by T. F. Banks
“Peter Hamilton told Glendinning that Rokeby had slandered his bride-to-be—the Colonel had once courted her briefly—and probably pushed Glendinning into sending Rokeby a challenge. No doubt he believed Rokeby would do for Glendinning, and he likely would have, had Presley and Vaughan not interrupted this duel.”
“There you are,” whispered Sir Nathaniel.
“Vaughan, of course, turned the opportunity to account. He demanded a bribe not to prosecute the two parties. But George Vaughan was quite the man for recognising larceny in another's soul. And somehow, I would guess, he saw it in Peter Hamilton—or perhaps it was the other way around. The corrupt Bow Street Runner was too obviously the man Peter Hamilton needed. However it occurred, Hamilton paid our good Mr. Vaughan to murder Glendinning. But not just murder him—he wanted to destroy him in the eyes of his sister as well. So one of them hit upon the scheme of poisoning the man and sending him to Lord Arthur's in a carriage. The little surgeon Bromley just ‘happened’ to be there.” Morton turned to Darley. “You said he had come with someone else, Lord Arthur, and I am willing to wager that it was Peter Hamilton.” Darley shrugged, ready to concede the point.
“Bromley promptly pronounced the man dead of his own dissipations—I would think that he jumped so readily to this conclusion because he had previously been made aware of Glendinning's ‘dissipations’ by Peter Hamilton.
“After the duel that morning, Peter Hamilton had called on Glendinning, supposedly out of concern, but Glendinning's man had been left orders that he was not to disturb his master. Shortly after, a note arrived delivered by a boy. The note,” Morton held up the slip of paper, “directed Glendinning to the Otter, but he didn't know Spitalfields so he carried it with him to be sure of the address. If no one had suspected foul play in Glendinning's death, that note would have meant little. It would appear he was paying off some Bow Street man for looking the other way after a duel. But once Arabella had decided that things were not as they should be, and I was called… the note became a terrible blunder, even if Hamilton had been canny enough not to affix his signature. He probably thought Glendinning had left the note behind, and in fact asked me questions that would have alerted me had I suspected him, which I did not.
“The note seemed to have disappeared, to Hamilton's great relief, no doubt—but we all know what happened to it.” Morton glanced up at the ceiling, to the rooms above. “Lucy must have shown her papers to Louisa last night—she liked to show off her reading. Of course Louisa instantly recognised the hand. And so she knew. Peter had sent Glendinning to the Otter to be murdered.”
Arabella plucked a thread from the skirt of her dress. Sir Nathaniel took a long, calming breath. Only Townsend looked unaffected; the Runner stared at Morton and nodded repeatedly, as though in admiration for his analysis.
“But what happened then?” Sir Nathaniel enquired.
Morton shook his head. “I don't know what happened in this house. I don't think we ever can know. Certainly Louisa Hamilton broke open the locked box and found the poems. Strange that she knew to look there…. She might have confronted her brother, but whether he shot her or she him, I cannot say. Perhaps they both self-murdered. Perhaps she first in despair, and then he when he realised he would be tried and hanged for at least one murder—or when he found the opened box…” He looked over at Townsend.
“We'll never know,” the old Runner agreed, but Morton could see the man had his own theories about what had occurred. He might even know something from observations he had made in the rooms above, but Morton would never ask.
Presley put his head in the door just then. “It's not a rumour any more,” he reported. “Blücher wasn't killed, just wounded. He and Wellington were able to bring the remains of their armies together, and have defeated Bonaparte. The Duke's own messenger has come to the King.”
But there was no joy among the party, nor would there be for many days.
Epilogue
Morton was standing in the wings at Gentleman John Jackson's, watching two men of limited skill but significant strength brutalise each other, when he recognised the man standing beside him, who was just making the same discovery.
“Morton, isn't it?”
“Yes. Lord Byron. An unlooked-for pleasure, my lord.”
“We shall have to have a rematch, you and I,” Byron said, smiling.
“I would like nothing better.”
“Like to pummel poets, do you?”
Morton laughed. They both turned their attention to the contest in progress, until Morton turned again.
“Pardon me, Lord Byron, but did you ever know a man by the name of Halbert Glendinning?”
The poet looked away from the action. “Well, I will tell you, Morton, the name has a ring,” he replied, “but I can't say where I know it from.”
“Mr. Glendinning fancied himself something of a poet. He was of a Sussex crowd….”
“I do know who you mean. Yes, he had me to his rooms once to look at some verses. They were better than I expected,” he remarked, as though this fact still surprised him. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, the poor fellow has died…”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear it. But he seemed a healthy young man…?”
“I'm sure he was. He was poisoned by a rival for the affections of a lady.”
Byron winced as one of the boxers landed a heavy blow on the other, sending him staggering back. Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Byron said, “Do you know why I attend Jackson's, Morton, when I could be at the theatre or some other entertainment?” The poet did not take his eyes from the contest. “It is because here we do not lie about our intentions. When I stand toe to toe with a gentleman, I intend to beat him into submission. It is brutal but honest.” He glanced at Morton. “Was there some service you would ask of me regarding this unfortunate fellow?”
“No, no. Not at all. I just wondered if you had met him, and I suppose I was curious to know if he had an actual gift.”
“A gift? More like a curse I should call it, though I suppose the life of a scribbler is better than what has befallen your friend.”
Byron raised his hand to someone he had apparently been awaiting, then looked back at the Runner. “Good evening to you, Morton.”
“And you, sir.”
Morton arrived at Portman House on time, not fashionably late, and found Arabella and Darley there.
“Well, Morton,” Darley greeted him, “I see you have gone in for a Byronic look,” and then he looked suddenly serious. “Or are you in mourning?”
“I have succumbed to style. It is my vain attempt to have Mrs. Malibrant notice me.”
“Notice you, sir! She is mad for you. Talks about you all the time.” Darley smiled and his eyes shone as he said this. The man had a charm that Morton had to admire.
“But to me she speaks of you, sir,” Morton pointed out.
Darley laughed. “Is that not just like her, Morton? I ask you. Is it not?”
Dinner was served at a table that would easily have seated a dozen and a half, so the three clustered together at one end.
“What do you think the situation was between the Hamiltons?” Arabella asked. “Did she know Peter was in love with her? I mean, how could she not? Or was there even something more…?” She looked at Morton as though he were keeping the answer from her.
“I really don't know, Arabella,” he said. “Nor do I want to know.”
“Hear, hear,” Darley agreed.
“That is the odd thing about men,” Arabella said, annoyed. “You honestly do not want the answer. How can you not? Louisa might have been her half-brother's lover, and you do not seem to care! Have you no healthy curiosity?”
It was at this moment that the door opened and Lucy came in.
“There she is,” Darley greeted her, “the heiress to the throne.”
“ 'Tis not a throne,” Lucy said, surprisingly subdued.
“Have you heard, Henry? Louisa left a thousand pounds of her fortune to Lucy.” Arabe
lla swept the girl up into a warm embrace. Morton noticed how readily Lucy seemed to accept such handling. “There was a note on her escritoire,” explained Mrs. Malibrant sadly. “Imagine her thinking of that… then.”
“It does suggest she knew what might come. Or chose. Yet, the inheritance is splendid news,” Morton said, for he had been wondering what would become of this child whom he had saved—and who had saved him.
“But she did not forget you, old saw,” Darley told him. “No. Two hundred pounds awaits you at her solicitor's. Not half what you deserve, I think.”
Morton did not argue this point. He had almost been hanged, and so thought the money fairly earned. Though if they finally hanged George Vaughan, that would be the most pleasant forty pounds he would ever make.
Lucy kissed each of them good night before her new governess shooed her out.
“But where will she stay?” Morton asked.
“I'm the administrator of her funds, legally,” Darley answered. “And I suppose there are schools she must attend, and… well, any number of things. I cannot bring her quite into polite society, alas, for her earliest life will follow wherever she goes. In some ways I think she would be better going abroad, in time, where this sad history will not follow. Canada is a bit cold, I hear, but it will be a great land one day. Or America. We shall see. The child is perseverance itself, so she might just make herself a life right here in London. At the moment, for some reason, she is set on a career on the stage, of all things!” He looked at Arabella and they both laughed like two people who cared for and knew each other well.
Arabella finished her wine, and rose from the table. “I must go be read a bedtime story,” she said, “which seems somewhat backward to me. If you will excuse me.” She looked from Darley to Morton, her gaze seeming to linger uncertainly on each of them, and then she went quietly out.
Darley watched the door close behind Arabella, then turned to Morton. “Do you know, I cannot get the memories of Louisa and Halbert out of my thoughts.” He gestured toward the wall. “I shall never enter my sitting-room without seeing poor Halbert lying there, already dressed for a funeral. I don't know about these young men going about dressed so—as though they have had some premonition.” He looked at Morton. “You should not take up this practice,” he said, almost hesitantly, then swirled the dark wine in his goblet, watching it stream back down the inside of the glass. “I was trying to recall those lines that Halbert wrote. Do you remember? You found them in his pocket that night.
“It will find you soon enough,
The empty night after the day.
Brief and filled with sorrow,
Love will rise and slip away.”
Darley stared a moment more into his glass, then glanced to the door that Arabella had just used. He lifted his glass to Morton. “To the birds of the air,” he said softly.
“Yes,” said Morton, “to the very birds of the air.”
About the Author
T. F. Banks lives in British Columbia, Canada, and is at work on the next Bow Street Runner mystery.
Look for the next exciting Henry Morton mystery
THE EMPEROR'S ASSASSIN:
Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner
coming in summer 2003
from Delacorte Press
A Dell Book
Published by
Dell Publishing A division of Random House, Inc.
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New York, New York 10036
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by T. F. Banks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
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eISBN: 978-0-307-49183-1
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