The Emperor's Assassin (34 page)

Morton slid the bottle back across the tiny table, and Boulot pulled the cork. He put it up to his lips and was about to tip it back but then set it down, his look haunted and infinitely sad.

“Where have the rest of them gone, Boulot? Have they gone to kill Bonaparte?”

“Bonaparte is already dead—the dream is dead.” He looked up and saw Morton's reaction. “No, Bow Street. The man who made himself emperor still breathes and speaks—you should ask
him
to tell you the truth.” He rubbed a hand back over his sweaty neck, grimacing as he did so. “I tell you
la vérité
, the truth—what little truth I know. I tell you because you are an honest man and, although this surprise you, so am I. Yes, I, Jean Boulot, of Malmaison,
votre serviteur
. Honest, mainly. But first you must tell me something. Did you like my song? I sing it well, I think. Now, it is not
une chanson d'opéra
, not an opera song, but a love song, very sad,
from the Auvergne. The lyric is in
langue d'oc
, but I translate. The man sings to the woman he has betrayed, to the woman he has betrayed with another. But he does not ask for forgiveness, no. He tells her only that he loves her.
I have betrayed you; I love you
. Is that not strange? He never love her, not truly, till he has betrayed her. This is sad,
bien sûr
.”

Morton scowled in impatience. “Five people have been slain now, Boulot. Make your choice. I told you before, you can help us find the guilty, or you can hang by their sides.”

Boulot grunted. “I am glad you do not assume I am one of these guilty, Bow Street. That is sympathetic. That is
gentil
. And you know, you 'ave reason. It is true, I never kill”—but he hesitated—“I was going to say
no one.
But perhaps that is not so true. I kill
la belle
Desmarches, perhaps.
La belle
Angelique. Not with my hands. But perhaps I did. And perhaps I will kill the emperor, too. But that does not matter so much, I think.”

“How did you kill Madame Desmarches?”

Someone stepped across the deck above their heads, distracting the Frenchman, and he stared upward for a moment. Then he said flatly, “I betray her. Like the man in the song. She was passing intelligence from her royalist lover to the friends of Bonaparte in London. They tell me, to gain my aid, and I tell
le comte
. He do not believe me, at first, but I prove to him by showing the letter he had receive from Fouché, that she copied. It was really very simple thing. And now, yes, just as in the song, I love her, I sing to the stars about her. You know, I did tell an untruth to you, before. I
was
once her lover, and I am not
fou
, not mad, as I say this. Just one night, two year ago in a room in the Pulteney Hotel.
Mon Dieu
, I never forget this night. I weep to think. But I tell you
truthfully, Bow Street, I think I
she
forget. I was nothing to her. A mistake.
Une bagatelle
.”

“Who killed her?”

Boulot mused. “But no, I am something to her now. Her betrayer, her destroyer. That is something very intimate. Do not mistake me, Bow Street, I did not do it for revenge, not at all. I had no idea it would happen this way. Perhaps I 'ad some fool's idea that
le comte
would throw her aside and then… who would she go to?” He shook his head sadly. “I treasured her, she was
mon beau idéal
. My dream. It is the most terrible thing, that I have destroyed her, the most terrible thing that I can imagine.” And his voice did almost crack as he said it. “And yet, also, there is something… glorious. You should know this sensation,
monsieur la police
. A great, great betrayal. It feel like nothing else. You should know it. It help you in your work.”

“How did it happen? Who killed her, dem you!”

But Boulot's head had sunk to his breast now, and Morton could see that his shoulders were shaking. He waited. Then when it seemed to have subsided, he repeated more quietly.

“Who killed her?”

“
Le comte
d'Auvraye and his shadow, Rolles.”

“And then your friends, the supporters of Bonaparte, killed the count in revenge.”

Boulot looked at him in dull surprise, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve. “No, no, Bow Street.
Le petit comte
—the son. Eustache. He killed her.”

“Eustache d'Auvraye? He and Rolles? How do you know this?”

“Because they tell me. They tell me to frighten me, but I believe them. They say the old man, the father, 'e write a note to Bow Street telling you to come to 'is
'ouse in Barnes. He will tell you that Angelique Desmarches was a Bonapartist—a spy. The old man he would tell you she must have been killed by people who wanted to know about her friends, the other Bonapartists. How long would it 'ave taken you then to find your way to Rolles? Not long.”

“Eustache killed the count?”

“ 'E had 'im killed,” Boulot said, as though this were unimportant. His gaze lost focus. “Do you know the irony, Bow Street? They did not mean to kill her. Just to find out the things they need to know, but she throw herself out the window so that she would not tell. That's why they needed me, Jean Boulot. I am not so brave. Not so…
engagé
—committed. I would tell them what they wanted. But they could not find me, Bow Street. You had to do it for them.

“I tell you something. Gervais was also my friend. And I also betray him,
par
accident. I lead Monsieur Eustache there, to his hiding place, his
grange
out in the moors. I lead them there, these
monstres
, this parricide and his little lackey, to the home of my friend. I had not betrayed enough people yet. For money I hoped this old friend of mine would help us, provide the boat we needed, arrange our escape to France. But Gervais is like me, he once was a supporter of Bonaparte, who lost his faith when the man he worshipped—the champion of
égalité
—put a crown on his head. He ran in trouble of the secret police and escaped 'ere. He did not like these royalists and took up an axe to send them away. But he did not know Pierre. Pierre is
fou
, a killer, a man who take pleasure from it. Pierre attacked 'im, and Gervais was forced to kill 'im with his axe. Rolles and d'Au-vraye, they carried pistols and &” He rubbed his trembling hands over his face, head bowed. Reaching out, he
snatched up the uncorked bottle, but again he stopped. He merely cradled it in his hand, almost tenderly.

Morton took out his own pistols and laid them on the table.

“What is it you do, Bow Street?”

“What every constable has been trained to do: assure himself of his weapons at such times. Where are d'Auvraye and Rolles? Do they really think they can shoot Bonaparte on the deck of His Majesty's ship? They will never escape!”

Boulot closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “You do not see it yet, Bow Street. You come all this way doing your duty, but you do not understand. My betrayal is more complete than that. It is almost glorious in its scale. You remember that night outside my rooms, the men you met? You know that Bonaparte 'as agents in England, yes?”

“They were spies?”

“Well, once they were, now they are nothing. Men with no country, no leader, no cause. They are like Jean Boulot, but they don't yet know it. I tell them I will do anything if they will get me a pardon from Fouché, but they never do. They tell me Fouché always need a little more proof of my loyalty. Fouché, who is loyal to no one and nothing.” The Frenchman sat back, slumping against the wooden slats, the ‘ceiling, ’ that ran across the frames. He stared up at nothing. “Imagine that a little constable from the Magistrate's Court, a constable who never give up, would arrive here this night.”

“I'm growing impatient, Boulot. So far your story is nothing but a long denial that you are guilty of these crimes.”

Boulot fixed him with a bleary-eyed stare. “ 'Ave you
not been listening? I am guilty of a hundred crimes. This is my confession—and you are my priest, Bow Street.”

“How will they kill Bonaparte?”

“Kill him? They plan to save him first.”

“You are mad,” Morton said in disgust.

“No, I tell you the truth, Bow Street.” He leaned for ward again, planting his elbows on the table, hands pressed against his cheeks, distorting his sweating face. “What is the hour?”

Morton took out his brass repeater. “It is past eleven.”

“Then per'aps there is time. Per'aps.”

“Start speaking, Boulot. The simple truth!”

“As if anyone could! You say five persons have died? But what is that, Bow Street? What is that? Millions have died. You know this. But don't look so impatient. I tell you.”

Boulot breathed deeply and looked down at his chest again a moment, thinking. Somehow he was different, it seemed to Morton. More a man and less a clown.

“The smugglers here on the
Nancy
, they think Rolles and d'Auvraye are my friends, friends of the Bonaparte loyalists who 'ave come here to 'elp. They tell them the exact hour, the exact location… that they bring him ashore.”

Morton and Boulot stared at each other a long mo ment.

“It is not possible, Boulot. It can't be managed.”

“Eh,
oui
, they think they can do it. The others, that is, my old friends. They are desperate, they gather up lovers of the emperor from everywhere, from the strangest places. This
bòtiment
, this
Nancy
that we are in, it belong to an English, a smuggling-man, name Rattenbury, from somewhere there on the Devon coast. I know him from before, from the wartime. They have
some soldiers also, as 'ave escape from the prison on the moor, and they have some other men, brave and mad, who have pistols and swords.”

“The Royal Navy will take the most absolute care. We are in a harbour full of warships. You are talking nonsense.”

“They don't plan to sail away with him. No, no. They need only to get him ashore. They have a lawyer there, an
écossais
, with
papiers
, court documents, there will be a
procès
, a trial. The very moment he put one boot on English sand, then he is saved.”

“They cannot get him off a ship of seventy-four guns with over two hundred men aboard!”

“They say to do it by stealth. They have two boat, about a dozen men. One boat create
la diversion, la ruse de guerre
, and talk to the cutter that patrol. Then slip in the other and bring him out rapidly through the window of the great cabin, in the stern of
le navire
. They are prepared there, Bertrand and the others. They know, and expect. They will lower him on a rope, and Bertrand will impersonate him. Then all the others need do is row so fast as they possibly can to the beach and arrive there before the Britishes. On the beach they light a fire, to show the way.”

“It cannot prosper,” breathed Morton.

“
Bien
, Bow Street, then there is no difficulty, is there?” Boulot was sardonic. “You may sit here the evening and agree with yourself that it cannot succeed, God bless the Navy Royale. And I may spare myself
la crise de conscience
. I will 'ave my reward, and all will be well.”

“If these royalists now know about this plot, they will be able to prevent it, they will warn the navy.”

“Oh no, Bow Street,
pas de tout
, not at all! That is
why I say you do not see. They do not
want
to prevent it. They
want
it to succeed. So they can be there, waiting. They want him dead. No more prison. No more Elba.
La mort.
”

Morton uttered a heartfelt curse. “Where, Boulot? Where will they bring him ashore? Is that where Eustache and Rolles will wait?”

Boulot placed his palms together and tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his lips for a moment.

“I remember. The smuggler left here to watch the ship, he say he take them to the beach at the place called Bovisan' Bay. Maybe someone know where that is. You will find who you want there.”

“The hour! Tell me the hour this is to happen!”

“An hour past midnight, Bow Street.”

Morton stared at the enigmatic little man a moment, then climbed up the ladder to the deck. The sky was bright with stars, the fog washed away by a small breeze.

“Bow Street!” Boulot called.

Morton turned and looked back down into the tiny cabin.

“Can you not release me? They will kill me when they find out what I have done.”

“Can you swim?” Morton asked.

“No.”

“Then best stay as you are.”

He turned away. “Did you hear all that?” he asked

Presley and Westcott.

They nodded.

“Is it possible? Can they do it?”

Westcott considered. “Yes, perhaps.”

“Then we must strike out for the ship and see if we can stop them.”

“The ship is distant,” Berman said. The smuggler perched on the rail, his feet dangling over the side. “You will not reach it in time. Bovisand Bay is near.”

Morton dropped down into the boat that rocked alongside. “Then it is Bovisand Bay.” He reached into his coat and took out one of his Parker pistols, handing it, butt first, to Westcott. “I expect Sir Nathaniel will forgive me.”

Westcott smiled.

They pushed off from the
Nancy
, Westcott and Berman at the oars.

“The beach at Bovisand Bay is narrow and meagre,” Berman said. “These Frenchmen will certainly see us approaching.”

“We will have to take our chances,” Morton said.

“Well, that is fine for you, but I'd be glad to keep living a few years yet. There is another small beach over a rise. A narrow track connects the two. I could land you there, and you could come upon them by stealth.”

“How much farther is it? Our time is short.”

“Not far. You will see.”