by T. F. Banks
“Like whom?”
Wardle saw he had said something more significant than he knew, and that it may have been a mistake. His stutter returned.
“Th-th-that cove who was huh-huh-hanged. He came in, but the folk there laughed at him behind his back. They t-t-told him nothing. They all ss-ss-said he'd be hanged someday, he was such a cull.” Wardle smiled weakly. “And he was, wasn't he?”
Chapter 27
Morton set out on foot westward along Whitechapel Road, his mind teeming with the implications of what he had just found out. He needed exercise, and air in which to think. Glendinning had not been drinking heavily; he had been waiting for someone—more than one person. He had not been whoring; he had probably never been to the Otter before. He may have died unaware that it was children one found up those stairs. The young country gentleman had been given an address and an hour. He might not even have known how infamous a street it was, or what part of the city it was in. He had simply given the instruction to the jarvey, and found himself in the tender care of Joshua and Bill and the flash men. But who had sent him there, and under what pretext?
Damn that vanished note! Could it have been the key?
And what was this about Smeeton?
He was in Aldgate High Street now, picking his way along the side, avoiding the congested traffic, vehicles, horses, and men.
As he turned into Leadenhall, however, Henry Morton's attention was distracted from his musings. In the tight press around the corner he saw a vaguely familiar face coming toward him, already close. A half-formed memory made Morton duck back behind the edge of the brick building, tucking his baton into the waist of his breeches to have both hands free.
He had hidden himself before he'd even fully made the connection, before he'd identified the face. But he knew who it was by the time the man stepped around the corner and found himself nose to nose with Bow Street. Morton smiled as he reached out and caught him by the lapels of his seedy jacket. The bald head, the pockmarked skin, and the snub features, ornamented now with an ugly yellow-black bruise under the left eye, a souvenir of the blow with which Morton had knocked him off the hackney-coach two days before.
“You, bracket-face!”
“Grubbing horney!” growled the man, and with a convulsive movement wrenched backward. The flimsy coat tore in Morton's hands, and with the agility of an eel the footpad slithered free. In an instant he was off, bolting out into the busy street with Morton hot after him. People gazed at them both in surprise.
“Bow Street! Bow Street! Thief!” shouted Henry Morton as he ran.
“Filthy China-Street pigs!” was the solitary shout from someone in response.
The bald man rushed heedlessly into the path of a briskly trotting chaise and was knocked down onto the cobbles by the startled horse. But he bounced to his feet and set off again just as fast. Morton sprinted along the other side of the way, vaulted over a costermonger's low barrow, and almost succeeded in cutting off his quarry. Both skidded, nearly stumbling, only feet apart, as the man reversed direction and went haring back up Lead-enhall toward Bishopsgate. Morton, hatless by now, was conscious of other running people, urchins, scraggy men, rushing along to watch the chase. A confused clamour of voices rose on all sides as the street world began to awaken to its newest little drama.
Morton made a sprint to close on his prey, but the pad put on speed and kept himself just out of reach, darting and dodging amongst the various animate and inanimate obstacles a crowded London street provided him. As long as the way was cluttered, the smaller, lither man had the advantage. But then, after a half a minute's furious pursuit, they came into a more open area, and the pad made a mistake. He tried to outrun Morton. Morton surged ahead with long, powerful strides and swiftly caught him up. With a strong push of his outstretched hand into the small of the back, he sent his prize sprawling into the street.
This time the man could not get up quite so quickly. But get up he did, gasping for breath and glaring back at the much bigger Runner, who now loomed over him. Unwilling to capitulate, the bald man made another mistake. He came at Morton with his fists. There was a ragged cry of enthusiasm from the knot of spectators who had come pounding up in their wake. A set-to! They quickly formed into a ring.
Morton circled, sizing his opponent up. Cries of encouragement for the bald man were coming from every side.
“Do him over, lad!”
“Aye, lad, he's got no pluck, blast him! These bloody horneys have no bottom!”
“Thrash him, man!”
“Aye, I'll—” grimly began the bald man, advancing, but he could not finish his boast before Henry Morton had hit him twice very quick and hard with his left and right hands successively. Directness of address was one of “Gentleman” John Jackson's most basic precepts, and it was a feature of his longtime pupil's style he'd never had occasion to complain of. Morton's opponent dropped with the suddenness of it, but he was not hurt badly, yet, and scrambled promptly back up, his lip and nose running fresh blood. He swung wildly at the Runner, charging him. Morton parried, defended, shuffled back for a few seconds, until the flurry had exhausted itself. Then he stepped up and hit the bald man again, harder, with repeated blows from his right hand, until he went down once more, his head bouncing once on the cobbled street.
Angry disapproval filled the air as the Runner drew breath, stepped forward, and pulled his victim to his feet.
“It's a cross! He hadn't a chance!”
“Grubbing trap!”
“Bully-boy!”
Morton pushed the dazed and stumbling footpad ahead of him, looking around for a hackney-coach to carry them back to Bow Street. But there were none in sight, and the circle of people around them was pressing closer, with increasing boldness, shouting imprecations.
“Keep you back!” Morton ordered them. “I am an officer of police on His Majesty's warrant!”
“You're a filthy horney, on your own bloody warrant!”
“Shit sack!”
“He's done no harm! Yer persecuting the poor men of England, you are!”
“Morris off!” shouted Morton with sudden vehemence, “unless you want to end up at Bow Street yourselves!”
But the situation was getting very tight. They were close enough now to shove at Morton, to wrench at his clothing. Others were pulling forcefully at the bald man, who was beginning to recover and trying to pull away as well. Morton was caught. If he let go his grip with either hand, he would lose his captive. But without his hands free he could not reach his baton, or push away the people who were besetting him. These people were getting bolder and bolder, taking confidence from Morton's relative helplessness, and they were growing in numbers. All the simmering popular anger against Bow Street seemed to be coming to a head. No threat or voice of authority he could produce was having any effect.
But Morton was also getting very angry. He thought about what his attackers might have done to Arabella. He was not going to let this miscreant go.
“Get back or I'll see you all in Norway neckcloths, so help me God!”
“Get him free! Get him free!”
“Filthy horney!”
Even as the bald man was in fact almost being wrenched out of Morton's grip, however, there was an irruption to the side of the crowd. People were being thrust back, and another deep loud voice joined the racket.
“Stand back! Stand aside! Bow Street! Bow Street!”
Elbowing his way forcefully toward the center was Jimmy Presley, bellowing all the while. In a moment he was at Morton's side. Together they hauled the captive in, and Presley laid his baton sharply over the wrist of the last man holding him, breaking his grip. With one hand free, Morton finally had his own baton out. At the sight of this reinforcement, the crowd drew back a little, cowed but not entirely beaten, and threw all their energy into their lungs. A few began pitching scraps of refuse and litter at the two Runners.
“We must get a coach,” Morton grunted as they tried to force their way forward,
with the bald man secured between them.
“There are always some up ahead, by the Bank.”
They made their way. The crowd, after a lull, seemed to be building up energy for another effort. As they all came in a disorderly mass out into Cornhill, the distant line of coaches could be seen waiting before the blank stone mass of the Bank of England.
“Should we run over there?” Presley asked.
“Never, Jimmy. Never let them see you bolt.”
Just then a heaved object caught Presley on the side of the head. Infuriated, the young Runner stopped and turned.
“Who was the coward who did that!” he roared. It was perhaps the loudest voice Morton had ever heard. “Who was it!” Presley seemed entirely taken out of himself with unselfconscious indignation.
This produced an effect. The crowd appeared to hesitate, almost abashed.
“You're Englishmen!” thundered Jimmy Presley. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you should! Chucking things at a man, as if you were some foreign rabble!”
A kind of muttering, resentful silence was produced. But the mass of people slowly parted. Morton was allowed to stride ahead, pulling his prisoner along unhindered toward the coaches. Presley stood confronting the mob, glaring angrily from one side to the other, his beefy hands on his hips. At last he shook his head in sincere disgust, and walked after Morton.
Thrusting the bald man in before him, Morton ordered the jarvey to drive to Bow Street as he and Presley climbed in themselves. As they rattled away from the scene of danger, Henry Morton broke into a grin of congratulation for his young colleague.
“Now, you see, Mr. Presley, how much better a little confidence works!”
“I said what I meant,” gruffly replied Jimmy Presley.
“Handy thing for me you were by.”
“It's me neighbourhood,” the younger man almost apologetically allowed. “I was just coming on duty.”
Morton turned to their captive.
“Well, you cully bastard, it isn't five men to one today, is it? Who was it had you set upon me in the street?”
The man looked at him glassily, gaping.
“Answer me!” Morton reached over to seize and shake him.
“Never saw him but once,” faintly mumbled the man. “Never heard th' cove's name. Paid us twenty guinea.”
“What did he look like?”
The bald man shook his head groggily. “Little short cove. Gen'leman, appeared.” His voice was a slurred mutter.
“And how did you meet him? Someone must have sent him your way.” When the man did not answer, Morton slammed him hard against the back of the carriage. But this was not wise, as the bald man then promptly leaned over and vomited all over their shoes. Both Runners tried to keep their feet away and cursed him.
“Sapscull!”
“Blasted simkin!”
Then Morton took it up again, even more angrily, pushing the man's head back with his palm on his forehead.
“Who sent this cove your way?”
But the man's eyes rolled up in his head and he fell limply sideways, sprawling on the floor. Morton had seen men play at being unconscious before, but this was no act. The Runner made a disgusted noise, and thrust him roughly back into the corner of the compartment.
The Magistrates were not sitting when the coach arrived at number 4 Bow Street, so Morton and Presley consigned the man to Constable Dannelly in the inner waiting room. Presley had another matter to attend to, but promised to return when the bald man was to be examined in Police Court at evening sessions. Morton shook his hand.
“You did me a service, Jimmy,” he said warmly.
“Aye. No matter,” muttered Presley in embarrassment. He seemed to want to make no more of it, so Morton said nothing else.
Morton sat in the front room for a moment after Presley left, savouring his success, and considering. His satisfaction was growing. He had it now, did he not? A short gentleman, with the means and the motive. That was surely Pierce, on Rokeby's behalf. No point in bearding them yet, until the bald man had told his whole tale. But after he had done that, and after he had identified Pierce in person, and after little Pierce had traded his unstretched neck for the truth, Morton would have the very considerable satisfaction of arriving at the Guards Club with a warrant for the arrest of the sneering Colonel Fitzwilliam Rokeby himself.
Then there would only be the matter of George Vaughan left to consider. George Vaughan, Caleb Smeeton… and the Otter House.
Chapter 28
Morton took the opportunity to seek out Arabella. He itched to bring her his splendid tidings, and imagined in advance her enthusiasm, how the news would sweep away the unpleasantness of the previous evening.
But she wasn't at home. And of course Christabel would not tell him where she was.
At this little reverse all his vexation came burning up again and their argument began to repeat itself in his brain. Blast it, but she had promised him yesterday evening! Perhaps he might be willing to share her affections, but he'd not be pushed aside at her every whim, or at Darley's slightest convenience.
Without any fixed pretext, Morton found himself gravitating in the direction of Bond Street and Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he was going to Jackson's, to take out his frustrations on some gentlemanly sparring partner. Some lady-killing poetic lord even. But he had already had a fistfight today, and in fact he knew perfectly well what his real destination was. Before long he stood in the gathering dusk, gazing up at the lighted windows of Portman House.
“You are acting the fool,” he murmured. “The bloody fool. This is what women do to men in this world, and you know it well. You see it when it happens to other men. Do you suppose it's different for you?”
He was just about to go on his way when the door opened. Lord Arthur Darley came nimbly down the stairs, waving to Morton as though he were his dearest friend in all the world.
“Ah, Mr. Morton! What an unlooked-for pleasure. Do come up,” Darley said, crossing the street as though Morton were not of another class of society at all.
Morton could hardly refuse now, and accompanied Darley silently up the stairs. “You have just missed Mrs. Malibrant,” Darley told him, “and she will be unhappy to learn it. She was most set on seeing you today. I don't mean to pry, Morton, but I got the impression you'd had a quarrel. And poor Mrs. M. felt an awful guilt about it.”
Morton shrugged. “Something of the sort.”
Darley ushered Morton into the very room where he had first seen Halbert Glendinning lying, like a man dressed for a funeral. Morton soon found a snifter of smuggled cognac in his hand, and Darley served himself the same. They settled into chairs, Morton regarding his host rather warily. Why was the man so completely at ease?
“To the birds of the air, Mr. Morton,” Lord Arthur said suddenly, raising his glass.
Morton must have looked puzzled.
“A beauty we can admire but never possess, Morton. I hope you feel as I do.”
“Aye,” Morton said, and then broke into a wry grin. “What choice have we?”
They both chuckled and tasted their cognac. They sat and talked, then, almost like a pair of old friends, strangely comfortable with each other. Darley asked about Morton's search for Glendinning's murderer and the Runner found himself telling all that had occurred.
“That was a stroke of luck, finding the villain who attacked you. If he can tell you who sent them to assail you—assuming it was related to Halbert's death—then you might well have discharged your commission, and with great dispatch, too. Perhaps that will lift the gloom from Louisa Hamilton.” Darley raised his glass in salute. “Well done, Morton.”
“If it turns out so neatly. Nothing ever seems sure in my profession.”
“What kind of life would it be if everything was certain? I daresay, Morton, that you could have picked yourself a tame occupation, and had yourself a comely and constant wife. But you have chosen otherwise, and I must tell you, there are many who would envy yo
u. No, there is much good to be said of uncertainty; believe me.”
When he returned to number 4 Bow Street, the Public Office seemed unusually deserted. Then one of the clerks came running across the way from the Brown Bear, telling him he was wanted, that there was something amiss.
Inside the Bear the atmosphere was sullen. People were gathered in the gloom, sitting around tables, speaking in near whispers. Not the usual mood, that was certain. Jimmy Presley met him at the bottom of the stairs, his face full of consternation.
“Morton! There you are, at last,” the young Runner said. “You'll not like what you'll see here.”
“What's this?”
Presley beckoned for him to follow and pushed his way upward toward the second floor, where Bow Street, incongruously, rented lockup rooms for its overflow prisoners.
“It must have just happened….”
On the stair men stood smoking and speaking quietly, though they went silent when they saw Morton and Presley. The hallway above was choked with police and flash men and their fancy women. Sir Charles Carey emerged from one of the rooms, accompanied by a stranger.
“Waste of bloody—” he was saying, but then spotted Morton. “Well, Mr. Morton, you won't be arguing with the surgeon this time,” he said as he passed.
Morton stopped in the doorway. The pock-faced man lay on the floor, arms akimbo, eyes glazed and gazing upward, mouth lolled loosely open. The dull light from a dirty glass chimney illuminated a pool of blood, quickly skinning over with brown.
“Sliced his pipes,” Presley muttered at his elbow.
Morton took a long breath. “Who? Who did this?”
“Don't know. Bloody patrole was on watch, but he was in some back room looking to get poxed.”
“Who was in here with him?”
“He was by himself.”
“And no one saw anything?”
“Oh, I expect plenty saw, but you know this crowd. Won't be telling us, now, will they? Mr. Townsend's been sent for, but I doubt even he will find a soul with a tongue. No, this one's gone, Morton; anything he had to tell he'll be telling St. Peter.”
