The Emperor's Assassin (4 page)

The Public Office's most celebrated police man, John Townsend, sat to Morton's right, listening quietly.

“And you don't know who this woman might be?” the old Runner asked, his deep, smoky voice echoing in the small chamber.

“I hope that I shall know soon. Her clothing was distinctive. It is very possible that it was French.”

Sir Nathaniel stirred his bulky person uncomfortably in his chair. “Is she a citizen of France, do you think?”

“Many people have a partiality for things French, Sir Nathaniel.”

“Of course.” He splayed a large-knuckled hand across the blotter on his desk. “Why in the world would anyone apply a thumbscrew to this woman? What had she done?”

“What did she know, is the question I would ask,” John Townsend said, and then continued, with that bland and oblivious pedantry of his that to Morton always sounded faintly ironic: “The thumbscrew is a small iron implement that compresses the digit for which it is named between two hard surfaces. Why the thumb? Because it is bigger and more convenient than the other fingers. The flesh below the protective nail on any digit is far and away the most sensitive part of a human body, so this is done for only one purpose—to cause pain of such intensity that one will tell all, betray a brother or even a lover. It is a terrible device, and the men who applied it are either desperate or monstrous. I do not know which I would hope for.”

Sir Nathaniel continued to stare at his hand on the desk, then picked up a quill. “Didn't Presley fetch the body in? If you feel the need, Mr. Morton, employ young Presley. I should like some answers in this matter as soon as may be.” He nodded to the Runners, who rose and left.

In the antechamber outside, Morton touched his old friend on the shoulder before he could take his leave.

“You had more to say, I think, Mr. Townsend,” Morton ventured.

The venerable old Runner paused to think, rooting about in his frock coat for his snuff and examining
his younger colleague as he did. “I will tell you this, Morton—you are beyond the realm of common crime now. Torture is imposed for reasons either of religion or of state. The Spanish Inquisition is a thing of the past. You have entered the world of politics, I would say.”

Morton nodded slowly, trying to take it in. He respected Townsend immeasurably. The little man's mannerisms were impossibly eccentric, and some of their younger colleagues snickered behind his back. But Morton knew his worth and knew just how discreetly successful this odd old dandy had been. Townsend was an intimate of the highest circles in London, a friend and servant of the Prince Regent himself, and he had been quietly putting away his ample reward monies for more than five decades. He could probably buy up Sir Nathaniel and the whole lot of them, if he so chose. When he spoke in serious tones, as he did now, Morton listened.

“The world of politics is a different and more dangerous world altogether.” Townsend paused and nodded, as if to himself. “Your common London malefactor will not give his life for a cause. No, he will preserve his life at all costs, and we Runners have come to depend on that. Knowing this tells us a great deal about what a criminal will do and what he will not. The world you enter now has different rules. Men who have been afflicted with the madness of politics might choose to take your life at the cost of their own, just to preserve their cause.” He met Morton's eye. “Be wary, sir. I know I have cautioned you before in different circumstances, but mark what I say: none of those situations were as dangerous as this.”

M
orton arrived at Portman House, Lord Arthur Darley's elegant West End home, at the hour of ten o'clock in the evening. It was a house that Morton could never dream of possessing, and one that he admired more than he cared to admit. In truth, Lord Arthur was a man Morton envied, and envy, he well knew, was not the healthiest of human emotions. It was fortunate that Morton's envy was leavened by a strong liking and respect. Darley was a man of such enormous charm that Morton could hardly waste a moment resenting him. Even their peculiar understanding about the lovely and broad-minded Mrs. Arabella Malibrant did not spoil his liking of Darley.

A liveried servant let him in and took his top hat. It was a warm, humid July night, and the coolness of the house was welcome. A smiling Darley appeared before Morton had been led across the entry. He was a pleasant, greying gentleman, impeccably dressed but somehow as relaxed as a man out for a country walk with his gun and hounds.

“Morton! It is so good of you to come. Please”—he gestured toward a door—“Mrs. Malibrant awaits. She tells me that she is an acting Bow Street Runner and has all manner of news for you.”

“I said no such thing,” Arabella protested as they entered the small withdrawing room that looked out on the garden.

“Well, perhaps you can explain better than I,” Darley said.

Morton kissed Arabella's hand, took an offered glass of port, and sank into one of Darley's comfortable chairs.

Darley raised his glass in silent salute. “We were, to be fair to Mrs. M., discussing the bit of history we witnessed whilst delivering Lucy to her new school.”

Arabella's face, slightly flushed, lit like a candle. “You will not believe it, Henry,” she said.

“You saw Bonaparte,” Morton offered.

Arabella sat back in her chair, a bit deflated.

“It's in all the papers,” Morton apologised.

“Surely even the London papers have not begun reporting
all
my activities,” Arabella said. It was one of the charms of her particular humour that she could say anything without a hint of a smile. People who did not know her often couldn't decide if they were to laugh.

Morton smiled. “You really saw the scoundrel?”

“Indeed we did,” Darley said. “Large as life, or small as life in the Corsican's case. He appeared on the deck of the
Bellerophon
in the company of Captain Maitland, I believe. There was a great row—”

“And a woman was drowned!” Arabella interjected.

Darley nodded, the quiet satisfaction that he habitually displayed dissolving into a look of utter desolation. “Yes, very sad. With her child looking on.”

Morton found himself affected by Lord Arthur's sudden show of feeling for a woman he certainly did not know. But then Darley shook it off and smiled at his guests, his eyes glistening just noticeably.

“And what will they do with him, do you think— Bonaparte?” Morton asked softly, trying gently to steer the conversation away.

Darley shrugged. “It is the subject of intense debate, I can tell you, though little more.”

“He knows more than he is saying,” Arabella stagewhispered to Morton.

Darley's playful smile returned. “If I knew half as much as you believe, my dear, I would be the bestinformed man in England.”

“The papers say that Bonaparte wants to live quietly in England.” Morton sipped his port.

Darley laughed. “Well, you can be sure that will not be allowed. No, he will be transported—somewhere remote, I think.”

“But why not imprison him here?” Arabella asked. “Would that not be the safest course?”

Darley turned to her, shifting in his chair. “Undoubtedly, but there is a small matter of English common law. You see, according to our own laws, no man, no matter his nationality, can be imprisoned without first being convicted of a crime by a court of law. And it is very doubtful that Bonaparte could be so convicted under our present laws.”

“Even though he has made war against us for twenty years?” Arabella said.

“Oddly, war is not a crime. Bonaparte was the head of a foreign state.”

“Then we can do nothing to him?” Arabella looked a little disgusted by this foolishness.

Darley held up a finger. “Ah, but that is the very centre of the debate. Bonaparte is not on English soil. Not really in England, or so His Majesty's government claims. He is, at present, subject to the law of the Admi-ralty—which is very different from the laws that govern you and me, as Mr. Morton will no doubt tell you.”

Morton leaned forward in his chair. “But I have read that some, even prominent men of law, say that the gov-ernment's argument is fallacious. That I, for instance, could arrest a man on a ship in Plymouth harbour with every expectation that he would go to trial. Various authorities claim that the government considers Plymouth Sound part of England at their convenience, but at the moment it is not convenient, so they have excluded that bit of water from our borders.”

“But the argument is even more specific than that.” Darley was clearly fascinated by this debate. “The government claims that the
ships
of the Royal Navy are excluded from the laws of England, whether in an English harbour or not. And certainly Mr. Morton could not go aboard the
Bellerophon
and arrest a man, even a murderer. The navy have their own courts and due process. And upon this fact lies the government's case.” Darley waved a hand in the general direction of Cornwall. “Bonaparte, of course, wants to be allowed ashore. He wants—I daresay, even expects—the protection of English law. But I do not think he shall have it. No, our deposed emperor shall be sent off to some remote place to live out his days under guard.”

“But can we even do that?” Morton wondered aloud. “We return prisoners of war to their country of origin once the war is concluded. Should we not do the same with Bonaparte?”

“The French don't want him. Are afraid of having
him in the country, in fact. But it is an interesting argument. I should point out, however, that the war with France was already over when Bonaparte surrendered to Captain Maitland.”

“Well, if he is not a prisoner of war,” Arabella said, “then what is he?” She was clearly less interested than their host in the finer points of law.

“Exactly, my dear. What is he indeed, legally speaking? And do the Admiralty have the right to send him off to some outpost to spend the rest of his days? The security of the nation might so be served, though justice might not. Even so, I think Bonaparte will be sent off— it is only a matter of deciding where.”

“Let his exile not be too comfortable, I say,” Arabella offered with feeling.

“For a man such as Bonaparte,” Darley said, and his smile disappeared again, “I think any place of exile would be a torture, were it as comfortable as man's ingenuity could make it.”

Morton did see Arabella home, although until they had entered the hackney-coach, the issue had been far from certain, at least in the Runner's mind. Darley, of course, said good night to them as though not a thing were amiss, as though they were two of his dearest friends in the world—an actress and a Bow Street Runner. As though sending one's mistress home with another man were not at all unusual.

“He is a mystery to me, your friend Darley,” Morton said.

Arabella had been lost in some other path of thought, but she glanced over at Morton now with her lovely green eyes, dark in the shadowy coach.

“He is not really such a mystery if you give up your expectations of a man in his position. Arthur cares nothing for the approval of others, and he is utterly dis-creet—you can tell him anything and it will go no farther—and so he is approved by everyone. Yes, his association is not what one might expect, too many writers, and even journalists and actresses, but for that he is admired for his independence of mind. Darley's genius is that he can take the measure of others—perfectly— and then reveal only what he wishes them to see.

“When first we met, he did not realise how carefully I observed human nature: a requirement of my calling. Darley thought he would confound me as he did all the others.” Arabella laughed softly. She leaned her head against Morton's shoulder, as though suddenly tired from her long day of observing mankind. “He sees you, Henry Morton, for what you are—and do not think he is the least mistaken on that score. He sees that you are a man of great integrity and uncommon dedication to the concept of justice. That you are loyal to your friends and colleagues, yet sympathetic to the less fortunate. He also sees your great desire to be considered a gentleman. What you do fascinates him—solving great puzzles— and he is oddly attracted to the danger, and the base and disreputable world in which you walk, for in his life he has known only comfort and safety. Darley is not such a mystery. He is a little bored with his coddled existence. If he could accompany you as you prowl the flash houses looking for miscreants, he would do so in a second. You see, Henry, your life looks to him very… rich.”