by T. F. Banks
The room had fallen eerily silent.
“The prisoner is to be bound over for trial, then,” sighed Beadwell, “on the charges of—”
“My lords!” Jimmy Presley had risen, striding out into the open floor. His whole manner was stiff and awkward, like that of a furious child.
“What is it, Mr. Presley?” Francis Beadwell asked.
“It was me that pinched the Smeetons, man and wife, and I didn't note it at the time but it was not quite as square as it all seemed. Mr. Vaughan gave me all the information and told me to say that it came from my informant, so that I might get my appointment to Bow Street. I thought he was helping me, but I don't think that now. He told me to bring Mr. Morton along and even arranged to have Morton here at number four so that I'd not have to search about for him. ‘You go by Bow Street and get Sir Galahad,’ he said. That's what he called Morton. And then he said, ‘They'll never doubt him.’”
The three members of the panel stared at him in disbelief. “Are you admitting that you gave false evidence in my court?” Sir Nathaniel demanded, incredulous.
Presley's gaze darted around the room, everywhere but to Sir Nathaniel. With a sinking heart, Morton realised Presley had spoken before he'd thought. A roar was growing in the room as the audience began to clamour in anger and excitement.
“Aye, he did for the Smeetons, just as we said!” someone cried out.
George Vaughan was adding his voice to those besieging the panel. “My lords! My lords! What has this to do—”
Beadwell and the clerk were calling for silence, while Sir Nathaniel continued to sit motionless, staring at Vaughan. It was only then that Morton caught sight of Arabella. She was pointing to Lucy, and calling out something.
“My lord!” Henry Morton shouted.
“Peace! Peace!” cried Francis Beadwell. “Mr. Presley, resume your place! This is not to the issue just now. We are not here to discuss the Smeetons, and to raise up the passions of this city again.”
Presley unwillingly obeyed, but a scattering of voices continued to sound in the room.
“Nay, nay, you'll not have that!”
“You'll not have him heard, will you!”
“My lord…” Morton continued desperately to try to make himself heard. “My lord! My witness has not done.”
“Mr. Morton, we have ruled on the value of the testimony of this—”
“Not testimony, my lord! She—”
“I have the paper,” piped Lucy in a small, clear voice.
“No more of this—” scornfully began George Vaughan.
Suddenly Sir Nathaniel Conant rose at his desk. He brought his hand down with a crash.
“Quiet!”
And now there really was a startled silence. The Chief Magistrate heavily lowered himself into his seat again, and turned toward Lucy. “What paper, maid?”
“Maid!” scoffed George Vaughan, low and bitter.
“Silence yourself, sir!” Sir Nathaniel roared in a thunderous bellow of pent-up fury. The stillness of the courtroom deepened into a frightened hush. Lucy looked pale, but stood her ground, perched still on her chair in the witness dock. The Chief Magistrate's voice was slightly unsteady as he once more asked: “What paper have you?”
“The letter, my lord. That the gentleman had. The swell dressed all in dark clothes.”
“Mr. Glendinning?”
“Yes, my lord.” And Lucy reached into the reticule she had kept tucked tightly under her arm the entire time. From it she removed a small volume, which Morton recognised at once as Arabella's Byron. With childish concentration she applied herself to the string tied around it, releasing the many bits of paper stuffed between its leaves. Her small fingers nimbly searched through these for the one she needed.
“Miss Hamilton told me not to forget to show it to you,” Lucy breathlessly explained. “And I almost did forget!”
“Miss Hamilton?” gruffly wondered Sir Nathaniel.
“Miss Louisa Hamilton,” quietly explained Henry Morton, “the fiancée of the late Mr. Glendinning.”
“How did you come by this letter?” the Chief Magistrate asked Lucy.
“I was doing my cleaning, the morning after. It was on the floor under his table, in the sawdust. The gentleman must have dropped it. I took it because I like to have things to practise reading.”
“Pass it to the clerk, girl. Mr. Smith, if you please.”
As the reedy man got up from his desk and stepped to the witness box, Henry Morton turned his eyes toward George Vaughan. There was little obvious change in the other Runner's secretive countenance, but Morton saw the almost imperceptible sag in the shoulders, the calculating look in the eyes. Vaughan knew what was in this letter. And he knew what it meant.
“Let it be noted,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant, taking up the document, “that the witness has produced a letter of normal dimensions, addressed on the outside, in a firm, adult hand, to Mr. Halbert Glendinning, Oxford Street.” He unfolded the paper and turned it over.
“It is dated Friday, ninth June, 1815, and reads as follows:
Glendinning—
All is arranged. Go to the Otter public house, by the old brewery in Bell Lane, Spitalfields, at nine-thirty tonight. This is our man Vaughan's ground, and he will meet us there. He will require twenty sovereigns, of which R. will already have provided ten.
Pray, do not be tardy.
“It bears no signature,” concluded Sir Nathaniel in a businesslike voice which said much for the change in his mood. He turned his eye on Vaughan.
“I believe, sir, that you told this Police Court that you had never been in this house,” the Magistrate said very deliberately. “I believe that was your testimony?”
Vaughan said nothing. He could certainly have objected, Morton thought, that the note, too, must be fabricated evidence. But the other Runner understood as well as Morton what Sir Nathaniel's view of things now was. Such an objection would be bootless here. No doubt he was already thinking of his strategy of defence at the Old Bailey.
Sir Nathaniel looked at the note again, and seemed to wonder aloud. “But who wrote this?”
Young Lucy, attentive in the witness stand, took it upon herself to answer. “The man who had Mr. Glendinning dished,” she matter-of-factly proposed, and then shrugged to indicate she didn't know who that was.
But Morton knew.
Chapter 37
Events ran very quickly then. Sir Nathaniel ordered Morton released, and the same irons were used to bind George Vaughan—a proceeding Morton watched with a mixture of grim satisfaction and foreboding. For himself, freedom and vindication. But for his profession, and for Bow Street? The British public's worst fears had been confirmed.
Sir Nathaniel stood behind his desk regarding a contrite-looking Jimmy Presley and told him he could thank his Maker that he'd not been standing in the witness dock when he made his admission of giving false evidence.
Almost as soon as his hands were free, Morton took from his pocket the sheet of paper Wilkes had brought. Hastily he ran his eye down Stretton's list of the captains who had served at Albuera—Captain Frederick J. Dennis. Captains M. Moss and Richard Davenant. Captains Thomas Russell and Francis Galsworthy. Captain Peter Hamilton.
Morton stared at the name a moment and then closed his eyes. He opened them to find Townsend by his side, clapping him on the back.
“John,” he told the old Runner. “I will thank you a thousand times over for this day and more, but there is a matter, more than urgent, that I must attend to. Will you do me the great favour of finding Mrs. Malibrant and telling her to meet me at number seven Hanover Square? Can you do that?”
“It seems a small enough favour, providing she is still here. But what shall I say this is all in aid of?” Townsend asked.
“I cannot tarry to explain. In truth, I pray that I am wrong.”
Morton grabbed Presley's arm, and the two pushed their way out the back of the Bow Street office, and into the nearest hackney-coach.
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“What is this about, Morton?” Presley asked, but before Morton could explain, their carriage turned into High Holborn and found the way choked with people: a great flowing current of them with back eddies in every door and before every public house. Such a cacophony rose from this mass that it was like standing next to falling water.
“What's the matter?” Morton shouted.
“Haven't you heard?” the man nearest Morton's window bellowed. He waved a mug of ale, a drunken grin fixed on his florid face, jumping up on the spoke of a wheel of their now stationary carriage. “Bony's beaten! Wellington stood him off on a hill south of Brussels, and the Frenchers have all fled home!”
“Nay, ye gabbling ninny!” the man beside him shouted in a thick Scots burr. “It's but a rumour! The whole daft toon's turned out to celebrate a rumour! Nobody really kens aught at all!”
Morton looked over at Presley, who shook his head. Who knew? But whether it was true or not, Hanover Square was still a good distance off and they were stuck here in a flood of people, like a coach foundering in a ford.
“Let's leg it,” shouted Morton over the bedlam.
They bounced out of the carriage, forcing a path through the crowd, Presley waving his baton, although this only seemed to amuse the few who noticed. They struggled ahead, setting their shoulders to the press, and finally made their way against the stream of humanity across Charing Cross and into the relative backwater of Sutton Street.
Everywhere they went people were out and in a high spirit. Kegs were rolled from inns and opened on the cobbles, publicans serving ale and cider by the dipper. Children seemed to be underfoot at each step, and twice Morton kicked at dogs that barked and snapped about his ankles, their dispositions seemingly affected by the madness around them. Soho Square was impassable, and they were forced south to Old Compton. Assemblies in Piccadilly and on Regent were thicker than they had yet seen, so it was a long and almost random route they followed to their destination, pushing, bulling, running when they could, diverted repeatedly by impassable throngs.
When they finally arrived, Hanover Square seemed almost hushed by comparison, the crowds apparently having gravitated to nearby Regent and Oxford streets. Morton and Presley were panting from their efforts as they pulled the bell.
No one answered.
Morton swore an oath, and stepped back into the street to look up at the windows. They stared blankly back at him.
“No one seems to be home,” Presley said, employing the sensible action of trying the door handle. It was locked.
“We'll have it down, Jimmy,” Morton said.
“Morton…” Presley cautioned.
“I will take responsibility.”
Sensible of his tender shoulder, Morton and his young colleague stood side by side and kicked hard near to the lock. On their third try the jamb splintered; the door suddenly swung free.
Morton pushed in, calling out as he went, but only his own voice echoed back. The house seemed unnaturally still and silent after the chaos of the streets. The sun slanted in the windows and spread over the floor in perfect squares and shining rectangles. Dust motes spun in the angled light.
Morton did not like the feel of the place.
They found the rooms upon the ground floor empty, and Morton mounted the stair, almost afraid to speak or make a noise. The silence rang hollowly in his ears.
At the stairhead he smelled something faintly acrid, like a fire smouldering in a hearth that did not draw. The first room they looked into was empty, and seemed so perfectly ordinary that Morton almost wondered if his fears were unfounded.
But then he opened the next door and found Peter Hamilton, dressed in his habitual black and lying awkwardly upon the carpet. A stain of drying blood dyed the carpet around him, and a dueling pistol lay near to hand.
“Dear Jesus…” Jimmy Presley whispered. “Who's this cove?”
“His name was Peter Hamilton,” Morton said softly.
“Did he do himself, do you think?”
“Perhaps,” Morton said.
“This is what you expected to find?”
“No. No, this is not what I expected, but perhaps I should have.”
A polished mahogany box lay capsized on the desk, its lid hanging open, the small locking mechanism twisted and broken. Across the desktop lay a scattering of loose papers. This small autumn of fallen white leaves spread onto the floor, where it seemed the wind had swept them here and there. Morton stopped and retrieved several pages, glancing at them quickly.
“What've you there?” Presley asked.
“Poems,” Morton said. “Love poems.”
He turned and went back out into the hall. He felt a chill within, a sudden loss of feeling, of contact, as though the essence of Henry Morton had been cast free of his attachment to his physical being. He walked as though in a disturbing dream. The appearance of objects was not quite right, as though illuminated by a strange, flat light.
“Morton…?” Presley said, looking at him oddly. But Morton did not answer.
Before opening the door to Louisa's sitting-room, he knocked gently. When there was no answer he put his hand on the doorknob, but still hesitated.
“Shall I look for you, Morton?” Presley asked softly.
Morton shook his head, took a quick breath, and opened the door.
She lay there in the soft light filtering through the trees outside, her hair wafting gently in the small breeze that found its way through the open casement. Morton turned away.
“Here's the matching pistol,” Presley offered. “Did they both do for themselves, do you think, or did one murder the other first?”
“I don't know, Jimmy,” Morton whispered. He leaned heavily on the back of a chair. “Better I had found nothing,” he muttered. “Better to have failed in my commission than to have caused this.”
Sounds came from the stairs just then. Voices calling, and then Arabella and Darley appeared, stopping, horrified.
“Dear God, Henry—!” Arabella said, but nothing more. Darley took her arm and drew her out. Morton and then Presley followed. They met Townsend and, unexpectedly, Sir Nathaniel, on the landing.
Presley nodded toward the room and the Bow Street men went in. Darley eased Arabella into a chair where she fanned herself with his hat, her white skin paler than Morton had ever seen. They heard Sir Nathaniel exclaim something from inside the room, and then he, too, emerged.
“Who is this woman?”
“Louisa Hamilton,” Morton answered. “She was Hal-bert Glendinning's fiancée.”
“There is a gentleman, too,” Presley said, gesturing to the other door.
Sir Nathaniel poked his head in and emerged looking very grim. “I came along to offer my apologies—and find this…. What the devil has happened here, Mr. Morton?”
But Morton was already on the stair, and then out into the street and into the light that filtered through the trees in the square.
Morton sipped the tea that Arabella had made. They could hear Nan moving above, seeing to the bodies of her master and mistress. The maid had come in not long after, a basket on her arm, having been sent on errands by her mistress—errands that had been difficult to discharge in the town gone mad.
The sight of Louisa had buckled her knees, and Morton and the other gentlemen had left her in the care of Arabella, hearing only the muffled sobbing and keening from above. But then some part of her, some part born of intense practicality and a lifetime of service, had set her to work, laying out the corpses, aided by Darley's silent butler.
A messenger arrived from Bow Street then, bearing the letter Lucy had produced in court—the one directing Halbert Glendinning to the Otter.
“I'll take it up,” Arabella said, and went softly up the stair. A moment later she was down again, nodding to Morton.
“It is his hand,” she said, passing the note to Morton.
“Perhaps now you can tell us what went on here,” Sir Nathaniel said.
“I am not entirely
sure myself,” Morton replied. “The dead man was Peter Hamilton, Louisa Hamilton's half-brother. As I guessed, he wrote the note that Lucy read in court this morning—and was the man who commissioned George Vaughan to poison Halbert Glendinning.”
Morton had not returned into himself completely, but still felt the odd distance, the unsettling inner quiet and emptiness. But the others were gazing at him.
“It is for the most part conjecture,” he continued, “but I think matters shook themselves out so: Peter Hamilton was obsessively and jealously in love with his half-sister. The poems, which obviously he had kept locked in the mahogany box, were all written to her or about her. The entire tragedy sprang from his unnatural passion.
“Hamilton was at Albuera, though he claimed to have been ill with fever in Lisbon at the time. Wilkes brought me a list of the officers who fought in the battle, and Captain Peter Hamilton was among them. That is what finally alerted me. I believe he shot Miss Hamilton's first fiancé, Richard Davenant, in the heat of battle. And, if that was not enough, he then spread rumours to blacken the dead man's good name. The regimental surgeon, Bromley, was his confederate in this, for there was no one like that vicious little doctor to go after a man who could not defend himself.” Morton looked out the window to the bright day beyond. Hanover Square remained unnaturally quiet. “Bromley would not reveal Hamilton as the source of these rumours, for Hamilton was his brother-in-arms, and I suspect sent him patients from among the quality.
“I do not know what went on between Louisa Hamilton and her half-brother. And I do not care to speculate. But in due course, after Davenant's murder, Louisa met another gentleman. Lord Arthur told me that he thought Miss Hamilton and Glendinning were about to announce their engagement, and perhaps that was true, though there were always thoughts of Richard Davenant in her mind, which is why she cried out his name that night on the steps of Portman House, when Glendinning was found dead.” Morton stopped to marshal his thoughts a moment, looking at the solemn gathering. He took up his story again.
