The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (28 page)

Townsend looked from one Runner to the other, as though to weigh them, and then said softly to Arabella: “Madam would oblige me if she would tarry here just a moment longer.”

It was not much longer. Within a few minutes there was a cry from the constables going through Henry Morton's bedchamber. From beneath the blue silk draperies of the four-posted bed frame they had pulled a heavy oblong of white stone. Marble. And then another.

Arabella's first remark was rather incongruous. “They're beautiful,” she whispered.

The two white segments had been laid out for inspection on Morton's sitting-room carpet. About a foot broad, the sinuous half-clothed male and female figures formed a
continuous pattern along the length of each piece of marble. Morton, too, as he gazed at them, was almost taken out of himself.

Townsend unnecessarily took the written description from his pocket and compared them carefully—giving Morton the benefit of the doubt—or perhaps he merely did it to aggravate Vaughan, who stood back a little, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his narrow face. Browne and one of the other constables hovered near Morton, not touching him but clearly ready to prevent him from fleeing, should he have a mind to try.

Henry Morton had no such notions. He spoke to the senior Runner. “These objects were placed here by some unknown person,” he said. “I am the victim of an imposition.”

Ignoring him, Townsend frowned slightly at his paper, looked once more at the reliefs on the floor, then folded the paper up and put it away.

“Well, Mr. Morton, you shall have to explain this to the Magistrates. But I must arrest you for the crime of thieving these valuable antiquities.”

“The blowen, too,” muttered Vaughan.

A pained expression passed quickly across John Townsend's round face.

“Madam,” he said to Arabella, “permit me to ask if you have ever seen these objects before?”

Arabella quickly shook her head. “Never.” She was carrying herself well, but Morton could see how frightened she really was. Vaughan's vicious remark about the fate of the Smeetons had done that.

“Have you any knowledge of how they came to be in Mr. Morton's possession? Had he ever spoken to you of them?”

“No. Never.”

Townsend nodded sagely. “There is a carriage below, madam, which will convey you to your home. Pray remain available for the Magistrates' summons, should they wish to question you further on this business.”

“She'll bolt!” objected George Vaughan. “She's as bad as—”

“You shall not offer insult to this lady again, sir!” Townsend cut him off, and everyone in the room was suddenly very still. Vaughan fell silent.

Arabella reached out toward Morton as she was escorted away, but the distance was too great. Then she was through the door and gone.

“Wrap up these goods and carry them down into the other carriage,” commanded Townsend. “I shall not restrain you, Mr. Morton, if you give me your word you'll not attempt to flee.”

Morton pulled himself out of his stunned distraction with an effort.

“You have it.”

“You have no weapons upon your person?”

Morton shook his head. One of the patroles had already taken up the pistol. But his hands were clenched into fists, and he looked slowly over at George Vaughan.

“Mr. Morton…” Townsend cautioned. Vaughan's cold blue eyes met Morton's steadily. There was no bravado there. And no fear. There was not even any hatred—only purposefulness. It occurred to Henry Morton that this was what Halbert Glendinning really saw when he'd faced Rokeby down the barrel of a pistol. This was the way a killer looked.

Townsend said: “Mr. Browne, take possession of Mr. Morton's baton. It is no longer his to hold.”

S
ir Nathaniel Conant had clearly been fore-
warned, and awaited them in his private chamber. He sat massive and motionless behind his table as John Townsend lowered himself uninvited onto one of the side chairs. The rest of the men, including Henry Morton, remained on their feet.

“This is not a formal hearing, gentlemen,” rasped out the Chief Magistrate. “The formal hearing will take place tomorrow morning in Bow Street Police Court, before the full panel. What we will do now is make a few preliminary enquiries, so that I can determine whether there be need to detain Mr. Morton.”

He turned his gaze to Henry Morton. “I am disappointed to see you here, sir.”

“I am disappointed to be here.”

“The objects recovered from your lodgings correspond in every point to certain antiquities belonging to the Earl of Elgin and stolen from the courtyard of Burlington House on or near the seventh of June of the present year.”

“I am sure they are the same,” said Henry Morton. “But I did not steal them.”

John Townsend inhaled snuff, and gave a loud, highly satisfactory sneeze into his handkerchief, his odd collection of clothing flapping once as he did so.

“How did they come to be in your possession?” demanded the Chief Magistrate, after an annoyed glance at the old Runner.

“My manservant was not at home for most of today, so my lodgings were unattended. Someone who wished me ill must have placed those goods there, just as they must have commissioned the notice in
The Morning Chronicle
.”

“So might any thief claim,” Sir Nathaniel said flatly. “Have you nothing more to say for yourself than that?”

“I have been looking into the doings at a particular flash house in the East End, sir, and twice I have been warned that the house was under the protection of someone at Bow Street. It seems very odd to me that I should discover this, and that almost immediately constables from Bow Street should find a notice
listing my address
and describing the antiquities I have been seeking. As you well know, I am aware of how such things are done—if I were a criminal I would not be such a fool as to list mine own address!”

John Townsend cleared his throat, and the Magistrate looked his way.

“I must say, my lord, that it does seem a scheme unworthy of Mr. Morton's intelligence. I have known him a good many years now, and have never had the slightest cause to doubt him.” He looked over at George Vaughan meaningfully. “And I cannot say that of every man at Bow Street.”

“You may have your say before the panel, sir,” Sir
Nathaniel told him. “Mr. Morton is to be held in custody over the night, on my authority. Charges will be prepared, and he will answer to them tomorrow.” He took pen and signed the document before him, blotted it, and handed it to his clerk. Then he rose, as did Townsend. Two of the constables stepped in an uncertain manner toward Morton.

“You were not eager to attend to this matter,” Sir Nathaniel said to Morton as he gathered up the remaining papers from his table. “I remember that. You had no appetite for it, I seem to recall were your words.”

Morton said nothing.

As Sir Nathaniel collected his papers, he knocked over a beaker of water, which spilled its contents across the oak-topped table, and down onto the floor. The Magistrate stopped, looking up at Morton. “I have long heard the talk about this Office, and about the Runners. I did not want to believe it. In particular, I did not want to believe it of you.”

“There is still no reason to believe it of me, sir.”

The Magistrate continued to stare at Morton, his hands brutally clenching a stack of documents. “You have all played me for the fool,” he muttered bitterly, and strode out without another glance.

Townsend took Morton's elbow and, followed by a couple of patroles, escorted him as gently as he might across Bow Street to the Brown Bear.

Morton walked numbly, trying to take in what so swiftly and terribly had happened to him. He could not believe that he was now being escorted to the cells where he had led so many. So this was how it felt. And
all at once he thought—with an awful vividness—of the Smeetons.

He could die. He could actually hang, there before Newgate like “that cully” Smeeton. Caleb Smeeton had been a fool. But Henry Morton had been a fool, too. Neither of them had understood George Vaughan until it was too late.

“Well, you are in the forge now,” the old Runner remarked with a sigh as they walked. “What have you to defend yourself?”

“Little, it seems. The flash house I looked into—the Otter, in Spitalfields. That is the key to it. I need proof that it is Vaughan who controls it.”

“Hard to get when you are locked up in the Bear.”

Morton said nothing.

As they ushered him into one of the upstairs rooms, the old Runner leaned in the door. “You may sleep soundly, Mr. Morton. I'll have a watch set that you can trust.”

Morton slumped down on the cot, staring at the thin crease of light that found its way beneath the door and spread like a stain across the filthy floor.

He must eventually have fallen into shallow slumber, because he was startled awake by the rattle of a key in the lock. He shielded his eyes as someone with a lantern came in, looming large and dark in the doorway.

“Who is that?” he mumbled. Suddenly he thought of the way the bald footpad's life must have ended, and he was on his feet, staggering from sleep.

The figure turned and quietly closed the door behind him. But it was a familiar voice that spoke.

“It's me, Morton. Presley.”

Henry Morton grunted and slumped back down, rubbing his eyes. “Ah, Jimmy. Welcome to my little palace. I've no armchairs, but help yourself to part of my settee here.”

Jimmy Presley hung his lantern from a hook and sat heavily beside Morton.

Morton reached around and placed an arm over the younger man's broad shoulders for a moment. “Thankee for coming, Jimmy. It's generous. What o'clock is it, by the by?”

“Near three.”

“Ah. A bit longer I have to wait for my breakfast.”

“What will you tell them?” he asked Morton.

“Tomorrow? Oh, I've a lot I can say. How much of it I can prove is the difficulty. And Sir Nathaniel is not just now of a mind to take much from me on trust.”

Presley nodded glumly. “The beak's been getting angrier and angrier,” he sighed. “I seen it. You've not been here, Morton, to hear him ask three times a day where you were and where that Elgin booty was.”