by T. F. Banks
Morton thought it would be hard to find a better description of Eustache d'Auvraye, Rolles, and Jean Boulot. “To whom did they speak?” he asked the man.
“Myself. Mr. Tooley, the manager.”
Morton tipped the man, and they went into the big old inn.
Mr. Tooley was, not surprisingly, an Irishman-a gentleman of some fifty years and enormous energies. He did everything at a pace that would leave a younger man breathless, and never did one thing when he could be doing two. He was curly haired and handsome and not, it seemed, particularly fond of the law.
“I only spoke to one gentleman,” he said, his soft Irish accent almost worn away by what Morton suspected was most of a lifetime in England. “Don't know about any others.”
“And what speech passed between you?”
The man glanced up from the sums he was doing rapidly on long sheets of paper. He glared at Morton with undisguised hostility. “Disputed some charges on his bill a little.” His gaze went back to his paperwork, spread out over a large standing desk that took up the greater part of the narrow, low-ceilinged room.
“Mr. Tooley,” Morton said, his own anger rising, “we believe these men travelled to Plymouth to commit a murder. If you do not help us, I shall have you on trial for aiding and abetting them.”
The man looked up. “These gentlemen? Murderers?”
“By day's end, sir. Now, what passed between you and these Frenchmen?”
The man set down his pen and thought a moment. “They asked to leave their carriage here for two days,” he said, “and then wanted to know if it was far to the quayside.” He paused. “And they enquired after a men's clothier. I directed them to Lawley and Sons. I can think of nothing else.”
Lawley and Sons was but a few short blocks away. It was not, as Morton expected, a gentlemen's shop, at least not such as you'd find in London. No, Lawley's catered to the less well-to-do. Law clerks and other such functionaries. Working men with clean nails, as his mother put it. Not the kind of shop where you'd expect Eustache d'Auvraye to find his wardrobe-though Boulot's dress would have been improved by a visit.
Mr. Lawley himself was not present, but one of his sons was.
“Yes, three French gentlemen, just as we opened for business,” the younger Lawley said. He was an overly serious young man and would have made a perfect priest, Morton thought. “Two of them made purchases. Very tasteful.”
“One had a raspberry mark on his head?”
“That's right.” Lawley the younger gestured. “He sat on the stair there the whole time. Never said a word. I thought he might be ill.”
“And what did they purchase, these French gentlemen?”
“A complete suit of clothes for the young nobleman. He was dressed for the French court, it seemed-you've never seen such embroidery! When I enquired, he said that he did not wish to stand out so but to travel quietly among the English people.”
“Did they say anything more?”
“Very little. They seemed in a hurry. They asked about Bonaparte, but of course all visitors do, these days.”
“What did they ask, specifically? Do you remember?”
“Only if Bonaparte was still here, and how you'd recognise the ship he's on. I told them there'd be no trouble-there must be a thousand small boats surrounding the Bellerophon.” The young man considered a moment. “I can't think of anything else.”
“Do you know where they went from here?”
The young man shrugged. “They went down the hill. Likely to find a boat to take them out into the sound, as everyone does. I hope you've rooms arranged. You might have trouble finding lodgings otherwise.”
Morton and Presley went out onto the street, where tendrils of fog wafted gently up from the harbour below. The sun tried to break through, silvering the foggy sky.
“Where do we go now?” Presley said. “Down to the quay to look for three Frenchies trying to pass quietly among the English?”
“I think we can do a little better than that,” Morton said, and Jimmy looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “We'll go down to the quay and ask for Berman.”
Presley stopped. “You mean Berman wasn't a London waterman after all?”
“If he was, the River Police could never find him. All along we've thought the assassination was of d'Auvraye and that Boulot said botiment-ship-when he meant to say bachot, or wherry, for it was a wherry that took the count's murderers away. But what if he did mean ship? Now I wonder if the assassination will not instead be Bonaparte, and if Berman might be found on the Plymouth quay.”
They were soon down the hill, searching along the stone quay where the fishermen and costermongers jostled among the throngs of holidayers there hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen Emperor of the French. The scene itself was strange, dreamlike. Upon the narrow quay people swam through the thick fog, men and women in their bright holiday clothes, the dark-faced fishermen working among them, big-knuckled hands mending nets, flinging fish to the costermongers by their carts. Morton had a sense that there were not many engaged in the fishing trade that day-fishermen had gone over to the more lucrative trade of ferrying people out to view Bonaparte.
Of the ships beyond, nothing could be seen, for the fog was dense, impenetrable. Boats appeared, presaged by the knuckle knock of oars working against thole pins. The people aboard were oddly silent, perhaps disappointed, though Morton had a sense that it was the uncanny and impenetrable fog that had stolen people's words away, or had them whispering. At least there was no cry upon the quay that aught was amiss, that Bonaparte had been cut down as he strolled the deck.
Morton and Presley began asking among the fishermen and people who found their employment along the waterfront. After half an hour Jimmy came hurrying out of the fog.
“A net mender says we should find our man down the way,” the young Runner said.
“Then we're not wrong,” Morton said, both relieved and suddenly more uneasy. He checked his pocket watch, mindful of the hour.
“Have we time before we meet Westcott?” Presley asked.
“A little. Let us go see what we can learn of Berman.”
They strode along the damp stone, the reek of fish strong in their nostrils. Morton hunted among the passing faces, searching for the raspberry-stained pate, the secretive little Rolles, the dark-eyed young count. An unlikely trio of assassins-and one of them had left London in their company only reluctantly. Had Boulot changed his allegiance on the journey? Had the young count offered him what his father had not-a return to his beloved France? Morton thought that Boulot would be disappointed by his return. His old life was gone, swept away by two decades of revolution and Bona-parte's failed empire. There would be no crowds waiting now to hear him sing, no one, perhaps, who even remembered his name. Boulot's France was gone, as was the young man Boulot had been, however promising. He was an ivrogne now, a drunkard and a near derelict, a man who would sell his friends for a bottle, or for a thirty-mile passage across the Channel.
Across from the anchorage they found a little knot of older fishermen, sitting around on barrels and nets.
Morton put a hand on his young companion's shoulder, slowing him, then said quietly, “It would seem almost certain that good Mr. Berman is a smuggler or involved with the smugglers in some way. I don't think he will feel too kindly toward constables from Bow Street. We might try to keep our real profession to ourselves for a while.”
Presley nodded.
Morton approached the lounging fishermen respectfully. “Is Mr. Berman about?”
The half-dozen faces turned toward him. Morton had an immediate sense that these men were guarded, though they did much to hide it.
“Come to view the Corsican, have you?” one of the men said.
It occurred to Morton that one of these men might be Berman but wouldn't reveal himself until he was satisfied that Morton was not some member of the Customs Service.
“I've a bit of business with Mr. Berman,” Morton said, keeping his tone pleasant
.
The men looked about at one another.
“He might be back by and by,” one of them said, and they went back to their conversation.
Morton looked at his young companion, and the two retreated a little. “Let's see who else here might know Berman.”
The two Runners went in opposite directions. Morton waited until he was hidden from Berman's friends by the fog, then began a quiet enquiry. Half an hour later he stood talking to a costerwoman who was filling her barrow with shellfish. She was a few years older than Morton, broad and strong. But from within this unlikely shape came the most melodious voice. Her very speech was song.
“Berman? He's off to the Bellerophon. Saw him set out not an hour ago.”
“And who had he for passengers, did you see?”
The woman shrugged as she arranged her merchandise. “Half a dozen men-down from Bath, I think.”
“French gentlemen?”
The woman shook her head. “English all,” she said.
“None with a raspberry stain on the head?”
“The gentlemen wore hats, as you'd expect,” she answered.
“This man you'd know. His mark stretches down onto his forehead.”
“Didn't see such,” she said, picking up mussels by the double-handful and shovelling them into her barrel with a clatter.
“But did you hear them speak? Are you certain they were English?”
The woman stopped, hunched over her barrow, turned her head, and looked up at Morton suspiciously. “I can tell you no more,” she said, and went back to her work.
Morton continued to canvass the quay without much luck until it came time to meet Westcott. He arrived at the Blue Pillars to find Westcott and Presley waiting for him, the young Runner shovelling down some of the proprietor's best John Dory in cream sauce. It was a Devon delicacy, but the way Jimmy approached it was anything but delicate.
“Berman is said to have carried a group of men out to view the Corsican,” Morton reported as he took a seat. “How long they'll stay is dependent upon the depth of their purses.”
Westcott looked exhausted and worried. “I managed to see Keith's secretary, who promised to pass my message to the lord admiral, but I was unable to impress the gravity of the situation upon the man. Our lack of actual evidence was telling. Though corpses are appearing at an alarming rate-five, by my last count-we do not have a single witness who can tell us, in plain truth, what these men are planning. Until we have that or some other form of evidence, I think the lords of the Admiralty will stay their course.”
Morton nodded. Westcott was right. He had only his hunch, his intuition, that these royalists were going to try to murder Bonaparte. So who had those men been the night Morton had listened outside Boulot's door? Royalists? He was sure that Eustache d'Auvraye and Rolles had not been among them. Lafond and his followers?
Westcott's own meal arrived, and Morton called for a plate of Presley's fish.
“And where was Admiral Lord Keith?” Westcott went on. “He was off in a barge, running from some barrister with a writ of habeas corpus that a kindly judge has issued for the person of one Napoleon Bonaparte. It seems the man wants Bonaparte to appear in court as a witness in some financial matter to do with the sinking of an English ship-a transparent ploy to get the Corsican ashore! But the admiral is bound by the laws of England. If the writ is delivered to him in person, he will have no choice but to produce Napoleon Bonaparte; so he is doing everything within his power to avoid this lawyer and his writ!” Westcott snorted. “I have only one bit of good news to report. I've managed to secure us a gig for a few hours. If nothing else, we can row out to Maitland's ship and look for our assassins. Perhaps we'll find Keith fleeing his barrister.”
The two Runners and the navy man devoured their meals and were back on the quay in half an hour. It was a good walk to the navy docks, and then it took time to assemble their promised crew.
The Runners clambered aboard, their boots echoing hollowly in the dank, cloudy air. The stern seat, the place traditionally taken by the superior officer, was given to Westcott. Morton sat in the bow with Presley just behind him. The coxswain gave his quiet orders, and the boat was away, oars settling into place. They were soon out in the sound, ghosting past anchored ships that loomed darkly out of the fog. A low ground swell lifted the smooth waters of the sound in a slow undulating rhythm. Visibility was not twenty yards, Morton thought. How would they even find the Bellerophon?-for Plymouth Sound was not small.
Suddenly ships' bells rang out from all around.
“Six bells,” announced the coxswain.
“Seven of an evening,” Westcott said for the benefit of Presley and Morton.
The two Runners shared a glance. Neither of them needed to say it: The day was slipping away.
A small boat rowed past carrying a silent cargo of holidayers.
“Know you Berman?” Morton called to the man at the oars.
“Aye,” the man answered.
“Is he out here, at the Bellerophon?”
“Mayhap he is. There's a mite of fog, if you hadn't noticed.”
Morton settled back onto his damp thwart, the cool wood of the gunwale beneath his fingers. A gull circled, crying sadly, then made off into the mist, wondering, perhaps, where all the fishermen had gone.
Out of the shroud of silence a lady's face appeared, and Morton was reminded of the woman beneath the snows in Skelton's surgery. This lady, however, rode in a small boat and was very much alive. Somewhere nearby, Bonaparte, too, was buried beneath this bank of fog, this damp, cold shroud.
A few more strokes of the oars, and a host of other craft were revealed, their people talking solemnly, as though a funeral procession passed. Morton stood to search among the sea of faces. Above this clinging mass of small craft the Bellerophon rose up, half-obscured in the sea's cumulus. Morton could just make out men moving along the rail. As he searched the quarterdeck he held his breath, but the cockaded hat was not to be seen.
“Has he been sighted this day?” Morton asked as they passed close by the stern of a small punt.
A man shook his head in answer.
“Morton?” Westcott said from the stern. “We'll circle slowly round. There's not much else we can do. If we get into this mass, we might be an hour extricating ourselves.”
“Can you go aboard and warn Captain Maitland?”
Westcott shook his head, his look sour. “No one is to approach the ship without Keith's written orders. They would turn me back.”
Morton cursed at this foolishness. The coxswain began to steer around the fleet of gathered craft, keeping them so close that the oar blades all but struck the boats nearest. The Runner searched among the faces, though most were turned away, watching the Bellerophon.
“Berman!” Morton called out, and in the near silence heads turned, a look of surprised offence upon the faces. But Morton kept it up, calling out every so often and searching among those present for the raspberry pate, the little secretary, and his young master.
Inside the circle of craft a navy cutter passed, enforcing a ring of clear water round the great ship. “Be wary, there!” Morton called to the officer in the cutter. “I'm from Bow Street, and we've reason to believe there is an assassin waiting for Bonaparte to appear.”
“I'm from Bristol,” a young buck called, “and I'd pay double to see Bonaparte shot.” The waiting audience thereabout laughed, but everyone turned to see who had made such a claim, and the rumour washed down the ranks of lingering men and women.
Every ten yards Morton called out again, “Berman?” but no one answered.
As they circled to larboard, Presley stood on the thwart. “Morton amp;” he said, raising an arm to point. There among a crowd of men he caught a glimpse of red-stained skin, and then ranks closed and it was lost.
Westcott ordered the coxswain to nudge the gig up to the nearest boat.
Morton went over the side onto the stern of the first boat, pushing his way through the cr
owd. “Bow Street,” he said as he went, trying to make as little fuss as he could. “We must pass.” Presley was behind him, and the two large men clambered from one boat to the next until they came to a lugger in the thick of the crowd. Morton pulled himself up the side, for it was a larger craft than most of the others. It was also the type of craft favored by smugglers, for they were said to be fast and weatherly.
Morton immediately marked the man Presley had spotted, but as he pushed his way through the crowd on deck, the man turned. He had a raspberry birthmark on his head, but he was not Jean Boulot.
“What is it you want, sir?” asked a gentleman standing nearby. “We've hired this ship, not you, and your presence is not wanted.”
Morton made a bow to the gentleman. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “We're constables from Bow Street, seeking criminals.”
The man looked at Morton a moment, and then his look of anger was replaced by a sly smile. “Well, only Spencer over there is a criminal-a barrister, to be sure.” The people collected on the deck laughed.
Morton backed away, climbing down the side and making his way across the flotilla to the gig. Presley stepped over the side after him and smiled at Morton, embarrassed.
“Not to worry, Jimmy,” Morton said. “Better to make a dozen mistakes than let a murderer slip away.”
The sides of the great ship loomed over the surrounding boats in the mist. Sounds from near at hand were strangely loud and sharply defined: the creaking of the Bellerophon's cordage as the ship rolled ponderously in the low swell, the knocking of gunwales as the hundreds of boats thudded against each other, the cries of circling gulls.
Morton continued to call Berman's name as they passed down the larboard side. A young gentleman standing in a boat turned as he heard Morton call.
“Berman?” the young buck echoed. “He's here.” He gestured toward a square-built man in a fisherman's garb and cap. The fisherman gave the young man a sour look and then eyed Morton suspiciously.
“Bow Street!” Jimmy called out. “We want a word with you!”