The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (38 page)

“Well, the poor fellow has died…”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear it. But he seemed a healthy young man…?”

“I'm sure he was. He was poisoned by a rival for the affections of a lady.”

Byron winced as one of the boxers landed a heavy blow on the other, sending him staggering back. Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Byron said, “Do you know why I attend Jackson's, Morton, when I could be at the theatre or some other entertainment?” The poet did not take his eyes from the contest. “It is because here we do not lie about our intentions. When I stand toe to toe with a gentleman, I intend to beat him into submission. It is brutal but honest.” He glanced at Morton. “Was there some service you would ask of me regarding this unfortunate fellow?”

“No, no. Not at all. I just wondered if you had met him, and I suppose I was curious to know if he had an actual gift.”

“A gift? More like a curse I should call it, though I suppose the life of a scribbler is better than what has befallen your friend.”

Byron raised his hand to someone he had apparently been awaiting, then looked back at the Runner. “Good evening to you, Morton.”

“And you, sir.”

Morton arrived at Portman House on time, not fashionably late, and found Arabella and Darley there.

“Well, Morton,” Darley greeted him, “I see you have gone in for a Byronic look,” and then he looked suddenly serious. “Or are you in mourning?”

“I have succumbed to style. It is my vain attempt to have Mrs. Malibrant notice me.”

“Notice you, sir! She is mad for you. Talks about you all the time.” Darley smiled and his eyes shone as he said this. The man had a charm that Morton had to admire.

“But to me she speaks of you, sir,” Morton pointed out.

Darley laughed. “Is that not just like her, Morton? I ask you. Is it not?”

Dinner was served at a table that would easily have seated a dozen and a half, so the three clustered together at one end.

“What do you think the situation was between the Hamiltons?” Arabella asked. “Did she know Peter was in love with her? I mean, how could she not? Or was there even something more…?” She looked at Morton as though he were keeping the answer from her.

“I really don't know, Arabella,” he said. “Nor do I want to know.”

“Hear, hear,” Darley agreed.

“That is the odd thing about men,” Arabella said, annoyed. “You honestly do not want the answer. How can you not? Louisa might have been her half-brother's lover, and you do not seem to care! Have you no healthy curiosity?”

It was at this moment that the door opened and Lucy came in.

“There she is,” Darley greeted her, “the heiress to the throne.”

“ 'Tis not a throne,” Lucy said, surprisingly subdued.

“Have you heard, Henry? Louisa left a thousand pounds of her fortune to Lucy.” Arabella swept the girl up into a warm embrace. Morton noticed how readily Lucy seemed to accept such handling. “There was a note on her escritoire,” explained Mrs. Malibrant sadly. “Imagine her thinking of that… then.”

“It does suggest she knew what might come. Or chose. Yet, the inheritance is splendid news,” Morton said, for he had been wondering what would become of this child whom he had saved—and who had saved him.

“But she did not forget you, old saw,” Darley told him. “No. Two hundred pounds awaits you at her solicitor's. Not half what you deserve, I think.”

Morton did not argue this point. He had almost been hanged, and so thought the money fairly earned. Though if they finally hanged George Vaughan, that would be the most pleasant forty pounds he would ever make.

Lucy kissed each of them good night before her new governess shooed her out.

“But where will she stay?” Morton asked.

“I'm the administrator of her funds, legally,” Darley answered. “And I suppose there are schools she must attend, and… well, any number of things. I cannot bring her quite into polite society, alas, for her earliest life will follow wherever she goes. In some ways I think she would be better going abroad, in time, where this sad
history will not follow. Canada is a bit cold, I hear, but it will be a great land one day. Or America. We shall see. The child is perseverance itself, so she might just make herself a life right here in London. At the moment, for some reason, she is set on a career on the stage, of all things!” He looked at Arabella and they both laughed like two people who cared for and knew each other well.

Arabella finished her wine, and rose from the table. “I must go be read a bedtime story,” she said, “which seems somewhat backward to me. If you will excuse me.” She looked from Darley to Morton, her gaze seeming to linger uncertainly on each of them, and then she went quietly out.

Darley watched the door close behind Arabella, then turned to Morton. “Do you know, I cannot get the memories of Louisa and Halbert out of my thoughts.” He gestured toward the wall. “I shall never enter my sitting-room without seeing poor Halbert lying there, already dressed for a funeral. I don't know about these young men going about dressed so—as though they have had some premonition.” He looked at Morton. “You should not take up this practice,” he said, almost hesitantly, then swirled the dark wine in his goblet, watching it stream back down the inside of the glass. “I was trying to recall those lines that Halbert wrote. Do you remember? You found them in his pocket that night.

“It will find you soon enough,

The empty night after the day.

Brief and filled with sorrow,

Love will rise and slip away.”

Darley stared a moment more into his glass, then glanced to the door that Arabella had just used. He lifted his glass to Morton. “To the birds of the air,” he said softly.

“Yes,” said Morton, “to the very birds of the air.”

T. F. Banks lives in British Columbia, Canada, and is at work on the next Bow Street Runner mystery.