The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner

by T. F. Banks

  “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 la
mp 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.

  Chapter 31

  Henry 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.

  “Oh, you have a heart,” Morton said. “It's beating in you yet. You know what goes on here. Vaughan had that young swell, Glendinning, poisoned. He arranged for the Smeetons to thieve that shop and then had them caught in the act. He hid the Elgin booty in my rooms so that I'd be arrested for theft. Theft over fifteen shillings, Joshua. That's a hanging offence.”

  “Aye,” grunted Joshua after a moment. “A horney should know, shouldn't he?”

  “So you know I'm in earnest. You can ask what you want of me, and I'll give it you.”

  “You'll say so, that's sure enough,” muttered Joshua.

  But there was concession in his voice. A long pause. Morton waited. He could not tell what Joshua was thinking, whether he would give another contemptuous refusal, or something else. Finally the Otter's barman spoke again.

  “What would happen to Lucy and the others if you got them away?”

  “To the others? An orphanage, I should think. Better than what they have here. Lucy? I think something better could be arranged for her. A home. What about you, Joshua? Would you like to set up somewhere else—in some other town—and raise a daughter?”

  Morton could feel the pull of this on the other man. Feel it in his hesitation. “Nay,” he said finally, “it's not for me to do. Girl needs a mother… and a father who can provide.”

  “We'll find you an honest trade, I swear. Will you do it? Will you go before the Magistrates and tell them what you know about George Vaughan and his foul enterprises?”

  But then the smallest sound alerted Morton. A key was turning in the lock.

  Joshua's eyes met Morton's: a look of pure hopelessness.

  “Is there another way out?”

  “Not for you,” said Joshua.

  Henry Morton threw aside his cheroot and leapt up, snatching the chair by its back as he did. He stepped to the door, raising his improvised weapon. When the first man stepped through the shadows of the archway Morton brought the wood down hard, splitting it in two and sending his foe abruptly to the floor. The man started to scramble up, but Morton kicked him fiercely on the side of the head, making him collapse again.

  But the newcomer wasn't alone.

  “It is the horney!” a voice shouted, and a second, larger figure bulled in under the arch and struck the Runner hard in the chest, driving him stumbling back. As Morton regained his balance he found himself face to face with the burly man he had seen on his first visit. Bill.

  Several other men crowded in behind and Henry Morton saw that Joshua had been right. He was trapped.

  Vaughan was not amongst them.

  “Hear me,” Morton gasped out. “It's your master we want to see swing. It's George Vaughan, not you. Give evidence, and we'll let you be.”

  Bill was pulling a short silver cutlass from a sheath concealed in his canvas trousers. The other men held knives or cudgels. Bill looked over at Joshua, who sat motionless, his head bent, eyes on the floor.

  “Did he ask you to do the same, Joshua, me boy? Did he sing you the same sweet song?”

  “Aye,” muttered Joshua, “but I told him I don't make deals with dead men.”

  Bill eyed him a second more. “Nor do I,” he said. And with that Bill lunged at Morton with his blade.<
br />
  Morton leapt aside, lashing out with his foot. The other man stumbled and tripped. Morton found himself circling behind the little table, which bore the only lamp in the room. Before he'd even thought it through, he knocked them both over. The lamp bounced off the bench and hit the wall; the flame instantly snuffed out, leaving them in utter darkness.

  There was a little volley of startled shouts. Then Bill's voice, low and angry. “Guard the door, don't let him out!”

  Morton had dropped to his knees and could hear in the air close above the whistle of Bill's weapon, cutting blindly out for him, but passing over his head. Scrambling crablike backward and to one side, Morton desperately got away from him in the dark.

  Someone screamed as Bill's blade caught him, and then there was cursing and muttering. Morton could hear men shuffling about the room, searching for him. Groping behind him, Morton felt the bottom of the stairway. Up, he would have to go up, it was the only way. But then, as he reached blindly back, a hand gripped his hand.

  A small, warm hand. Pulling him insistently another way. He followed. They passed not up, but behind the staircase. Morton struck his forehead a sharp blow on something overhanging. He bent lower, hit the top of his backbone even harder, but continued to scramble madly forward, half-stunned, on his hands and knees. A glimmer of light. In front of him a small, scurrying grey shape.

  “There!” someone shouted.

  “In after!”

  They came, but Morton had scrabbled through into a low chamber whose entrance lay concealed behind the staircase. There was a tiny rush lamp here, and in its light he could see a stout door, perhaps three feet high. He seized this and slammed it shut. Groping in the shadows he found it had a bar, and he dropped this into its bracket just as they reached the other side.

  Hammering and imprecations, and then Bill's calm voice behind, ordering them to desist and fetch a crow and his pistols.