The Thief-Taker moabsr-1

by T. F. Banks

  “But we must go quickly, this very moment, before the iron goes cold.”

  Sir Nathaniel Conant frowned, and then without further speech went out to give the necessary instructions to his household. Even so, it was some minutes more before the horse was harnessed and he and Morton were safely into his gig and headed for London.

  The Magistrate chose to take the longer Saint Pancras road, in the hopes of seeing the incoming Horse Patrol from the north, but this manoeuvre proved fruitless. No other constables were encountered on the whole journey, despite Sir Nathaniel's spending several long minutes questioning the toll men at the Battle Bridge Gate as to their whereabouts.

  “Damned useless system of patrol,” he muttered as he climbed back up into the carriage. “Where would a man be if he was in any real need?”

  Other than this, however, the Chief Magistrate kept a bleak silence throughout, and Morton made no further attempts to engage him in conversation. The portly man sat immobile as a rock, his jaw set, gaze fixed ahead, his hands gripping the traces hard.

  At number 4 Bow Street, where they arrived with the sun fully above the horizon and the streets beginning to fill with early traffic, nothing could be done speedily either. The Horse Patrol had not come in, and Townsend was not about and had to be sent for. Morton was to be fitted with irons this time. The clerk had to start over several times writing the warrant, as Sir Nathaniel thought of changes he wanted to make.

  Just after John Townsend arrived, so also did George Vaughan.

  “Mr. Vaughan,” suddenly announced the Chief Magistrate, seeing him, “you will accompany Mr. Townsend to the Otter House in Spitalfields.”

  Henry Morton, who was sitting half-forgotten in the corner of Sir Nathaniel's room, leapt up to object, his chains clanking as he did, but Sir Nathaniel silenced him with a look. “You, too, will accompany the expedition, Mr. Morton. But you are both to be observers of this matter, not participants. I wish you both to be satisfied that the business is properly done.”

  Morton looked at his superior in surprise. So, he had recognised what the choice was. Morton turned to George Vaughan, who returned his gaze steadily.

  Then, in his usual drawl, Vaughan said: “Just as pleases you, Sir Nathaniel.”

  The Chief Magistrate regarded them both.

  “I'll see one of you hang, gentlemen,” he said. “Be certain of it. And believe me, I am perfectly indifferent which of you it be.”

  Soon after, the Horse Patrol came in and Townsend took charge. Now the operation moved forward with efficiency. The old Runner, for all his fussiness, knew what he was about. They were on the streets heading east within moments, the horsemen clopping in front in double file and the two coaches bearing the Runners and supporting constables close behind. All, except Morton and Vaughan, were armed with sabres or pistols. Morton was in the first carriage, beside Townsend. Vaughan came in the second.

  Once they were under way, Morton said: “If you care to reach into my side vest pocket, Mr. Townsend, you'll find a key that will give you entry to the Otter House.”

  John Townsend looked at him in surprise.

  “I cannot manage it myself,” explained Morton, making a gesture with his shackles.

  The other officer felt about until he retrieved the Bramah key, which had fortunately not been lost during Morton's various adventures over the previous evening.

  “I must make the observation, Mr. Morton,” said Townsend, turning the key over in his hand, “that your possession of such a convenience does not match well with your protestations of innocence in regard to the aforementioned house.”

  “Do you really think I have joined with the flash crowd?”

  “No. No, Morton, I do not, but even so. Sir Nathaniel will find it most peculiar that you would have such a key in your possession.”

  “I shall produce a witness to testify that it was a copy made for me only days ago, from an original provided by one of the girls within the house.”

  Townsend stared at him a moment. “I pray this witness can impress the Magistrate with his integrity. For your sake.”

  For his own part, Morton prayed that matters at the Otter had not altered too much when they arrived. If Vaughan had been surprised by the preparations under way at Bow Street, Sir Nathaniel's canniness had at least prevented him from slipping ahead to warn his minions.

  When Morton had made his escape a few hours ago, what would Bill have assumed? Perhaps that the disgraced Runner would flee the country, or even that he would make another attempt to intimidate someone in the house. But he would surely never have guessed that Morton would return to Bow Street and let himself be imprisoned again.

  The Otter mob would not have known that he'd seen the stolen sculpture in their storeroom-perhaps they hadn't noticed that it was there themselves, that it had been left behind when the other marbles were removed. Had Joshua been able to persuade them that he'd not peached to Morton? With any luck, nothing fundamental would have changed in the shady little world of the flash house.

  They were getting close. The familiar confines of Spitalfields were flowing past Morton's window, and he felt his chest tightening in anxiety.

  As the carriages started moving up Bell Lane, they slowed to a crawl and then stopped dead. One of the mounted constables rode back to report to Townsend, his voice on edge with alarm.

  “Trouble, Mr. Townsend! Trouble!”

  And even as he spoke, Morton began to catch it. The acrid smell, the burning in his eyes. A man pelted past the carriage, dressed in a heavy black overcoat, a scarf tied round his mouth. A firedrake.

  “The phoenix-men are here, sir, but it's too late, sure!” the constable cried.

  John Townsend uttered a heartfelt, if somewhat antique, curse, and clambered from the carriage. Morton followed awkwardly. As soon as they were in the crowded street and trying to push their way forward through the excited onlookers, the smoke in the air became obvious. A few steps more and the flames leaping above the rooftops hove into view, and Morton's spirit sank.

  The parish fire company had arrived, its unsalaried officers milling rather helplessly about in the narrow lane amidst a blizzard of swirling grey ash. The insurance company brigades were better equipped and more efficient, of course, but what likelihood was there that the owner of this particular property had ever insured it?

  Not that anyone would have been able to do much now. Great hands of flame reached out of the windows and door frames of the Otter, grasping at nothing but air. As was Henry Morton at that very moment.

  Chapter 34

  This time Henry Morton was closely confined in a back room at Bow Street, shackled at wrist and ankle, a constable from the Horse Patrol constantly in attendance. Exhausted after a long day and sleepless night, dirty and unkempt, his shoulder throbbing from the injury received breaking out of the Otter's cellar, he slumped on a hard wooden bench against the wall.

  Sir Nathaniel had postponed his hearing until the morrow, in order that the situation in Bell Lane be assessed.

  Some time in the afternoon Vickery came in to tell him what had happened. A thundershower had assisted the fire company in its work. But by the time the blaze had finally been extinguished, three houses had been destroyed. In the ruins of number 12 they found five charred bodies: One was large, adult, and four were children.

  They had sifted through the wreckage, and discovered the apparent location of the storage space, as Morton had described it. But there was nothing there. No stolen goods, certainly no marble sculpture. If there had ever been a tunnel, it had been covered forever in the collapse of the neighbouring house.

  Morton nodded, slowly, seeing it all. There was little for either to say. Vickery went out, leaving his brother officer to the cold comfort of his thoughts.

  An uncertain time later he heard shouting beyond the door. He and Browne, the constable who was watching him, both looked up in surprise.

  “Order, what order! Who gave you such an order?”

  “
What does it concern you, you young fool, so long as they did!”

  The voices were recognisable. The first belonged to Jimmy Presley. The second to the constable Dannelly, who was apparently mounting guard outside the room.

  “I'll give you an order-with my fist, so help me God.”

  There was a silence, and then Morton heard the locks being worked. The door swung in, but instead of Jimmy Presley, Arabella Malibrant entered alone, and the door was pulled sharply shut behind her.

  She strode unhesitatingly across the room to sit down beside Henry Morton, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips to his hair. He could hear Browne shift in discomfort, but Morton leaned against her, unable because of his shackles to put his own arm about her, and silently accepted her warmth, her embrace, the sweet familiar scent of her that filled his nostrils.

  For a long moment they sat thus without speaking. At length she drew back, and quickly cleaned her wet cheeks with the back of one white-gloved hand.

  “The Otter burned,” Morton said at last, “taking all the children with it. The poor, misused children. Only Lucy escaped.”

  “And you,” Arabella murmured.

  “Yes, but only for a time. There was a man's body found there, too, in the ashes, and it will prove to be the barkeep Joshua, I've no doubt. He was ready to testify. They must have seen that. They took no risks.”

  Arabella pulled away so that she could look at him, her hands pressed against his chest. The lamplight shone in her hair, turning it the hue of failing embers, but her skin was very pale.

  “But we have a witness still,” she said. “Lucy has told me much. Much that I did not care to hear-and so naively stated. How could any girl's mother…?” But she let that sentence die. “Lucy knows everything, Henry, everything we need them to hear.”

  “She could know every bit of villainy George Vaughan had ever perpetrated and it would not matter to the Magistrates. She is a child, and a child raised in a criminal environment where lying comes as easily as the pox. They will not believe her, that's certain.” Morton took Arabella's hands in his own. “I fear it will not answer.” He gazed at her face, so filled with worry, and tried to change the subject. “But how is she? How is our young Lucy?”

  “She is very well. I have her at Portman House still. She told me what happened last night, Henry, how you got her free from that place. She is a marvel. An absolute marvel. How could such a child have sprung from so corrupt a house?”

  “There is a great spirit in that tiny body. At least I plucked her away in time, if nothing else. I wonder if Rudd got his Marie clear as well?”

  Arabella stared intensely at him, her green eyes glittering. Then she took hold of his lapels and shook him gently. “Henry, you do not listen when I speak. Lucy can get you free. She recognises George Vaughan and can identify him! She heard him give orders for any number of felonies. Those people, the Smeetons-some man named Taylor was treated the same and hanged as well.”

  “Samuel Taylor?”

  “That's the one.”

  “Vickery arrested him…on Vaughan's intelligence. I remember it.” Her certainty was making some impression on Morton now. “Perhaps it is worth trying,” he mused. “Like enough, the panel will prevent her even from speaking. And if she does speak, they will probably not believe her. But perhaps 'tis the best hope I have.”

  “It is the only hope. You'll see, when she begins to talk. She's rare, a prodigy, Henry. I swear she will make an impression on these Magistrates, if they have any heart at all.”

  Morton smiled a little in wonderment. Lucy must certainly possess something extraordinary to have won over the hard-to-impress Arabella so quickly. “Did they tell you the hearing is set for tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “Yes, and we shall have her prepared. Louisa Hamilton knows of your plight and has come to Darley's. She's taken up our young Lucy with a will, and is having some clothes fitted for her so she'll look well in Police Court. Henry, you won't recognise that child.”

  “And all this, at Portman House?”

  Arabella nodded. “Yes, you have an admirer in Arthur. And now that he has heard Lucy's story…You are quite the hero over there at the moment.”

  “Lucy is the hero,” Morton muttered. “Without her I would not have escaped.”

  “Nor would she have escaped without you. They would have left her to the flames.”

  For a second Arabella closed her eyes.

  Morton caressed her cheek. But Arabella rallied, her eyes flicking opened, filled now with resolve. “We must think carefully about what we need to know from Lucy,” she told him. “We must prepare for the questions she'll be asked. Arthur has offered his barrister, Oswald Barrington. He speaks very highly of him.”

  Morton smiled in gratitude. “Should I be bound over for Sessions Court in the Old Bailey,” he replied, “I shall certainly need the best legal wizardry available, and I'll accept the offer. But a prisoner is not allowed representation at his Police Court hearing. He must speak wholly for himself, even arrange his own witnesses, if he has any. The Magistrates listen to the testimony, draw up documents, and make any decisions about the laying of charges. And actually, because the procedure is less formal, it's often a man's best chance to avoid an appointment with Jack Ketch. And so it might be for me.”

  “Then we must be very ready,” said Arabella with determination.

  For the next half hour she and Morton went over the possible course of the hearing, the dangers and the possibilities. While they consulted, Constable Browne stared emptily at the wall, without appearing to react to anything that was said. Townsend had put Browne in here, but Morton couldn't help wondering if Vaughan's influence in Bow Street was deeper than even the old man knew.

  Chapter 35

  When morning came, Morton was ready to rise and meet it. His warders were surprised at his demand that he be allowed to dress himself properly. Suspected felons were usually forced to appear before the Magistrates just as they were, unshaven, ragged, already criminal by their very appearance. But Morton loudly insisted that a barber be sent for and a messenger dispatched to Rupert Street to fetch him a change of shirt and breeches. Paying for everything with the last few coins in his pocket, he also ordered over a full breakfast from the Brown Bear. He had no intention of starting the struggle for his life weak from the lack of food.

  A little sleep had gone a long way.

  The shackles had to be removed while he was dressing, and several stone-faced constables stood in the room, arms folded and ready for anything as Morton was lathered and his cheeks scraped clean. Under the same scrutiny, he ate his sausage and black bread and drank his ale-coffee was too much to be hoped.

  His clean shirt, and then his best dark green frock coat he pulled on-a painful operation over his aching shoulder-and the shackles were reapplied. Just before ten o'clock, a clerk looked in to inform them that the Magistrates were now entering court, and that the prisoner was to be brought. Morton breathed deep, and for the final time marshalled his thoughts.

  And this was the moment Wilkes made his appearance. The old manservant was led in by Jimmy Presley.

  “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 Stre
et, 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.