The Emperor's Assassin (8 page)

T
hey could not get in the door of the London home of Count Gerrard d'Auvraye. It was a white stuccoed town house in the new Nash style, just around the corner from the austere bulk of Manchester House on as eminently respectable a little street as the West End could offer. The liveried footman who answered insisted—in exquisitely accented En-glish—that the count was not home, and nor was his secretary. Morton left a calling card and instructions to inform the count that he would return in the morning at ten o'clock and would expect to speak with him regarding a matter of the most serious nature.

The Count d'Auvraye was clearly a man of some fashion—his address and his home announced this clearly—but Morton could bring the force of the law against him if required and was fully prepared to do so. He made a great effort to impress this fact upon the servant.

The two Runners retreated into the street, but Morton brought them up there.

Jimmy Presley had an ingrained distrust of the French of any stripe. “If he's guilty, as I dem well guess he is,” he said, “then he'll likely light out for France as soon as he hears that Bow Street has come calling.”

The young Runner stared back defiantly at the imposing home. A clatter of traffic passed—tradesmen's carts, delivery wagons, and elegant private carriages. The street life of London varied starkly from neighbourhood to neighbourhood but never ceased. The greatest city in the world, Morton was certain, alive with flash men and princes, foreigners and kings. And two Bow Street Runners, staring with some envy and even greater puzzlement at this grand home off Manchester Square.

“I'm not quite so ready to convict him,” Morton said, “but I think it wise that we keep this house under our eye. Can you stay until I find Farke or some other to come take your place?”

Presley nodded grimly, looking around for a spot where he might loiter inconspicuously. “I can and I will. But why would a man with so much to lose do something so foolish as murder his mistress?”

“It is a good question, Jimmy, and one worth asking. But even more important, why would such a man use thumbscrews on his mistress? Now that does make one wonder.”

Morton left Presley to his vigil and was about to set out for Bow Street when he had another thought. It was late afternoon, but there was a chance that Arthur Darley might be home, and he lived only a short walk away, barely the other side of Baker Street.

Morton was standing on the step of Portman House in a few moments and was immediately let in to speak with the amiable master of the house.

“Morton,” Darley said, rising from a chair and setting aside a newspaper. “What an unlooked-for pleasure. I am having a late tea—would you join me?”

“I would, and gladly, though I must say that I am on police business and have come only to beg a little information.”

“Begging shall not be necessary.” He gestured to the servant. “Mr. Morton will sit down to tea.”

They were immediately alone, seated by a large window that looked out over the green park in the centre of Portman Square.

“I was wondering if you had seen this,” Darley said. He held up his folded newspaper.

“What is it?”

“The
Times
, of a few days past.” Darley opened the paper. “A letter addressed to the Prince Regent from Bonaparte himself. ‘Your Royal Highness; A victim of the factions which distract my country, ’ et cetera, et cetera, ‘I come, like Themistocles—’ ”

“Ah,” Morton interjected, “I like that.”

“ ‘—to throw myself upon the hospitality of the British people…to put myself under the protection of their laws, which I claim from your Royal Highness, as the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of my enemies. ’ ”

“Well, he has given us the acknowledgement we are due, and recognised us for what we are,” Morton said.

“He has recognised man's susceptibility to flattery and rhetoric. I don't think it will work here as it once did in France, but he has no army at his back now, so he must resort to other tricks.” Darley looked up from the paper and recognised something in Morton's manner. “But you have not come here to listen to fallen emperors rant.”

“I do apologise…,” Morton began, but Darley swept this aside with a wave and a smile.

“Do you know anything of your near neighbour, the Count d'Auvraye?”

“Gerrard d'Auvraye over in Spanish Place off Manchester Square? Well, I have met him a few times. He is a…
favourite
would be too strong a word. Let us say that d'Auvraye is a supporter, well known to the present French king. Do I dare ask why you are interested?”

“The count's mistress has been murdered.”

Darley sat back in his chair, wincing a little. Tea arrived.

“But that is not the strangest thing,” Morton continued as the servant left. “This young woman had upon her person the marks of a thumbscrew.”

Darley's cup stopped on its path to his mouth.

“My reaction was much the same,” Morton said. “
Thumbscrews!
The poor woman was subjected to an unspeakable agony before she died.”

Darley's cup rattled down into its saucer, contents untested. “You can't think d'Auvraye would do such a thing?”

“I have accused no one, Lord Arthur. Nor have I yet had the chance to speak with the count.”

“Well, I know where he is—or was, earlier this day. He was at Whitehall, as I was myself.”

Morton's interest was piqued. “And what business would take him there, I wonder?”

“I'm told he is acting as the unofficial ambassador of the French court, of our good friend Louis the Gouty, whose throne has been restored to him by the Duke of Wellington's prowess on the field of battle. I don't know specifically why d'Auvraye was at Whitehall, but it was assumed to have had something to do with our dilemma
over Bonaparte—though of course, it could have been anything, really. Louis has great need of our continuing support. There is still an army wandering round in the south of France, ostensibly loyal to the deposed emperor.” Darley raised his cup again, suddenly very thoughtful. “What else might I tell you?”

“Anything would help. I know nothing of d'Au-vraye.”

Darley turned and looked out the window in the direction of Spanish Place and Manchester Square. “D'Auvraye is a few years older than I, though a great deal stouter. He is of a good family, though his wife's, I think, was even better. I can't claim to know him well. He is a bit progressive for a French aristocrat: I suspect all his years living in exile in London have led to that— he's been here since the Revolution itself, some twentyfive years now. Oh, certainly he is a monarchist, but he once privately professed great admiration for our form of government and even suggested that France might benefit from such a system. He is no fool, I would say, though his manner belies this a little.” Darley paused as he considered this last remark, as though wondering himself what he meant. “He is a ponderous thinker. That is my opinion. Not quick of mind—say, like Fox— but that does not mean he will not arrive at the correct answer if given enough time. He needs to contemplate matters before committing himself.

“I will tell you one peculiar story. I had dinner with the count at his house in Barnes Terrace, really the only prolonged social contact we have had. The conversation was not contemptible, not at all. I have never been in his town house, but I'm told he has good marbles and, of course, a superior cellar.”

“There is a countess?” asked Morton.

“Oh yes, there is a countess.” Darley's tone suggested this was a fact of limited interest. There was a Lady Darley, too, if one cared to ask, although in her case her husband “retreated” to town. Lord Arthur passed on smoothly. “D'Auvraye has weaned himself of much of the pomp and conservative thinking that most of the French royalists brought to England, but this is not true of everyone in his family or in his circle. It is really quite extraordinary, the manners some of them have preserved, even after twenty-five years: the toasts, the order of precedence, the rituals.

“At any rate, there was a visitor, the evening I was there, a most eminent man by the name of Bayarde, a monarchist who fought against Bonaparte. Now, Monsieur Bayarde was a soldier and a philosopher, and he had done much for their cause, both in his actions and in his writings. But he was a commoner, you see, and a Huguenot, to boot. It wasn't clear who had invited him, but he was the only untitled person in the party. When the count's son Eustache got wind of his being there, he refused point-blank to allow him to be seated at table, and made a great fuss, quarrelling with his father and insisting that if Bayarde were seated,
he
could not be. ‘This is what we are fighting against! ’ he argued. ‘This dissolution of all distinctions, this levelling! ’ Can you credit that?”

“With difficulty,” admitted Morton.

“But so it was. In the end the countess supported her son, and he had his way. Monsieur Bayarde pretended not to take offence and had his dinner separately, but I do believe he left that house an embittered man. It is very much as Talleyrand said, you know,
they have forgotten nothing and learned nothing
.”

“But you say that the count does seem, at least in degree, an exception.”

“In some small degree, yes,” Darley agreed.

“Do you know enough of him to pass judgement on his character?”

Darley poured tea for both of them. “He is rather kindly and inoffensive. The French will replace him here with someone… who will care less if he is well liked, if you know what I mean.”

Morton looked out over the sunny park, leaves ashiver in the fresh breeze. Nursemaids watched over children at play. “Can you think of any way that his position would lead to his mistress being tortured?”

Darley rubbed a finger into the corner of his eye as though he had a stray lash. Morton had seen this before and recognised a habit that allowed the man time to collect his thoughts. “Well, I can't really think how d'Auvraye's rather nominal position would lead to such an act. One might imagine that someone could believe the poor woman had enough of the count's confidence that she would know certain things—but I can hardly imagine d'Auvraye knows anything worth torturing a person to learn. The King of France has only just crossed the Channel. It just isn't feasible that he is planning to, say, make war against… anyone. France is a shambles and will remain so for some time. It is the most damnably strange thing I have ever heard.”

“I agree entirely. Who, though, might be considered the enemies of this restored French regime?”

“Well, the governments of the continent welcome King Louis. He is not Bonaparte, and this makes him, at least for the moment, a considerable improvement. Though of course they have set him on the throne themselves, with our help. Enemies? Any crowned head has
his rivals, I suppose, even if no one is sure yet that he will hold France. If I were he, I'd be watching my own family and my own supporters closely, I think. They've fought long and hard against Bonaparte all these years, the royalist opposition, but even longer and harder for position amongst themselves. Even so, I can't imagine any of them are quite so foolish as to attack their own man just yet.”

“What about Bonaparte himself? He has a few supporters still, surely.”

“More than a few—English, French, of every nation. Political radicals, old soldiers, camp followers… anyone but aristocrats. But without their great leader they are a rabble, a serpent without a head. The body might twitch and thrash about for a while, but that is all—they need Bonaparte himself. At the moment I suspect his followers are scattering, seeking places to hide or trying to ingratiate themselves with the new regime.”

“I'm sure you're right, though I notice our government is not treating the deposed emperor as a spent force quite yet.”

Darley looked reflective.

“Indeed, no. That would be folly, wouldn't it?”

A
letter awaited Morton upon his arrival at number 4 Bow Street. He broke the seal and opened it, to find only a few lines in a graceful hand.

My dear Mr. Morton:

It was signed Miss Caroline Richardson.

Morton stared at the note in disbelief. His first reaction was anger, but this was quickly followed by an almost overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. He read the note again and almost threw it into the waste.

Caroline Richardson was his half-sister. That is to say, Morton was the offspring of Miss Richardson's father and a servant—Morton's mother. He had spoken to Miss Richardson once, when they were children—she had been but a small girl at the time, for she was at least half a dozen years younger than he was himself.

Looking around, he realised that he'd wandered into the Runners' ready room. Tucked away in the rear of the building behind the hearing room and Sir Nathaniel's chambers, this was where the Bow Street men took their ease, awaiting commissions, sharing information, and biding their time before giving witness.