The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (15 page)

Morton nodded. He'd likely get nothing from Sir William Glendinning, especially if the note said
“You can find what you want at the Otter House.”

“Was the note-bearer known to you?”

“Nay, sir. He were just a boy as you might see about the street.”

“William, was your master of a melancholy disposition, would you say?”

The man hesitated. “Well, sir, he and Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Peter Hamilton, were men of letters. Their book-learning led them into all manner of strange notions, and to ask peculiar questions. I sometimes heard their discussions, sir. They were as like to question the morning, Mr. Morton. I had never heard such things. They were queer on these poets: Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Wordsworth, and Lord Byron. Talked about them for hours. Mr. Glendinning was beside himself with joy to have Lord Byron visit, though it were for barely a half an hour, sir.
Read some of Mr. Glendinning's poems, and was very complimentary, Mr. Glendinning said. Thereafter, my master and Mr. Hamilton took to getting themselves up in dark clothing, as though someone had died.” He shook his head. “I thought it was this man Brummell they were in imitation of but it was Lord Byron, I came to realise.”

Morton concealed a smile at the perplexity of this simple serving-man over his betters' fopperies.

Reddick continued. “I suppose I never really understood what they were about, sir. But it seemed to me t'were a romantical kind of sadness they worked themselves into. As though there were some pleasure to be had from taking such a dark view of the world.” He shrugged. “He were a happier man before he discovered Lord Byron and those others, Mr. Morton.”

Morton considered how to phrase his next question.

“Do you think, in this mood of romantical sadness, it's possible your master despaired to the point of…not wanting to go on?”

Reddick sat back and looked at Morton gravely. “Do you mean self-murder, Mr. Morton?”

“It might have been that his relations with Miss Hamilton were, perhaps, not quite as he wished them?”

Reddick sat back in his chair, glancing once at the old woman rocking a baby in the corner.

“It would help me to know these things, William. It would help the person who commissioned me to know the truth.”

Reddick looked down at the ancient planked floor. “It were always hard,” he said softly. “Not that she isn't a good, kindly lady, Miss Hamilton, but even so…Mr. Glendinning seemed always… confused. One day atop the world, the next in the depths, if you know what I
mean.” He looked up at Morton suddenly. “He lived and died by that young woman, Mr. Morton. That were the way of it.”

Morton found Jimmy Presley in the Golden Apple in the Strand, a favourite haunt of the Runners. The younger man was poring over a well-thumbed conduct manual, which he swiftly tucked away when Morton sat down. They greeted each other in friendly enough fashion, although the shadow of their last conversation still hung over them.

“Now, Jimmy, tell me about that duel you and George Vaughan broke up. I'm doing a little looking into that Glendinning cove who was in it.”

“Who's having you do that?” Presley immediately wondered. “I heard Sir Nathaniel said we'd go no further.”

“This is private work,” calmly answered Henry Morton. “Now, on Wormwood Scrubs that morning…”

“Aye, then.” But Presley looked worried. “What would you know?”

“How did things stand when you got there?”

“We heard the shot—”

“One shot?”

“Aye, just one. I don't know who told Sir Nathaniel otherwise. We heard it as we were coming up through the woods, to the south of them. George Vaughan cursed, and we started to run. We had the constables of the Horse Patrol with us, you understand, dismounted.”

Morton nodded.

“So, as we came out into the clearing, we found them there, smoke hanging in the air. George Vaughan commanded them to stand down, and they did. That's really
all there was, Morton. There was the seconds, and a cove who was probably the surgeon. Two carriages.”

“Did you get the name of the surgeon? I'd like to talk with him.”

Presley looked embarrassed. “Nay, we never did ask.”

Morton frowned. If the police officers hadn't found out, certainly none of the dueling party would betray their doctor, who was also breaking the law.

“Did they object, when you stopped the fight? Did Rokeby and Pierce object?”

Presley considered. “Not that one would take note of. 'Twas all very gentlemanlike. The Glendinning cove looked like you could push him over with a feather, so we wondered if he'd been hit, after all. But he hadn't. Colonel Rokeby, he was cool as ice, and said as how his pistol had hung fire and only went off when he lowered it. And that was all there was.”

Morton smiled at his young companion's obvious lack of relish for the next part of the story.

“Not quite all, Jimmy, now was it? Didn't you and Vaughan talk to them? Make certain arrangements?”

Presley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, Morton—”

“Never fear, Jimmy,” Morton interrupted him. “I'm not concerned about the amounts, and I've no mind to peach to Sir Nathaniel about any of this. Not that it would surprise him. It's all done, that part. But I want to know what words passed between you, and how these gentlemen appeared.”

Presley released his breath and shrugged. “It was George Vaughan, mainly, as handled it. You should ask him.”

“I want it from you.”

“Well, Glendinning and Rokeby both went back to
their carriages. And Vaughan had words with Pierce and the other second.”

“Peter Hamilton?”

“Yes, him.”

“Had words with them both, together?”

“Nay, each of them, private-like. Pierce first, then the other. And I talked to Pierce, after.”

“What did he say?”

“A lot of not very much,” said Presley with a laugh. “This is a cove with a jaw! But of all I remember, he was saying how the Colonel wasn't really angry against the young swell, and that he didn't see how there had to be a bother over the duel, and how something would be worked out so that everyone was satisfied, including us officers, for our trouble.”

“Did you hear anything of Vaughan's conversation with him?”

“Nay, they stood apart a bit. But at the end, he says something to the effect—Pierce does—we'll meet by and by, Mr. Vaughan.”

“What did he mean?”

Presley shook his head. “Maybe only that the Colonel was likely to be fighting more duels, and us Runners were likely to be interrupting them again. The notion didn't seem to worry him very much.”

“What did Vaughan say to the other side? To Peter Hamilton?”

“I heard little enough of that, either. But I think they arranged something, so…we could have our… what he called our consideration. He said he hadn't enough on his person to satisfy us.”

“Why did Hamilton pay it, and not Rokeby? Or were they both going to contribute?”

“I know not,” said Presley. “Hamilton spoke low.”

“So, they met later, Hamilton and Vaughan? Or was it Pierce and Vaughan? Or both?”

Presley shrugged again. “All I know is George Vaughan gave me my share at Bow Street that afternoon.”

Morton mused.

“I know you saw very little of Halbert Glendinning. Did you get any chance to judge of his character, Jimmy? What manner of man he was?”

“He was dressed the gentleman of fashion, all in dark cloth as the young swells fit themselves out now. That was all. And he seemed as weak as a woman, for a man whose opponent's pistol missed fire.”

“If it actually did,” muttered Morton.

“Why would the Colonel bother to lie about that?”

“Maybe to keep himself just exactly on the lee side of the law. Or maybe so that it'd never be known he'd actually missed his mark. Someone obviously spread news that there were two shots, and it reached the Chief Magistrate that way. Perhaps you weren't close enough to hear the first report.”

Presley conceded the possibility. Or perhaps the rumour had originated with a member of the Horse Patrol, who had simply got it wrong.

“It's a strange business, isn't it, for two gents to try to kill each other when they're not even angry? Maybe 'twas all for show,” Jimmy Presley suggested then. Morton smiled once more. In which case, there hadn't been much of a crime, or any reason to feel guilty about accepting a “consideration” not to report it.

“Maybe it was,” he agreed. “Maybe it was all for show. But one of them ended up dead anyway, didn't he?”

A
s Morton started up the steps of the
Guards Club, someone in a little knot of men lingering about the wrought-iron gates called out to him.

“From the continent, sir?”

Morton turned in surprise, not understanding.

“Have you news?” asked another.

“Oh, nay,” replied Morton. They must have hoped he was a military man carrying word from Europe. “Is something afoot?”

“Bony's afoot, that's what,” replied one of the men.

“Oh, aye?” Morton was startled.

“He's crossed the frontier, that's the word.”

As Morton recalled the rumour in
The Times,
several of them nodded sombrely. They seemed to be of all walks—gentlemen, apprentices, tradesmen, even domestic servants sent to wait for word to bring to their employers. Morton experienced a moment of fellow-feeling with this random group of Englishmen, all sharing the same thoughts and fears.

“Well… God bless them, gentlemen,” he said.

There was even a ragged little cheer.

“Aye, God bless them!”

“The Duke and all who serve!”

In the vestibule of the Club there was a different atmosphere as well, an electric charge that seemed to hover in the air. The porter had a look of almost unbearable self-importance and various military men of different ranks stood about without any apparent purpose, talking to each other in solemn voices. The camaraderie displayed in the street did not extend to Morton here, however. Once it was clear he had no new information, that he was not a member, and that he only wanted to speak to Colonel Rokeby, he was sent off to his usual little waiting-room without further ado.

This time Captain Pierce made no appearance, and Rokeby kept Morton waiting a very long time indeed. The porter went first to see if the Colonel was available, and returned with the message that he was expected directly. A weary while later, Morton was informed that the Colonel had in fact arrived and would see him “after luncheon.” This was, apparently, a leisurely meal, and Henry Morton was made to recognise just how little consideration he or any policeman was due as it dragged slowly on somewhere deep within the exclusive confines of the building. But Morton was patient, and had slipped his Byron into his pocket in anticipation of delay, so that when Rokeby finally made his languid appearance at the door of the waiting-room, he was able to rise with an appearance of equanimity and affably bid him good morning—or was it now afternoon?

Fitzwilliam Rokeby stood tall, erect, and resplendent in his glittering scarlet and gold. He regarded Morton with silent, heavy-lidded hauteur.

“I am enquiring into the death of Mr. Halbert Glendinning,” Morton told him. “His activities on the day he died are of particular interest to me, and I am informed that he went out to meet you early that morning.”

Morton gazed at the officer in apparently cheerful expectation of his ready response.

Rokeby had a thin cigar in one hand, and with extreme deliberation he raised it to his lips. After a long puff, he slowly lowered it again.

“I did meet the man. But there was no duel, and I never had the misfortune to see him again.”

“What precisely led to this encounter, Colonel?”

Another long pause, and application to his cigar. Then Rokeby very coolly and precisely said: “Anything that might have passed between Mr. Glendinning and myself was a private matter between two gentlemen, and no concern of yours.”

Morton looked down at the single ring he wore, turning it on his finger as though it were the most interesting thing in the room. Even in anger his hands did not tremble. Then his gaze snapped back up to Rokeby. “Colonel, let me be perfectly clear. A man died in peculiar circumstances on the same day on which you tried to shoot him. Do not take what passes between us in this room lightly.”