by T. F. Banks
Henry Morton banged a fist on the door frame in exasperation. It was certainly true that the whole matter of holding prisoners at Bow Street lacked system. They sometimes “wandered off,” because no clear arrangement had been made as to who would watch them. Occasionally men even died at the hands of fellow prisoners in brawls. But no one had ever broken into a locked room and slit a prisoner's throat.
“One of us should have stayed with him,” Presley muttered regretfully, and Morton nodded in grim agreement. Easily enough said now.
Evening Police Court was in session. Morton no longer had anything to bring before the Magistrates, but if he waited, he could speak to Sir Nathaniel Conant when he emerged in about two hours' time. He could start to tell the Chief Magistrate some of his ideas about the Smeetons, about Bow Street and the Otter. The subject would have to be broached sometime.
But Morton decided against it. He still had so little in the way of concrete evidence to present. And Sir Nathaniel's first question would be about the assignment he had given Morton, and he had nothing at all to tell the Magistrate in that matter.
Evidence. It was proving hard to find—and even harder to keep.
Chapter 29
He dined at Johnson's and did a round of the flash houses between the City and St. James, hoping to hear something about the murder in the Brown Bear. Or to hear anything at all that might be of use to him. But even his most reliable sources all came up barren.
It was well after ten when he wearily returned to Rupert Street, and as he did, a shadowed figure darted away from an empty doorway. Morton watched him go. There was no point in pursuing, and he had little enthusiasm for the game at this hour anyway. Often enough it happened that potential informants hovered about his door, then lost their nerve and ran off.
He went around the front of the building and in at the main entrance. Mrs. Budworth presented him with a small object wrapped in oilcloth: the copied key that Valentine Rudd had dutifully left for him during the day. It was a Bramah, sure enough, by its distinctive cylindrical shape. Slipping it into an inner pocket, Morton went upstairs.
Although Wilkes should not yet have returned from Sussex, lamps glowed.
“Wilkes?”
It was not his manservant but Arabella who appeared, backlit by a flickering lamp.
She came easily into his arms.
“What an awful bloody woman you've chosen, Morton,” she whispered in his ear.
Morton shook his head, breathing deeply the fragrance of her hair. “It is the uncertainty,” he said. “I'm told it is opium to me.”
“What in the world are you saying?”
“Nothing, my love. Not a thing.”
But their kiss was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door that closed onto the staircase down to the rest of the building. At the same moment they heard foot-steps—numerous footsteps—on the balcony outside. They pulled away from each other in surprise.
“Henry?” Arabella whispered.
“I don't know,” Morton replied. He stepped past her to an armoire and removed a pistol from one of its drawers.
The knocking was repeated; now there was hammering also from the back door that opened onto the balcony. Morton checked his priming, then stepped out into the hall with the weapon in hand.
“Who the devil is it at this hour of night!”
“Bow Street!” came the call from beyond. “Open, or we shall have this door down!”
“Vaughan? What folly is this!”
A second voice came then, quieter and more dignified. “Mr. Morton? No folly, sir. We have a warrant. Best open.”
Morton breathed deep in surprise, and turned to Arabella, who hovered behind him in the doorway. “It's Townsend! Townsend with a warrant!”
Morton set his gun down on the hall table and unbarred the door. In came trooping George Vaughan and several of the constables of the Night Patrol, with John Townsend apologetically in the rear.
Morton saw the hard, still look in Vaughan's face, and began to realise what was happening. Vaughan had somehow recognised how things stood, and had moved first. This was deadly serious.
Townsend was bowing in courtly fashion to Arabella Malibrant.
“Allow me to apologise, madam.” Then he turned to Morton. “It wasn't my doing. Sir Nathaniel sent me along to see that things were managed properly.” His voice and expression were rueful.
“What the devil is going on!”
Now, however, the old Runner was required to behave in an official manner, and he did. His voice became more formal. “We bear warrants to search your dwelling, Mr. Morton,” he replied. “You may examine them. They were signed by Sir Nathaniel Conant but two hours past.”
“Search? For what?”
Townsend solemnly pulled out another paper, and then his spectacles.
“Shall we not begin?” muttered George Vaughan.
“I will satisfy Mr. Morton first,” Townsend retorted with noticeable coolness. He read from the paper. “ ‘Item: a fragment of marble, two and a half feet long by fourteen inches deep by three inches wide, carved in relief with a votive scene, portraying the goddess Ceres and—’”
“The antiquities stolen from Burlington House,” interrupted Henry Morton. “What is this foolishness? I haven't found them yet, if that's what Sir Nathaniel is asking.”
“Have you not?” murmured George Vaughan.
“ ‘Item: a fragment of—’”
“Spare me the recitation, Mr. Townsend! I know the particulars.”
Townsend produced a neatly folded section of newspaper.
“From The Morning Chronicle of today's date, Mr. Morton. Permit me to read. ‘Precious Goods’—that is the heading—‘of ancient provenance. God of lightning and Goddess of the sickle’—a clear reference to the images of Zeus and Ceres, but cunningly indirect—‘If grateful to a finder, apply upstairs, number seven Rupert Street, for hopeful tidings.’” Townsend refolded the paper and turned his gaze to Morton, an eyebrow lifting.
“I did not place that advertisement, sir!” Morton said hotly. “Why on earth would I? It is absurdly inept! And to give my own address! What sort of fool do you think me?”
“That we shall discover,” George Vaughan said. “Proceed!” he ordered the patroles.
“Mr. Townsend,” Morton protested. “Anyone can place a notice in a newspaper!”
To which Townsend nodded gravely. “But search we must. I'm sure you see that.”
Vaughan let the other constables in from the balcony. They had come in absurd numbers. As they began their work, Morton stepped back and watched, wondering for an instant if he had fallen asleep and into nightmare. Then he remembered the figure he'd seen run off from the empty doorway. Vaughan's man, no doubt. A sickening possibility was occurring to him, and its cold hand gripped his heart. He had sent Wilkes off to Sussex, leaving his rooms empty all day.
“Might we permit Mrs. Malibrant to return to her home, Mr. Townsend?” he asked quietly, hoping his anxiety would not be detectable in his voice. He felt Arabella look at him in surprise. “The matter hardly concerns her. The hour is late, and she was about to leave when you arrived.”
“Nay,” harshly said George Vaughan, stepping to the doorway from the next room. “They are together in everything. She's his whore, and as like they'll swing together, too, like that cully Smeeton and his sow.”
At this Arabella went white to the roots of her red hair, and Morton wheeled on Vaughan in fury. Two constables stepped between them.
“You shall rue this, George Vaughan! By God, I'll make you rue it!”
Townsend looked from one Runner to the other, as though to weigh them, and then said softly to Arabella: “Madam would oblige me if she would tarry here just a moment longer.”
It was not much longer. Within a few minutes there was a cry from the constables going through Henry Morton's bedchamber. From beneath the blue silk draperies of the four-posted bed frame they had pulled a heavy oblong of white stone. Marble. And t
hen another.
Arabella's first remark was rather incongruous. “They're beautiful,” she whispered.
The two white segments had been laid out for inspection on Morton's sitting-room carpet. About a foot broad, the sinuous half-clothed male and female figures formed a continuous pattern along the length of each piece of marble. Morton, too, as he gazed at them, was almost taken out of himself.
Townsend unnecessarily took the written description from his pocket and compared them carefully—giving Morton the benefit of the doubt—or perhaps he merely did it to aggravate Vaughan, who stood back a little, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his narrow face. Browne and one of the other constables hovered near Morton, not touching him but clearly ready to prevent him from fleeing, should he have a mind to try.
Henry Morton had no such notions. He spoke to the senior Runner. “These objects were placed here by some unknown person,” he said. “I am the victim of an imposition.”
Ignoring him, Townsend frowned slightly at his paper, looked once more at the reliefs on the floor, then folded the paper up and put it away.
“Well, Mr. Morton, you shall have to explain this to the Magistrates. But I must arrest you for the crime of thieving these valuable antiquities.”
“The blowen, too,” muttered Vaughan.
A pained expression passed quickly across John Townsend's round face.
“Madam,” he said to Arabella, “permit me to ask if you have ever seen these objects before?”
Arabella quickly shook her head. “Never.” She was carrying herself well, but Morton could see how frightened she really was. Vaughan's vicious remark about the fate of the Smeetons had done that.
“Have you any knowledge of how they came to be in Mr. Morton's possession? Had he ever spoken to you of them?”
“No. Never.”
Townsend nodded sagely. “There is a carriage below, madam, which will convey you to your home. Pray remain available for the Magistrates' summons, should they wish to question you further on this business.”
“She'll bolt!” objected George Vaughan. “She's as bad as—”
“You shall not offer insult to this lady again, sir!” Townsend cut him off, and everyone in the room was suddenly very still. Vaughan fell silent.
Arabella reached out toward Morton as she was escorted away, but the distance was too great. Then she was through the door and gone.
“Wrap up these goods and carry them down into the other carriage,” commanded Townsend. “I shall not restrain you, Mr. Morton, if you give me your word you'll not attempt to flee.”
Morton pulled himself out of his stunned distraction with an effort.
“You have it.”
“You have no weapons upon your person?”
Morton shook his head. One of the patroles had already taken up the pistol. But his hands were clenched into fists, and he looked slowly over at George Vaughan.
“Mr. Morton…” Townsend cautioned. Vaughan's cold blue eyes met Morton's steadily. There was no bravado there. And no fear. There was not even any hatred—only purposefulness. It occurred to Henry Morton that this was what Halbert Glendinning really saw when he'd faced Rokeby down the barrel of a pistol. This was the way a killer looked.
Townsend said: “Mr. Browne, take possession of Mr. Morton's baton. It is no longer his to hold.”
Chapter 30
Sir Nathaniel Conant had clearly been fore- warned, and awaited them in his private chamber. He sat massive and motionless behind his table as John Townsend lowered himself uninvited onto one of the side chairs. The rest of the men, including Henry Morton, remained on their feet.
“This is not a formal hearing, gentlemen,” rasped out the Chief Magistrate. “The formal hearing will take place tomorrow morning in Bow Street Police Court, before the full panel. What we will do now is make a few preliminary enquiries, so that I can determine whether there be need to detain Mr. Morton.”
He turned his gaze to Henry Morton. “I am disappointed to see you here, sir.”
“I am disappointed to be here.”
“The objects recovered from your lodgings correspond in every point to certain antiquities belonging to the Earl of Elgin and stolen from the courtyard of Burlington House on or near the seventh of June of the present year.”
“I am sure they are the same,” said Henry Morton. “But I did not steal them.”
John Townsend inhaled snuff, and gave a loud, highly satisfactory sneeze into his handkerchief, his odd collection of clothing flapping once as he did so.
“How did they come to be in your possession?” demanded the Chief Magistrate, after an annoyed glance at the old Runner.
“My manservant was not at home for most of today, so my lodgings were unattended. Someone who wished me ill must have placed those goods there, just as they must have commissioned the notice in The Morning Chronicle.”
“So might any thief claim,” Sir Nathaniel said flatly. “Have you nothing more to say for yourself than that?”
“I have been looking into the doings at a particular flash house in the East End, sir, and twice I have been warned that the house was under the protection of someone at Bow Street. It seems very odd to me that I should discover this, and that almost immediately constables from Bow Street should find a notice listing my address and describing the antiquities I have been seeking. As you well know, I am aware of how such things are done—if I were a criminal I would not be such a fool as to list mine own address!”
John Townsend cleared his throat, and the Magistrate looked his way.
“I must say, my lord, that it does seem a scheme unworthy of Mr. Morton's intelligence. I have known him a good many years now, and have never had the slightest cause to doubt him.” He looked over at George Vaughan meaningfully. “And I cannot say that of every man at Bow Street.”
“You may have your say before the panel, sir,” Sir Nathaniel told him. “Mr. Morton is to be held in custody over the night, on my authority. Charges will be prepared, and he will answer to them tomorrow.” He took pen and signed the document before him, blotted it, and handed it to his clerk. Then he rose, as did Townsend. Two of the constables stepped in an uncertain manner toward Morton.
“You were not eager to attend to this matter,” Sir Nathaniel said to Morton as he gathered up the remaining papers from his table. “I remember that. You had no appetite for it, I seem to recall were your words.”
Morton said nothing.
As Sir Nathaniel collected his papers, he knocked over a beaker of water, which spilled its contents across the oak-topped table, and down onto the floor. The Magistrate stopped, looking up at Morton. “I have long heard the talk about this Office, and about the Runners. I did not want to believe it. In particular, I did not want to believe it of you.”
“There is still no reason to believe it of me, sir.”
The Magistrate continued to stare at Morton, his hands brutally clenching a stack of documents. “You have all played me for the fool,” he muttered bitterly, and strode out without another glance.
Townsend took Morton's elbow and, followed by a couple of patroles, escorted him as gently as he might across Bow Street to the Brown Bear.
Morton walked numbly, trying to take in what so swiftly and terribly had happened to him. He could not believe that he was now being escorted to the cells where he had led so many. So this was how it felt. And all at once he thought—with an awful vividness—of the Smeetons.
He could die. He could actually hang, there before Newgate like “that cully” Smeeton. Caleb Smeeton had been a fool. But Henry Morton had been a fool, too. Neither of them had understood George Vaughan until it was too late.
“Well, you are in the forge now,” the old Runner remarked with a sigh as they walked. “What have you to defend yourself?”
“Little, it seems. The flash house I looked into—the Otter, in Spitalfields. That is the key to it. I need proof that it is Vaughan who controls it.”
“Hard to get
when you are locked up in the Bear.”
Morton said nothing.
As they ushered him into one of the upstairs rooms, the old Runner leaned in the door. “You may sleep soundly, Mr. Morton. I'll have a watch set that you can trust.”
Morton slumped down on the cot, staring at the thin crease of light that found its way beneath the door and spread like a stain across the filthy floor.
He must eventually have fallen into shallow slumber, because he was startled awake by the rattle of a key in the lock. He shielded his eyes as someone with a lantern came in, looming large and dark in the doorway.
“Who is that?” he mumbled. Suddenly he thought of the way the bald footpad's life must have ended, and he was on his feet, staggering from sleep.
The figure turned and quietly closed the door behind him. But it was a familiar voice that spoke.
“It's me, Morton. Presley.”
Henry Morton grunted and slumped back down, rubbing his eyes. “Ah, Jimmy. Welcome to my little palace. I've no armchairs, but help yourself to part of my settee here.”
Jimmy Presley hung his lantern from a hook and sat heavily beside Morton.
Morton reached around and placed an arm over the younger man's broad shoulders for a moment. “Thankee for coming, Jimmy. It's generous. What o'clock is it, by the by?”
“Near three.”
“Ah. A bit longer I have to wait for my breakfast.”
“What will you tell them?” he asked Morton.
“Tomorrow? Oh, I've a lot I can say. How much of it I can prove is the difficulty. And Sir Nathaniel is not just now of a mind to take much from me on trust.”
Presley nodded glumly. “The beak's been getting angrier and angrier,” he sighed. “I seen it. You've not been here, Morton, to hear him ask three times a day where you were and where that Elgin booty was.”
“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.”
