The Emperor's Assassin (12 page)

“I trust your judgement in such things, Mr. Morton. But if not the count, then whom?” Sir Nathaniel turned in his chair to look a moment out the window. “What do we know of this woman?” he asked, turning back to his Runners. “Was she the sort to play the count false? Where did he meet her? Had she been a whore, or a demi-rep?”

“We were told she came over here to stay loyal to the Bourbons,” said Morton. “Her husband was a soldier in Bonaparte's armies, but what happened to him is apparently unknown. It seems to me that if Desmarches had been an officer of any rank, his death or other fate would have been announced in the Bonapartist equivalent of a gazette, or found out otherwise. This suggests the man was a private soldier, even a conscript. His wife was most likely of the same class.”

“Bonapartist camp follower turned royalist mistress?

An odd progression.”

“She was a beautiful woman,” said Morton quietly.

The Chief Magistrate frowned a moment longer, then seemed to summon himself.

“Well, you will certainly have to have another talk with the Count d'Auvraye. But let us first see what else
we can turn up. I have reported the business of the thumbscrew marks to the Foreign Office, and they want you to speak to someone, a Captain Westcott over at the Admiralty.”

“The navy? Why are they concerned?”

The Magistrate shrugged. “You'd think they'd have enough to worry about, with Bonaparte himself slinging a hammock in one of their ships. But I suppose they have their own people who look into this sort of thing.” He nodded at the paper Morton still held. “Give your list to him. He's asked that you wait on him at his chambers at three, and I said you would. Let us see what light he might be able to throw on the business. Mr. Townsend? Your views?”

The celebrated old Runner had out his snuffbox and did not respond at once. Those in the room, of course, were familiar with his eccentricities. They were also familiar with his unsurpassed skill in their profession and were prepared to wait.

“I'm sure you all have noticed the oddity in this business,” he remarked, then sneezed loudly. Wiping his nose and putting away his handkerchief as if nothing had happened, he went on. “Betrayal and rejection, yes. Even betrayal, rejection, and then murder. Yes, that still has a certain logic to it. The man's wounded pride festers as he reflects on the enormity of what she has done to him, and then passion erupts and he pursues her for further vengeance—just as Mr. Morton has said. Or if the woman had been subjected to torture and then murdered
without
ever being rejected by the count, I hardly think we would be sitting here having this discussion. We would all assume, rightly, that she had been tortured by one of his enemies, who hoped to learn some vital piece of intelligence.” He raised his silvery eyebrows
waiting for anyone to gainsay this. No one did. “But she was put to the torment immediately
after
the count had rejected her. If she had already betrayed his secrets, for example, why did they need to torture her? Betrayal, rejection…
torture
…
murder
. How do these things sort with each other?”

They all waited for Townsend to answer his own question, but the old man grinned and slowly eased himself up from his chair. He straightened stiffly, and then to no one in particular said, “It is in this odd conjunction of matters that the mystery abides, gentlemen. It is in this peculiarity of timing. I believe we are obliged to reject any
obvious
suspect or conclusion. We need to look further, reflect more deeply.”

M
orton called on Captain Geoffrey Westcott at the Admiralty and, after being left to ponder in the waiting room for a quarter of an hour, was greeted by an officer of perhaps thirty years. Morton's first impression was of the man's height, for the captain was the precise height of Morton himself: six feet and three inches. A longish face, a beaked nose in the style of Wellington, and a disarming smile—these impressed one next. And last, a firm handshake, and a clear eye, blue as the sea itself on a summer day. Westcott was dressed in a uniform so well tailored and spotless that any dandy would have taken the man to be one of their own, impressed into the Royal Navy.

“Henry Morton, Bow Street.”

“Geoffrey Westcott. It is a pleasure. Do you mind if we slip out of this madhouse? My club is just a few paces off, in St. James's.”

Morton had no objections. St. James's Street was home to three of London's most established clubs, White's, Brooks', and Boodle's. It was a street where
one seldom saw a woman, and never a woman of qual-ity—at least not an English one. The young bucks who lounged in the club windows, quizzing glasses in hand, had long since given the street its reputation, and no delicately nurtured young lady would dare venture there for fear of her reputation. St. James's and its environs was a masculine preserve, and many a well-to-do bachelor made his home there—often to the detriment of his fortune.

Morton seldom gambled—he worked too hard for his money to chance losing it—but in London he was almost alone in his dislike of this vice. And the city's great clubs were the many beating hearts of this obsession. Not just wealth changed hands within these imposing preserves. Men were driven out of England for the debts that they incurred in White's and Wattier's. Fortunes were lost, and occasionally won as well.

Captain Westcott set a brisk pace as they passed along the border of St. James's Park, onto which the Admiralty building backed. But then, as they gained a little distance from the Admiralty, the seaman turned and stood looking back. Morton's gaze followed. Atop the building the semaphoric telegraph was just then set in motion, the six wooden shutters pivoting upon their central axes so that they appeared either as thin horizontal lines or as dark rectangles.

“Can you read it?” Morton asked.

Westcott nodded, his aquiline nose seeming to lift a little as though he could sniff the message on the air. The shutters held their position for a few seconds, then changed of an instant so that all six showed their dark faces.

“There,” Westcott said, pointing. “That is the letter C.” He turned his head to Morton and smiled. “It will almost
certainly be replaced by an improved system within a year.”

Morton could not help but be impressed. “I find it difficult to imagine that there could be a better system. It's said that messages travel along the line of towers at two hundred miles to the hour!”

“Oh, at the very least,” Westcott said. “I've known messages to be sent to Plymouth and an answer received in but half an hour. Of course that is only by day, and then only on days without mist or rain.” He glanced back at the telegraph, which continued its display. “But even so it is a great advancement.” He looked back at Morton and smiled charmingly. “Can you imagine if you had told a man twenty-five years ago that messages would travel across the land at a speed of two hundred miles to the hour what he would have said of you?” He laughed. “It is an age of wonders, Morton. An age of wonders.”

They set off again, speaking of small things as they went—the changes to the city, a fire that had destroyed a row of buildings, the new wines that were arriving at Berry's now that the blockade had been lifted. In this way they were soon in St. James's, through the doors so many aspired to pass, and then into White's itself. The joke among Londoners went that when a boy child was born to an aristocratic family, a servant stopped at White's to enter the child's name in the candidacy book before proceeding to the registry office to record the birth.

Westcott was obviously well known here, and he led Morton to a quiet, walnut-panelled room where brandy was served. A few men sat about smoking, their faces thrust into the daily papers, or talking quietly. One exhausted-looking man, fresh from the gambling room,
still wore his coat inside out “for luck” and was just now removing the leather wristbands that protected his lace when he threw the dice. He nodded to Westcott.

“Captain,” he said hoarsely, then bobbed his head to Morton. The young man collapsed in a chair, ordered brandy, and promptly fell asleep.

Recognition dawned on Morton.

Westcott read something in Morton's face. “You know our Robbie, Mr. Morton?”

“Only by reputation.”

This was Miss Caroline Richardson's brother—and

Morton's half-brother. They had never formally met, but Morton had seen him numerous times over the years.

Westcott looked over at the sleeping man, who had now begun to snore softly. “He is gaining something of a reputation. Rather sad for his family.” He offered Morton a bitter half-smile.

A group of three young gentlemen entered the room then, spotted Robert Richardson, and with muffled laughter proceeded to prod and tickle the insensible young man, gaining great levity from the sport. They were finally shushed and driven away by a stern look from one of the senior members, who had previously been enjoying his paper.

Westcott took a sip from his brandy and then pushed the errant sons of the aristocracy from his mind. “So, Mr. Morton, did I understand correctly that this unfortunate young woman you found had been subjected to the thumbscrew?”

“I'm afraid it is absolutely true.”

The captain made a small gesture of amazement. “Have you found out who she was?”

“Her name was Madame Angelique Desmarches,”
Morton reported. “And she was the mistress of the Comte d'Auvraye.”

The captain spread his hands along the edge of the table. “Gerrard d'Auvraye?”

Morton nodded.

Westcott lifted his hands to his temples as if stricken by a sudden headache and paused to consider. “Well, that is news.”

Morton thought the man looked a bit shaken. “Do you know the count?” Morton asked. He had no intention of allowing this conversation to be a one-way flow of information.

“I have met him, yes. A few times, in fact. He is a member of Wattier's, as am I.”

Wattier's, Morton knew, was the club to join if you fancied yourself a gourmet. The cuisine was French, of course. The club had actually been started by the Prince Regent, in league with a great chef named Wattier. In recent years it was gaining a reputation as a gambling hell.

“Is d'Auvraye known for his temper?”

Westcott still looked shaken. “The opposite, in fact. He is quite… softly mannered. At the moment he is representing the interests of King Louis here in London, but the French will soon replace him. D'Auvraye is too kindhearted for such a post.”

“I have seen the mildest of men, in moments of passion, perform the most odious acts of violence, Captain.”

“I'm sure you have, and I would never say that d'Auvraye is not capable of such an act himself—but it does seem unlikely. And thumbscrews!”

“I don't suppose there are rumours of any…deviant peculiarities associated with our erstwhile ambassador?”

Westcott shook his head. “None, but this matter takes
on a whole new significance now.
D'Auvraye!
” he said with feeling.

“This distresses you,” Morton observed.

“It does indeed. You see, Mr. Morton, it has recently been my function in the Admiralty to ‘watch over’ certain groups of French nationals in England, though with the royalists I am more of a liaison.”

“It seems a difficult task for one man.”

“I am not alone in this endeavour, thankfully.” He looked at Morton a moment, as though taking his measure. “I suppose now that the war appears to be finally over, I may say this to you, but I should caution you, Mr. Morton: None of this should be repeated.”

Morton nodded his assent.

Westcott hesitated a moment, as though wondering what he might safely reveal and what he might not. “I should, at the very least, have my own ship by now, Mr. Morton, but my mother is French, and I had the misfortune to spend a good part of my childhood in that coun-try—not that I didn't enjoy it. I did, entirely. But it had an unexpected influence on my future endeavours.

“I speak the language as a native, know the customs, the odd little things that a foreigner would never pick up, not if he lived there a dozen years. This accident of birth is the reason I've only reached the rank of post captain at the age of thirty-two. Men I shared the mid-shipman's berth with are
admirals
now.” He took a long breath and visibly calmed himself. “I have spent some part of the war across the Channel, travelling under different names, claiming different purposes. I will flatter myself and say that some of the information I have brought back with me has proven passingly useful to the Admiralty—and for this I have been rewarded with a desk in the Admiralty building and charged with watching
over the French expatriates here on our shores. Not all of them, of course, but those who are of interest— men and women suspected of being Bonaparte's agents in England. The various royalist factions. Anyone who might be of use or who might do us harm.” He applied himself to his brandy a moment. “You see before you the only commissioned officer in His Majesty's navy, who is not a lord of the Admiralty, to sit at a desk in that venerable building. But I do not mean to grumble. I have given service to my country—not the service I yearned to give, but valuable service all the same.”