The Emperor's Assassin (37 page)

“Then &” And then Morton realised: “That was you in the boat!”

“Yes, it was Houde, unluckily. That royalist fool shot me before I could point out the small differences between myself and Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Are you badly wounded?”

“My arm. Not so bad, I think. His hand was shaking with excitement, and 'e missed
mon cæur
. Not by much.
Le bon Dieu
like 'is little joke and keep me alive.”

Morton whistled softly as he bent to look. Houde was right. He too had been fortunate, and Morton remembered well the deliberate shot, before the three had fled.

“Now at least I have a wound from the wars. Not many chefs can say that. What of those royalists?”

“All dead, I'm afraid.”

Houde shrugged, a splendidly expressive Gallic ges ture, despite his hurt. “
Tant pis.
But no great loss. Royalist scum. Who were they?”

“Count Eustache d'Auvraye. His secretary, Rolles. A third man I did not know.”

“And how did you find us?”

“Boulot.”

“Ah, but how did the royalists find us?”

“Boulot.”

“How helpful he has been to everyone.”

Morton sat down on the gravel, letting the fire warm his sodden legs. All at once he was deeply weary. “Where is Westcott?” he asked.

“Went off in my boat,” Berman said.

“You let him take your boat?”

“He told me to come over here and be what help I could. He'd be back with marines.”

Presley laughed. “Marines! 'Tis Westcott they'll be chasing.”

“And who was this?” Houde asked.

“A navy captain who fell under the influence of Lafond. A disappointed man, passed over too many times. So he thought he saw a chance for glory. Glory to spite the service, who would condemn him for it. Maybe hang him, even. But glory all the same. One of the men who killed Napoleon and saved England.”

“Ah, but they only managed to wound a French chefcook named Marcel Houde. How glorious was that, 'Enri?” Houde opened up his blanket and looked at his arm.

Morton knelt to examine it in the firelight. Houde's soft white skin was puckered and red where the ball had cut a trough in the outer arm below the shoulder muscles. Not serious unless it became septic.

“How could a man like Westcott ally himself with such a pack of murderers?” Presley wondered. “Or did he not believe Eustache and Rolles had dished up Madame Desmarches and the others?”

Morton sat back on his heels and shrugged. “He did not want to believe. After all, it looked very much like they had been killed by the supporters of Bonaparte.” He glanced up at the sky. “It will be light in two hours.” He turned to Berman. “Is it far back to Plymouthtown?”

“A goodly stroll.”

Morton turned back to Houde. “Are you up to it, Marcel?”

“Ah,
oui.
A little discomfort, it is the least price to pay for folly like mine.”

Morton frowned. But Houde had brought it up. “I
must say I am sorry to see you here, Marcel. I thought you had given up politics.”

“I had, but politics 'ave not given up me,
évidemment
.”

“Breaking the peace of the land that harbours you. Trying to bring their bitterest enemy into that land. Not to mention betraying the trust of your friend. To what end, Marcel? More
crimes in the name of liberty
?”

Houde scowled and looked down, unhappy. “I am sorry for these things. Especially I am sorry to deceive you, not to tell you more, when you were in
ma cuisine
. But you cannot know what it was, 'Enri, to be
un français
, when 'e led us to glory. You can never know. Such 'opes, such dreams as ours.
Oui
, in the end, there was no liberty.
Oui
, 'e was a tyrant. But I joost could not see such a man as 'im murdered by those
canaille
, those vile scum. That is why I help. Let 'im die in exile, but save 'im from the revenge of those arrogant
poseurs
who should, each night, lick clean 'is boots!”

“I see there is much to tell. Where should we begin, I wonder?”

“Every story begin the same way,” Houde said. “A man or a woman is born. It is 'ow they travel through life after that make the story. How they get to this beach 'ere in England one night when they are almost old, but still young enough to make the fool.”

“And you, Marcel, where were you born?”

“In Chartres. 'Ave you been there?”

“No, but I understand there is a great cathedral in that city.”

Houde blew air through his lips. “The cathedral is nothing. You must taste my father's
pòtisseries
!”

I
t was indeed a “goodly stroll” to town. They found a farmer with a cart who bore the bodies. Marcel Houde rode, too, though he continued to be ready to do penance by walking the whole way. Berman, having put them on the road, slipped away, no doubt to make his way back eastward along the coast to the smuggling dens. Morton and Presley were left to ride shank's mare. He was not sure if it was the excitement of the night, but Morton felt oddly light-headed as they trudged into Plymouth. It was as though the events of the night had not been real. As though he had wakened from a strange dream and found himself far from the bed in which he had fallen asleep.

Perhaps having a pistol hang fire when aimed at his heart could be expected to leave a man in such a state. Perhaps that was all it was. He didn't know.

He did know that the morning seemed especially fine, the sky a vivid blue, clouds chalked across the azure in thin wavering lines. The grass was living green, and the
hills looked like the most perfect land on earth. No doubt this euphoria would pass in a few days.

The farmer took them to the local magistrate's, where to Morton's surprise, they found Arabella and Lord Arthur Darley.

“What are you doing here?” Morton asked.

It was agreed they should repair to a hotel to discuss it—as soon as Morton had told all that had happened to the magistrate and written a letter to Sir Nathaniel Conant in London.

Some hours later Henry Morton found Arabella and Darley seated at a table in a private dining room in the Royal Hotel on George Street. It was, of course, supposed to be Plymouth's finest: Darley had chosen. Their window gave them a fine view out over the sound.

“You look positively &” Arabella did not finish, but Morton could tell by the look of concern that his present appearance was not what he might hope. He'd not seen a mirror—or for that matter a razor or a clothes brush— for quite some time.

Morton dropped into a chair and gazed at his two friends. Well, he was properly tired now. Darley and Arabella looked like man and wife sitting there. A handsome, pleasant-looking aristocrat and his beautiful, much younger bride. Arabella could play this part to perfection when she chose to. There with the white linen and delicate bone china, the gleaming, monogrammed silver.

“What brings you to Plymouth?” Morton repeated, as soon as he had sent an offended waiter off to bring him bangers and mash—hardly a specialty of the Royal's renowned kitchens.

Arabella still looked at him as though he'd been discovered in a hospital, badly injured. She reached out
and squeezed his hand for a moment. “I had the most extraordinary visit—when? Three nights past? A young woman called on me at the theatre after our performance. She claimed to be Honoria d'Auvraye. In her possession was a letter that she wanted me to deliver to a certain Mr. Henry Morton—why she thought I would have amongst my acquaintances someone so vulgar as a Bow Street Runner, I don't understand. She said a man had brought the letter to her father a few nights before his death and that the letter had caused a great deal of distress in her household. I took the liberty of reading this missive.”

Darley produced a folded sheet of paper from a pocket and handed it across the table to Morton, who skimmed it quickly. “It is from Fouché,” he said, feeling rather obtuse. “What does this mean? ‘Final arrangements have been made for the little general. But he must be sent away to some remote place with his suite of followers’?”

Darley made an odd shrugging motion. “I think it means that Fouché has found some way to have Bonaparte murdered.”

“Assassiner!”

Darley and Arabella looked at him oddly.

“That is what the men I overheard from outside Boulot's door said: ‘they will assassinate him. ’ I thought they were talking about their own confederates planning a murder, and later I thought it was the count they murdered, but I was wrong. They were talking about this.” He struck the letter with the backs of his fingers. “Boulot had this letter somehow.”

“It is not difficult to guess how,” Arabella said. “It is a copy made, I am certain, by Madame Angelique Desmarches. She passed it to her friends the De le Coeurs,
who either gave it to Boulot or to others who gave it to Boulot.”

“The latter, I think,” said Morton. He stared down at the letter, at the elegant hand. “So this is what set it all in motion. This and Boulot's betrayal. He told Gerrard d'Auvraye about this—gave him the letter apparently— and the count cast off his mistress. Boulot must also have told the count that the supporters of Bonaparte in England planned to rescue their hero: this was the coin he would trade for his return to France. The son, Eustache, and Rolles were followers of this man Lafond, or admirers of him. They tortured Madame Desmarches to find out who was planning this rescue of Bonaparte and where they could find them.” He looked up at his companions. “But do you know what Boulot told me? That Madame Desmarches leapt to her death rather than betray her compatriots.” Morton glanced at the letter again, then set it carefully on the brilliantly white tablecloth. His tired mind was racing, connecting up the chain of events. “They were then in trouble. The old count wrote me from his house in Barnes to come visit him, for he had decided, no doubt, to tell me that Madame Desmarches was a spy for the Corsican, as deeply embarrassing as this admission would be. Rolles knew the contents of the count's letter and perhaps his master's intentions as well. Once I learned about it, I would want to know why Rolles had given me a list of Bonapartists as the probable murderers of Madame Desmarches, when he knew perfectly well that she was a Bonapartist herself. The count had to be stopped then. And so it went. The count's servant had to be killed because he recognised Rolles or whoever it was that accompanied Pierre to murder the count.”

Morton's meal arrived, and he took a moment to fortify himself, apologising to his companions.

When he had done, Morton pushed away his plate and stared out over the harbour, filled with warships returning now from their duties blockading the coasts of France. Small boats plied among the great ships, like skimmers on a pond. The fishing boats wandered out into the Channel on this bright day, returning to the immemorial rituals of their peaceful trade, now that Bonaparte was gone.

“What will we do with this letter?” Morton said.

“I sent a copy to certain members of the government,” Darley answered. “I don't know what they shall do. Perhaps try to find out who amongst Bonaparte's followers might be inclined to murder his master.” Lord Arthur reached down for his teacup. “Perhaps they will do nothing.”

Morton told the rest of the story, the chase out to Plymouth, the encounter in Bovisand Bay. The pistol that hung fire.

“What became of Westcott?” Darley asked.

Morton shrugged. “He's not been seen. Nor can anyone find Berman's boat. Admiral Lord Keith thinks he set out across the Channel, which he assured me could be done given the weather and Westcott's abilities. He can pass for a Frenchman, so perhaps he will find a place to hide there.”

“Oh, he'll be found out eventually.”

“A nobleman who came to the aid of those trying to kill Bonaparte?” Morton mused. “I rather doubt King Louis's police will be much interested in flushing him out. And we mustn't forget Lafond and the other royalists. Westcott knew them well. He was the liaison with these men for many years. They will protect him if they
can.” Morton closed his eyes for a moment, the dancing glitter of sun on water still visible. “Even Boulot is gone, it seems. The smugglers have whisked him away. Perhaps back to France at last. I hope Fouché does not find him. But then, perhaps he will not care. Who is Boulot, after all? A drunkard. A man whose wretched loneliness led him to… these insignificantly small acts of betrayal, that brought about the deaths of eight people.”

As the little party lapsed into thoughtful silence, sipping their coffee, Morton's eye wandered again to the window, the sound, the blue Channel beyond. A ship of the line loosed her sails as he watched, the wind filling them. The great dark ship gathered way and shaped her course for the southwest. It passed across the glittering path of the reflected sun, like a shadow, and was off, in few minutes rounding the headland, heading for the open sea.