The Emperor's Assassin (21 page)

“Well, we continued as we had in France, though the gowns were not so—
très ornée
—ornate—if that is the word. Then Madame Brehl retired. Madeleine went back to France, and I eventually found my way into the theatre, as you see.”

“But Madame De le Cæur did not stay in France.”

“No, of course. She was there a few years and prospered somewhat. She made gowns for Josephine—Napoleon's Josephine. But then she came back to England. France had changed too much, I think, and her hero had crowned himself
l'empereur
. That was the end for her.”

“I see.” Arabella gazed at the small woman as she busied herself about Arabella's person, tucking the material here, pinning it there. “Then she was once a supporter of Bonaparte?”

“Many were, madame. Many were.”

Arabella wanted to ask if Madame Beliveau had counted herself among them but thought the question might be too personal. She was, after all, seeking information about the De le Cæurs, not Jacqueline Beliveau.

“Do you know this man who supplied the De le Cæurs with their French lace and fine wine? Oh, what was his name—Boulot?”

“Jean Boulot? I have only met him once or twice. He tried for some time to make his way on the London stage. Perhaps you met him yourself? He was a singer in Paris. Not of the opera, but the comic opera. Many
thought he would one day be a singer
renommé
—famous. But here in England his talents fell on dark ears.”

“Deaf,” Arabella said before she'd thought.

“Pardon?”

“Deaf ears.”

“
Oui
, deaf ears.” The small woman continued to busy herself about Arabella, tucking fabric here, letting it out there.

“So he became a smuggler?”

“He became
un ivrogne.
A victim of his own wares, a drunkard. But he has a friend among the smugglers. Someone who admires his talent—that is what people say at least, though it might be a joke.”

“It sounds a little like,” Arabella ventured. “How did Boulot come to be in London, I wonder. He was not a nobleman, was he?”

“Jean Boulot?!” The Frenchwoman laughed. “No, he is not a nobleman. What was it people said? I can't remember.
Ah, oui.
He had friends among the intellectu-als—as
artistes
sometimes do—and they ran afoul of Fouché. These men were dragged off to prison, but when the secret police came for Boulot, he was not home, and he was warned. His escape to England was managed through some relative or friend who dealt with the smugglers. And now he is here, nothing but a vestige of the Jean Boulot who once sang for the Parisian audience and had ladies throwing him flowers. You see, madame, we French do not grow well in soil that is not French. It is
une vérité
—well, a sad truth. Beyond our borders we do not prosper. And now they have taken Napoleon away from France, and he will be like Jean Boulot, but more
tragique
—sorrowful—and
humilié
—humiliated.”

And it will all be well deserved, thought Arabella, but she kept this to herself.

W
hile waiting to speak with Sir Nathaniel, Henry Morton wrote a quick note to Geoffrey Westcott and had it delivered to the Admiralty. Westcott no doubt had his own sources, but few of them would have been as close to the location of the murder as Morton—and he was quite sure that Captain Westcott would want to know about the death of such a prominent royalist.

Just as the message boy went out, John Townsend came in, a newspaper in his hand, a pipe clasped tightly between stained teeth. The sweet smell of tobacco preceded him, emanating from his clothes.

“Mr. Townsend?”

The old man stopped, not having noticed the Runner who had once been his protégé.

“Ah, Morton. There you are. Did you catch them? These men who did for the count?”

“I didn't. They slipped down the river on the tide, and we could not find them.”

The old man made an angry noise and cursed under
his breath. He took the pipe stem from between his teeth. “Mistress and man,” he pronounced. “The woman tortured to learn what schemes her lover set in motion, the man murdered to stop him from doing—what, I do not know.”

“It does seem a pretty snug fit,” Morton said.

“You'll not find another boot better suited to that particular foot, I think. But what was this man d'Auvraye up to? Do you know?”

“I don't, John, that's the hell of it.”

The two men took seats in the little panelled antechamber to Sir Nathaniel's office. Townsend waved his creased newspaper at Morton, then slapped it against his palm. “What are the French royalists most concerned with at this moment in time?”

“Securing their nation, I should say.”

“As right as morning. And what will they do to accomplish this?” the old man asked. “Raise an army to protect them from their own people, whom they now greatly fear.
And
rid themselves once and for all time of this scoundrel Bonaparte! For the first they need gold; for the latter they need we English to find some way of securing Bonaparte that will last. But how would a people, even a people as clever as the English, accomplish that?”

“There is only one sure way,” Morton said, happy to play the foil. “A noose around his neck.”

“There are, no doubt, a hundred sure ways, but they all amount to the same thing—Bonaparte dead. I fear we English will not oblige them in this, for we have our laws, and those laws cannot be twisted quite enough to allow it. No, we will not execute Bonaparte, but there are many within France who wish we would and are applying pressure to our government to do them this
favour. Do it here on English soil, out of sight of the French people. Do it and let the rabble find out after. I would think that the French king would be chief among those demanding that our government do away with Bonaparte. And who is the voice of the French king on these shores but the late Comte d'Auvraye?” The old man sat back in his chair and looked directly at Morton as if to say,
Find a hole in that!

“So you think d'Auvraye was lobbying our government to have Bonaparte executed, and somehow the ex-emperor's supporters caught wind of it and killed him?”

Townsend made a gesture with mouth and shoulders that appeared somewhat noncommittal.

“But why would they torture Angelique if they al ready had wind of this? It doesn't make sense.”

“Particulars,” Townsend said.

Morton felt an eyebrow rise. “Particulars?”

“Aye. Whatever the count was up to, there must have been some particulars that the emperor's supporters needed to know. Or at least they believed they needed to know.”

“Or maybe they needed particulars to plan their murder of d'Auvraye,” Morton said. “I've been wondering all day if the count's murderers had a key. No one heard them knock.”

“Did this poor, misused woman have a key to the house in Barnes?”

“I don't know. Her servants said that she had sometimes gone away for short periods of time—a day or two—never telling them where. Visiting the count at Barnes Terrace seems a likely possibility. The servants there might know. I never thought to ask them. Boulot visited the count there, though. About a week ago. He would have had the lay of the place.” Morton realised
that Townsend was gazing at him thoughtfully, while he was staring off into the void.

“The odd thing is that Boulot did not seem terribly keen to co-operate with the men I overheard. He finally gave them a man's name and then bade them leave him in peace.”

“Still, he knows who the men are, assisted them knowingly. Did they not say they would assassinate a man?”

“I heard the French word
assassiner
but little more.”

“Well, that is clear enough. They needed a boat, Boulot gave them a name, and the next morning the count is murdered by men who then escape by boat. Find Boulot. That will give you your answers.”

“Yes, it will, but at the moment all I have is a question: Where is Boulot?”

Two hours of sleep on the floorboards of a wherry was not nearly enough, and Morton felt the effects. His mind was sluggish, words slipping away just as he went to utter them. His brief discussion with Sir Nathaniel left him feeling chagrined—he had not come at all close to solving the murder of Angelique Desmarches, and now the Count d'Auvraye was dead as well. What made it worse was that he had heard the men planning the murder and had not realised it or managed to apprehend a single one of them.

Mistress and man both dead, and Morton did not know why.

Geoffrey Westcott arrived as Morton left the Magis-trate's presence. He looked red-faced, as though he had run all the way.

“Is this true?” the navy man blurted out before even uttering a greeting. “D'Auvraye is dead?”

“Yes, murdered, and if I'd been but a few minutes earlier, I might have prevented it.”

Westcott strode away a few paces, too agitated to be still. “Well, this will cause an uproar,” he said to no one in particular. He turned back to Morton. “And who do you think has done it?” he demanded, his tone a little accusatory.

“I was going to ask the same question of you.”

“Bonapartists,” Westcott said.

“That is the obvious answer,” Morton said.

“Meaning what, Mr. Morton?”

“I don't know.” Morton's exhausted brain could not find words for what was barely more than a vague uneasiness. “I suppose I distrust the obvious sometimes.”

Westcott stood looking at him for a moment, his face unreadable. “How will you proceed now?”

“I will interview the count's son and continue searching for Jean Boulot. There is also this man Berman on the quay, whom I overheard them speaking of at Paul's Court, when his friends visited Boulot. I have men out beating the riverbank looking for any man who goes by that name, and the River Police are offering their assistance.”

Westcott took a long breath and appeared to turn pale. “The King of France will be writing to the Prince Regent, Mr. Morton, and to the First Minister, lamenting the murder of his erstwhile ambassador. Louis will be demanding justice.”

“And we will deliver nothing less, Captain Westcott,” Morton said.

Westcott nodded, his face softening. “I'm sure you will. I have no doubt of it. I'm just &” He shifted his hat
from beneath one arm to the other. “My superiors at the Admiralty will want to know how a man of d'Auvraye's importance could be assassinated here without my having wind of it.”

“And what will you tell them?” Morton wondered.

“I will tell them that it is a mystery we will quickly solve. And that the men who pursue these murderers are the finest in England. We can do no better.”

Morton offered a small bow to this compliment and went off to write a note to the coroner.

Turning from the comparatively quiet thoroughfare that was Bow Street, Henry Morton made his way into the redolent hubbub of Covent Garden, where London's busiest food market was in full cry. He himself was hungry to the point of distraction and decided to seek out some quick sustenance in one of the chop houses beyond. As he worked his way through the clamour of barking market folk and their teeming customers, a seemingly unsupported top hat emerged from the throng and appeared to hover about the Runner's waist.