song, but a love song, very sad, from the Auvergne. The lyric is in langue d'oc, but I translate. The man sings to the woman he has betrayed, to the woman he has betrayed with another. But he does not ask for forgiveness, no. He tells her only that he loves her. I have betrayed you; I love you. Is that not strange? He never love her, not truly, till he has betrayed her. This is sad, bien sur.”
Morton scowled in impatience. “Five people have been slain now, Boulot. Make your choice. I told you before, you can help us find the guilty, or you can hang by their sides.”
Boulot grunted. “I am glad you do not assume I am one of these guilty, Bow Street. That is sympathetic. That is gentil. And you know, you 'ave reason. It is true, I never kill”-but he hesitated-“I was going to say no one. But perhaps that is not so true. I kill la belle Desmarches, perhaps. La belle Angelique. Not with my hands. But perhaps I did. And perhaps I will kill the emperor, too. But that does not matter so much, I think.”
“How did you kill Madame Desmarches?”
Someone stepped across the deck above their heads, distracting the Frenchman, and he stared upward for a moment. Then he said flatly, “I betray her. Like the man in the song. She was passing intelligence from her royalist lo
ver to the friends of Bonaparte in London. They tell me, to gain my aid, and I tell le comte. He do not believe me, at first, but I prove to him by showing the letter he had receive from Fouche, that she copied. It was really very simple thing. And now, yes, just as in the song, I love her, I sing to the stars about her. You know, I did tell an untruth to you, before. I was once her lover, and I am not fou, not mad, as I say this. Just one night, two year ago in a room in the Pulteney Hotel. Mon Dieu, I never forget this night. I weep to think. But I tell you truthfully, Bow Street, I think I she forget. I was nothing to her. A mistake. Une bagatelle.”
“Who killed her?”
Boulot mused. “But no, I am something to her now. Her betrayer, her destroyer. That is something very intimate. Do not mistake me, Bow Street, I did not do it for revenge, not at all. I had no idea it would happen this way. Perhaps I 'ad some fool's idea that le comte would throw her aside and then… who would she go to?” He shook his head sadly. “I treasured her, she was mon beau ideal. My dream. It is the most terrible thing, that I have destroyed her, the most terrible thing that I can imagine.” And his voice did almost crack as he said it. “And yet, also, there is something… glorious. You should know this sensation, monsieur la police. A great, great betrayal. It feel like nothing else. You should know it. It help you in your work.”
“How did it happen? Who killed her, dem you!”
But Boulot's head had sunk to his breast now, and Morton could see that his shoulders were shaking. He waited. Then when it seemed to have subsided, he repeated more quietly.
“Who killed her?”
“Le comte d'Auvraye and his shadow, Rolles.”
“And then your friends, the supporters of Bonaparte, killed the count in revenge.”
Boulot looked at him in dull surprise, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve. “No, no, Bow Street. Le petit comte-the son. Eustache. He killed her.”
“Eustache d'Auvraye? He and Rolles? How do you know this?”
“Because they tell me. They tell me to frighten me, but I believe them. They say the old man, the father, 'e write a note to Bow Street telling you to come to 'is 'ouse in Barnes. He will tell you that Angelique Desmarches was a Bonapartist-a spy. The old man he would tell you she must have been killed by people who wanted to know about her friends, the other Bonapartists. How long would it 'ave taken you then to find your way to Rolles? Not long.”
