by T. F. Banks
“Count Eustache d'Auvraye. His secretary, Rolles. A third man I did not know.”
“And how did you find us?”
“Boulot.”
“Ah, but how did the royalists find us?”
“Boulot.”
“How helpful he has been to everyone.”
Morton sat down on the gravel, letting the fire warm his sodden legs. All at once he was deeply weary. “Where is Westcott?” he asked.
“Went off in my boat,” Berman said.
“You let him take your boat?”
“He told me to come over here and be what help I could. He'd be back with marines.”
Presley laughed. “Marines! 'Tis Westcott they'll be chasing.”
“And who was this?” Houde asked.
“A navy captain who fell under the influence of Lafond. A disappointed man, passed over too many times. So he thought he saw a chance for glory. Glory to spite the service, who would condemn him for it. Maybe hang him, even. But glory all the same. One of the men who killed Napoleon and saved England.”
“Ah, but they only managed to wound a French chefcook named Marcel Houde. How glorious was that, 'Enri?” Houde opened up his blanket and looked at his arm.
Morton knelt to examine it in the firelight. Houde's soft white skin was puckered and red where the ball had cut a trough in the outer arm below the shoulder muscles. Not serious unless it became septic.
“How could a man like Westcott ally himself with such a pack of murderers?” Presley wondered. “Or did he not believe Eustache and Rolles had dished up Madame Desmarches and the others?”
Morton sat back on his heels and shrugged. “He did not want to believe. After all, it looked very much like they had been killed by the supporters of Bonaparte.” He glanced up at the sky. “It will be light in two hours.” He turned to Berman. “Is it far back to Plymouthtown?”
“A goodly stroll.”
Morton turned back to Houde. “Are you up to it, Marcel?”
“Ah, oui. A little discomfort, it is the least price to pay for folly like mine.”
Morton frowned. But Houde had brought it up. “I must say I am sorry to see you here, Marcel. I thought you had given up politics.”
“I had, but politics 'ave not given up me, evidemment.”
“Breaking the peace of the land that harbours you. Trying to bring their bitterest enemy into that land. Not to mention betraying the trust of your friend. To what end, Marcel? More crimes in the name of liberty?”
Houde scowled and looked down, unhappy. “I am sorry for these things. Especially I am sorry to deceive you, not to tell you more, when you were in ma cuisine. But you cannot know what it was, 'Enri, to be un francais, when 'e led us to glory. You can never know. Such 'opes, such dreams as ours. Oui, in the end, there was no liberty. Oui, 'e was a tyrant. But I joost could not see such a man as 'im murdered by those canaille, those vile scum. That is why I help. Let 'im die in exile, but save 'im from the revenge of those arrogant poseurs who should, each night, lick clean 'is boots!”
“I see there is much to tell. Where should we begin, I wonder?”
“Every story begin the same way,” Houde said. “A man or a woman is born. It is 'ow they travel through life after that make the story. How they get to this beach 'ere in England one night when they are almost old, but still young enough to make the fool.”
“And you, Marcel, where were you born?”
“In Chartres. 'Ave you been there?”
“No, but I understand there is a great cathedral in that city.”
Houde blew air through his lips. “The cathedral is nothing. You must taste my father's potisseries!”
CHAPTER 34
It was indeed a “goodly stroll” to town. They found a farmer with a cart who bore the bodies. Marcel Houde rode, too, though he continued to be ready to do penance by walking the whole way. Berman, having put them on the road, slipped away, no doubt to make his way back eastward along the coast to the smuggling dens. Morton and Presley were left to ride shank's mare. He was not sure if it was the excitement of the night, but Morton felt oddly light-headed as they trudged into Plymouth. It was as though the events of the night had not been real. As though he had wakened from a strange dream and found himself far from the bed in which he had fallen asleep.
Perhaps having a pistol hang fire when aimed at his heart could be expected to leave a man in such a state. Perhaps that was all it was. He didn't know.
He did know that the morning seemed especially fine, the sky a vivid blue, clouds chalked across the azure in thin wavering lines. The grass was living green, and the hills looked like the most perfect land on earth. No doubt this euphoria would pass in a few days.
The farmer took them to the local magistrate's, where to Morton's surprise, they found Arabella and Lord Arthur Darley.
“What are you doing here?” Morton asked.
It was agreed they should repair to a hotel to discuss it-as soon as Morton had told all that had happened to the magistrate and written a letter to Sir Nathaniel Conant in London.
Some hours later Henry Morton found Arabella and Darley seated at a table in a private dining room in the Royal Hotel on George Street. It was, of course, supposed to be Plymouth's finest: Darley had chosen. Their window gave them a fine view out over the sound.
“You look positively amp;” Arabella did not finish, but Morton could tell by the look of concern that his present appearance was not what he might hope. He'd not seen a mirror-or for that matter a razor or a clothes brush- for quite some time.
Morton dropped into a chair and gazed at his two friends. Well, he was properly tired now. Darley and Arabella looked like man and wife sitting there. A handsome, pleasant-looking aristocrat and his beautiful, much younger bride. Arabella could play this part to perfection when she chose to. There with the white linen and delicate bone china, the gleaming, monogrammed silver.
“What brings you to Plymouth?” Morton repeated, as soon as he had sent an offended waiter off to bring him bangers and mash-hardly a specialty of the Royal's renowned kitchens.
Arabella still looked at him as though he'd been discovered in a hospital, badly injured. She reached out and squeezed his hand for a moment. “I had the most extraordinary visit-when? Three nights past? A young woman called on me at the theatre after our performance. She claimed to be Honoria d'Auvraye. In her possession was a letter that she wanted me to deliver to a certain Mr. Henry Morton-why she thought I would have amongst my acquaintances someone so vulgar as a Bow Street Runner, I don't understand. She said a man had brought the letter to her father a few nights before his death and that the letter had caused a great deal of distress in her household. I took the liberty of reading this missive.”
Darley produced a folded sheet of paper from a pocket and handed it across the table to Morton, who skimmed it quickly. “It is from Fouche,” he said, feeling rather obtuse. “What does this mean? ‘Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote place with his suite of followers’?”
Darley made an odd shrugging motion. “I think it means that Fouche has found some way to have Bonaparte murdered.”
“Assassiner!”
Darley and Arabella looked at him oddly.
“That is what the men I overheard from outside Boulot's door said: ‘they will assassinate him. ’ I thought they were talking about their own confederates planning a murder, and later I thought it was the count they murdered, but I was wrong. They were talking about this.” He struck the letter with the backs of his fingers. “Boulot had this letter somehow.”
“It is not difficult to guess how,” Arabella said. “It is a copy made, I am certain, by Madame Angelique Desmarches. She passed it to her friends the De le Coeurs, who either gave it to Boulot or to others who gave it to Boulot.”
“The latter, I think,” said Morton. He stared down at the letter, at the elegant hand. “So this is what set it all in motion. This and Boulot's bet
rayal. He told Gerrard d'Auvraye about this-gave him the letter apparently- and the count cast off his mistress. Boulot must also have told the count that the supporters of Bonaparte in England planned to rescue their hero: this was the coin he would trade for his return to France. The son, Eustache, and Rolles were followers of this man Lafond, or admirers of him. They tortured Madame Desmarches to find out who was planning this rescue of Bonaparte and where they could find them.” He looked up at his companions. “But do you know what Boulot told me? That Madame Desmarches leapt to her death rather than betray her compatriots.” Morton glanced at the letter again, then set it carefully on the brilliantly white tablecloth. His tired mind was racing, connecting up the chain of events. “They were then in trouble. The old count wrote me from his house in Barnes to come visit him, for he had decided, no doubt, to tell me that Madame Desmarches was a spy for the Corsican, as deeply embarrassing as this admission would be. Rolles knew the contents of the count's letter and perhaps his master's intentions as well. Once I learned about it, I would want to know why Rolles had given me a list of Bonapartists as the probable murderers of Madame Desmarches, when he knew perfectly well that she was a Bonapartist herself. The count had to be stopped then. And so it went. The count's servant had to be killed because he recognised Rolles or whoever it was that accompanied Pierre to murder the count.”
Morton's meal arrived, and he took a moment to fortify himself, apologising to his companions.
When he had done, Morton pushed away his plate and stared out over the harbour, filled with warships returning now from their duties blockading the coasts of France. Small boats plied among the great ships, like skimmers on a pond. The fishing boats wandered out into the Channel on this bright day, returning to the immemorial rituals of their peaceful trade, now that Bonaparte was gone.
“What will we do with this letter?” Morton said.
“I sent a copy to certain members of the government,” Darley answered. “I don't know what they shall do. Perhaps try to find out who amongst Bonaparte's followers might be inclined to murder his master.” Lord Arthur reached down for his teacup. “Perhaps they will do nothing.”
Morton told the rest of the story, the chase out to Plymouth, the encounter in Bovisand Bay. The pistol that hung fire.
“What became of Westcott?” Darley asked.
Morton shrugged. “He's not been seen. Nor can anyone find Berman's boat. Admiral Lord Keith thinks he set out across the Channel, which he assured me could be done given the weather and Westcott's abilities. He can pass for a Frenchman, so perhaps he will find a place to hide there.”
“Oh, he'll be found out eventually.”
“A nobleman who came to the aid of those trying to kill Bonaparte?” Morton mused. “I rather doubt King Louis's police will be much interested in flushing him out. And we mustn't forget Lafond and the other royalists. Westcott knew them well. He was the liaison with these men for many years. They will protect him if they can.” Morton closed his eyes for a moment, the dancing glitter of sun on water still visible. “Even Boulot is gone, it seems. The smugglers have whisked him away. Perhaps back to France at last. I hope Fouche does not find him. But then, perhaps he will not care. Who is Boulot, after all? A drunkard. A man whose wretched loneliness led him to… these insignificantly small acts of betrayal, that brought about the deaths of eight people.”
As the little party lapsed into thoughtful silence, sipping their coffee, Morton's eye wandered again to the window, the sound, the blue Channel beyond. A ship of the line loosed her sails as he watched, the wind filling them. The great dark ship gathered way and shaped her course for the southwest. It passed across the glittering path of the reflected sun, like a shadow, and was off, in few minutes rounding the headland, heading for the open sea.
CHAPTER 35
Morton brought two members of the Foot Patrole as well as Vickery. He left them all before the house, standing by the hackneycoach, its door yawning open. A servant answered, pretended not to know Morton, and went looking for the master of the house. In the vestibule the Runner waited impatiently, leaving the door conspicuously agape.
It was some moments before the young master of the house appeared, blurry eyed and yawning but discomfited all the same.
“Mr. Wilfred Stokes?” Morton demanded.
“Yes…. Am I correctly informed?” he said as he reached the foot of the stair. “You are from Bow Street?”
“That is correct, sir. Henry Morton.” He held up a folded sheet of paper. “And I have here a writ to allow the search of your domicile and the seizure of stolen property.”
The man, all six foot five of him, stared at Morton in mute surprise. “What in the world-!” But the sentence was lost in outrage and fear. He was not, the Runner realised, a man of dazzling intellect.
Morton stepped aside to afford the young man a view of the Patrole men and the waiting coach. “I shall call my fellows in to roust your home amp;.” Morton let thepause linger. “Or you can return the painting I seek: a seascape by Claude-Joseph Vernet. You know of what I speak.”
“I have no knowledge of such a-”
Morton waved to the men standing by the coach, who all started forward.
“Wait! Wait!” the young man said. “A Vernet, you say? Perhaps I do know of such a painting. I purchased it recently.”
“I'm well aware of the circumstances under which you acquired it,” Morton said. “If I can't convince a magistrate that you conspired with Lord Robert Richardson to steal it, then I'm sure I can convince him that you knowingly received stolen goods in return for paying Lord Robert's gambling debt at White's. Theft of goods valued at excess of forty pounds is a hanging offence. I will have the painting this instant, or I shall have both you and the painting. The choice is yours.”
Stokes hardly considered this a moment before motioning to his servant, who followed him up the stairs.
“There are,” Morton called up the stairs, “a number of my associates watching the back of this house. Do not even consider sneaking the painting out that way.”
Stokes paused on the stair, half-turned toward Morton, and then continued his ascent. A few moments later Stokes and his servant reappeared, carrying between them the painting in its heavy gilt frame. Morton waved to the Patroles, who came and took the painting toward the waiting coach.
“What more will you have of me?” the young man asked disdainfully.
“Nothing more,” Morton said with a slight bow of his head. He turned and stepped back out into the sunlight.
“What will you do with the painting?” the young man called from behind.
“Return it to its owner,” Morton replied, not looking round.
But the young man had not done. “When you appeared at my door, you deceived me, for you dress like a gentleman. But you're nothing but a bloody horney.”
“And despite all appearances, you're nothing but a thief.” Morton mounted the steps to the carriage, its springs rocking and squeaking as he did. He took a seat and gazed out. The young nobleman still stood in the doorway, staring after him as though trying to think of a final line, but failing utterly.
Lincoln's Inn Fields was quiet, respectable. A family strolled beneath the trees in the park. Two elderly gentlemen sat upon a bench, saying nothing, staring contentedly to the south.
Morton sent his calling card in with a servant and waited. A few moments later Caroline Richardson appeared, hanging back slightly from the door. Morton had the driver help him with the painting, which they set down inside the entry.
Caroline gazed for a moment at the canvas, then turned to Morton, a smile of pleasure and relief on her face.
“How in the world did you find it?”
“Ah, secrets of my trade can't be revealed to the lay public.”
She laughed. She wore a day dress of printed muslin in the fashionable Turkish red, a gauzy chemisette filling in the low neckline. Morton thought that today she did not bear such a resemblance to him, but she was a lo
vely young woman, dark-eyed and gracious of manner. A keen and curious intelligence shone from those eyes, and she missed very little. Morton found himself feeling suddenly awkward, as though not sure what was expected of him.
“And what is the price of such a miracle?” Caroline asked.
“One cannot put a price on a miracle,” Morton an swered. “It is my pleasure to have been of service.”
“But did you not have to pay the rogue who took it?”
“I offered him a stay of execution in return for the painting. He thought it a rather good bargain.”
“Well, Mr. Morton, I thank you.” She curtsied.
Morton made his good-byes and turned to go.
“Mr. Morton?” she said as he stepped over the thresh old.
He turned back. For a moment their eyes met-like staring into a mirror, Morton thought, though not quite.
“Paintings do not get stolen here often enough. I should hate to think we'd have to wait for such an occasion to meet again.”
“And how would we meet?” Morton wondered. “We both of us detest Almack's.” It was a jest: Morton would never have been allowed through the doors of Almack's.
“Perhaps I might have myself invited to Darley's. I understand the company is varied, and the conversation among the best in London.”
Morton found himself oddly affected by this remark, and when he spoke, his voice was somewhat strained.
“I'm sure Lord Arthur would be delighted to have your company.” Morton bowed again.
He was about to turn to go when she spoke again. “We shall be amp; friends, Mr. Morton. Mark my words. I am seldom wrong.”
Morton could not help it. He smiled. He doffed his hat to her once more and set out onto the street. Something caused him to look back. In a high window he could see the slouched shape of his half-brother, Robert. The young man stared down at Morton for a moment, his face almost entirely obscured by reflections on the glass. Then he turned away and disappeared into the depths of the house.
