The Emperor's Assassin (25 page)

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.

The Runner retreated out onto the street and wondered a moment. Houde was responsible in the extreme— to desert his post would be so out of character that Morton would have bet considerable sums against it.

“Marcel, my friend,” he whispered, “what is it you do?”

M
orton made his way back to the Magistrate's Court at number 4 Bow Street, where he found two notes. First, from Arabella:

Morton sat down heavily upon a bench. His head swam from lack of food and rest.
Were
the dressmakers spying for the French—or more specifically, for Bonaparte? Had they learned something from Madame Desmarches that had led to her torture and death?

The second note was brief: Westcott asking if Morton could meet him at White's that evening. His belly empty and mood sour, Morton scribbled a note and had it delivered to White's saying that he would be at the Golden Apple in the Strand. There he hoped to fill the void in his stomach and find some fellow Bow Street men with whom to commiserate.

As it turned out, Presley was happily ensconced at a corner table, nursing a mug and watching a gang of bitter midshipmen—all without futures in the navy now— get foully drunk.

“Morton!” the young Runner said, his great ham of a face lighting with a smile, a smile that quickly disappeared. “What's happened?”