The Emperor's assassin moabsr-2

by T. F. Banks

  “It's Rolles I really want to talk to. Is he here?”

  “I believe he is. But before we go up, tell me in private what you have found.”

  As his elder colleague listened in sober silence, Morton did so, and then added, “I've sent Jimmy across to Maiden Lane to take our watcher from Boulot's rooms. Someone tipped Boulot to that, so he won't show his face there for a while, I don't imagine.”

  “Unless he has money hidden away there,” Townsend said.

  “Any money that cully had went into the bottle.”

  Townsend nodded, distracted by something, it seemed. “What interests me,” he mused, “is your Mrs. Barkling's description of the tall Frenchman she wounded. I expect it's to be concluded this is Niceron.”

  “Too soon to form conclusions, I daresay,” Morton answered, but smiled. “Perhaps you have turned this Niceron up, whilst we were in Barnes?”

  “No, no, that I have not,” admitted the old man. “But you have noticed a certain discrepancy in the descriptions, perhaps?”

  “I have,” agreed Morton.

  “Still,” went on Townsend, “a large Frenchman, a supporter of Bonaparte, drops out of sight. Some days later a large Frenchman is reported killing a royalist count. It must be the same man. Yes, really it must,” he added as he rose to summon the footman.

  A few moments later they were ushered into another room on the next floor. This was more genuinely a study than the old count's cabinet below, with fewer ornaments and more books. A long oaken table was covered with opened volumes and papers. Beside it, resting one hand lightly on its surface, stood the thin young man whom Morton had met on his first visit. Behind him, hovering deferentially, was Rolles. Both were clad in deep mourning, after the French style.

  Eustache d'Auvraye bowed formally, and they returned the salutation. The face of the young count was pale against his black silks, but he showed no other sign of emotional disarray. His expression was grave, thoughtful, inward-looking. To Morton's covert eye, his movements as he bowed were precisely the same as they had been before. If this was a parody of courtly manners, it was one he practised habitually.

  Having been previously introduced, Morton took the lead and presented John Townsend. The veteran Runner was greeted by another silent bow.

  “I hope monsieur le comte will accept our most genuine and heartfelt condolences,” began Townsend, who was entirely in his element with elaborate displays of courtesy. “The death of your father, le comte d'Auvraye, is a great loss to the civilised nations. I think that I may safely speak, as his loyal officer, for His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, in adding his own profoundest personal regrets.”

  Another bow, and the Runners caught this time a faint waft of perfume from the young man's garments. Eustache d'Auvraye's voice, when he spoke, was soft, melodious and, unlike the elder count's, slightly accented. Given the extravagant pretences of the odd old police man, it was also surprisingly polite.

  “I must thank Monsieur. You are acquainted, then, with the Prince Regent?”

  “Monsieur, I have that honour,” replied Townsend with some complacency. And in fact, it was even true, Morton reflected. After a fashion.

  “He is an illustrious sovereign,” quietly pronounced the young Frenchman.

  The son's manners were not, as one might have expected from a younger man, less formal than those of his father-if anything, they were more so. His bearing was stately, his gestures restrained, his self-possession complete. But somehow this was not off-putting. Though not so handsome as the elder count, he nevertheless had something indefinably superior, a charm, a delicacy even, that compensated.

  “I have just come from Barnes Terrace,” Morton told him. “I understand that you wish to hear the particulars of the crime.”

  “If you would be so good, monsieur.”

  There was something else that distinguished son from father, Morton at this moment also remarked: the brightness of his black eyes, the complete, focussed attention, the stillness. Unless Morton was greatly mistaken, the new Count d'Auvraye was rather more intelligent than the old.

  He told the count about his father's death, watching carefully the young man's reaction.

  “No one, then, can identify my father's murderers?”

  Townsend chose to answer. “As of yet, monsieur le

  comte, we don't know who they were.”

  “There is something, though,” Morton said. “A French expatriate named Jean Boulot had visited the count at Barnes last week. He called upon him again here the day before Madame Desmarches was found dead. He had come both times to ask the count to intercede for him with Monsieur Fouche in Paris, so that he might be allowed to return to France. I believe the count refused him.”

  The new count did look surprised, and his pale brow furrowed. He turned and glanced enquiringly at Monsieur Rolles.

  “Do you know this man, monsieur le comte?” Morton asked.

  Young d'Auvraye turned back and seemed to consider for a moment before answering, meeting Morton's eye steadily as he did. “Monsieur, I do not. But I was informed that a stranger had an interview in this house, at which I was not present. I did not know, however, that he had also called upon le comte d'Auvraye at Barnes Terrace. Were you aware of this, Monsieur Rolles?” he asked, without looking round again.

  Rolles murmured that he was not.

  “Did Jean Boulot leave this place in anger, monsieur le comte?” Morton asked.

  Eustache d'Auvraye was silent a moment, but his eyes were dark with thought and feeling. “I think it is best,” he said eventually, “that you direct this question to Monsieur Rolles, who was present at the interview.”

  “His ostensible purpose,” Rolles began, “was to try to sell le comte d'Auvraye some goods from France-wine and other commodities. You are right, that was the name he gave: Jean Boulot.”

  “He was a person of no reputation, no family, nothing at all,” murmured Eustache d'Auvraye. “Monsieur le comte should never have received him.”

  “I was not present for the entire interview, Monsieur Morton,” Rolles went on, “but he did ask that le comte d'Auvraye intercede for him. He wished to return to France, where he was once a minor artiste. He had fallen afoul of the police there and had fled to England. The count did not so much refuse as demur. He wished to know more of this Boulot, for he would not return the seditious to our country.”

  “But did Boulot leave this house in anger, Monsieur

  Rolles?”

  “Anger? No, I don't think so.”

  “But the count was angry. What else passed between them? Did Boulot offer some proof of Madame Des-marches's betrayal?”

  At the mention of this name, the young gentleman balled a fist, which hovered for a second over the table. “I would ask that you not mention that woman's name in this house where my mother is mourning,” he said in a controlled voice.

  “I'm sorry, monsieur le comte, but I am investigating three murders. Three murders that are likely connected. To solve one will almost certainly mean the solution of all.”

  The count nodded once stiffly, but he was not happy with this response.

  You are not back in France yet, Morton thought. Your word is not law here.

  “Monsieur Rolles, what passed between the count and this man Boulot that caused the count so much agitation?”

  “Monsieur Morton, I was not present for the entire interview. I was called out for a moment on another matter, and when I returned, the count had ordered Boulot removed.”

  “And he was in a rage.” Rolles's gaze drifted over to his new employer for an instant. “He was distressed, yes.”

  “And why was that?”

  “I don't know, monsieur. He ordered me to go and eject… this woman you have named from her dwelling. You know what I then did.”

  Morton nodded. “He gave you no indication of his reason for doing this?”

  “No, and I did not question him.”

  “What did you presume at the time? Why
did you think the count did this?”

  Again the hesitation, the eyes flicking toward his new employer. “I thought that this man Boulot must have said something to turn le comte against… this woman, but I knew not what.”

  “But you were in the count's confidence. You told me as much.”

  “As much as any man was, yes, but le comte d'Au-vraye was a private man, monsieur.”

  Eustache d'Auvraye broke in. “Does it not appear to you, monsieur, that this Boulot was merely trying to gain access to le comte with murderous purpose? The unexpected presence of Monsieur Rolles may have restrained him on the occasion of which we speak. This morning, in Barnes Terrace, with the help of some republican scelerat-some thug, as you English might term him-he must have succeeded.”

  Morton nodded. It was plausible enough. There remained a difficulty, however. And it was a difficulty that secretary Rolles would have to meet.

  “How is it, Monsieur Rolles, that you made no reference to this visit of Boulot, when I wished to know the circumstances of the death of Madame Angelique Desmarches? How is it that Boulot's name was not amongst the considerable list of Bonapartists that you provided me on that occasion?”

  “I did not know him to be a Bonapartist,” replied Rolles. “His troubles with the French police occurred while the French court was in exile. This would indicate the man was not a supporter of the Corsican.”

  This had not really occurred to Morton, and he did not even begin to know how to address it. Houde had called Boulot a supporter of Bonaparte, yet the man was exiled to England through most of the Corsican's reign. Perhaps Houde was not wrong, and Boulot was merely a common criminal who had fled the French police. “Why did the count later send word to see me?”

  “I do not know, monsieur.”

  “But you wrote the note to Bow Street, did you not? And you even carried it to town?”

  Rolles bowed slightly. “The count was considerably troubled, I believe, and meditated long, in private, before giving me this note. I did not ask, for he was clearly in some distress.”

  John Townsend now stepped in, full of sympathy and conciliation. He apologised for Morton's plain-spoken manner and assured the count that it was only in the conduct of their duties that they were required to say disagreeable things, and that of course not the slightest hint of disrespect was intended toward the ladies of the house, and that all these enquiries would, of course, remain in the strictest confidence.

  At these words the young count seemed to relax a little and waved his hand negligently. “This is not needed, monsieur. I am sure that an ability to ask unpleasant questions, without undue delicacy, is an advantage in your profession. In which case I ought to be grateful for present rudeness, in anticipation of future success.”

  But Morton broke in.

  “As messieurs have acknowledged the necessity for disagreeable questions, permit me to ask one more. Where were you, Monsieur Rolles, this morning? And who can avouch for it?”

  The face of the little secretary reddened, and he began to draw himself up to retort. But it was the young count who turned to Morton with a calm smile.

  “Monsieur Rolles passed last night under this roof, after delivering le comte d'Auvraye's message to Bow Street. He spent much of this morning with me, in discussions of a private nature. I vouch for him.”

  Now Townsend again, mild and accommodating.

  “Thank you. That is, of course, as much as is needed. Monsieur le comte, may I only ask, did you speak to your father before he went to Barnes yesterday? Did he say anything, related to matters of state or to any other subject, that might throw light upon subsequent events?”

  There was now a slight hesitation before the son replied. “Le comte d'Auvraye and I had some few words of a personal nature and not, I think, germane to your enquiries. I was not privy to his affairs of state or of other kinds. He did not… much honour me with his confidence. He was much more likely to speak to Monsieur Rolles on any such matters.”

  “Were your…views different?”

  Again, a short silence. Now the young count's smile was reflective. Morton wondered whether he was thinking of how to phrase his response or administering a quiet reproof for their probing so intimate a matter.

  “The late gentleman and I were in unity on the fundamental need to restore the glory of France and of her royal family and nobility. We had some differences of opinion as to the most expeditious and honourable means of achieving this goal. But these differences were of little consequence, as I had no practical role in monsieur le comte's undertakings.”

  Was there bitterness in these phrases? Henry Morton was becoming more interested in Eustache d'Auvraye than he had quite expected to be.

  “Would it be possible, monsieur le comte,” John Townsend went on, “to speak to your mother or your sisters? They may perhaps have overheard something that will aid us.”

  “It would greatly surprise me, monsieur, if the ladies of this house were any better informed upon these matters than I. In le comte d'Auvraye's conception of his role as head of this family, it was his privilege, and no doubt also his duty, to keep strictly to himself all such concerns, as well as the decisions related to them. In any case, I am sure you will appreciate that for the moment the ladies are deeply distressed and indisposed to converse with strangers. At the present time the effort would be insupportable for them.”

  “Ah yes, monsieur, this is quite to be understood. Of course.” But now, as he and Morton seemed poised to go, Townsend asked in a considerate tone, “Will monsieur le comte be returning soon to France?” The young count blinked at him a moment. For some reason, of all the questions they had posed, this seemed the one he was least prepared for.

  “I-I-do not know, monsieur. I have not thought so far. Perhaps I shall. Yes, perhaps. But I believe I would prefer to remain in your country, at least until vengeance is exacted for le comte d'Auvraye's murder.”

  “In England, monsieur le comte,” muttered Morton, “we would rather speak of justice.”

  Instead of taking umbrage, Eustache d'Auvraye looked straight at Henry Morton, and the polite smile he had been maintaining faded. There was a kind of appeal in the slightly melancholy expression that remained, and as their eyes met, Morton felt an odd moment of connection, of unexpected sympathy.

  “I humbly beg Monsieur's pardon,” d'Auvraye corrected himself. “He is entirely in the right. Even on such a day as this, it is of la justice we should speak. This was, in fact, one of le comte d'Auvraye's most cherished notions. Let justice be done, though heaven should fall.”

  Outside the house on Spanish Place, Morton looked over at the worn and lined face of his fellow Runner. “What is it they are not telling us, I wonder.”

  “A great deal, I think,” Townsend answered, and reached for his pipe. As they walked, he filled the bowl, tamping the tobacco down expertly. “But why they are keeping things from us might be more interesting than the information they will not divulge.”

  “If it is relevant to the count's murder, you would think they would be more forthcoming.”

  Townsend lit his pipe and drew deeply of the scented smoke. Three carefully formed rings appeared before him. “In my experience families hide certain kinds of truths. A family such as the d'Auvrayes might have even more reasons to keep things back. They have great pride, Mr. Morton, a terrible failing. What if the old count had flirted with the republican cause or had tried to return to France during Bonaparte's reign? Some did, you know. But given present circumstances such knowledge would best be kept to themselves. Perhaps Jean Boulot had wind of this and was blackmailing them.”

  “Well, I had not considered that. Though it has occurred to me just now that Boulot was very likely one of Bonaparte's spies. The cook Marcel Houde told me Boulot was a well-known supporter of Bonaparte, yet Boulot claimed to be exiled here even though his hero was in power. Does that not seem odd?”

  “Indeed, though if I were a spy for Bonaparte, I should not come to England
and go about calling myself an admirer of the Corsican. It seems a sure way to draw attention to oneself.”

  “I suppose.”

  Morton and Townsend walked down the comparatively quiet street.

  “What will you do now?” the old man asked.

  “Why, I will go back to my friend the chef de cuisine.”

  Townsend turned his charming smile on Morton and, from the centre of a cloud of smoke, said, “Well, ask him who murdered the count and his mistress so that we can stop chasing our tails through the streets of London.”

  Boodle's in St. James's Street was thus Morton's next destination, hurrying, as the evening wore quickly on. He felt at a loss for motives in this sea of French names and faces. Their politics and sense of honour and pride were all foreign to him. So he returned, looking for Marcel Houde.

  As he entered the door, he narrowly escaped a collision with a bowl of soup, carried by a rushing servitor who shouted an insult at him over his shoulder as he careened onward.

  “You ask me where Houde is?” shouted a harried young manager over the busy confusion of the kitchen at late supper hour. “No! I ask you! Where in God's name is he? We've not seen him all day! Do you think we can keep this up?” he demanded, indicating the crowded room with a sweep of his arm. “Do you think we can produce that menu by ourselves?”

  “He's gone?” Morton said, utterly surprised. “Have you tried his lodgings?”

  “Do you think I'm a stark, staring idiot? Of course I've tried his bloody lodgings. But look now, what a bit 'o luck. Here's bloody Bow Street. Why don't you find him, before every man jack in this room loses his place and is thrown out onto the street!”

  And it was certainly true that, even to Morton's unpractised eye, the kitchen looked dangerously illregulated, almost chaotic. People were running, whereas in Marcel's presence they seemed only ever to walk. In one corner an underchef was berating one of his assistants in a voice that seemed dangerously near hysteria, shouting over and over, “Non! Non! Non!” Indeed, there was something wrong in the aromas in the air, too-the odour of burning, not just cooking food.