The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (2 page)

Morton breathed in the familiar smell of death, but there was something more as well. Sickly sweet. He bent over, braced himself, and pressed on the man's chest, breathing in through his nose as he did so. He gagged and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his mouth. His eyes watered, but the contents of his own stomach stayed where they belonged.

Covering his fingers with his handkerchief, he distended the man's lips, then pulled on the teeth to open the jaw. As he thought. He wiped his hands energetically. There were no signs that the young man had been assaulted. His clothes, though soiled, were not torn or even appreciably askew. Morton gently turned the man's head, which rolled heavily to one side. No marks or signs of a blow. His hands and forearms bore no bruises or contusions. He had not defended himself.

A real doctor would have to make an examination, but Morton had seen enough to convince him. Quickly he went through the man's outer pockets and fob. A watch, some coins, a small ring of keys. He opened the jacket.

“What are you finding, Mr. Morton?” Darley had returned from seeing the doctor out, and now eyed the thief-taker rather suspiciously.

Morton's fingers encountered a small sheet of folded paper in an inner pocket. He stood up, turning to Darley.

“Nothing unexpected. To be honest, Lord Arthur, I am not sure why Mrs. Malibrant sent for me. I do not know how this unfortunate gentleman met his end but there are no signs of foul play. He doesn't appear to have been robbed. Though, at the risk of offending your friend the surgeon, I do not think he suffocated. Can you tell me who he is and the circumstances in which he was found?”

Arabella let herself in at that moment, and both men bowed to her. She was dressed in a gown of green silk that seemed to reflect the colour of her eyes, which were, Arabella liked to say, the hue of jade. Porcelain-pale skin and, about her lovely face, a cloud of cumulous red hair. Arabella Malibrant did not go unnoticed in a crowd.

“Mr. Morton,” she said, nodding. “This is the man I spoke of, Arthur.”

Arthur?

“So I assumed.” Lord Arthur clasped her hands. “And how are you, my dear? Are you sure you wish to be in here? Shall I come out?”

Arabella's eye strayed to the dead man. “No, I'm well. I have just sent Miss Hamilton home with her brother. She did not want to leave but her friends prevailed. Poor thing,” she said, her eyes glistening.

“Yes, poor Louisa,” Darley agreed.

Morton felt his head shake involuntarily. Arabella Malibrant was no more a shrinking violet than Morton
himself. He was sure she could step over a corpse in the street and not interrupt her conversation. It was not for his benefit, this little display of feeling.

Silence for a moment, and then Morton cleared his throat. “You were about to tell me, Lord Arthur, who this unfortunate man was and how he was found….”

Darley seemed to refocus. “Oh, yes. His name is Halbert Glendinning. He arrived here, oh, some thirty minutes ago in a hackney-coach. I was not there, of course. But he… well, Mrs. Malibrant, you were there.”

Arabella nodded, her mane of red hair swaying.

“I had arrived just the moment before and was on the stair when I heard a fuss. Several servants were looking into a coach where they had discovered this young man, sprawled. There was a bit of a scene, as you might imagine. Arthur was sent for and arrived a moment later. And then poor Miss Hamilton…” Arabella shook her head. “I thought my heart would break when she called out his name. No actress in England could have put such feeling into it, and yet it was restrained.” She glanced at Morton, who must have looked impatient, for she drew herself up a little, green eyes glaring. “All of this was horrible enough, but I should not have sent for Hen—Mr. Morton but for one thing. The jarvey was frightened nigh unto death. I have never seen a man look so ill so suddenly. And the moment poor Mr. Glendinning was lifted from his carriage, the man was gone. Not so much as a by-your-leave. Just vanished.
Without his fare!
Can you imagine that? ‘Now, that, Arabella,’ I said to myself, ‘is as suspicious as anything I have ever seen. Mr. Morton will want to talk to him.’ And I sent for you straightaway.”

Darley looked oddly at Morton, and Morton knew
what the man was thinking.
And who, sir, are you to Mrs. Malibrant?

A knock at the door drew Lord Arthur, who excused himself and went quietly out. Arabella stayed, as any lady certainly would not. She glanced again at the dead body, then at a painting on the wall. A number of things Morton might say ran through his mind, none of them appropriate to sharing a room with a gentleman who had so recently departed the pleasures of this earth.
“Arthur?”
he said at last.

“It's not what you think,” she said quickly, but for an actress Arabella was a surprisingly poor liar. It was precisely what he thought. But, then, what could Morton say? They had an “understanding,” of sorts, and gentlemen like Lord Arthur Darley were part of it. Gentlemen of quality. Likely married. A man who did not find his money chasing criminals through the streets of London.

Arabella raised her head and stared at him rather defiantly. Morton looked down at the scrap of paper he still held in his hand. Unfolding it, he held it up to the light and read aloud.

“It will find you soon enough,

The empty night after the day.

Brief and filled with sorrow,

Love will rise and slip away.”

“What is that?” Arabella asked.

“I found it in his pocket.”

“Well, he was no Byron.”

Morton glanced down at the unmoving form of the young man. No, he was no Byron.

Arthur Darley returned at that moment, and his soft eyes came to rest on Glendinning. For a moment he
stood very still, and Morton thought the feelings he saw in the man's face were not feigned.

“It is so tragic,” Darley said quietly. “So many men lost in the recent wars, Mr. Morton, and more to come across the Channel, I fear. But one comes to think that we at home are safe.”

Safe? Morton thought. Here was someone who did not see the side of London frequented by the men of Bow Street.

“Lord Arthur?” Morton said, interrupting the man's contemplation. “Have you any reason to believe this death is anything but natural?”

Darley looked up at the Bow Street Runner enquiringly. “You're really quite certain the doctor was wrong? That he didn't choke to death on his own gorge?”

“The doctor's examination was less than thorough, I think. You see this poor unfortunate? If he had asphyxiated, and I have seen many a man who has, hanged and murdered both, his airway would have been blocked or there would be signs of an assault upon his throat. And if you push upon his chest, as I did a moment ago, air passes freely out of his lungs. The passage is not blocked, nor is there vomit in his mouth. I have looked. Did the doctor open Glendinning's mouth and examine his airway?”

“I don't believe he did.”

“I don't believe he did, either. Forgive me for asking again: Is there any reason to believe Mrs. Malibrant's fears are founded? Might Mr. Glendinning have expired of something unnatural?”

Darley glanced at Arabella, the question unspoken.

“Mr. Morton is entirely reliable,” she told him.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Darley said dryly. He stood for a moment, lost in thought, then he shook his head and sat
down rather heavily in a chair. “I…I cannot quite catch up with what has happened. You see, Mr. Morton, someone tried to kill poor Glendinning earlier this day.”

Morton and Arabella both stared at Lord Arthur, but Darley hesitated.

“What is it, Arthur?” Arabella said softly.

“Well, I don't suppose he can be charged with it now….You see, Glendinning was involved in an affair of honour this morning. Your own people interrupted it, Mr. Morton. I don't think shots were fired.”

“A duel with whom, Lord Arthur?” Morton asked.

“I don't know,” Darley replied. “I can find out, perhaps.”

“I don't much care to prosecute a duel, Lord Arthur, if that is your concern. And it seems no one was arrested.”

“Peter Hamilton will likely know the story. He was Glendinning's friend.” Darley stared down blankly at the corpse that lay upon his divan. “He was the kindest young man. A bit quiet, but liked by everyone—or so I thought. Poor Louisa.”

“Who is Louisa, exactly?”

“Louisa Hamilton,” Arabella said. “Peter Hamilton's sister.”

“Louisa and Glendinning had come to an understanding recently, or so I believed. I had thought they might announce their engagement tonight.” Darley shook his head again.

“If Mr. Glendinning really was involved in a duel,” Morton said, “it casts Mrs. Malibrant's observation into a different light.”

“You don't really think it's possible that…?” Darley eyed Morton, perhaps hoping he would tell him that such things could not happen in his world.

“It happens daily, Lord Arthur. Daily, and sometimes in homes as fine as this.”

Morton saw Arabella home, happy to find that she was going home. He was not overly prone to jealousy—far less than the next man. No one would ever catch Morton murdering a man over a woman, as perhaps had happened this night. It was often the reason duels were fought. He had seen it before.

The coach bounced through a pothole and the driver cursed. Morton gazed thoughtfully out the window.

Arabella sighed, signaling that he was not paying attention to her as he should. Morton turned back to her.

“Is it not the saddest thing?” she asked. “If you had heard poor Miss Hamilton cry out, Henry, you would have done anything to ease her pain. I tell you, it was wrenching. I could never duplicate it.” She pitched her voice low and tried anyway.
“ ‘Oh, Richard. Richard …’”

“Very touching, I'm sure,” Morton said. “There is only one problem….”

Arabella raised one perfect eyebrow.

“His name was not Richard.”

Y
ou don't believe me, do you?” Arabella demanded
as soon as she had shed her wrap. They had come to her lodgings in Theobald's Road.

“Don't believe what, pray?” Morton did not care much for her mood, which was combative and testy.

“About the jarvey.”

“You said he was frightened near to death and fled without demanding his fare, which I admit
is
suspicious.”

“Do not mock me, Henry Morton,” she said coldly.

Morton regarded her seriously. She really was the most beautiful woman. “You should not knit up your perfect brow so.”

“I shall crochet it if it pleases me.”

Morton wanted to take her in his arms—somehow wanted it even more because he knew the timing was not right at all. Instead, he dropped into one of her comfortable chairs, and caught sight of himself in a looking-glass: a big man, large-boned, and lean from years of
Gentleman John's brutal “toughening.” His brow was too heavy to appear refined, but his jaw was strong. Arabella said he had the eyes of a poet, whatever that might mean. “Soft and soulful,” he guessed, but dark and inquisitive was his own assessment—too inquisitive.

“It is odd,” he said more seriously. “Why was the jarvey so frightened, do you think? Could it have been merely the fear the poor feel when they think some accusation might be leveled at them? Glendinning died in the man's carriage, after all. Did he fear that these nobs would blame him in some way? If only for negligence?”

Arabella did not take a seat, but instead paced across the small sitting-room. Morton watched her go, hungrily, his own feelings not in tune with the mood. “No, I think it was something else.” She struggled to give voice to what was in her mind. “It…it was not that kind of fear, Henry,” she said at last.

Morton suddenly found himself listening. He was not sure why. As though his own feelings had been deafening him to what Arabella had been saying. Like most people of her profession, Arabella was an acute observer of human nature, and Morton had come to trust her intuition.

“I'm sure you're right,” he said, “but it seems unlikely I will find him now. We might offer a reward for him to come forward.” There were some thousand hackney-coach licences granted in London, not to mention those who plied the trade unsanctioned.