by T. F. Banks
Hat still in hand, Morton made his way across to the empty table, pulled up a flimsy chair, and sat down. The publican very slowly stirred himself and presently arrived at his side.
“Yer pleasure, sir.”
“A line of the old author. And a candle.”
The man shuffled to the far side of the room and fetched one of the small, smoking pewter lamps and set it down before Morton. He was a dry, balding man, perhaps fifty years old, slight of build and dressed in a loose white smock and threadbare trousers. As he slouched away again Morton looked about himself. When his eyes met those of the two men at the other table, they looked down at their hands. He saw now that another figure—apparently a man—lay motionless on one of the benches along the stone basement wall, one arm trailing down with its knuckles in the dirty sawdust covering the floor. Otherwise the room seemed empty. But Morton sensed other presences, other eyes watching him, and set about discreetly trying to find them.
By the time the barman had finished uncorking the dusty bottle and pouring out his glass, Morton had discovered a pale shape in the shadowy corner below and to the right of the bar. There seemed to be some sort of recess in the wall there, perhaps an old root- or ice-cellar, and peering from its depths there was, he saw now, a small, motionless face.
“Lucy!” harshly barked out the keep in a dry, coughing voice. “Where's that little wagtail? Lucy!”
The small face vanished back into its obscurity and then, moments later, a miniature female figure emerged from behind the wall quite on the far side of the bar. There must, Morton saw, be some connecting passage joining the two places, perhaps only large enough for a child to slip through.
For a child was the owner of the face he had glimpsed, and who now dutifully approached his table, bearing his dram carefully in two hands. Dressed in an utterly filthy dun-coloured scrap of robe, her dust-grey hair chopped short and sticking out in tufts around her head, she looked to be nine or ten years of age. But Morton knew how deceiving such appearances could be, here where a lifetime's knowledge of good and evil could be compressed into a year or two, and where human beings matured quickly, or not at all. The girl set the clouded glass down cautiously before him, and then made an odd awkward dip, a kind of hurried curtsey. Dark, curious eyes looked up at him, set in sharp, strangely knowing features. Then she wheeled and was gone in a little rush back into the gloom beyond the bar.
As his glance followed her, he caught sight of others. Partway up the wooden staircase, three little crouching forms, three more female faces, peering down at him. The instant he noticed them, they scrambled silently upward out of sight.
Henry Morton drew a heavy breath, and drank down half his glass in one swallow. He made a peremptory gesture to the keep, calling him over to the table.
“So,” Morton addressed him in the language of the streets, “this be a nanny-house?” And he inclined his head toward the stairwell.
“It may be. You hanker for a bit of a curtezan, do you? A little kinchin-mort?”
Morton could hardly contain a grimace. “Courtesans” seemed rather a grotesque term for the pitiful little females he had glimpsed on the stairs.
Before he could put another query, however, a new voice spoke, clear and deliberate.
“Guard yerself, Joshua. He's a horney.”
Morton twisted round in anger. It was one of the two men at the other table, the larger, burlier one, who gave him one hard, defiant stare, then looked down again.
“We've a lawful public, here,” the barman protested, backing away. “Drink yer swig and leave us be.” It was true enough. Morton knew that formal justice was largely powerless to stop the overt business of a house like this. The only charge that could even be laid was that of creating a “common nuisance,” and with no one working the sidewalk outside the house, this would be impossible to sustain. But there were other pressures that could be applied.
“Come back here,” he ordered the man, dropping the pretence of being an ordinary customer. “I've some questions for you, and you'll answer them smart if you want to continue vending drink in this parish.”
The tapster edged back, reluctantly. Only a tiny percentage of the tens of thousands of public houses in London actually possessed the required licence. But if an officer suddenly insisted on one, he could, at least for a time, make some misery for a place.
“Last night you'd another gentleman in here,” Morton told him, watching him closely as he spoke. “He was well dressed, in black pantaloons and a dark green coat. He left in a hackney-coach, somewhere around the hour of ten.”
Joshua mumbled something to the effect that he'd served plenty of customers yesterday, and how was he to remember—
“He drank more than was good for him,” Morton interrupted, “and someone from this house helped him into his coach.” Joshua's rheumy eyes flickered over to the other table, to the man who had warned him that Morton was police. The other man stared back impassively now, saying nothing. His companion gazed off as if distracted.
“Plenty of coves as drink too much,” said Joshua.
“Yes, but this man stood out. You don't get his sort often—very finely dressed, like a dandy. I've no doubt you remember him.”
Another flicker of the eyes in the direction of the other table. At the other table, the same impassive stare.
“I don't recollect him. But I haven't always been here, have I?”
“He left by hackney-coach. The driver took him from your very door.” Morton decided to bluff. “He said one of the men who helped him into the coach was the publican.”
He watched the man's eyes, which slid away toward the others. “I don't recollect such a man.”
Morton turned in irritation to the second table.
“What about you two? Did you see the gentleman?”
“We wasn't here yesternight,” responded the burly man.
“No, I'm sure no one was here,” Morton muttered. “And why would that be, I wonder?”
He did not offer to pay for his brandy as he stood, and the keep did not make any effort to remind him of it. For an officer of police to pay for something at a flash house would be to grant it a degree of legitimacy, and neither Morton nor any of his brother officers ever did. An honest house was quite another matter.
“If I were a cully, like some I see here tonight,” he announced generally, “I'd give some serious consideration to my liberty and my livelihood, and to what I might be able to do to help the officers charged to keep His Majesty's peace. I'd take some time, for example, to think over what passed here yesternight, so that I could tell them next time they asked. Because they'll be back to ask again, sure.”
“This here's a lawful house,” objected Joshua. “And Bow Street knows it, even if you don't.”
“I am Bow Street,” said Morton.
To this Joshua grunted unintelligibly and the men at the second table both looked mutely down into their mugs again.
Well, he could get no more from them. He gave his hat a brief, contemptuous brush with one hand, as if to rid it of the contagion of their presence, and went out.
Chapter 10
Morton was restless after his visit to the troubling streets of Spitalfields, and had consequently not been in his bed nearly as long as he might have liked when Wilkes woke him to announce that Miss Hamilton's maid Nan was waiting to speak with him.
“Damnation,” the Runner mumbled emptily, and swung his feet over the side of his bed. Wilkes had at least thought to accompany these tidings with a hot bowl of café au lait— many of Morton's tastes in the pleasures of life were defiantly Gallic—so while he sipped he asked:
“Did she say anything interesting last night, this abigail?” Morton assumed that Wilkes had entertained the servant in the kitchen while he'd talked to her mistress.
“She is discretion dressed and walking, our Nan,” replied Wilkes. “Actually, sir, she made it rather clear that any man who served a mere police constable was beneath her notice. She was not
about to tell me anything.”
“Well, I wonder what hope I have. Being the mere police constable himself.”
A few minutes later Wilkes ushered the visitor into the parlour. Morton very politely saw her to a chair, offering refreshment as he did. His attentions were received with minimal courtesy, and a barely civil refusal to taste his food or drink.
Nan was a slim woman of middle years with a sharp, long-nosed, narrow countenance. She was well dressed in an Indian muslin day dress, over which was artfully arranged a silken blue pelisse and cape with, of course, the proper black mourning ribbons. Morton guessed that such clothes had been passed on to her by Miss Hamilton, so perhaps they really were as close as sisters. At any rate, her manner certainly suggested she viewed herself more as a gentlewoman than a servant.
She perched on her seat as if unwilling to make herself comfortable and peered back at Morton with the kind of suspicious air he knew only too well. From top to bottom of British society the very idea of a police was distrusted and resented. He half expected to be treated to the usual speech about the liberties of free-born Englishmen. Instead, she said: “I am to give you this.” She passed him a neatly folded paper. Morton opened and ran his eye over it quickly, just long enough to pick out the reference to Two Hundred Pounds Sterling, then casually set the bank draught aside. God knew, the Runners were suspected of greed enough as it was. Nan's palpable disapproval of her mistress's proceeding burned like a hearth before him.
“Thank you.”
“And I am to answer your questions. If you have any.”
“I do.” Morton smiled encouragingly. “Your mistress,” he said, “lodges the most complete trust in you.”
“She has known me long.”
“It reflects very well on you, I think. When did you begin with her?”
“When she was but a slip of a girl. I have served her near all her life.”
Morton nodded appreciatively.
“Do you remember a Colonel Rokeby, who might have visited your mistress at one time?”
Nan nodded, saying nothing—unless one took into account her manner, which said a great deal. These things were none of Morton's business.
“Can you tell me anything of the nature of their…acquaintance?”
“Surely, sir, you realise that—”
“Let me be clearer: Was their acquaintance such that Colonel Rokeby might have cause for jealousy after the fact? Did he regard your mistress in a way that would lead to this?”
“The workings of the mind of a person like Colonel Rokeby are a mystery to me.” She said it with a certain bitterness, Morton thought.
“And to me. But would he have felt an implied promise had been broken? Did Miss Hamilton's rejection of him raise his ire?”
“I wouldn't know, sir. I am hardly in the man's confidence.”
Morton sighed under his breath. But she was in Louisa Hamilton's confidence, or was supposed to be. He changed his tack.
“You carried the note to Bow Street that warned the officers of the duel?”
Nan nodded again, regarding him warily.
“How did you first learn of the duel?”
“From the servants. Master Peter's man had let it slip.”
“And you told Miss Hamilton?”
She nodded again.
“When was this?”
“When was what, sir?”
“When you learned of the duel?”
“The evening before it was to take place.”
“And Mr. Glendinning had not come to your mistress's house at all that day?”
“No, sir. He had not.”
“What did Mr. Hamilton have to say of the affair afterward? I trust you heard something from his servant.”
“Only that Runners from Bow Street had interfered where they should not have. That they had no regard for a man's honour, but only their pockets.”
“He was angry, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know, Nan, if Mr. Glendinning was proficient with a pistol?”
“I don't, sir, but it would surprise me.”
“Why is that, pray?”
“He was not inclined to sport, sir.”
“Tell me about Mr. Glendinning. Did you approve of him?”
“Indeed, sir, he was very kind and respectful of Miss Hamilton. A gentleman from heart to head.”
“Then you thought them a good match?”
“It is not my place to hold opinions, sir.”
Morton almost laughed aloud at the notion of the woman sitting before him being without opinions, on this or on any other matter. Perhaps he ought to ask for her views on Bow Street and the men who toiled there.
“Do you know what caused this duel, Nan?”
She shook her head.
“Mr. Hamilton's manservant knew nothing?”
“He would not speak of such a matter to us, sir, nor would we ask.”
Morton rather doubted that, but decided to let it pass. Instead he set to work to find out as much as possible about Glendinning and Miss Hamilton. In this, Nan was forthcoming. The particulars of the Sussex circle, which both families were part of, the names of Glendinning's servants, his solicitor and his London friends, and the details of his habits were soon committed to Morton's comprehensive memory. Everything she told him served to support the picture Louisa had provided of her dead fiancé. When he tried to probe his possible dissipations, Nan's response was little different from that of her mistress.
“I know nothing of his private doings, Mr. Morton. But the maidservants in the Glendinning houses, both town and country, reported nothing amiss of him in the way of improper familiarities. I asked them particularly, when it began to seem Miss Hamilton might regard him with favour.”
“You take good care for your mistress's welfare, I think. If you had heard that he had in fact behaved in…an indiscreet or reprehensible way, would you have reported this to her?”
Nan's response was unhesitating. “Indeed I would. And to Master Peter.”
Morton made an approving sound, then posed the question that had been nagging at him.
“Do you know if Mr. Glendinning's familiars called him ‘Richard’?”
Nan responded slowly. “Not that I ever heard.”
“Who is ‘Richard,’ then, Nan?”
She looked steadily at him, considering. “I can't think of anyone by that name who could be relevant to this matter, sir. But it is a common enough name.”
“I suppose it is. Did Mr. Glendinning have any detractors?”
“I would hardly know, sir,” Nan said. “He was very mild in his manner and congenial to all, so far as I knew.”
When she was gone, Morton examined the banker's draught with more care and found, to his own amusement, that his pulse sped up slightly as he did. How often did even the great John Townsend receive a sum like this? But once before, a letter of this sort had proven fraudulent, and in the end Morton had only been able to dispose of it for a few pence on the pound. He'd best cash this one before he invested too much time and energy in the matter.
Then he sat, tapping the paper on the arm of his chair, and thinking out his strategy. By rights, he ought to report to Bow Street now. But he felt, as he had told Arabella, that he might do well to keep himself out of Sir Nathaniel's view till the Chief Magistrate's ire had cooled. Let him think he was searching for the Earl of Elgin's stolen antiquities.
In fact, as regarded that matter, there really was nothing he could do but wait. He had mined all his sources of information in London and uncovered nothing. Whoever had stolen that particular swag was being very quiet.
Not for the first time, Morton wondered who the thief was. Elgin had enemies, and his plundering of the Parthenon was controversial—Byron, for one, had spoken out bitterly against it. Were the Greeks trying to recover their heritage? Or had a wealthy collector commissioned the crime—that would at least explain why the goods weren't being fenced. But, no, the most likely explanation was stil
l some opportunist amongst the flash crowd. He'd make his move soon enough.
Wilkes came in then bearing a tray with Morton's usual morning fare, as well as a second bowl of café au lait.
“Ah, Wilkes, you are a rare treasure, I must tell you.” Morton took up the bowl. “Well, we were right about Nan. She was not about to offer much knowledge to the likes of you and me.”
“This man Glendinning, sir…”
A bit despite himself, Wilkes had begun to find himself attracted to his employer's profession. Morton smiled.
“Yes?”
“Was there a reason for someone else to kill him? Someone, I mean, other than Colonel Rokeby? I don't suppose there was a convenient will and an indebted nephew?”
“To be honest, I know very little as yet. But it's true that the reasons for murder are seldom subtle. Do you know what Townsend says? ‘When you hear hoofbeats, assume horses, not zebra.’ Someone tried to kill Mr. Glendinning in the morning—I hardly think it was someone else who managed it later the same day.”
Wilkes continued to ponder the thing, however, hovering halfway between the table and the doorway to the kitchen, the tray with Morton's empty bowl on it trembling precariously. “Even so, sir, the manner of it does seem odd. Why the Otter? But then, if someone in the flash house murdered him in the usual way, why was he not robbed and his remains dumped into the river Thames? Why would they poison a man and then put him in a hackney-coach?”
