The Emperor's Assassin Read Online Free

have retained a bit of the odour of—”
    “And just what were you planning to do with a dead woman's clothes, if I dare ask?”
    “Show them to you,” Morton said, unwrapping the bundle.
    Arabella made a face. “Well, I have seen them. Now take them away.”
    “I was hoping you might look a little more closely. These clothes are the only indication we have of who this poor woman might have been.”
    This piqued Arabella's interest, Morton could see. She brushed back an errant strand of luxurious red hair and took a step nearer.
    “Are these not of some foreign fashion?” Morton asked.
    “French,” Arabella pronounced. She took up the pelisse and held it to the light. “And very finely made.”
    “And where would one purchase such clothing, I wonder?”
    “Not from any woman's clothier. These were tailored for whomever wore them. I will find out,” Arabella said confidently, and wrapped the clothes up tightly, tying the bundle with a bit of string. She turned back to Morton. “I might even be able to tell you something this evening. Arthur hopes that you will come by. And if you are terribly attentive and kind to me this evening, you might escort me home.”
    “I shall do all within my power to win your favour,” Morton said seriously.
    Arabella frowned. “But all men do that,” she said. “You must do better than they.”

T humbscrews!”
    Henry Morton nodded. He sat opposite Sir Nathaniel Conant, the Bow Street Chief Magistrate, in his book-lined office. He had really come here looking for Jimmy Presley, to ask him some questions about the nameless woman who now lay in Skelton's surgery, but he had been asked to attend the “Beak.”
    “Mr. Skelton is certain? Beyond doubt?”
    “I believe he is, Sir Nathaniel.”
    The Magistrate gave a visible little shiver. Morton's respect for his superior had grown in last month's business about the corrupt Runner George Vaughan. Sir Nathaniel's moral compass was certain.
    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 examininghis younger colleague