The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner

by T. F. Banks

“Good morning, Mr. Morton,” he said, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the circumstances.

  “The Brighton Diligence is a slow, mean way to travel, I collect?” Morton's irritation was beginning to rise, despite his fondness for the old man. Why had it taken him so long!

  “But walking is slower still. I had only to walk a few English miles, fortunately.”

  “Come along, Mr. Morton, sir,” said the constable.

  “Did you find Sempronius Stretton?”

  “I did indeed, and a great long tale I heard of his battles and service to England and—”

  “But could he provide what I asked?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Morton.” And Wilkes handed Morton a folded sheet of paper, just as he was led away.

  Police Court was held in the large, rather shabby central room of number 4 Bow Street, under the light of two aged chandeliers. A low wooden fence divided the room in two: one half for the judges and prisoners and constables, the other for the witnesses, those waiting their own turn before the panel, and the merely curious. The panel consisted of three Magistrates, perched behind individual raised desks on a platform that ran along the end wall. Morton was brought in through the side door and led to the railed box situated exactly in the centre of the room. Here he was to stand—there was no chair—for however long it took his fate to be decided.

  He turned stiffly to look behind him. The other side of the room was jammed full, and people leaned in at the long windows that gave out onto the street. More were packed into the corridor beyond the rear doors. All craned for a view of this scandalous spectacle: one of the famous Bow Street Runners finally accused of a crime! The constables whose duty it was to control access to the court must have been achieving substantial gain in the small entry fees they were permitted to collect.

  Morton scanned the faces. Arabella and Darley had been able to procure a place near the rail—no doubt for a price—and both immediately waved to him. Darley was as poised as ever, but Arabella looked pale, and no matter how much the actress in her projected confidence, Morton could see her fear.

  Also close to the barrier were the reporters, whose accounts in The Morning Chronicle and even The Times would start printing within minutes of the end of the hearing, eagerly awaited by a city and a nation whose resentment of their elite police had reached an unprecedented pitch. Just on the Magistrates' side of the barrier there lounged a little knot of Bow Street men, arms folded, waiting. George Vaughan was amongst them, his face as inscrutable as ever, eyes half-closed but watchful. Beside him were Dannelly, Mckay, Pelham, Vickery, and Johnson. Was this, Morton wondered, Vaughan's gang? But perhaps not. Vaughan would have been too subtle to group his supporters together in plain view. And Morton felt fairly certain that Vickery at least was square, and probably Johnson too. Dannelly was Vaughan's man, though.

  Farther along the wall, sitting alone on his own stool and unconcernedly perusing a newspaper, was John Townsend. Jimmy Presley was stationed in the doorway behind him, guarding the entrance back into the rest of the police offices. He tipped his hat briefly to Morton, and Morton nodded in response. Morton watched George Vaughan's narrowed eyes flicker to take in this little exchange.

  The spindly-limbed clerk was calling the session to order, and Morton made one more swift survey of the room. He was looking for the one other face he had expected to see. But he could not find it. Louisa Hamilton was not there.

  Sir Nathaniel Conant had taken his place at the centre desk and began to speak. The clamour of voices that had filled the room quickly quieted.

  “The purpose of this hearing is to gather information, not conduct a trial,” he told his court. “The panel will tolerate no evasions and no argumentation. All persons with relevant knowledge are commanded in His Majesty's name to present it fully and truthfully. The panel will record such material, decide upon charges to be laid, if any, and make a deposition to be conveyed to their lordships at Sessions House in the Old Bailey.”

  Sir William Parsons, the Magistrate on Sir Nathan-iel's left hand, cleared his throat. Like many in his profession, Sir William was no trained jurist. In fact, he had been appointed, doubtless by his friends, merely because he was a gentleman and literate—his normal occupation was professor of music and Master of the King's Band. Even so, Morton had attended his sessions before and had a degree of respect for his common sense.

  “Does Mr. Morton have any opening remarks?”

  This was conventionally a chance for the man in Morton's place to confess, and spare everyone time and trouble. Morton intended to make different use of it.

  “My lords, I am exceedingly glad of this opportunity to penetrate a matter of importance, and I am confident that well-founded charges will indeed be laid before this hearing is concluded. I ask you only to keep your habitually open minds. I daresay the charges will not fall where you now imagine they should.”

  Across the panel eyebrows rose.

  “The evidence will determine that,” commented Sir Nathaniel Conant.

  Townsend was the first to take his place at the witness stand, in front and slightly to the left hand of the Magistrates. In his eccentric and garrulous way, he testified to the discovery of the stolen marbles in Morton's lodgings, and he read aloud the advertisement placed in The Chronicle.

  “You have served with Mr. Morton at Bow Street, Mr. Townsend?” unexpectedly asked Sir Nathaniel Conant.

  Age had had its effect on the old Runner's hearing and the echo in the large room seemed to confuse it further. “How's that? Served with him? Indeed. Indeed, I have.”

  “How long?”

  “Oh, a goodly time. Some seven years, I daresay. Quite long enough to make a determination as to his character.”

  “Thank you for anticipating my questions, sir,” Sir Nathaniel said dryly. “And what has been his character, as a man and as an officer of police?”

  “Oh, excellent. I should not hesitate to say that Mr. Morton is a model of honesty and dedication to duty.”

  “But what is your view of the evidence you have provided? Is it not a clear sign of corruption?”

  “It is a clear sign of corruption, without a doubt, but of whose corruption? That is less clear, I think.”

  “Have you any contradictory evidence to offer, Mr. Townsend?” William Parsons asked abruptly.

  “Eh?”

  “Contradictory evidence, Mr. Townsend,” Parsons said loudly. “Have you any?”

  “Oh, no, I'm sorry to say. Not at this time, Sir William.”

  Parsons looked over spectacles at Sir Nathaniel, who dismissed the old Runner. He then turned to Morton's box.

  “How do you explain your possession of the Earl of Elgin's property, sir?”

  “It was placed in my rooms by another person,” replied Morton. “Without my knowledge, and while both my manservant and I were absent.”

  “And the notice Mr. Townsend has read us from The Chronicle?”

  “Placed by another person, my lord. A clumsy attempt to attribute the crime to me.”

  Sir Nathaniel Conant pinched his lips together and made no response.

  George Vaughan came next. He, too, testified to the discovery of the antiquities in Rupert Street, and to the advertisement which had led them there.

  “What is your view, sir, of the moral character of Mr. Morton?”

  Vaughan took his time answering. Henry Morton studied the man's expression, struck as never before by how obscure a countenance his really was. The eyes deep set, the lips habitually compressed tightly in a small, mirthless smile. Morton had often thought that George Vaughan was mocking his fellow man, that his attitude was carelessly contemptuous of most of humanity. But now he saw it differently: The man seemed to him to possess an air of alert stillness and waiting, of concentration, like some solitary predator of the forest.

  “He always had a good name, my lord,” said George Vaughan, and stopped.

  “But does that reputation reflect your own opinion, sir?”

/>   Vaughan paused again, seemingly with reluctance. He looked at Henry Morton, and Morton smiled coldly at him. Tell your lie, sir, he silently made the invitation. Vaughan's face remained expressionless.

  “I never trusted him, my lord,” he replied.

  “Why not? What evidence did you have for this feeling?”

  “The money he had. Things he let drop. Things the other lads let drop about him.”

  Morton loudly broke in. “This is innuendo and hearsay, my lords. Let these others testify if they have something of substance to say.”

  Sir Nathaniel pivoted angrily. “Keep your peace, sir, until it is your turn! The panel will judge the admissibility of testimony. This is not Sessions House and you are not a lawyer.”

  But Morton knew that his point had registered, and that everyone in the room was aware of it.

  “Did you ever witness Mr. Morton committing any irregularity?” now asked Francis Beadwell, the third Magistrate. He was a thin, quiet man, recently appointed, about whose character or abilities Morton knew little.

  “He were too careful for that, my lord,” quickly answered Vaughan.

  “Confine yourself to direct answers to the questions, sir,” calmly came back Beadwell.

  “I saw nothing specific, my lord, until we searched his rooms these two nights past.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two other constables were called to testify as to what they had found under Morton's bed. Morton watched them, and concluded that they were not part of Vaughan's mob. This apparently was his technique—the same technique he had used with the Smeeton arrests. He arranged for unsuspecting and fully respectable men to provide an appearance of legitimacy to his operations. Townsend and these constables in this instance, and Presley and Morton himself on the earlier occasion.

  Finally, Lord Elgin's private secretary assured the panel that the reliefs found in Morton's rooms were indeed the same as had been stolen from the courtyard of Burlington House.

  “Excuse me, sir,” then asked Henry Morton, “but are the pieces you have recovered complete and intact?”

  The man glanced at Sir Nathaniel to be sure that he was right in answering questions from the man in the dock. The Chief Magistrate nodded.

  “In fact, sir, an element of the smaller fragment appears to be missing.”

  “Would it be the image of a woman, sir?” asked Henry Morton. “A naiad with one breast uncovered and one hand raised, holding a wreath?”

  The secretary looked surprised.

  “Yes. Precisely so.” As he stepped down, Sir Nathaniel Conant turned to Henry Morton.

  “We have goods stolen, and appearing later in your possession, sir. We have your own apparent familiarity with these goods, even down to an unrecovered fragment. We have a newspaper notice apparently inviting the owners of these goods to contact your lodgings, presumably with a view to buying them back. Before I lay charges, do you have anything more specific to say in explanation of all this, other than that you are the victim of some monstrous plot?”

  “I do.”

  “The panel,” Sir Nathaniel told him, “will listen to no further testimonials to your character. The material evidence is so strong against you that no endorsement of your personal virtues would be sufficient to prevent the laying of charges. You must save such witnesses for Sessions House.”

  “I agree to forgo any such testimony, my lord.”

  “Then what do you have to tell us?”

  “I have to tell you that you should arrest and charge Mr. George Vaughan for this crime, not me.”

  A stir went through the room. Vaughan's mocking smile broadened a little, while some of the Runners standing about him scoffed visibly. Sir Nathaniel Conant's face remained expressionless.

  “Upon what evidence, sir?”

  Morton turned away from Vaughan and looked into the faces of the panel members. “I am aware of the exact appearance of a missing part of the marble carvings at issue because I saw it, two nights ago, in the back storeroom of number twelve, Bell Lane, Spitalfields.”

  “Where is that missing fragment now, sir?” Sir William asked.

  “I do not know. The denizens of that house have doubtless hidden it again, and have burned down the house to protect themselves.”

  “This is speculative.”

  “Informed speculation, my lord.”

  “Why should we not believe that it is you yourself who placed the sculpture there?” Parsons asked.

  “The explanation is not brief, my lords,” Morton said, and he described his last visit to the Otter, the fight there, his escape through the tunnel. As he did, however, he spoke only of himself, not yet hinting that anyone had escaped with him.

  Beadwell asked the next question.

  “You do not claim that Mr. Vaughan was amongst those you confronted in this house. Why are you accusing your brother officer in these matters?”

  Morton proceeded, carefully and in detail, to relate his interviews with Wardle and Rudd, particularly with regard to their insistence that there was a Bow Street presence at the Otter. Then he told them about Joshua.

  “This man identified the Bow Street officer who controlled the house, my lords,” Morton said. “He identified him by name. And the name he gave was George Vaughan.”

  Into the rush of low voices that this produced, Vaughan interjected, sardonically echoing Morton's earlier objection. “Hearsay, my lords. Let this Joshua cove testify.”

  “He can't, my lords,” calmly explained Morton. “George Vaughan and his accomplices have done him to death.”

  This produced an even louder burst of voices, so that the court clerk had to rap his rod hard against his desktop to restore order.

  “What proof have you of such an outrage, sir?” demanded the Chief Magistrate. “What proof have you of any of this, except that you say other folk told it you? Other folk who are not here and cannot testify themselves.”

  “Wardle and Rudd can be summoned.”

  “That, too, will be a matter for the Old Bailey. If you cannot produce direct, independent proof of your claims, what possible reason do we have to accept them?”

  Henry Morton drew breath. “The best possible reason, my lords. There is another witness. A witness who has seen and can tell this Police Court enough to have George Vaughan committed to Newgate a dozen times over.” Now he turned his head in the startled silence and looked pointedly at Vaughan.

  The other Runner was not quite impervious to what he had just heard. There was a certain fixity in his look, although the smile remained on his thin lips. Was he thinking, trying to imagine whom Morton might mean? One thing was certain: Morton had George Vaughan's attention now.

  “What witness, sir?” demanded Sir William. “Can you produce this person?”

  “I can. It is someone these men neglected, whose eyes and ears they probably never once considered as they planned and committed their crimes.”

  The three Magistrates regarded him wordlessly. Morton nodded to Arabella, who swiveled round and made a small wave of her hand to Merwin, Darley's butler, at the very back of the room. He disappeared, and returned moments later with Arabella's maidservant Christabel. Together they elbowed their way through the crowded room. Sheltered between them was a small person dressed in a white frock.

  Arabella and Louisa had done a magnificent job. The girl had been reborn as a perfect little daughter of the gentry. Her hair, now that it was clean, proved to be a glowing honey colour. Her face shone with excitement, and she tripped forward with a light, childish spring that contrasted charmingly with her elegant muslin dress and reticule.

  None of the men standing around Vaughan moved as the three reached the bar dividing the room. Even the clerk sat immobile, as if frozen, gazing open-mouthed. It was the courtly John Townsend who stepped promptly across to open the gate and let them in, even bowing slightly as he did. A few moments more and Lucy was ensconced on the witness stand, where she was given a chair to stand on, for she was too small to be se
en over the rail.

  Morton looked over at the partner of his escape and smiled encouragingly. He was favoured by a brilliant grin in return. Then she quickly settled her features into an expression of great seriousness, and looked expectantly toward the Magistrates.

  “What is her name?” asked the clerk.

  “Lucy Hammond!” came the clear, firm response from the girl herself.

  Now Morton took time for another brief glance at George Vaughan. The face was still set, expressionless. But the small smile had vanished. Vaughan was watching now with the utmost attention.

  “What is her—your abode?”

  “I was living at number twelve, Bell Lane. But I am visiting now,” she added with a certain complacency, “with friends in Portman Square.”

  The incongruity of the two addresses, as much as the poise and confidence with which they were announced, raised all three sets of eyebrows on the panel again in an almost comical fashion.

  “Your age?”

  “Twelve,” promptly replied Lucy. Morton noted with an inward smile the rounding upward of this carefully worked-out number.

  “Is this… place you formerly lived,” now began Francis Beadwell, “also called the Otter House?”

  Lucy looked straight at her questioner to respond. “Yes, si—my lord.”

  “How long were you living there?”

  “One year and seven months.”

  “A maid like this!” now breathed out Sir William. “In such a place! Did she have any… did you know what sort of place it was?”

  Lucy turned solemn eyes to him. “A very bad sort of a place, my lord. A flash house.”

  Now, however, there was a harsh interruption from the other side of the room. “Ask her what she did there,” George Vaughan said scornfully. There was a low ripple of laughter from the men around him that spread after a few moments into the rest of the room. Male laughter. The clerk rapped with his rod.

  “I carried the glasses to the tables,” defiantly replied Lucy. “I cleaned and swept. And…” She faltered as Morton's heart sank. He did not want this, not even if it was to save his life. But they had told Lucy to tell the truth, and this was very precisely what she was going to do. She pressed bravely on. “… and only sometimes, if Joshua thought they were square coves and kindly, I would go upstairs with the gentlemen, and—”