The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (29 page)

“But others were,” quietly remarked Morton. “Well,” and he sighed now, “I refused to serve Sir Nathaniel, when he asked me to explain how Bow Street really works. This is a mess much of my own making.”

“How did those marbles get in your lodgings, Morton? Have you really joined the flash crowd?”

“Do you think I have?” Morton laughed. “I'm surprised you're here!”

“Nay, I don't,” admitted Presley. “But I don't see how—”

“Oh, it's no great puzzle
how,
” Morton interrupted him. “My door was watched. When Wilkes went off, someone with the skill picked my back-door lock, and
put them in there. There was even time to place a notice for the late printing of the
Chronicle
. How is no great matter. What is more to the point is why. And why
now,
exactly?”

Presley turned to look at him with a puzzled stare. “George Vaughan don't like you, Morton. I'll tell you that.”

“It's a bit more than just not liking me, Jimmy. Who already knew my address? Why, the same man who knew it tonight, and yesterday, too, when the place was empty. Tell me, Jimmy, did
you
ever know where I dwelt? Did I ever tell you?”

“No,” admitted Presley.

“No, I hadn't the habit of telling folk. But a Runner with a company of informants would not find it too hard to ascertain. That is, if he was of a mind to use them against his brother officers. And what about those pads who came after Mrs. Malibrant and me in the hackney-coach? D'ye think that was random?”

“The bald cove said they was commissioned by a short man.”

“Aye, which led me in several wrong directions. Maybe 'twas so, and one of George Vaughan's minions is short. Or maybe it was just said to throw us off the scent. The main point is, they meant to get Henry Morton and Arabella Malibrant thrown off a bit more permanently.”

“But why?” weakly asked Jimmy Presley.

“Well, now, Jimmy.” Henry Morton sighed, drawing back and looking at him, “You've got your own notions by now about Mr. George Vaughan, don't you? That is why you're here with me in this stink-hole, and not out somewhere with the flash men raising a glass with Officer Vaughan and toasting your good fortune.”

Presley swallowed and said nothing.

“Somebody didn't just nose on the Smeetons, did they? Somebody didn't just sell them to Bow Street. No, somebody went a distance farther than that. Somebody set up the whole scrap—recruited them, gave them the address and the time and even the tools to break in with, and then arranged to have his friends there to take the thieves in the act. Poor paltry thieves, those! But worth—what was it now?—seventy pound a head, all told. And for that the two cullies end up dancing on nothing, never knowing how it was done to them exactly, but suspecting, suspecting… especially by the end.” Morton rubbed his face with his hands again, still trying to dispel his grogginess. “And it wasn't likely the first time, was it?” he went on. “Many another's swung from the same tree, I'd guess.”

Jimmy Presley bowed his head in shame, but nodded all the same. Morton continued.

“Our George Vaughan has himself a little scheme that could earn him quite a few pound, or a Norway neck-cloth. You know it, Jimmy, and I know it, but what we don't have is proof.

“And maybe that's what's really puzzling me the most. I've been lying here trying to figure it. I may think I can see what Mr. Vaughan's business is, but I can't see that I have enough real evidence to do him any serious harm. So, as I said, why spring the trap
now
? Why try to put Henry Morton out of the way? Unless… unless I actually have more proof than I realise I have. Unless I'm closer to Mr. George Vaughan than I know. Have you ever been in the Otter House in Spitalfields, Jimmy?”

“Nay, thank God.”

“Well, I've made myself familiar with the place in the last week or so, and there's a curious thing the folk there
keep saying when I make my well-intentioned enquiries into their general state of health. They say, Mr. Morton, sir, it's kind of you to ask, but in fact, we're already keeping Bow Street abreast of all our news.”

“Vaughan is
there
?”

“And, Jimmy, they were familiar with Caleb Smeeton, too, in the Otter. A low opinion they had of his wisdom, I must say. I think it's pretty clear the whole venture was set up right there. The Otter is George Vaughan's house, Jimmy.

“And you know who else paid a visit to the Otter House before he went on along to his maker, Jimmy? 'Twasn't just Smeeton. The Otter was the last place Halbert Glendinning is sure to have been amongst the living. And I thought, Mr. George Vaughan is not trying to work off Henry Morton because this Morton fellow suspects something about the safe-dead Smeetons. And he's certainly not going to do it because Morton knows he's excused some dueling swells a court appearance, for a modest sum. But maybe there really is one thing he can't quite forgive Henry Morton. Maybe he can't quite forgive Henry Morton for poking his unwelcome head into the Otter, and asking about Halbert Glendinning.

“Let's us put our minds to this Glendinning matter, Jimmy. George Vaughan knew that Glendinning had arrived at Portman House dead drunk, so to speak. Who told him that? And you remember the jarvey who drove the cove to Portman House and delivered him dead?”

“I misremember his name, but I know who you mean.”

“Ralph Acton was his name. When I went looking for him down by Cartwright Square, the ragged folk there told me he'd gone off. But when I asked them why, they said 'twas because of the
horneys
coming about.”

Presley blinked, not seeing it.

“Well, Jimmy, I thought they meant me. But I've since realized it could hardly be me. I hadn't but asked the man a few questions. And they spoke in the plural. Some other officer or officers had been to see our Master Acton before I got there, and given him a broad hint, likely some blunt, too, so he'd make himself scarce.”

“Vaughan?”

Morton nodded.

“Working for Rokeby?”

“As like as not. But one thing seems sure: George Vaughan is afraid I can prove Glendinning was killed out of that house. He is afraid the murder of gentry-folk will be taken more seriously than that of petty criminals like the Smeetons. And he is afraid too many people in the Otter House know about it—that there are too many witnesses. He can't kill all of them. So he has to kill me.”

“What would it take to get to get the proof you need, Morton?”

There was something very serious in the way Presley spoke. Morton regarded him carefully.

“It would be a hard task for you to take up, Jimmy, if that's what you're offering.”

But the younger man was shaking his head.

“I could never do it.” He lowered his voice. “But you see, Mr. Townsend sent me here. Said the guard watching over the hallway had disappeared and I should come look in on you to be sure you're all right. He gives me a key and says, ‘No one will ever know where this key came from. You take my meaning, Jimmy? Say the same to Mr. Morton and take him my compliments.’”

Morton swore. “And we've been sitting here jawing?”

“Does he mean what I think, Morton? That I'm to spring you?”

“No, Jimmy, nothing so direct. But if you were to go out and leave the door unlocked…It's a risky thing, Jimmy. Are you sure you're willing?”

Presley nodded once in acknowledgement. “No matter about that,” he said, low. “I've amends to make.”

Morton looked at him a moment more, then clapped him warmly on the arm. “Right then. Go on down now and check there's no patrole in the taproom. If there is, come back up. But if none's to be found, then just continue on out. You need do no more than that. Mr. Townsend will have looked after the flash crowd. No one will see you come or go.”

“But you, Morton; you'll need another along.”

“Nay, Jimmy, that's more than I can ask. If I can't find the proof I need we'd be swinging together. Get along out and don't worry about Henry Morton. You've done enough. More than enough.”

Presley stared at Morton a moment in the near dark and nodded once. Morton clasped his hand, neither speaking, and then the big Runner went out.

He waited for a count of a hundred and, when Presley hadn't returned, opened the door. The hallway was empty and lit by a single dingy lamp hanging near the stair head. In a moment Morton was on the steps, then down into the public room below. No one paid him any mind: In a dozen strides he was out into the open air of Bow Street.

Across the way a couple of constables from the Night Patrol were lounging in conversation on the doorstep of number 4. Morton bent his head and set off along the street at a brisk walk and in a moment was out of sight. Just another soul lost to the London night.

H
enry Morton walked a good distance
eastward along the Strand and into Fleet Street before finding a hackney-coach to take him to the Otter. The summer night was warm and the stink of the Thames was particularly strong and foul, radiating in waves from over the housetops and out of the dark alleys to the south. It was a smell of vegetable rot, of human waste and tar. A smell, as so many Londoners before him had remarked, of putrescence and decay. A slow current of death moving through the heart of the living city.

With this ominous stench following him, Morton made his way through the city. It must have been close to four A.M. when he reached his destination. The streets of Spitalfields were silent at this hour, and Morton came up to the Otter House entirely alone. There were no lights in its windows.

He drew out the Bramah key that he still had in his pocket, and steeled himself. His hand went almost automatically to his waistband for his baton—and he remembered
that he was no longer a Bow Street Runner. His best weapon, his authority, had been taken from him. Taken by George Vaughan.

Was Vaughan inside? Morton felt his anger rise. Well, that was good, because anger was all he had.

The Bramah slipped into the circular hole and moved easily in its wards. Murmuring a word of gratitude to the workmanship of Valentine Rudd, Morton drew the door closed behind him and stood in the pitch dark of the landing, trying to call to mind the exact layout of the place. Then, feeling ahead with one foot, he carefully made his way down the short flight of steps and located the stone arch that led into the main drinking room. From within, he could hear the rasping exhalation of a sleeping man.

A small tin lamp flickered on one of the tables, dully illuminating the familiar confines of the room, and a dark shape lying on the bench along the wall. It was the publican Joshua, his head pillowed on what looked like a rolled-up coat. Morton scraped a chair up to the lamplit table and the man on the bench raised his head and gaped at him.

“Bill… ?”

“Nay,” replied Henry Morton curtly, lighting a che-root from the guttering lamp. “You'll talk to me now, Joshua.”

“I'll be talking to a dead man” was the muttered reply.

Morton gazed at the other's haggard face in the unsteady lamplight. “I think you're not so corrupt a man as the place you're in,” he said, after pulling long on his cigar.

“What sort of man I am is nothing to you.”

“Oh, it is something to me. Something indeed. Is George Vaughan upstairs, Joshua? Is Bill?”

Joshua looked as though he would not answer, but then he shook his head indifferently and laid it back on the bench, staring up at the ceiling. “What do you want of me?”

Morton had half a mind to seize the barkeep and shake the truth from him. But he'd seen men like Joshua before—not large or strong enough to force their way in this world, but inured to physical threats and violence, here, where they were the commonest coin of every transaction.

“I can set you free of this place,” Morton said.

“And make a nightingale of me? I'm not much of a singer, Morton. And besides, I heard what happened to that cull you nabbed in Leadenhall Street. Someone set
him
free, now, didn't they?”

Morton stopped as he was about to draw on his cigar. “It won't be happening again.”

Joshua shook his head wearily. “George Vaughan played you for a fool once, Morton. I'll not wager he can't do it again. It's a dim cully as bets against our Mr. Vaughan.”

Morton could feel an edge of panic welling up, but he drew on his cheroot, trying to steady himself. He knew what happened to men who lost their nerve in this world. “You taught letters to that little kinchin, Lucy,” he said.

A surprised pause.

“Small need to teach that one anything,” the barman finally replied. “Wot of it?”

“You're her protector in here, aren't you, Joshua? And you've never laid a hand on her, have you? You've never laid a hand on any of the little ones.”

Joshua muttered something under his breath. “… not for me” was all that Morton could make out.

“I could set them all free. All the sad little girls Vaughan is bringing to ruin in this house. Would that bring about a change of heart, Joshua?”

“Heart? He has no heart who labours in such a house as this.” He said it savagely.