The Emperor's Assassin (22 page)

“Oy! Oy!” The piping voice rose shrilly over the racket. “Remember Wil?”

“I never forget a hat,” Morton said, stopping to gaze down at the freckled, gap-toothed urchin. “And what brings young Wil to my eye today?”

“I've summat for ye!”

But it was clearly too loud, and too public, to talk here. Forsaking ceremony, the tall Runner bent and hoisted the child onto his shoulders. Skirting the barrows and bulling through the crowd, he found them some sanctuary in the stinky shadows of the portico on the north side of the Garden.

“That French cully was back sniffing around Maiden Lane!” Wil burst out, as soon as he had been set on his pins again. A couple of his confederates had somehow followed and now stood silently at his back, apparently in awe of his audacity.

“Boulot?”

“That's him. Came sniffing around his old doss house, but some 'un warned him off.”

Morton still had a man in Boulot's room. He cursed under his breath.

“No need for oaths, yer honour. We followed him, didn't we, lads?” His silent followers nodded enthusiastically.

“Followed him where?”

“To a snoozing ken!”

Morton was a little surprised to hear Boulot would go to a brothel. Not that such an establishment wouldn't make a good place to hide, but he wondered how Boulot could afford the fare.

“And where might this snoozing ken be?”

“It's by that slap-bang shop on Oxendon Street.”

“Mrs. Mott's?” Morton said, incredulous.

“Aye, that's she.”

Morton fished some coins from his pocket. “If this turns out to be true, my friend William, you shall have greater reward than this.” He dropped the coins into the boy's small hand.

Morton looked once longingly in the direction of the chop houses, ignored the growling of his stomach, and set off toward Long Acre to find a hackney-coach.

A
little to his shame, Henry Morton had once been to Mrs. Mott's in Oxendon Street himself. It was some years past, and he had been under the influence of a certain curiosity, a dark impulse, and rather too much brandy, in about that order. And even then the thing was perhaps aided a bit by proximity, as Mrs. Mott's establishment was but a block away from Morton's own lodgings in Rupert Street. A longer journey, and he might have turned back before he'd got there, if only on consideration of expense.

Mrs. Mott's was not quite an ordinary house of entertainment. It was not aimed at any well-defined taste. In fact, it was a place whose reputation was all in its ability to surprise, in its sometimes exotic and always shifting bill of fare. It was discreet, of course, and folk could merely rent a chamber for whatever purpose they contemplated. But for the initially unattached, it was a place where one might hope to encounter… well, not the usual sorts of choices. An equally curious, darkly influenced female adventurer, of one's own or a better
class, likewise experimenting? Or, if not quite so singular a thing, perhaps a stranded traveller from some foreign shore, genteel, but far from the judging eyes of her native land and needing a smallish sum to tide herself over or buy her passage home? Or at the very least, an actress and dancer languishing a little between engagements, perhaps just arrived in town and of as-yet-underappreciated talents. At any rate, whoever it was, she would be new. It was one of Mrs. Mott's principles (if such a word applied) never to allow her house to become a habitual recourse for any female visitor. A week was the utmost limit of her stay, so a man could be sure never to see the same face twice, unless it were Mrs. Mott's own. That man, though, was of course himself very welcome to come back as oft as he pleased. And pay high for the privilege.

Morton descended from his hired coach, paid the driver, and stood staring a moment at Mrs. Mott's. It appeared to be but another house on this obscure street. The home of a minor barrister, perhaps. Morton walked a few paces down and found the second address he was seeking—or at least the door to it, which was hidden down a few stone steps. A slap-bang shop was commonly an establishment where no credit was given. Cash had to be paid down, slap-bang on the counter. But in the cant of thieves, the name applied to a thieves' cellar—a place where stolen goods were bought, sold, or traded. No credit was offered there, either.

Certain thieves' cellars had their usual patrons, as did Mrs. Mott's no doubt, and a few were by so frequently that Morton was confident he could find one to help. The local flash men all knew Mrs. Mott, and though they might not have the finances to afford her wares, they “procured” things for her as needed, so a
warm little friendship grew up between the local thieves and the brothel matron.

Morton waited about for half of the hour, his stomach grumbling of its need for food, his head bemoaning its lack of sleep. And then an angler he recognised appeared on the street, a sack over his shoulder. Morton stepped behind a slow-moving cart and, when he judged his position right, set off across the thoroughfare to nab this unwary angler from behind.

“Well, well. Aberdeen Sumner Fox. And what have you caught today?”

The youth cringed away in surprise, collapsing against the wall of a house as he staggered back from the Runner. The look of utter shock and consternation was immediately replaced by one of defeat and anguish. The young man, barely more than a boy, cursed under his breath and looked as though he might weep.

Morton stared at him a moment, his hand keeping a strong grip on the boy's jacket. Anglers used a hooked stick to steal goods from shop windows and from between gratings. As London's criminal classes went, they were of a lower order—small fish, so to speak—but they had a quality that Morton had to admire: They were almost invisible, even in the smallest gathering. The angler was the man whose face you would never recall. But Henry Morton was possessed of almost perfect memory, and criminals of all stripes were his business in more ways than people realised. And he was about to transact a piece of business with this dismayed young man.

“Have you mackerel in there? I ask myself. Or oysters, maybe?” Morton sniffed the air. “No, doesn't smell like either of those. Doesn't smell like fish at all. You know what I think you have in there? A stay in Newgate
Prison—if you're lucky. If the magistrate thinks what you have is worth more than forty pounds—well then, it's a hemp necktie.”

“It's nothing, Mr. Morton, sir,” the young man said, overcoming his initial distress. “Hardly worth a pound. And I found it on the street. Fell off a wagon, I judge.”

Morton gave the man a shake, banging him roughly against the wall. “Do the flash men tell you that Henry Morton's a fool?”

“No, Mr. Morton, they don't say that.”

Morton eased his hold on Fox, though not enough that he might twist away. For a moment the Runner regarded the sandy-haired youth, perhaps eighteen years old. He was slight and quick, his features almost unnaturally regular—neither handsome nor plain. His cap had fallen off, and Morton noted his hair was already thinning.

“I'll tell you what, young Mr. Fox. If you can offer me a little of what I need to know, I might be induced not to look into your sack at all.”

The youth glanced up at him, measuring, wondering if he was being lied to. But Morton had a reputation for keeping his word. He only hoped news of it had reached this young man's ears.

“I don't know much, Mr. Morton, and that's the truth.”

“I don't want to know anything about your thieving friends, if that's your worry.” Morton motioned with his head. “The snoozing ken down the street.”

“Mrs. Mott's?”

“Yes, Mott's. Is it not said that you spend a bit of time there?”

“It's a bit rich for the likes of me,” the boy said.

Morton tightened his grip.

“But I know one of the maids.”

“Good. We need have a little talk with her.”

Morton escorted the young man along the street, the afternoon sun glancing off high windowpanes and throwing rectangles of light down onto the uneven cobbles. Morton, who'd been poisoned with religion when a child and would not partake of this unguent now, wondered if some higher power cast these little patches of divine light down on the city of London. Perhaps he and this petty thief with the ridiculous name could walk through one and achieve a state of grace. But it did not seem to be so. It was nothing but the reflected glory of some greater power, and when Morton and Fox had passed through, the Runner felt unchanged, no more charitable or at peace with the world.

They took the steps down to the cellar door and rang. A moment later a man's face appeared. Morton kept back, out of the man's line of sight.

“Mr. Fox!” the man said. “And what have you for us today?”

“Nothing, nothing. I only wonder if Katie's in, is all.”

“Well, she's a busy girl, you know.”

“I know. It is most important that I see her.”

“I'll tell her, but you mustn't expect her to come running down.”

Fox nodded.

Morton must have underestimated the attractions of Aberdeen Sumner Fox, for the maid Katie appeared a few moments later, and to the Runner's surprise, she was a maid—that is to say, a servant.

“Aberdeen Fox,” she said. “I thought you'd forgotten my name.”

“Not at all, Katie lass. Not at all.” He looked nervously back at Morton, whom the girl could not see.

“I'm in a bit of trouble,” the thief blurted out.

The girl noticed his gaze flicking back up the steps and chanced a look out from the door. She dodged back in and would have slammed the door, but Morton was quick enough to get his baton in the opening.

Morton had hold of the girl now and pulled her outside onto the narrow landing at the stair's foot before she could scream.

“You've nothing to fear from me,” Morton said soothingly. “I'm a Runner, it's true, but I've no cause to disturb our good Mrs. Mott or her fine establishment. I'm just looking for a man who's staying here. Frenchman named Boulot, though he might be calling himself something else. He's a bald cully with a raspberry stain on his pate. Do you know him?”

The frightened girl nodded. Morton released his hold of her.

“Just tell him what he wants,” Fox implored her. “I'm for Newgate otherwise.”

“He was here,” the young woman whispered. “But he's gone.”

“Where?”

She shook her head. “The priest might know.”

“What priest?”

“French priest, named Lafond, though we're not sup posed to know his real name. Your man visited him.”

“And where is the priest?”

Her eyes went upward, and she cocked her head a little.

“Inside?”

“Yes.”

“Can you take me to him?”

“No, I'd be seen. Mrs. Mott'll have for me as it is, talking to a horney about her patrons.”

“All right, Katie girl. You've done well. Well enough that I'm thinking of letting your friend here go free.”

“Thank you, sir,” she breathed.

But Morton had a last thought. “What name was Boulot using here, do you know?”

“No name. Mrs. Mott just called him the Frenchman. No, wait. I heard her call him the man from Malmaison. Does that sound right?”

“Indeed it does, I'm afraid.” He let the girl go, and she slipped back in the door, frightened and angry.

“She won't be speaking to Aberdeen Sumner Fox again,” the boy lamented.

“Let me have a look in your sack, Fox,” Morton said. He assured himself that the stolen property was of little value and not likely something that he would find an owner for, and sent the angler on his way.

For a few moments he paced up and down the street, considering what to do next. He was also trying to remember where he had heard the name Lafond before. He sifted through the conversations he'd had with Westcott to no avail, then tried to recall the details of his conversation with Marcel Houde. The chef had dropped so many names. But, yes! Jean-Baptiste Lafond. Abbé Lafond. A royalist connected to some secretive faction.

Morton decided that it was time to try the front door.

Morton was shown into Mrs. M.'s intimate first-floor salon, where the Lady Abbess herself sat at piquet, her tea things at her side, and her fellow players—all women— ranged a bit uneasily about her. Mrs. Mott, however, was very much at her ease, like any other woman of fashion at home to a select circle of her friends. Or almost like. A large woman, dressed in a low-cut gown
in which her massive bosom was just a trifle more than modestly gleaming, she gave Morton a slightly harder look than many ladies might have bestowed upon a guest. He suspected that, like himself, Mrs. Mott never forgot a face.