The Thief-Taker moabsr-1

by T. F. Banks

  Fitzwilliam Rokeby stood tall, erect, and resplendent in his glittering scarlet and gold. He regarded Morton with silent, heavy-lidded hauteur.

  “I am enquiring into the death of Mr. Halbert Glendinning,” Morton told him. “His activities on the day he died are of particular interest to me, and I am informed that he went out to meet you early that morning.”

  Morton gazed at the officer in apparently cheerful expectation of his ready response.

  Rokeby had a thin cigar in one hand, and with extreme deliberation he raised it to his lips. After a long puff, he slowly lowered it again.

  “I did meet the man. But there was no duel, and I never had the misfortune to see him again.”

  “What precisely led to this encounter, Colonel?”

  Another long pause, and application to his cigar. Then Rokeby very coolly and precisely said: “Anything that might have passed between Mr. Glendinning and myself was a private matter between two gentlemen, and no concern of yours.”

  Morton looked down at the single ring he wore, turning it on his finger as though it were the most interesting thing in the room. Even in anger his hands did not tremble. Then his gaze snapped back up to Rokeby. “Colonel, let me be perfectly clear. A man died in peculiar circumstances on the same day on which you tried to shoot him. Do not take what passes between us in this room lightly.”

  Rokeby became very still. “Do you suggest-?”

  “I suggest nothing!” broke in Morton. And then more evenly: “I merely do my duty, and at this moment I am looking into the activities of Mr. Glendinning on the day of his death. You dueled with him-men from Bow Street witnessed it. For that alone you could be brought before a Magistrate. But I have no intention of doing so unless you refuse to cooperate. Do you refuse?”

  This was a bluff, and Rokeby did not answer but only regarded Morton with those famously cold and steady eyes. An image flashed before Morton of those same eyes staring at him down a gun barrel.

  Morton took silence for acquiescence. “There was a dinner here, at this Club, where Mr Glendinning took offence at some remarks of yours. What was said?”

  All of Rokeby's responses were prefaced with long, contemptuous pauses. “In fact,” he eventually said, “I have no notion what led that gentleman to consider himself offended. I believe him to have been some manner of fool.”

  “Did you not make light of the name of Miss Louisa Hamilton?”

  Just a flicker of expression might have traveled across Rokeby's mask of a face. He drew on his cigar. “If ever I had occasion to speak that lady's name,” he replied, “it will have been with exactly as much gravity as it deserved.”

  “Then you did offer such insult before Mr. Glendinning?”

  Rokeby stared unflinchingly at Morton. “The first time I ever laid eyes on that fop, Glendinning, he was standing at twenty paces' distance, shaking like a leaf. He was not present at any dinner in this Club. And if you have come here to suggest otherwise…” Rokeby stopped, seeming suddenly to check his temper. Killers could not afford such emotions-if they could afford any emotions at all.

  But Morton's own anger was rising. “If I have come to suggest otherwise, what, Colonel? Would you challenge me to a duel? I will arrest you if you do.”

  “Gentlemen,” Rokeby said, “have only to do with other gentlemen.”

  “Of course.” Morton was unable to keep an edge of mockery from his reply. “And how do gentlemen deal with insults from their inferiors? They thrash them, is that not it? I can be found at Jackson's in Bond Street every Thursday night… Colonel.”

  And without allowing Rokeby either the last word or any further demonstration of his indifference, Morton brushed rudely past him and strode out.

  Chapter 16

  Morton was still turning this interview over in his mind when the hackney-coach drew up before his lodgings. But he was startled from his reverie by the sight and sound of his landlady, sallying out into Rupert Street to meet him, berating him and shrilling incoherently.

  “For God's sake, Mrs. Budworth, tell me what this is about.”

  “None of your rough language, sir! I am a lady, even if you be no gentleman! I do not habituate the places you and your filthy police do, nor, as my Saviour blesses me, shall I ever!”

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Budworth. And speak plainly.”

  “You have deceived me, with your fine clothes and your fine airs! But all the while you were going about London-town hanging poor, guiltless folk, and ripping the hearts from the breasts of widows and grieving parents!”

  “Madam, I've never ripped a bodily organ from anyone, least of all a widow. I have been slandered.”

  “You have not! Not a tittle, sir, no, you have not! And now you bring the rabble of folk upon us screeching and hooting and offering harm to my house! I'll not endure it! You'll leave me, sir, upon the instant!”

  By now Morton's manservant had heard the commotion and descended, his face set in a stately expression that Morton instantly suspected of concealing a certain amusement.

  “Wilkes! Can you give me some idea what this is about?”

  “Mrs. Budworth has been alarmed, sir,” Wilkes said.

  “I can see that! What has alarmed her?”

  “What has alarmed me!” cried his landlady in deep indignation. “What has alarmed me!”

  “A mob of ruffians have only this half-hour departed, sir. They have thrown cobblestones, broken some windows, and threatened worse,” Wilkes added.

  “They said they would fire me!” cried Mrs. Bud-worth, almost in tears now with consternation and fright. “They said they would burn my house to the ground!”

  Morton looked from her to Wilkes, demanding explanation.

  “So they did, sir,” agreed Wilkes. “They found you out somehow and threatened their revenge upon you.”

  “And upon me!” cried the landlady. “Who've never so much as-”

  “Revenge for what?” demanded Morton in frustration.

  “Oh, for the hanging of their comrades, sir, the two late miscreants named Smeeton.” Wilkes was rather enjoying himself, Morton could see. The old man had taken on an air utterly different from his normal manner in order to impress Mrs. Budworth. “These disorderly folk claim to believe these innocent of the crimes for which they were condemned. I fear, sir, that they publicly impugned your motives as an officer of justice. They implied an undue interest in monetary gain.”

  Morton sighed with disgust as Mrs. Budworth thrust herself before him, her face red and her eyes fairly popping with rage.

  “You was a horney! And you never said it!”

  “How much damage was actually done, Wilkes?” enquired Morton. “You will be fully compensated, you may be sure, Mrs. B.”

  “I may be sure! I may be sure!”

  And Henry Morton reached with resignation into his pocket for a down payment.

  There could be no question of being driven away, but Morton was deeply irritated to find his dwelling place had been discovered-and by a mob! It had been one of his best-kept privacies. It was true that he was occasionally visited by his informants from the London under-world-but only by those few he considered reliable. How had the mob found him? And, he wondered, were they serving Vaughan and Presley the same way?

  Presley they could probably locate easily enough, although the young Runner's dwelling and relatives were as poor as those who would attack them. But Vaughan was another matter. Even Morton hadn't the slightest idea where, or in what style, George Vaughan dwelt.

  The whole idea of assailing the homes of officers was new. Protests had usually only happened at the hangings themselves, although on one or two occasions people had hurled refuse and angry words at the front door of number 4 Bow Street. Now and again, as he had warned Presley, assaults had also been made against officers in the street.

  Thought of that conversation made Morton's heart sink. He saw that, despite his own warning to his brother officers, he had been trying to forget about the Smeetons. But it
was becoming difficult.

  He dispatched Wilkes to Bow Street to warn Presley and Vaughan, and then to arrange for the tradesmen needed to replace the broken windows. Then he had another placating conversation with Mrs. Budworth, whose anger was considerably soothed by the medicine of a few more sovereigns.

  Arabella arrived later and found a thoughtful Morton alone at table, eating a cold supper. He offered her some but she declined, then sat across from him stealing morsels from his plate with her fingers, and smiling mischievously.

  “But what was your sense of Rokeby? Did he act like a man who'd committed murder?” she demanded as she nibbled on a bit of his mutton.

  “Well, after all, he has. Several times.”

  “I mean, did you think he was hiding something?”

  “Rokeby is always hiding something-his low birth, to begin with. But whether he was hiding anything about Glendinning, I cannot say. What seemed more important to me was his reaction to Louisa Hamilton's name, and there he did betray a little emotion.” Morton paused to swallow a final piece of bread. “There was definitely anger. But whether there was enough…” He looked at Arabella and shrugged.

  “You should have had me with you. I could have told you in a moment.”

  Morton smiled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. It was one of Arabella's more endearing qualities, he thought-this complete and utter confidence in her “intuitions.”

  “Perhaps the most interesting thing was that he bothered to speak to a Runner at all,” he remarked. They rose and went into the other room. “I certainly could not have compelled him to. What did he expect to get out of it? Did he want to know how much Bow Street knew?”

  Arabella tilted her head in thought at this, but said nothing.

  She reclined on Morton's scroll-ended divan, her lovely chin propped on one hand, and Morton sat opposite, smoking a cheroot and tranquilly admiring her beauty in the lamplight. The translucent gleam of her skin, the gracious curve of her stretched-out form. How good it was to be at peace with her again, to think of her only as he most liked to do. To remember last night, and anticipate another such.

  “And what of you, Mrs. M.? How go your enquiries?”

  She crinkled up her eyes in the delightful way she had. “I have made only a little progress as yet. I cannot simply knock on a door, wave my baton of office, declare I'm from Bow Street, and begin asking questions. I must drink tea and gossip and listen to women prattle on about their insufferable children. Dear God, Henry, some of these women!” She pushed back her thick red hair with a languid hand. “But I have learned a few things. Halbert Glendinning was well enough respected in his own circle. There are a few who believe he had some real talent for verse. He was destined for a military career-the Glendinnings have been Royal Navy for generations-but his constitution wasn't up to it. At Oxford he fell in with the literary set and made something of an impression on his tutors, if his friends are to be believed. A little over a year ago he began paying visits to the Hamilton home-at first to see Peter Hamilton, with whom he had been vaguely acquainted for some years, and later…Well, you know whom he sought out later. Nothing earth-shaking there. Louisa, however, is another story.” She met Morton's eye. “There is a rumour that some number of years ago she was under the care of Dr. Willis.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Willis. The one who treated old King George, when… you know, he was talking to the plum trees and so on.”

  Morton stared. “Are you saying she was mad? That I have taken two hundred pounds from a woman who is not of her right mind?”

  Arabella shrugged. “I could find out no more than that. Her mother, and this is no rumour, self-murdered years ago-when Louisa was a girl. The Hamilton children, Louisa and Peter-who was the product of a first marriage-were raised apart, by relatives. Their father went into retirement after the death of his second wife, and was almost never seen by his children. And it seems his death was dubious too: He drowned, and no one can say if it was really an accident.” Arabella shook her head. “Not a family blessed with calm nerves, one would have to say.”

  Morton rose and stepped about the room in agitation. He remembered the veiled woman who had visited him two nights before: her odd way of looking at him and her slightly wandering eye. But she had not seemed mad….

  Arabella followed his movements closely, green eyes glistening in the lamplight.

  “And what of Richard?” he turned and asked. “Have you found out if that was her pet name for Glendinning?”

  She shook her head. “No one has ever heard it was.” She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and stared past him. “But you know, Henry, there is another moment of intense… emotion, when women have been known to call out the wrong man's name.”

  Chapter 17

  Sir Geoffrey Bush, Halbert Glendinning's city solicitor and agent, occupied chambers on Lower Thames Street just across from the cluttered bulk of the new Customs House. His second-story window afforded a clear view of the works, with its bustle of wagons and swarming builders. The constant clink of iron tools rang audibly through his panes.

  Sir Geoffrey welcomed Henry Morton with great civility, apologised for the construction dust that sifted everywhere, warned him that it was entirely impossible for him to divulge information about his clients even to Bow Street and then, hardly waiting to be asked, proceeded to talk long and openly about the dead man, with the deep, happy relish of a born gossip.

  Much of it Morton had heard before, and certainly nothing altered his basic idea of Glendinning's character. Sir Geoffrey dismissed the notion of his late client straying into dens of iniquity with a worldly wave of his hand, a tolerant smile.

  “Absolutely out of the question, sir. No one on this earth would have been less likely to do such things than young Mr. Glendinning.”

  Morton had begun to wonder what kind of man people thought did slake his lust on female children. Everyone seemed so certain of the kind who didn't. But he let it pass. If Halbert Glendinning had had a secret, he'd kept it well. But then, if one had that particular secret, one would.

  “Sir Geoffrey, do you know any reason for Mr. Glendinning to have been distressed? Were his affairs in order?”

  “Certainly he had no money worries or the like,” the solicitor allowed. “Mr. Glendinning did not gamble or make risky investments. That part of his life was quite in order.” He looked a little grim, and sighed. “However, I will admit to you, Mr. Morton, that I was often left with the impression that his relations with Miss Hamilton were not all … how shall we say? Moonlight and balmy sighs. There was something not quite right there. Mr. Glendinning confided in me,” he lowered his voice a little, “that he sometimes wondered if Miss Hamilton would ever be able to forget her earlier attachment.”

  Morton sat up straighter in his chair.

  “What attachment was this, Sir Geoffrey?”

  “Has no one mentioned it? Miss Hamilton, you see, was engaged to be married once before.”

  Morton needed only to look interested, and the lawyer rattled blithely on.

  “It was a most tragic affair, Mr. Morton, most tragic, for I believe she was a bit mad for her first fiance.” He smiled sadly at Morton and shrugged, leaving the Bow Street man to reflect on the choice of words. “I think poor Halbert felt he could never measure up to his late rival, and I fear there were intimations from Miss Hamilton, if not in so many words, that this was so.”

  And here Sir Geoffrey raised the fingers of both hands in an eloquently poignant gesture. “This other man…he served his King, went abroad, never to return.”

  “Was his name Richard, perchance?”

  Sir Geoffrey looked at him in surprise. “I thought you knew nothing of it. It was, in fact: Richard Davenant. Died in Spain in 1811, at Albuera. He was a captain in that Sussex Regiment they were all part of, the men from down there. The Thirty-fifth Foot, I think. The terrible irony, though, was that this ‘hero,’ the captain of Miss Hamilton's heart, did not, it seems, die the de
ath of a hero.”

  Now Sir Geoffrey was clearly waiting to be asked, so Morton did.

  “How so?”

  “The word is, Mr. Morton,” and the lawyer's voice sank to a whisper as he leaned forward slightly, “that he bolted. The bullet that killed him was lodged in his back, when he ran from the French at the height of the battle.”

  He sat back again, a sad, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

  “Halbert suffered, as did many who were willing but unfit for service. In some strange way I think he believed that a coward who went to war was better than a worthy man who could not. Do you see what I mean?”

  Morton nodded. He did. He could also see how a shy, young country gentleman might have been lured into revealing so much of his private life to this garrulous urbanite, with his welcoming manner, his seeming wisdom, and his easy willingness to talk of such things. Sir Geoffrey Bush enjoyed other people's confidences. He took pleasure in hearing them, and he took pleasure in repeating them. Poor Glendinning indeed. And poor Louisa.

  “What happened to Louisa after Davenant's death?”

  Sir Geoffrey raised his hands. “I cannot say. I am not a confidant of Miss Hamilton's. In fact, I have met her but once.”

  “And Davenant? Did you know him?”

  “No, I had the story from Robert Bromley, the regimental surgeon of the Thirty-fifth at the time. Offices in Golden Square, should you want to talk to him. He saw the fellow's body, apparently, and was in a position to say. Though, I have to admit, I have heard it once or twice repeated by others.”