The Emperor's Assassin (11 page)

The count sat up suddenly, as though he had just wakened. “Monsieur Morton,” he said a bit breathlessly, “why are you asking about Madame Desmarches?”

“She was found dead two mornings ago,
monsieur le comte
.”

The man's hauteur fell away like a shroud slipping off a body. He turned to his secretary, eyes glittering with tears. He opened his mouth but could produce no sound but a rasping breath.

Rolles stood immediately and reached out to support his employer.

“Our interview is at an end,” the secretary said.

But the count held up a hand, and Morton did not move. It was a long moment before the count could collect himself, and then he turned to Morton. “How did this happen?”

“That is what I wish to learn, Count d'Auvraye. She was found dead a little distance from her home—”

“Could it have been…a suicide?” now Rolles quietly asked.

The count crossed himself. “May God forgive her.”

“It is true that she looked troubled that day—and I believe you know why. But I do not think that self-murder
explains her death, messieurs. Nor do I think it was an accident.”

The count shook off his secretary and rose from his chair, unable suddenly to be still. He walked a few paces, restlessly clasping and unclasping his hands. Then he turned back to Morton, blinking quickly.

“Then what, monsieur, was the cause of Madame's death, if I may ask?”

“It seems likely that she died of a fall, but from the window of her home. Her body was then moved to a small sand pit and placed so that it appeared she had thrown herself or fallen onto some rocks.” Morton paused to let these words sink in. The count considered this information, the look of sadness on his face unchanging. Morton glanced at Rolles, who sat on the edge of his chair, eyes fixed on his employer, like a little dog who feared being left behind.

“Monsieur le comte,”
Morton said, “I am informed that a man of yours visited Madame Desmarches's house on the day of her death, to evict her.” He turned to the secretary, his voice still polite, but his eye a little harder. “This, I presume, was you, Monsieur Rolles?”

Rolles dipped his head. The count turned to face Morton.

“You ordered Madame Desmarches from her house with but a single day's notice,
monsieur le comte
? It is my duty to ask why.”

The count raised his eyes again. “It was not kind of me, monsieur. It was not just. I acted in anger. In fact, I commanded that she be dismissed upon the very hour, but Monsieur Rolles, who has the truest instincts of a Christian gentleman, took it upon himself to offer her the shelter of that house for another night, so that she
might properly arrange for her departure. When my choler had passed, I respected this decision.”

“I salute Monsieur Rolles's humanity—”

“Monsieur Morton,” Rolles interrupted, “I can assure you that the count has not been to the house of Madame Desmarches in several days. He has not seen her at all.” He glanced at the count, as though wondering if he were overstepping himself. “Only I have been to see Madame Desmarches, and that is why immediately I suggested self-murder… because I saw Madame when she received the count's decree.” Again a glance at the count as though in apology. “She was disconsolate.”

“I see. And you, Monsieur Rolles? Where were you, the night of the twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth of July, this two nights past?”

The man looked more than surprised that Morton would even consider asking him. “Why, I was here, in my chamber, preparing
monsieur le comte
's correspondence.”

“And who can confirm this?”

The man looked utterly confused. “I—I don't know. I shall have to ask the servants. I was alone, as I often am.”

Morton turned to the count, but Rolles answered for his master, as though having to account for his presence were too great an indignity.

“
Monsieur le comte
was with your sovereign, monsieur, attending the
fête
at Carleton House, upon the express invitation of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent. Men of the highest standing will be able to vouch for his presence there. At some hour near upon midnight he returned here and retired.”

Morton looked to the count.

“That is correct,” d'Auvraye said softly.

Well, Morton thought, John Townsend knew the Prince Regent personally. The old Runner would be able to verify the count's claim.

“Who would have wished to harm Madame Desmarches, Count d'Auvraye?”

The count shook his head, his gaze rising to the ceiling for a few seconds. “I cannot say, monsieur. She—she was a woman of great beauty and charm.” The man put a hand to his brow, hiding his eyes a moment.

Long ago John Townsend had impressed upon Morton that it was not his duty to be respectful and considerate in such situations. It was his duty to find out the truth.

“Why did you cast her off, sir?”

It took d'Auvraye a long moment to answer, but finally he looked up. “She betrayed me, monsieur. She betrayed me.”

Morton was about to ask with whom, but the count spoke again, his tone flat and filled with sadness.

“I have answered your questions, Monsieur Morton. Now perhaps you can answer one of mine. You say you believe she was murdered. How do you know this?”

In such situations Morton liked to direct the course of the interview, but he intended to tell the count this, any-way—perhaps now was the right time. “The pit where she was found,
monsieur le comte
, was small and shallow. The height she would have fallen from was not great—likely not great enough to inflict the injuries that killed her—and there was very little blood where she was found. The surgeon who examined her remains was certain there should have been more. But these are not the only reasons I doubt she fell or self-murdered.” Morton paused a second. “You see, upon Madame's person were the unmistakable signs of a most infernal in
strument.” Morton glanced again at Rolles, then back to the count. “She had been tortured with a thumbscrew, Comte d'Auvraye. Tortured and then murdered.”

The count gave a small, sobbing cry. His powdered wig fell to the floor, a little storm of snow spreading over the red carpet. D'Auvraye spun and pushed awkwardly through a small door before Morton could even begin to protest.

The Runner was immediately on his feet, but Rolles interposed his small person between Morton and the door.

“This interview is at an end,” the secretary said.

Morton looked down at the small man, who appeared more than a little frightened.

“I have more questions to ask.”

“Tonight
monsieur le comte
will go to his house at Barnes Terrace. You may find him there, or in three days when he returns. For the moment he needs…to consider all that you have revealed.”

“Then I shall ask questions of you.”

The secretary looked around quickly as though seeking his own method of escape. “I—I shall try to answer them.”

“Indeed you will.” Morton returned to his seat and gestured for the secretary to do the same.

“Tell me, Monsieur Rolles, who would have done such a thing? Was Madame Desmarches in the count's confidence enough that someone would torture her to gain information?”

Rolles looked utterly miserable and kept glancing toward the small door through which his master had retreated. “It is possible, monsieur. Upon the pillow much is said….
Le comte
d'Auvraye is an intimate of the King of France. He is acting as the French ambassador to the
Court of St. James's until they send another, allowing
monsieur le comte
to return, finally, to the country he loves.”

“But you have not told me who might have performed this terrible act.
Torture
, Monsieur Rolles. Who would do this, and to learn what?”

“To learn what, I cannot say, but &” Rolles leaned closer. “The Bonapartists, monsieur. Who else hates us so? Poor Madame Desmarches. I'm sure she could tell them little, and yet she paid with her life.” He crossed himself.

“But Bonaparte is a prisoner of my government. He will spend the rest of his life in some kind of confinement. Bonaparte's day is done, Monsieur Rolles.
Finis.
”

Rolles shook his head, his dark eyes staring earnestly into Morton's. “Bonaparte is a phoenix, Monsieur Morton. He can rise from the ashes. You English do not understand this. There is no safe place to confine him. No place distant enough. He is a phoenix. You will see.”

T
here must be twenty of them here,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant, gazing down at the paper on his table. It was a list of the names Rolles had given to Morton.

“Twenty-two,” said Morton.

“And he would say no more? He gave no specific reason for suspecting these people?”

“They are partisans of Bonaparte. Or were. At least that was his claim.”

The Chief Magistrate scowled. “He gives every impression of a man trying to protect his master by diverting suspicion to others.”

Morton, standing, gave a shrug of agreement. It was certainly possible. Young Jimmy Presley and the eminent John Townsend nodded from their position in the back of the room.

“Well, I did look into this matter, as Mr. Morton asked,” Townsend said. “D'Auvraye was at Carleton House, just as he claimed.”

“But not for the entire night.” Morton took back his
list from Sir Nathaniel's desk. “The secretary, Rolles, cannot account for his time either, except to say he was in his own chamber at Spanish Place.”

“I found one of the serving men as was English,” Presley told them, “and he says the count came in late, around midnight, just as he claimed. But he could have killed her before he came home, couldn't he? Or he could have gone out again to do it. This fellow, Henshawe, an underbutler, had something else to say, too. He was shylike, mind, and just whispered me to wait about a bit and see him round the back in the coach-house.”

The other three men listened closely now.

“Aye, well, this sounded good, didn't it?” Presley was pleased with himself. “So I waited, tried to get the coachman to blow the gab, but he didn't understand a word except his own parlee-voo. Finally Henshawe comes and says that all the servants are supposed to keep quiet about the family, as anybody might be a spy. The count has serious business to do for the French king, and even Bow Street officers might be spies, or might squeak to them as are.”

“Who gave them orders not to speak to Bow Street?” demanded Sir Nathaniel. “The count?”

Jimmy Presley's face went blank for a moment, but then he recovered. “Henshawe didn't say, sir. But I assumed as much, head of the house and all that. At any rate, he was bothered about it, and as a true loyal Englishman he wanted to serve his king and country.”

The venerable Townsend laughed. “How much did ye tip him, Jimmy boy? A shilling? Two?”

Presley again looked disconcerted. “Three, actually.”

“That's steep! I hope the goods were worth it!”

“Proceed, proceed,” the Chief Magistrate demanded impatiently.

“Well, Henshawe tells me, the day before Madame Desmarches died, a man comes and visits the count and his son. He's a Frenchy, seems, but not one Henshawe has ever seen before. Something of a down-at-the-heel Frenchy, with a balding pate with one of those raspberry stains just on the top of it. Not the kind of folk as the count usually entertains, not one of those perfumey aristocrats. He comes to the door claiming to be an importer of French goods. But then he stays with the count an hour or so in his cabinet, and as soon as he leaves, the count storms out in a passion and sends Monsoor Rolly to give his mistress the boot, chuck her right out of the house he gave her, without so much as a fare-thee-well! The servants never saw him in such a rage.”

The young Runner folded his arms now and gave the little group a look of satisfaction, as if he had come close to resolving the whole matter.

“The name of this man with the raspberry?”

“Nay, Henshawe didn't have it. Oh, but he did say the cove told the footman to announce the gent from”— Presley tried to get it right—“from…
Mal-mace-on
. Or maybe
mason
, or some such. But Henshawe's warranted to call for me if he sees anything more.”

There was a thoughtful pause all round.

“Should we have brought Count d'Auvraye before you?” Morton asked Sir Nathaniel Conant.

The Magistrate shook his head. “We've not enough cause. Not yet. Why, if he intended to murder her, would he first of all send his man to evict her? And you say he wouldn't have expected her still to be in the house that night.”

“I don't know when Rolles admitted to him that he
had not tossed her out on the street immediately, as he'd been ordered. If not for the thumbscrews, I could imagine the count riding out to the home of Madame Desmarches that night. Men who have been betrayed have been known to act out of passion, to do things completely against their character. But why would he torture her? It seems too barbarous a revenge for the man I met, no matter how he'd been wronged. And I was fairly convinced by his reaction that he did not know of her death. He would have to be a masterful actor to have managed that.”