by T. F. Banks
“ ‘The Ass-syr-ian came down like the wolf on the fold. And his co-horts were gleam-ing in purple and gold!’”
Morton laughed aloud in surprise, and with a joyous flash of her brown eyes she darted off again.
His anger had drained away. Joshua's goodwill might preserve Lucy from any consequences of this suspicious fraternisation with the enemy, so this time Morton paid for his drink, and even added a few coins to compensate for the broken table and glassware before he left.
Valentine Rudd was waiting as instructed, chatting in friendly fashion with the aged “Charley,” one of London's notoriously ineffectual nightwatchmen, who had crept for a while from the safety of his sentry box. Morton took the Cornishman by the arm and they walked along Bishopsgate, passing from the shadows into the yellow glow of the lamps and then back into the darkness again.
“Were you there in the Otter on Friday last, Rudd?”
“Nay, Mr. Morton, I weren't. But there's a cull who surely was. He's there most every night. I've never gone but he weren't there.”
“Who is that?”
“Wardle, Amos Wardle. He is a confectioner, and has his shop at the corner of Osborne Street and Whitechapel, just by us. Seems he has a weakness for the kinchin-morts. Brings them candy. He's a mutton-monger, sure.”
“Married man?” wondered Morton.
“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd emptily.
“Any daughters?” asked Morton, bitterly.
“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd, “I seem to recall.” And his surprised glance at the Runner's face told Morton that the simple man did not see the point of the question. Morton changed the subject.
“What can you tell me about the Otter itself? Who is the owner? Is it that cove Joshua?”
“Nay, I can't say as I ever heard anyone say who owned it.” Rudd scratched his head. “Now, Mr. Morton, sir, I suppose I didn't really have my eyes about me in there. I only had my eyes one place, that's the truth.”
Morton tried to describe the burly man he had seen before, from whom Joshua seemed to be taking his instructions.
“Oh, him, aye. I think I know the cove you mean. He's called Bill, I think.”
“Bill who?”
Rudd looked at him helplessly. Morton saw one of the infrequent hackney-coaches coming down the street toward them and decided he had enough for the moment.
As he flagged the cab, he turned back to Rudd, reaching into his pocket.
“See if you can find me Bill's name. Here is ten shillings. Bring that key to my lodgings by the forenoon tomorrow, and there will be ten more left for you with my landlady. See that you go promptly and buy out your Marie, too, and get her clear of that place. I shall come and look for you in Brick Lane soon enough, to hear what else you can remember.” And he gave Rudd his address and climbed into the cab, telling the jarvey to take him to the hotel in Mayfair where he was to meet Arabella for a late supper.
Valentine Rudd gave him a hearty wave and started to stroll off into the dark, whistling as he went, a man at peace with the world.
As soon as he dropped back into his seat, Henry Morton, by contrast, began to brood. He began to wonder why only one child should be rescued from the Otter. He thought of the little girl who, in such a place, was resolutely going about learning to read, of all things! But was he going to rescue them all? And then, what about all the rest scattered about London? And in every other city in the land? But why stop there? The world was full of mistreated females.
“Bloody Sir Galahad,” he muttered aloud, and stared unhappily out at the dark shapes passing in the shadowy streets of London.
Chapter 26
Morton was rather slow to rise the next morning. Even the steaming coffee that Wilkes brought him did little to clear his head, or soothe the rawness of his mood from the previous evening. The Otter had been unpleasant enough. Then he and Arabella had quarreled in the hotel dining room, green-eyed jealousy once again raising its head, and she had gone off to Darley instead of coming home with him. Morton in turn had sought other distractions, primarily of the liquid sort. Now he sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his face as his manservant arranged his shaving bowl and razor and laid out his clothes in tactful silence.
Finally, Henry Morton looked up.
“How would you take to a little jaunt in the country, Wilkes?” he asked thickly.
“I believe it would answer for any number of reasons,” Wilkes replied. “Where shall we go?”
“Down into East Sussex. But I shan't be coming. Get a hack from Master Toller—” But there was something about the look on Wilkes's face.
“I can no longer ride, sir,” the old man murmured apologetically. “It's my hands—the horses cannot bear the shaking.”
“Ah. I should have thought. No matter, just take the Brighton Diligence.” Morton closed his eyes a moment. “There's an old veteran down there—man with a peg leg—Sergeant Sempronious Stretton….”
Morton spent much of the day loitering about the Old Bailey, waiting to give evidence in the trial of three simpletons who had attempted extortion and then murder—failing notably at both. The three were so benighted that Morton hardly thought it fair to hang them—they had not the wit of a single man amongst them. But their lordships were not so moved by this lack of God-given reason. They were condemned, and the thief-taker found himself enriched by thirty pounds for his part in their downfall.
The whole business left him in an even lower humour than he had begun the day.
As he emerged from the Old Bailey, someone hailed him, and at a distance he thought for a moment that it was Byron. But as the man drew near Morton realised it was not the poet, but Peter Hamilton again.
“Good day to you, sir,” Morton greeted him.
“Hello, Mr. Morton.”
Hamilton looked out of sorts, too, Morton thought. But the precincts were not cheerful, and the business that brought folk here was rarely of a pleasing nature.
“Nothing untoward, I hope?” Morton nodded toward the grim grey structure behind them.
“Not at all. A friend of mine is a barrister.” Hamilton fell in beside Morton. “It is fortunate that I ran into you. I confess, I have been wondering how your investigation was going.”
Morton was reluctant. It seemed Hamilton wasn't entirely in his sister's confidence—and after all, she was paying for Morton's efforts, not he.
“I have discovered a number of things, though they don't yet sum to very much,” Morton admitted.
The other man bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Ah,” he said. Then: “Darley told me that Lady Caroline let him glance through Halbert's effects, but he found no letter.”
Morton had not yet heard of this. He tried to hide his frustration. “Unfortunate,” he muttered.
“I'm sure. I wonder what happened to the letter? Do you suppose his valet might have it?”
“No. I spoke with the man and am quite sure its whereabouts are unknown to him. It went into the trash, I suspect.”
“Do you think you can still snare Rokeby without it?”
“You seem rather sure it was Rokeby,” Morton observed.
“Well, I suppose he is the obvious villain. I should, however, not leap to conclusions. To be fair.”
“That is rather noble of you, Mr. Hamilton,” Morton said. “After all, the world is hardly fair.”
“No, it is not,” Hamilton agreed, his manner very serious. “Were it fair, Louisa would not suffer so. She would be with the man deserving of her heart and—” He looked up suddenly, as though surprised to find Morton standing there listening. He tried to smile. “And I would find myself addressed as Uncle, I suppose.”
“May that yet come to pass,” Morton said.
The other dipped his head. But the mute unhappiness in his face seemed to suggest that Miss Hamilton's brother took little enough comfort in the thought.
It was late afternoon by the time Morton reached the confectionery of Mr. Amos Wardle. The place was just where Valentine Rudd had told
him it would be, in the better part of Whitechapel—though Whitechapel all the same— a modest enough establishment, but sporting the new lowsilled windows at the front to allow prospective buyers to view a selection of the goods without having to leave the street. This was a clever innovation, Morton thought, but surely a lure to the flash men, especially in this neighbourhood. He wondered how many of these broad and tempting windows had been broken in London to date.
Wardle's shop was busy, and Morton saw the man himself helping his clerks tend customers at the far end of the counter that ran the length of the room. He made his way casually through the place, his baton tucked inconspicuously under his arm, until they were face to face. It was when the confectioner looked up that Morton remembered him: the fat man who'd brushed past him in guilty haste at the front door of the Otter on Morton's first visit. Wardle's small mouth drooped open in dismay. He apparently remembered Morton, too. Two worlds the man was usually able to keep separate had suddenly come together.
“Ssss…” He seemed to struggle to get his first word out. Morton watched him in silence, one eyebrow unsympathetically raised, waiting.
“Ssss…sss…” Amos Wardle changed strategies, his face red with the effort. “C-c-can I be of ass-asss-sistance, suh-suh, sir?”
“I expect you can, Mr. Wardle.”
“Wh-whom have I the h-h-honour…?”
“Henry Morton. Bow Street.”
The fat man's face suddenly shone with perspiration. He nodded hastily, thought to speak again, couldn't, thought better of it, nodded again, then raised a section of the counter and came out into the shop. He gestured to Morton to follow, and waddled rapidly to the back of the room where he opened another door, holding it for Morton to enter first.
They stepped into a small, heavily furnished parlour, in what were clearly the private apartments occupied by the shop owner and his family. With an anxious glance out at his customers, Amos Wardle pulled the door closed behind them, then hurried on and closed the other door that led into the rest of the house. Without waiting to be asked, Morton took a chair and folded his arms, looking coolly around him. Dogs, a Dutch still life, and, perhaps more significant given the predilections of the master of the house, a crude representation of the Spartan youth of both sexes at exercise, boys and girls alike stripped and glistening. His portly host hovered, struggling with what seemed to be the first words of various offers of hospitality.
“Sit down, sir,” Morton cut him off.
Wardle obeyed, eyes lowered. But Morton waited until he had raised them again, and given the Runner a look of dread. Behind the back door they were both suddenly aware of female voices, laughter, and the clatter of dishes.
“I believe you frequent the Otter House in Bell Lane, Mr. Wardle.” It was not a question.
Amos Wardle breathed out. “Softly, sir, please.”
“You are an habitual indulger in its…” and Morton let every particle of his disgust enter his voice “… pleasures.”
Wardle sagged back into his chair, and there passed over his countenance a curious expression, of defeat and yet, somehow, relief. He nodded, and quietly said:
“Very well, sir. Very well.” His difficulty with speech seemed to have vanished.
“Very well, what, Mr. Wardle?”
“I know your business here,” the other muttered. There was another burst of feminine merriment from behind the paneling, which seemed to make Wardle shrink even deeper into his overstuffed armchair. “Let us be quick about it, before my wife comes in. What will buy your peace?”
Morton regarded him, his jaw tight with revulsion. And, of course, this was what they all thought of the Runners.
“I want something other than gold,” he replied. For the moment, he might as well keep the fear of blackmail in the fat tradesman's mind.
Wardle gaped at him in a kind of dim, hopeless panic. What could Morton mean? What unimaginable price could the Runner be about to propose?
“That house is a legal house, sir,” Wardle protested faintly. “I've every Englishman's right to go where he pleases. The Otter is not unknown to you people. It has always been left in peace.”
Morton looked thoughtfully at him. Had not Joshua said something like this upon their first meeting? Some suggestion of Bow Street's knowledge of the Otter. Did some Runner indulge in its secret pleasures? Morton did not even like to think who this might be. What would he do if he met someone like Townsend there? Or worse— Sir Nathaniel?
“I haven't offered you harm, Mr. Wardle.” He smiled, with a soft and quite unmistakable menace. “Have I?”
Amos Wardle pulled at a handkerchief and wiped his gleaming face.
“I know it to be a vice in me,” he abruptly started to confess. “I know it, sir, and I will tell you I take no pride in it. I abuse my understanding when I do such things, and I abuse my person, too, which my God gave me as a clean and perfect vessel for my spirit.”
Henry Morton stared in contemptuous surprise as the man persisted.
“I know it is a low and vulgar indulgence, and that it shames me. I am a respectable man, sir, and a good supporter of my family. I am an honest man of trade, and except for this one matter I've no other vices. I have tried to prise myself away from its… seductions. But it has been unavailing. It is like strong drink to me. I cannot do without it. And Mrs. Wardle would never understand that. She is… she is a virtuous woman, sir. And she…she…is everything to me; the partner of my soul!” He had recourse again to his handkerchief, and loudly blew his nose and wiped at his watering eyes.
Morton continued to regard him in distaste. It was a sin, but only a sin in his own regard. As if he himself were the only person who could be harmed by it—to this particular father, the children meant nothing.
“I haven't the slightest concern for the well-being of your rubbishy little soul, Mr. Wardle,” he said harshly. “I am only interested in some information you can provide. Do so properly and fully, and I shall gladly leave you in peace.”
Wardle looked up hopefully. Morton's insults did not touch him. Deliverance was all.
“Were you in the Otter Friday evening last?”
The man had only to think for a moment. “Yes, yes, I was. I…I am, most nights.”
“Did you see there a young gentleman, aged perhaps five-and-twenty, and darkly dressed?”
And finally, a simple, prompt answer.
“Yes. I recollect him. He sat at the table Bill usually sits at.”
“He was drinking brandy?”
“Yes. Yes, in fact, we stood each other to a round.”
Morton's heart speeded up at his good fortune.
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes, sir. Only for a few moments. There's not too many gentlemen to be seen in the Otter, and I thought to be civil.” Wardle seemed to react as Morton's features hardened into an incredulous stare, and hastened to explain. “I assumed he was there for… the same reason as I. There were not too many places to sit down, either. I had come down… from above,” and here Wardle looked ever more uncomfortable, and cleared his throat, “and the other table was taken by some low folk or other. I wanted to wet my whistle and I asked if I might join him. I ordered him a brandy, as I saw that was his pleasure. And so he ordered an ale for me, as that was mine. And we had a few words.”
“Concerning what?”
“I asked him which of the little—” Wardle looked embarrassed, then hurried on, “but he said he was not there for that purpose.”
Morton looked at him closely. “Did you believe him?”
“Yes, sir, I did. He was rather a shy young gentleman, and seemed unwilling to talk about the matter. He merely said no, such was not his pleasure, he was simply there to meet some folk, and they were late.”
“Some folk?”
“Yes. Some gentlemen, I think he said.”
“Did he name them, these gentlemen?”
“No, sir.”
“What else was said?”
“Very l
ittle, sir. He was not talkative. I drank my ale and presently went back upstairs. When I came down a time later, he was still there, still alone. I went out then, sir, and came home.”
“What o'clock was that?”
Wardle thought, his mouth open. “Could not have been later than half nine, sir.”
“How did he seem to you? Did he seem drunk?”
“No, sir, certainly not when I spoke to him. When I came down the second time, he was sitting a bit lower in his chair, and staring, blank-like. He seemed not to see me, and I did not trouble him, but just went home.”
Morton pondered. “Was the Otter busy that night?”
“ 'Twas perhaps moderately so, at first. As I said, the tables were taken. But when I left it was nearer empty.”
“Who is this Bill fellow? Is he the owner there?”
“It may be. Folk there talk very respectfully to him. I never had words with him myself. No one ever told me who he was.”
“How do you know my people are aware of the Otter? What made you say that?”
Wardle looked at Morton in surprise. “Well, if you know nothing of it, Mr. Morton, then perhaps I'm mistaken.”
“Something made you believe this,” Morton said in irritation.
“Folk there say it,” vaguely replied the shopkeeper. “I cannot remember when I heard it first. I have always understood it to be so, that the house was under the protection of… some constables or members of the Patrol. That is why I go to that particular house—for I've always believed I was safe from… you people. I—I presumed there was…” his voice dropped “…a consideration involved.”
The house paid off someone from Bow Street, or perhaps some members of the Foot or Horse Patrol. At any rate, it appeared the Otter had a protector. Such arrangements were rumoured to exist with ordinary inns, and even sometimes with flash houses. But for a place such as the Otter, its profits stained by the most disreputable of all London vices? And now, out of the same house, a possible murder.
Then Amos Wardle said something very striking.
“Everyone knew. All the regulars. They only kept it from fools like Smeeton.”
