The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (30 page)

“Oh, you have a heart,” Morton said. “It's beating in you yet. You know what goes on here. Vaughan had that young swell, Glendinning, poisoned. He arranged for the Smeetons to thieve that shop and then had them caught in the act. He hid the Elgin booty in my rooms so that I'd be arrested for theft. Theft over fifteen shillings, Joshua. That's a hanging offence.”

“Aye,” grunted Joshua after a moment. “A horney should know, shouldn't he?”

“So you know I'm in earnest. You can ask what you want of me, and I'll give it you.”

“You'll say so, that's sure enough,” muttered Joshua.

But there was concession in his voice. A long pause. Morton waited. He could not tell what Joshua was thinking, whether he would give another contemptuous refusal, or something else. Finally the Otter's barman spoke again.

“What would happen to Lucy and the others if you got them away?”

“To the others? An orphanage, I should think. Better than what they have here. Lucy? I think something better could be arranged for her. A home. What about you, Joshua? Would you like to set up somewhere else—in some other town—and raise a daughter?”

Morton could feel the pull of this on the other man. Feel it in his hesitation. “Nay,” he said finally, “it's not for me to do. Girl needs a mother… and a father who can provide.”

“We'll find you an honest trade, I swear. Will you do
it? Will you go before the Magistrates and tell them what you know about George Vaughan and his foul enterprises?”

But then the smallest sound alerted Morton. A key was turning in the lock.

Joshua's eyes met Morton's: a look of pure hopelessness.

“Is there another way out?”

“Not for you,” said Joshua.

Henry Morton threw aside his cheroot and leapt up, snatching the chair by its back as he did. He stepped to the door, raising his improvised weapon. When the first man stepped through the shadows of the archway Morton brought the wood down hard, splitting it in two and sending his foe abruptly to the floor. The man started to scramble up, but Morton kicked him fiercely on the side of the head, making him collapse again.

But the newcomer wasn't alone.

“It
is
the horney!” a voice shouted, and a second, larger figure bulled in under the arch and struck the Runner hard in the chest, driving him stumbling back. As Morton regained his balance he found himself face to face with the burly man he had seen on his first visit. Bill.

Several other men crowded in behind and Henry Morton saw that Joshua had been right. He was trapped.

Vaughan was not amongst them.

“Hear me,” Morton gasped out. “It's your master we want to see swing. It's George Vaughan, not you. Give evidence, and we'll let you be.”

Bill was pulling a short silver cutlass from a sheath concealed in his canvas trousers. The other men held
knives or cudgels. Bill looked over at Joshua, who sat motionless, his head bent, eyes on the floor.

“Did he ask you to do the same, Joshua, me boy? Did he sing you the same sweet song?”

“Aye,” muttered Joshua, “but I told him I don't make deals with dead men.”

Bill eyed him a second more. “Nor do I,” he said. And with that Bill lunged at Morton with his blade.

Morton leapt aside, lashing out with his foot. The other man stumbled and tripped. Morton found himself circling behind the little table, which bore the only lamp in the room. Before he'd even thought it through, he knocked them both over. The lamp bounced off the bench and hit the wall; the flame instantly snuffed out, leaving them in utter darkness.

There was a little volley of startled shouts. Then Bill's voice, low and angry. “Guard the door, don't let him out!”

Morton had dropped to his knees and could hear in the air close above the whistle of Bill's weapon, cutting blindly out for him, but passing over his head. Scrambling crablike backward and to one side, Morton desperately got away from him in the dark.

Someone screamed as Bill's blade caught him, and then there was cursing and muttering. Morton could hear men shuffling about the room, searching for him. Groping behind him, Morton felt the bottom of the stairway. Up, he would have to go up, it was the only way. But then, as he reached blindly back, a hand gripped his hand.

A small, warm hand. Pulling him insistently another way. He followed. They passed not up, but behind the staircase. Morton struck his forehead a sharp blow on
something overhanging. He bent lower, hit the top of his backbone even harder, but continued to scramble madly forward, half-stunned, on his hands and knees. A glimmer of light. In front of him a small, scurrying grey shape.

“There!” someone shouted.

“In after!”

They came, but Morton had scrabbled through into a low chamber whose entrance lay concealed behind the staircase. There was a tiny rush lamp here, and in its light he could see a stout door, perhaps three feet high. He seized this and slammed it shut. Groping in the shadows he found it had a bar, and he dropped this into its bracket just as they reached the other side.

Hammering and imprecations, and then Bill's calm voice behind, ordering them to desist and fetch a crow and his pistols.

Another streak of light now slipped under the door from outside. Morton turned around and found himself gazing into the pale face of the little serving girl, Lucy.

I
t was more like a cellar than a proper room,
and was crowded with the shapes of unidentifiable objects. Panting, Morton shifted a couple of small heavy barrels in front of the door, and then looked around himself. His momentary feeling of safety was quickly evaporating. There was no way out; the men beyond would soon have the door open, and now he had involved the child in his fate as well.

Lucy gave him a small, frightened smile, and said nothing.

“Thankee, girl,” he breathed. “Thankee for that.”

“This is where they keep the things they have stolen,” she explained solemnly.

“Oh, aye,” responded Morton emptily, “I suppose 'tis.” He started picking about in the weak light, lifting and discarding objects, seeking for some sort of makeshift weapon to fight them with.

“It is also where they hide if they think the horneys are going to look for them. That's why it has a strong door.”

“Aye.”

He lifted a heavy object, and felt his hand slip over polished stone. The breast of a woman, her thigh. Raising his discovery into the anemic light, he saw that he held a figure sculpted in marble, about a foot high. A dancing, laughing goddess. A naiad. Part of the marble relief that had been stolen from the Earl of Elgin—the rest of which had been hidden in Morton's rooms.

“And it is also where the tunnel starts, so they can slip away if they need to,” continued Lucy.

Morton turned and gaped at her, the marble still in his hand.

“No,” she earnestly assured him, “it is.”

It was certainly a feature of every flash house: some secret means of escape. A tunnel, or a route across the rooftops from an attic window, or a concealed door into a neighbouring building.

“If you want to go through it,” offered Lucy, “I won't tell them that you did. I'll tell them… some story, while you make away.”

“They'll be waiting by now, at the other end,” breathed Morton, still trying to take it in.

“Oh, yes, perhaps. But also, perhaps not,” said Lucy. “I think they don't know I know about it.”

“I'm not even sure they saw you lead me in here,” thought Morton aloud. Lucy gave a toothy smile, pleased. And he continued quickly to work it out in silence: They might not want to assault him through their tunnel, as it would probably be too awkward and too vulnerable a means of approach. It would be easier and safer just to break down the door.

There was a blow now on the other side of that wooden barrier, and a grunt of effort. Muffled voices.
Morton raised his finger for silence. He leaned close to the girl.

“Lucy, you show me where the tunnel is. And you come with me. They'll not be happy with you when they know you've helped me.”

“Oh, no, Joshua will tell them it's all right. Joshua's my friend.”

“Joshua will come away with us also. Later. But for now, you must come.”

She stared intensely at him a moment, then scrambled off to one corner of the room. Morton followed, thinking she was going to show him the tunnel. But that was not her purpose. Out of the obscurity she produced her treasure. Tied round with string, stuffed full of other papers: Arabella's copy of
Hebrew Melodies.

Morton shook his head. He realised he still held the sculpture and set it down. It had to be found here. To carry it with him would only compound his difficulties.

There was a rending, squeaking sound behind him. The men on the other side of the door were prising apart its boards.

“Show us the tunnel now, Lucy,” Morton whispered urgently. Obediently, the child scrambled across to the far corner of the room and started yanking at a heap of stacked-up bales of cloth.

“I watched them once, when they used it,” she explained as Morton motioned her aside and began the work himself. “They didn't know I was here. This is one of my secret places. There are ever so many spots in this house only I know about, where I can hide.”

“Have you ever been through?” whispered Morton. She shook her small head.

In a few moments, Morton had made a space. Behind
it stood a flimsy piece of deal. Lifting this aside, he found himself looking into a dark hole hardly more than two feet high and the same width. A gush of dank, foul air spewed out of it. He recoiled. They would not even be able to take her weak little rushlight in its awkward holder. But there was nothing for it.

“Go first,” he whispered, “and I will cover us up again.” He glanced at her as he spoke, thinking how frightening this must be for a child. But Lucy crawled in promptly, practised at the motion, her Byron still in hand. Morton followed with difficulty, worming his way forward on his belly. He knew immediately that there was no question of twisting his large frame about inside in order to try to cover up the entrance behind them. He would have to leave it open. It would have taken their pursuers but a moment to discover their means of escape in any case. Speed now was everything.

Crawling forward, he felt the walls of the tunnel on each side. They seemed to be shored up with wooden posts, like the walls of a mine shaft. The floor was earthen and wet.

His face bumped into the soles of Lucy's shoes in the darkness. “Keep going, girl,” he urged.

“But I can't see!” She sounded frightened now.

“It's all right, child. There's nothing to fear.” He struggled to keep desperation out of his voice. “But keep going, Lucy, or we'll be caught and they'll kill me sure.”

He heard her scuffle and he crawled after. He had to slew forward on his elbows, dragging his legs behind him, the space was so tight. A little wave of near-panic shuddered through him. It was like being buried alive. And suppose their enemies were coming toward them from the other end? He'd told the girl all was well. But what might happen to her in the dark?

After about ten yards he could feel brick instead of wood beside him, and the space seemed to be opening up above.

In the total darkness he could hear Lucy whimpering in terror.

“Lucy, girl, Lucy,” he whispered, trying to grope forward. “What happened? Where art thou?”

“I fell!” The invisible voice was tearful.

“Stay where you are, child. I'll come up to you.”

He was on his knees now, reaching ahead with his hands. Could he even perhaps stand? The surface below him was rough stone now, not earth. Somewhere in the obscurity before him Lucy was crying. He advanced cautiously, trying to find her in the darkness.

But careful as he was, he could not control himself as he went over an invisible edge. He lost balance, and his arms lunging out to the side for support suddenly found nothing. He toppled forward, chin first, down what seemed to be a short flight of steps, and landed on top of the child, who squeaked with alarm. He felt his face land against her gritty hair, and their skulls knocked audibly together.

“Good Lord!” he breathed, extricating himself, and feeling for her with his hands. “Have I hurt thee?”

A long pause. Then a small doubtful voice said, “No, sir.”

He had her by the elbows and stood up, lifting her with him, setting her upright—he hoped—on what appeared to be a fairly level floor. He reached around until he could find her hand, then pulled her close beside him.

“You've served us passing well, Lucy,” he whispered. “A brave bit of exploring. Now I shall go first, and you keep near me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you still have your book?”

“Yes, sir.”

He groped forward. At a guess, he imagined them to be in the cellar of an adjoining house. He must find the way out quickly, as it could only be a matter of moments before the men in the Otter understood what had passed and came racing around to the exit of their tunnel. If they had not done so already.

He started to his right, and moved in what he hoped to be a straight line until he reached a wall. Then he began to trace this. No blind groping in the centre of the room. Somewhere on the perimeter there must be what he was looking for.