The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (23 page)

But then, even as he pondered, a small figure came tripping unconcernedly down that same staircase. The little serving-wench he'd seen before: Lucy.

She stopped when she reached the bottom, and for a moment they regarded each other. Then Morton smiled at her, and was rewarded with a tiny, grimacing kind of half-smile in return. She looked nervous, but also curious, and Morton was struck again by the air of extraordinary intelligence that seemed to play over her sharp little features.

He turned and sat down on one of the benches along the wall, in the light. Continuing to smile at her, he patted the bench beside him with his hand, and invited her with a motion of his head to join him. After a moment's hesitation, and a wary glance at the old woman, she came.

She sat down a little farther from him than he had indicated, and did not look at him. The sickened thought passed through Henry Morton's mind that she had probably obeyed such a summons from other gentlemen many times before, and for other purposes. Yet, yet, that look almost of trust she had given him perhaps meant that she understood he did not want what other men
had wanted. And she probably knew that men rarely came to the Otter for carnal pleasures at this hour of the day. The crone stood hesitating, motionless, regarding them both suspiciously, apparently trying to decide whether to object again, or to go and alert someone.

Morton casually fished a shilling from an inside pocket and tossed it in her direction.

“Do thy cleaning, Mother,” he told her. “The kinchin and I will only work our jaws a space.”

Muttering something unintelligible, the old woman bent for the coin and did as she was bidden. Morton turned back to the little girl.

“Thou art called Lucy?” he asked in as friendly a tone as he could command, and once more smiled.

She nodded, still not looking at him, and rocked a little on the bench, tapping her heels against the wall behind her. She was dressed as she had been before, in shapeless dirty rags, but in this better light Morton could see them to be scraps of cast-off adult clothing, a bit of ruffle visible here, an odd little length of pleated hem there. She seemed to have tidied her hair slightly this time.

“How old art thou, Lucy?”

He hardly expected any real answer, but she screwed up her face in a considering expression.

“My mamma told Joshua I was born at Michaelmas,” she replied, in a high, clear voice, like a bird's, “in the year before the year when Admiral Nelson was shot by the French. Joshua told me that this happened a
decade
ago, which is a word meaning ten years. So, I will say that I am going on to be eleven years and a half a year old, but I cannot tell it for certain, because neither Joshua nor my mamma are entirely to be trusted.
Although for different reasons. I have been here at this house for a year and seven months: This is a true fact that I know, as I have recorded it myself.”

Morton blinked at this extraordinary speech.

“You work it out very well!” he remarked.

Now she looked at him and smiled a quick, proud smile, before resuming her former attitude.

“Does your… mamma come here to see you?”

“Oh, no. Joshua gave her thirty shillings for me, but she had to promise not to come back. And she promised it.”

Morton shuddered and tried to think what else he could ask her that might serve his purposes. He did not want to know anything more about her life. He wished he didn't know as much as he suddenly did.

But before he could, she looked up at him and asked her own question.

“What happened to your face?”

His hand went up automatically to the painful red streak that disfigured his features.

“A man mistook me for a horse,” he ruefully told her.

“He mistook you for a
horse
!” cried Lucy with a sudden silvery peal of delight. “How could he be so daft!” And she laughed again, immoderately, as if Morton's answer had appealed to a deep enthusiasm for the absurd. The old woman peered over at them and scowled bitterly.

Morton joined the girl's laughter.

“Now, Lucy, can you tell me something?”

“You don't look like a
horse
!”

“No. Now, can you remember something for me? Do you remember seeing a man last week, a gentleman it was, dressed in dark clothes and a high white neck-cloth?
You might have been taking him drinks. Maybe many drinks.”

But now the mood abruptly changed. The old woman was staring very hard, and Lucy, glancing anxiously at her, suddenly blanched with an expression of pure fear. She said nothing.

Morton saw, and quickly retreated. He'd not do this little soul any further harm, whatever the needs of his investigation.

“Ah, well, no matter. I'm sure there were many gentlemen. Who could tell them all apart?” He reached for his hat, which he had set down on the bench beside him. But in the moment he was turned away he felt a light motion at his side, as a quick hand pulled the volume he had left in his coat deftly from its pocket.

He turned in surprise, then could not but smile at the look of helpless fascination with which the little thief was gazing at the treasure her fingers had been unable to resist. She cradled it in her lap like some precious offering before an altar. His surprise turned to astonishment, however, when she delicately opened it to the title page.

“LORD … BY-RON … HEBREW … MEL … O … DIES,” she pronounced slowly and carefully. Then looked up at him, wide-eyed. “What is that?”

“Poems,” he murmured. “You can read this, Lucy?”

“I am learning,” she whispered, confidentially. “I began with my mamma. Now Joshua shows me sometimes, and sometimes the gentlemen do.” This suggested a side of both Joshua and “the gentlemen” Morton would hardly have credited. But then, there was something particularly appealing and determined about the gaze in this child's eyes. “I am collecting things,” she added. “Papers with writing on them, so I can practise.”

“This is extraordinary,” he murmured appreciatively.

“But I don't have…” she went on, hesitant but daring, “I've never had…a
whole book
.” The pure, passionate need with which she said it, the naked childish greed, made Henry Morton shake his head.

“Take it, Lucy. Take it. It's yours.”

Morton wondered if he had ever in his life seen true happiness. It startled him. Was there really anything in the world to warrant such ecstasy? He would not have believed it possible.

In an instant she was gone with her prize, bounding lightly up the steps into whatever terrible world lay above, joy in the very spring of her limbs. The old crone bent darkly muttering to her task again and Henry Morton was left by himself, fighting back inexplicable tears.

T
here were more people in the Otter that
night than Morton had seen on either of his previous visits, making it feel more like a normal public house in a shabby quarter of town. Men were crowded along the walls and played cards at both of the tables amidst a clutter of gin glasses and beer mugs. Pipe smoke hung in a dense cloud along the low wooden rafters.

As he stepped into the room, baton prominent in his hand, he listened to the voices abruptly die away. There was an uncomfortable silence. Joshua glowered resentfully from his place behind the bar again, but Morton did not see either of the other men who had been present the first night.

He felt his anger begin to rise within him, his disgust at this place. The destruction of children, murder, theft—what crimes had not been fomented here? It was always best, and safest, to be aggressive and confident in these situations, but for Henry Morton tonight there would be little need to pretend.

“I am an officer of police on His Majesty's warrant,”
he announced loudly. “No man is to part these premises until I've had speech with him.”

“There's no call for this,” objected Joshua from his place. “My customers are law abiding. You've no right disturbing them.”

“I'll disturb whom I please,” retorted Morton coldly. “And God help him who tries to stop me.”

“You've no actual warrant to—” began Joshua again.

But Henry Morton's rage flared and he brought down his baton on the nearer tabletop with a furious crash, splitting the flimsy board and sending the cards and coins and glassware spilling noisily onto the floor. The men who had been sitting at it scrambled up anxiously and backed away.

“You'll hold your peace!” Morton bellowed. The silence now was complete. He looked around the dim room. “This is a den of vile corruption, and any man here for its filthy commerce gets no consideration from me!”

He stepped forward, slapping his baton against his gloved palm, and letting his words sink in.

“A gentleman was murdered out of this house last week, and every one of you is under suspicion for it. I want each man here to come to this table and tell me his whereabouts on Saturday last, and how he can prove it.”

The men at the other table made way, snatching up their drinks and other belongings. Morton took a place from which he could keep his eye on the doorway and sat, laying his hat and baton down before him. He looked over at Joshua and pointed at him.

“You first. The rest of you keep off and give us room.”

Joshua reluctantly came and took his place. Morton kept his voice low, if still full of menace, so that it could not be generally overheard.

“I asked you about a gentleman who visited this house, and I am going to ask you again. This time I want the truth. I have a dozen witnesses who heard the jarvey say he picked him up here. Respectable witnesses, do you understand? Gentry-folk.”

“Happens there may have been such,” muttered Joshua now. Morton regarded him closely. Was he intimidated? Or had his instructions changed?

“What was he drinking?”

“Happens maybe brandy wine, if 'twas him we're speaking of.”

“When did he arrive?”

Joshua's eyes narrowed, and he hesitated.

“I've heard lies enough in my time,” Morton told him evenly. “So do not think yours will pass me. I'll have the truth, Joshua, or you'll be coming with me to Bow Street where we have a cozy little room where the truth always comes out.”

Joshua paused a moment more, then spoke.

“Early in the evening he came. I've no notion what o'clock 'twas.”

“What did he want? Why was he here?”

“Wot else did he want but wot most coves want?” The publican jerked his head briefly, to indicate the upper regions of the house. “That and his brandy. He was half-seas over when he left, but he was content. Coves leave here content, now, don't they?”

“Are you telling me positively that he went upstairs with one of these… children?”

“Aye, he did. Two on them, before he was done. Just as do plenty of you swells….”

The Runner restrained his disgust.

“Did he drink enough to vomit?” he demanded. “Did he flash the hash?”

The barman dourly shook his head. “Not while he was here.”

“Whom did he keep company with?”

“None was with him.”

Morton considered Joshua coldly. “Had he ever been here before, this gentleman?”

“I know not. But I'm not always here, am I?”

Morton stared a long moment. The barman's eyes were full of concealment, that was sure, but Morton believed he'd told all he would without further persuasion. He waved him away, and pointed to another man at random.

His reference to Saturday had been deliberately misleading. In fact, Halbert Glendinning had died not on Saturday, but Friday. Morton let the Otter's customers make their denials for the former day, argued with them awhile, and then as it were casually asked them whether they had been in the house on the latter. Frequently enough they were glad to admit it, as if such a concession would make the Runner more likely to believe them on the first account. Then he came at them hard.

“Did you see a gentleman in here that night, dressed all in dark clothes and drinking brandy?”

“Nay, yer worship. No such cove.”

“And are you blind? Is that what you will tell me next? I say he was here, and you did see him, and maybe you helped murder him, too!”

“Nay, yer honour! I swear to you!”

“What good's the oath of a liar? I know he was here. Did you see him, or shall I clap you in irons and haul you down to Bow Street?”

But as much as he pressed them, he could squeeze little of the wine of truth from such worthless mash. A few might really have seen Glendinning. A few of those
seemed to confirm that he had really been drinking brandy—although it was anyone's guess how much. All of them were lying about at least part of their story, of that Morton was certain. Some of the folk here couldn't open their mouths at all without lying, even if they had no cause to. They were certainly being as secretive as they dared now. Indeed, there was something a bit more brazen about them than Morton usually encountered when he made a visit like this to a flash house. They were afraid, he thought. But not of him. Not enough.

Then his luck changed. The man who sat down across from him broke into a crooked smile.