The Emperor's assassin: memoirs of a Bow Street runner by T. F. Banks

Author:T. F. Banks [Banks, T. F.]
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Detective, Detective and mystery stories, Police, London (England), Mystery & Detective, Police - England - London, Fiction - Mystery, Fiction, Suspense, Historical fiction, Traditional British, Mystery fiction, Mystery & Detective - Traditional British
ISBN: 9780440240846
Publisher: Bantam Dell
Published: 2003-06-03T05:00:00+00:00

He found Jimmy Presley in the White Hart, the tavern at the west end of the terrace, where he had set up shop in the taproom, questioning the townsmen.

"There are a half dozen of them as say they saw the murderers, Morton. Four of them say there was but two, and the other two, they say there were three."

Morton tossed his hat down on the oaken table and laid the murderer's pistol beside it with a sigh. He gestured to the tapster for refreshment.

This was about average. Folks' stories never matched up exactly. The third man might have been one of the party, or an unrelated man, glanced in the distance. Or he might have been a product of the imagination altogether.

"How did they describe them?"

This too was not very consistent. The large man, whom Mrs. Barkling had wounded, seemed to come through in some of the descriptions, as did the not-very-helpful observation that the other man was smaller. No one mentioned anything that sounded particularly like Boulot. But plainly enough no one had seen any of the men close up or for more than an instant.

Morton picked up the pistol that lay on the table and turned it slowly in his hands. The caustic odor of black powder still clung to the steel. A fine inlay of silver wire decorated the grip and stock, and upon the lock a stand of arms stood proud. It was a greatcoat pistol, smaller than a duelling pistol--about ten inches long. It was not a new gun, dated 1783, though by the looks of the steel it had been lightly used. The maker's name, engraved upon the barrel, was Twigg, London.

"That's a fine gun," Presley said.

"Yes." Morton tested the grip. "Made for someone with a small hand." He held it up, aiming toward a post not a few feet away, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. A small shower of sparks scattered off the steel as the flint struck. He slid the gun across the table to Presley. "See if you can find its mate," the older Runner said.

Presley picked up the pistol, gave it a cursory examination, then slid it into a pocket. "I shall go speak with Mr. Twigg, gun maker."

"Unfortunately, John Twigg left the gun maker's trade before you were born." Morton glanced round the room. "We shall have to linger here until the other Bow Street men arrive," he said, as he received his ale and bread. "Then we're for London again, to speak with the count's family and consult with Mr. Townsend. We need to find Boulot more than ever now."

Presley wanted to know what the maidservant had seen, and Morton relayed to him the tales he had heard in the house. At the description of Mrs. Barkling's battle with the tall intruder, the young Runner whistled.

"All to protect her master. There's loyalty."

"I'm not so sure it was her master she was protecting," Morton said quietly. But he went no further. There were certain kinds of truth he

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