The Emperor's Assassin: Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner [Mass Market Paperback]

For twenty years, England and France have been at war. Now the war has come home…

On a sunny July day in 1815, Plymouth Sound is crowded with boats vying for a view of England’s great battleship HMS Bellerophon. For aboard the vessel is the stout little Frenchman who threw the world into chaos. In London, some people clamor for Napoleon’s execution, others for his exile, and still others for a civil trial on English soil. For one humble London detective, the debate has turned deadly. Bow Street Runner Henry Morton has a murder to solve--and Napoleon himself is at the heart of the matter.

The victim is a Frenchwoman, the mistress of a count. Soon Morton is racing through a demimonde of French expatriates, Bonapartists, fanatical Royalists, and one very dangerous, drunken petty crook. From an exotic London brothel to a scene of carnage on a Dartmoor farm, the detective enters a covert war over Napoleon’s fate. And amid the betrayal, deception, and murder, Morton will face a waterloo of his own.

Chapter 1



A gust of wind combed up the grassy knoll and fluttered the women's shawls and dresses. A quick hand preserved Arabella's hat, and she stepped behind the small windbreak afforded by Arthur Darley and his friend. She took Lord Arthur's arm as she settled into his lee.

They had not been up on Plymouth Hoe a quarter of an hour before a charter member of Darley's vast acquaintance found them. This gentleman, a captain in His Majesty's navy, bent his head toward her, the wrinkles about his eyes suggesting a smile.

"Permit me to observe, madam, that your dress is luffing. I think you've sailed too close to the wind."

Arabella smiled in spite of herself. The cheek of the man! Would he have said the same to Arthur's wife? It was a lucky thing the man possessed considerable charm. Arabella had wounded bigger men without need of pistol or second.

She remembered her rather unfamiliar duties, suddenly, and set her gaze scurrying amongst the crowd. And there she found Lucy, in a lather of unselfconscious delight, chasing an escaped lapdog. Before Arabella could decide if this was an acceptable activity for a young lady (for she knew little of that particular species), a movement and murmur spread down the hoe like the gasp of an audience as, on the stage, a character is murdered.

"Well, there," said Captain Colgan, lifting a hand to point, as did so many others that afternoon. "Maitland arrives at last."

"The Billy Ruffian!" called a young man to some of his friends nearby, and Arabella could feel the excitement of the crowd.

Still holding her hat, she ventured out of Arthur's lee and into the full force of the wind. A ship of the line rounded the eastern headland, little ant men aloft taking in sail. It was not an uncommon sight here in Plymouth Sound.

"Well, there is a bit of living history," Arthur said. "Where is Lucy? She cannot miss this."

"But what is it, pray?" Arabella asked sweetly.

"H.M.S. Bellerophon," Captain Colgan explained. "And aboard her the deposed Emperor of the French--or as the Admiralty has ordered he be addressed, General Napoleon Bonaparte."

"But was he not luxuriating happily in Tor Bay?"

"I don't know how happily, but yes." The captain took off his hat a moment and combed a hand through his thinning hair--an unconscious gesture. The hat returned to its perch. "It is not widely known," he said quietly, "but they thought he'd slipped off the Bellerophon a few days ago. Did you hear, Darley?"

"Just a rumour. Was he not asleep, after all?"

"Yes. Asleep in his cabin. But Maitland did not quite believe the general's followers, and rather than send someone into the great man's cabin, he had one of the topmen shinny out to the end of the spanker boom to peer in through the stern gallery. Astonishing! It got the Admiralty thinking that Tor Bay was rather an open anchorage and that Bonaparte still had numbers of supporters at large, even in the French navy. They might try to rescue him from seaward."

Some part of the crowd had begun to make their way hurriedly toward the paths leading down to the quayside.

"Or he might slip ashore," Darley said, "and avail himself of English law."

Captain Colgan made a snorting sound--as disgusting as it was disgusted. "What fools we are made of by our own laws! Bonaparte is not an Englishman. He is our enemy, perhaps the greatest enemy we have ever known. Shoot him, say I." He glanced over at Arabella and smiled sheepishly. "Do excuse--" But he did not finish. The general movement down toward the bay suddenly became a rush, the way orderly retreats turned of an instant into routs.

Arabella was suddenly aware of an absence.

"Lucy!" Arabella called. "Lu-cy!" She was jostled just then and grabbed Arthur's arm to balance. Her hat was torn free of her amber curls and thrown up into the sky, lost in an instant among the wind and clouds and forlornly crying gulls.



The boat reeked of fish. The two men who handled it did not smell much better. Arabella sat on a thwart, holding tightly to Lucy, as though she must keep her safe in case of calamity.

"Can you swim, Mrs. M.?" Lucy asked.

"Not a stroke. And you?"

"Less than that." Lucy clung a little more tightly to Arabella's hand, all the same.

"You needn't worry yourself, miss," said the older of the two watermen. "This crabber was built in Sennen Cove by men who knew their business. She'll keep the sea when more tender boats have all run for home. There not be another one like her round these parts, and a great deal of envy she causes as a result."

Arabella couldn't believe that this battered and stinking little boat caused any envy anywhere--not even in Sennen Cove, wherever that was. She looked about the harbour. Boats of every shape and size were putting out into the sound, all drawn in one direction like leaves on a running river. She shifted on the hard plank that made her seat.

Darley's largesse and Arabella's celebrity had secured them a place in a boat, for the demand to be taken out to see the Bellerophon--or rather the prisoner who waited aboard--was enormous, as were the fares being asked. They were loaded in like the fisherman's greatest catch, leaving just enough room for the two watermen to work the oars.

"There are rather a lot of boats setting out, aren't there?" Arabella said, trying not to sound too apprehensive.

"Oh, aye, ma'am. They've been coming here ever since the rumour spread that Bonaparte would be carried to Plymouth." He sat up a little and looked about. "Punts and dredgers and gigs. There be draggers and drivers and luggers. You know that the trade is rich when luggers have gone over to it."

This caught Darley's interest. "And why is that?"

The leather-faced little man looked suddenly down at his hands on the oars. "Well, your grace, their trade is usually found . . . elsewhere."

"They're smugglers, he means," said someone else aboard, and laughed.

"Well, I expect they'll need another trade," another man said, "now that the French ports have opened again."

This caused the waterman to smile. "Oh, I think there'll always be port duties, and governments in need of such revenue. Smugglers will have employment yet."

Darley reached over and patted Lucy on the shoulder. "Don't look so frightened, child," he said warmly. "We might catch a glimpse of the Corsican, if we are lucky. You can tell your grandchildren that!"

Arabella thought Lucy was looking a little pale and at that moment cared not a fig for what she might tell her grandchildren. The ways of adults, Arabella realised, must seem a strange, unfathomable mystery to her.

As the growing fleet made its way out into the greater sound, the waves began to lift the boat, dropping it down heavily into the trough after each green crest passed. The watermen strained at their oars, the tendons in their forearms bulging, their human catch as heavy as any they had known--though far more lucrative! A wave slapped the topsides and sprayed the occupants, scaring Lucy even more. Arabella put an arm about her, but the boat surged and rolled a little, throwing them to one side.

"The breakwater will do away with this slop," the older waterman managed. "I'll be glad when 'tis built."

"Wind's going light," his young partner offered. "Be calm by dark."

But it was not calm at the moment, or dry.

"I wish Mr. Morton were here," Lucy said.

"Yes, wouldn't he love to see this?"

"I'm sure he told me that he could swim," Lucy said, and both Arabella and Darley laughed.

Arabella tried to concentrate on the scene, to paint it into her memory. There were a good number of ships in the harbour: a few large three-deckers like the Bellerophon and many smaller craft--frigates and schooners and sloops, she guessed. There seemed to be a constant coming and going of small craft to the ships, but now even their boatmen forgot their business and slowed to watch.

Arabella could not believe the number of boats that had gathered about the Bellerophon in so short a time. The old warship looked like a great castle rising above the clutter of its dependant village.

As each wave passed, the throng of bobbing vessels seemed to undulate like a rope being snapped ever so slowly, and Arabella could hear them banging and thumping together and the watermen cursing and calling out for room. A pair of navy cutters circled the Bellerophon, trying to enforce a circle of clear water around the ship.

As the hired crabber made its way into the pack of boats, Arabella grabbed the gunwale.

"Oh, don't do that, ma'am!" the waterman said, dropping an oar to reach for her hand. She pulled it in herself. "You could lose a finger should we thump against one of these others."

He took up his oar again, looking anxiously over his shoulder. They came up between two other boats, one larger and the other about the same size as their own. As more and more boats began to crowd around the ship, the smaller boats were forced together where they ground and thudded dully against one another. The watermen were busy trying to keep their sturdy craft from ruin, and Arabella was so unsettled, she barely remembered to look at the ship.

"Tide turned some while ago," the waterman said. "That'll make the difference. Wind against tide's the cause of this."

And then, as though he'd said some magic words, the sea did begin to calm and in the span of half an hour grew almost placid. People began to call out then, impatient, impolite.