Morton called on Captain Geoffrey Westcott at the Admiralty and, after being left to ponder in the waiting room for a quarter of an hour, was greeted by an officer of perhaps thirty years. Morton's first impression was of the man's height, for the captain was the precise height of Morton himself: six feet and three inches. A longish face, a beaked nose in the style of Wellington, and a disarming smile-these impressed one next. And last, a firm handshake, and a clear eye, blue as the sea itself on a summer day. Westcott was dressed in a uniform so well tailored and spotless that any dandy would have taken the man to be one of their own, impressed into the Royal Navy.
“Henry Morton, Bow Street.”
“Geoffrey Westcott. It is a pleasure. Do you mind if we slip out of this madhouse? My club is just a few paces off, in St. James's.”
Morton had no objections. St. James's Street was home to three of London's most established clubs, White's, Brooks', and Boodle's. It was a street where one seldom saw a woman, and never a woman of qual-ity-at least not an English one. The young bucks who lounged in the club windows, quizzing glasses in hand, had long since given the street its reputation, and no delicately nurtured young lady would dare venture there for fear of her reputation. St. James's and its environs was a masculine preserve, and many a well-to-do bachelor made his home there-often to the detriment of his fortune.
Morton seldom gambled-he worked too hard for his money to chance losing it-but in London he was almost alone in his dislike of this vice. And the city's great clubs were the many beating hearts of this obsession. Not just wealth changed hands within these imposing preserves. Men were driven out of England for the debts that they incurred in White's and Wattier's. Fortunes were lost, and occasionally won as well.
Captain Westcott set a brisk pace as they passed along the border of St. James's Park, onto which the Admiralty building backed. But then, as they gained a little distance from the Admiralty, the seaman turned and stood looking back. Morton's gaze followed. Atop the building the semaphoric telegraph was just then set in motion, the six wooden shutters pivoting upon their central axes so that they appeared either as thin horizontal lines or as dark rectangles.
“Can you read it?” Morton asked.
Westcott nodded, his aquiline nose seeming to lift a little as though he could sniff the message on the air. The shutters held their position for a few seconds, then changed of an instant so that all six showed their dark faces.
“There,” Westcott said, pointing. “That is the letter C.” He turned his head to Morton and smiled. “It will almost certainly be replaced by an improved system within a year.”
Morton could not help but be impressed. “I find it difficult to imagine that there could be a better system. It's said that messages travel along the line of towers at two hundred miles to the hour!”
“Oh, at the very least,” Westcott said. “I've known messages to be sent to Plymouth and an answer received in but half an hour. Of course that is only by day, and then only on days without mist or rain.” He glanced back at the telegraph, which continued its display. “But even so it is a great advancement.” He looked back at Morton and smiled charmingly. “Can you imagine if you had told a man twenty-five years ago that messages would travel across the land at a speed of two hundred miles to the hour what he would have said of you?” He laughed. “It is an age of wonders, Morton. An age of wonders.”
They set off again, speaking of small things as they went-the changes to the city, a fire that had destroyed a row of buildings, the new wines that were arriving at Berry's now that the blockade had been lifted. In this way they were soon in St. James's, through the doors so many aspired to pass, and then into White's itself. The joke among Londoners went that when a boy child was born to an aristocratic family, a servant stopped at White's to enter the child's name in the candidacy book before proceeding to the registry office to record the birth.
Westcott was obviously well known here, and he led Morton to a quiet, walnut-panelled room where brandy was served. A few men sat about smoking, their faces thrust into the daily papers, or talking quietly. One exhausted-looking man, fresh from the gambling room, still wore his coat inside out “for luck” and was just now removing the leather wristbands that protected his lace when he threw the dice. He nodded to Westcott.
“Captain,” he said hoarsely, then bobbed his head to Morton. The young man collapsed in a chair, ordered brandy, and promptly fell asleep.
Recognition dawned on Morton.
Westcott read something in Morton's face. “You know our Robbie, Mr. Morton?”
“Only by reputation.”
This was Miss Caroline Richardson's brother-and
Morton's half-brother. They had never formally met, but Morton had seen him numerous times over the years.
Westcott looked over at the sleeping man, who had now begun to snore softly. “He is gaining something of a reputation. Rather sad for his family.” He offered Morton a bitter half-smile.
A group of three young gentlemen entered the room then, spotted Robert Richardson, and with muffled laughter proceeded to prod and tickle the insensible young man, gaining great levity from the sport. They were finally shushed and driven away by a stern look from one of the senior members, who had previously been enjoying his paper.
Westcott took a sip from his brandy and then pushed the errant sons of the aristocracy from his mind. “So, Mr. Morton, did I understand correctly that this unfortunate young woman you found had been subjected to the thumbscrew?”
“I'm afraid it is absolutely true.”
The captain made a small gesture of amazement. “Have you found out who she was?”
“Her name was Madame Angelique Desmarches,” Morton reported. “And she was the mistress of the Comte d'Auvraye.”
The captain spread his hands along the edge of the table. “Gerrard d'Auvraye?”
Morton nodded.
Westcott lifted his hands to his temples as if stricken by a sudden headache and paused to consider. “Well, that is news.”
Morton thought the man looked a bit shaken. “Do you know the count?” Morton asked. He had no intention of allowing this conversation to be a one-way flow of information.
“I have met him, yes. A few times, in fact. He is a member of Wattier's, as am I.”
Wattier's, Morton knew, was the club to join if you fancied yourself a gourmet. The cuisine was French, of course. The club had actually been started by the Prince Regent, in league with a great chef named Wattier. In recent years it was gaining a reputation as a gambling hell.
“Is d'Auvraye known for his temper?”
Westcott still looked shaken. “The opposite, in fact. He is quite… softly mannered. At the moment he is representing the interests of King Louis here in London, but the French will soon replace him. D'Auvraye is too kindhearted for such a post.”
“I have seen the mildest of men, in moments of passion, perform the most odious acts of violence, Captain.”
“I'm sure you have, and I would never say that d'Auvraye is not capable of such an act himself-but it does seem unlikely. And thumbscrews!”
“I don't suppose there are rumours of any…deviant peculiarities associated with our erstwhile ambassador?”
Westcott shook his head. “None, but this matter takes on a whole new significance now. D'Auvraye!” he said with feeling.
“This distresses you,” Morton observed.
“It does indeed. You see, Mr. Morton, it has recently been my function in the Admiralty to ‘watch over’ certain groups of French nationals in England, though with the royalists I am more of a liaison.”
“It seems a difficult task for one man.”
“I am not alone in this endeavour, thankfully.” He looked at Morton a moment, as though taking his measure. “I suppose now that the war appears to be finally over, I may say this to you, but I should caution you, Mr. Morton: None of this should be repeated.”
Morton nodded his assent.
Westcott hesitated a moment, as though wondering what he might safely reveal and what he might not. “I should, at the very least, have my own ship by now, Mr. Morton, but my mother is French, and I had the misfortune to spend a good part of my childhood in that coun-try-not that I didn't enjoy it. I did, entirely. But it had an unexpected influence on my future endeavours.
“I speak the language as a native, know the customs, the odd little things that a foreigner would never pick up, not if he lived there a dozen years. This accident of birth is the reason I've only reached the rank of post captain at the age of thirty-two. Men I shared the mid-shipman's berth with are admirals now.” He took a long breath and visibly calmed himself. “I have spent some part of the war across the Channel, travelling under different names, claiming different purposes. I will flatter myself and say that some of the information I have brought back with me has proven passingly useful to the Admiralty-and for this I have been rewarded with a desk in the Admiralty building and charged with watching over the French expatriates here on our shores. Not all of them, of course, but those who are of interest- men and women suspected of being Bonaparte's agents in England. The various royalist factions. Anyone who might be of use or who might do us harm.” He applied himself to his brandy a moment. “You see before you the only commissioned officer in His Majesty's navy, who is not a lord of the Admiralty, to sit at a desk in that venerable building. But I do not mean to grumble. I have given service to my country-not the service I yearned to give, but valuable service all the same.”
Morton swirled his brandy in his crystal glass. “I'm sure you have, Captain. You at least have served during the wars. It was my lot to chase criminals through the streets of London, and very few of them were even French, let alone agents of Bonaparte.”
Westcott raised a glass to Morton. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Morton. And it seems that we might be of assistance to each other as well.”
“I will tell you honestly that I would be grateful for any help,” Morton admitted. “I'm something out of my depth in this. D'Auvraye's secretary suggested that Madame Desmarches was murdered by Bonapartists. He even provided a list of names of men he thought likely. But what confuses me is that Bonaparte is in chains-figuratively, at least. What could possibly induce his supporters to torture and then murder d'Auvraye's mistress? Could d'Auvraye, in his rather nominal position, be in possession of… state secrets that others would kill to know?”
“Well, there are secrets and there are secrets, aren't there? Of the more trivial kind, he might possess many; of the genuine variety, rather fewer, I would guess. Certainly someone might think the count knows more than he actually does.”
Westcott caught the attention of a servant and asked for more brandy. He sat back in his comfortable seat; the clubs vied with one another to provide the most luxurious chairs. “I shall have to look into this. At the moment there is nothing I know of d'Auvraye's activities that would justify someone torturing his mistress in hopes of gaining information. However, there are gentlemen, even within the confines of these walls, who might tell me differently. Let me see what can be learned.” He looked over at Morton. “The count's secretary gave you a list?”
Morton retrieved the list from his waistcoat pocket and slid it across the polished table. Westcott unfolded the paper and examined it. A smile crossed his face. He laughed in spite of himself.
“I'm pleased this entertains you,” Morton said.
Westcott could not stop smiling, and Morton, though not sure of the joke, found himself smiling as well.
“Do excuse me, Mr. Morton. It appears to have taken quite a number of Frenchmen to torture and murder this poor woman. How many names are here?”
“Twenty-two.”
“She must have been formidable.” He laughed softly. “Some of the men whose names are recorded here have been dead for not a few years.” Westcott looked up at Morton over the paper. “How did the secretary arrive at this list?”
The memory of Rolles diligently writing at the small desk came back to him, and Morton found his anger beginning to simmer. “Are none of them, then, agents of Bonaparte?”
“Several of them are-or were-suspected of this, yes.” Westcott waved a hand at the list. “But look here: Pierre-Etienne Lalidreaux. We put him in front of a firing squad in Halifax in the year eleven. I'm glad to know he's still suspected in a murder that happened this week!”
Morton tried to smile. “I'm told these royalists have long memories.”
“Yes, yes, I know-‘they've forgotten nothing and have learned nothing. ’ But this is extraordinary even by that standard.”
“I have wondered if Rolles gave me this list to divert my attention from his master.”
“Perhaps so, though when you have the mistress of a prominent royalist subjected to thumbscrews, you can't help but look to the Bonapartists. Let me see,” said Westcott more seriously, and studied the list again. “There are only so many men who could do such a thing. It takes a colder heart than most would realise. You will want to have words with De la Touche, and this man Niceron. They have both been busy in England as recently as last year, and they would apply thumbscrews to an infant if they thought it would further their cause. Mind, much has changed in a year. If not them, perhaps Guillet de la Gevrilliere-he'll probably be going under the name William Roberts over here. He passes for an Englishman almost as easily as I pass for French.”
“And where would I find these gentlemen?”
“They move about, never lodging in the same place more than a few days. They are wary and rather ruthless, though they do not like to draw attention to themselves, which keeps their worst inclinations under control. I should add that at this point they are likely desperate and perhaps disillusioned. I wish I could offer you more assistance, Mr. Morton, but at the moment what we have here is merely a somewhat suspicious murder. If you gain information that indicates with some surety that it was politically motivated and not merely an act of personal revenge… well in that case, please contact me immediately and I will speak with my superiors.”
“Kind of you to give me the time you have, Captain.” Morton placed hands on the arms of his chair as though about to rise. “I realise it is not the function of the Royal Navy to solve murders for the Bow Street Magistrate.”
Westcott raised his hands, as though he'd accidentally offered offence. “I should like nothing more than to assist you in every way, Mr. Morton, but I was ordered by my superior to merely enquire into this matter just to see if it might be of interest. Personally, you may ask anything of me, and if it does not compromise my duties to the Admiralty, I shall do everything in my power to assist. I will certainly ask about to see if I can find more of d'Auvraye's activities here. You may count on that.”
“Very generous of you, Captain Westcott.”
Westcott smiled. “But of course, gentlemen say such things all the time and don't mean them. I rather go against my caste in that regard. I've always been damnably earnest.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped him.
The two men rose, Westcott motioning for Morton to precede him. On the way out they passed Morton's dissolute half-brother, still snoring in his chair, sprawled like many a drunk Morton had seen in less lofty surroundings. He could not help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight-and a sharp jab of the resentment that never quite went away.
As Morton stood on St. James's Street, where he had parted with Geoffrey Westcott, the sight of the Honorable Robert Richardson, fresh from the gaming room and insensible from drink, would not leave his mind. The young buck's demeanour had not been suggestive of a successful night at the tables.
When he was certain Westcott was out of sight, Morton went back into the club, greeting the footman who had just seen them out.
“Sir?” the man asked, for Morton had both the manner and dress of a gentleman, if not the property.
“I believe I left my snuffbox on our table.”
“I'll have someone fetch it-”
But Morton slipped by the man with a smile, trusting that Westcott's standing would grant him a brief immunity from exclusion. “No need to trouble yourself. I know right where it is.”
Morton had spent many hours talking to servants in his capacity as a Runner-not that men and women in service were more larcenous than those in other occupations, but they always knew more of the functioning of a house than the people who employed them. As such, their knowledge was invaluable. Perhaps Morton's own history made him particularly suited to dealing with the servants, but no matter how it was explained, he had a touch with them, whether it was through flattery, his apparent respect for their work, or by bribery and “persuasion.”
The servant he required was quickly found-the keeper of the gambling book.
“Do you wish to make a wager?” the man asked, eyeing Morton, who was certainly not a member, at least not one who frequented the club with regularity. He was, however, too polite to simply ask, for fear of giving offence. A nearby door swung open, and the clatter of Hazard dice echoed hollowly.
“Not today,” Morton said jovially. “I don't feel that lucky.” Morton was quickly sizing the man up, wondering which approach would prove most profitable. “I'm curious about a wager, though.”
The man raised an eyebrow, and Morton quickly went on.
“To be perfectly honest, I'm worried about the degree of indebtedness of my… cousin. Though, of course, he'd be mortified to know I'd enquired.” Morton leaned close and spoke quietly, slipping the man some silver as he did so. “I might arrange to eliminate his debt for him, if I could.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I'm uncertain to whom we refer.”
“Lord Robert, son of Viscount Richardson.”
“Ah.” The man offered a relieved smile. “No need, sir, for he has no debt.”
Morton noticed the servant who had let him in hurrying past, clearly looking for someone. The Runner shifted a little, putting the servant to whom he spoke between himself and the door. “Why, you surprise me!” Morton said, and then quietly: “His debt was but recently substantial-or so I was informed by Lady Caroline.” Morton reached into his pocket for more silver.
“Yes, but it was paid in full two days past.”
“That is good news!” Morton responded. “I can't tell you what relief you have provided for my worries. I can hardly thank you enough. Odd, though-the viscount is travelling. But of course it was some other, was it not? Some other who paid down Robbie's debt?”
The man was beginning to look uncomfortable, as the cost of the information quickly rose. The footman passed again.
Encouraging nods, and what Morton hoped was a reassuring smile. The servant hesitated. The footman spotted Morton and set off across the room toward him.
Morton thrust his remaining coins into the man's hand.
“Mr. Wilfred Stokes, sir.”
“Of course it was!” Morton said with relief. “Who loves Robbie more than I, I ask you? Wilfred Stokes.” Then, conspiratorially: “But never a word of this. I won't have Robbie know I even enquired.”
The man nodded.
Morton managed only a few steps before he was intercepted by the footman.
“Ah, thank goodness,” the Runner said as the man caught him. “I'm completely turned around.”
“This way, sir. Did you find what you were looking for?”
Morton patted a pocket. “Indeed. I found it and more.”
Out on St. James's again, it occurred to Morton that there was another source of information on the French expatriate community that he had not yet consulted. And this gentleman was too close at hand to ignore.