The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner

by T. F. Banks

  Arabella took the paper from his hand and pondered it a moment. “It is most certainly about the loss of love. ‘The empty night’ alludes to that as well.” She looked up at Morton. “I wonder if Arthur was wrong. He thought them about to announce their engagement. But what if the opposite was true?” She glanced at the verse again. “Did Louisa know how Glendinning felt?”

  Morton shook his head. “I wonder. It is terribly despairing, isn't it? And think of what then occurred: He challenged the most feared duelist in London. It does look a bit suspicious, especially when you consider that Glendinning apparently had no skill with a pistol.”

  Arabella put her glass down and gazed gravely at Morton. “Self-murder. That's what you're suggesting?”

  Morton shrugged. “I don't know. But what if his love affair with Miss Hamilton had come to an end, or he felt it was about to?”

  “But why was he in the Otter?”

  “When dying to defend her honour failed—and remember he is of a romantic disposition—perhaps he'd learned he could procure poison at the Otter. Or meet someone there who could procure it for him.”

  “Miss Hamilton is not paying you to learn this.”

  Morton nodded. He left his chair and went to the open window where the slight breeze touched him. The street was very quiet. He felt a tension in the city, now, with Bonaparte returned to the continent. All of England seemed to be holding its breath. He thought of Wellington, and had a sudden image of the Duke bent over a map by lamplight. What a terrible weight of responsibility on one man's shoulders.

  Arabella came and stood beside him.

  “I have need of some assistance in this matter, I now see,” Morton said.

  “Hmm.”

  “There are a few people in proper society who might be more forthcoming if they were approached by someone with more subtlety than I could ever manage. Someone they greatly esteem and have no doubt long wished to meet.”

  “Such a person would be difficult to find. And what would such a helper's share of the four hundred pounds be, I wonder?”

  “Madam!” Morton said. “The sort of person with access to the circles I speak of cares nothing for gain.”

  A voice cried out in the darkened distance and they both leaned out, listening intently, but it was only a domestic dispute, not someone shouting news from France. A familiar male uneasiness stirred in Morton, as it had so many times before. Should he not be there, with the others? Facing what had to be faced? Yet here he lingered. Fine wine, fine food, a beautiful mistress. Comfort. Safety.

  Perhaps Arabella sensed his mood, for she laid an arm gently over his shoulders, which few women were tall enough to do. For a few quiet moments they stood gazing out together. Then they turned and faced each other, slipping into the more familiar male-female embrace, Arabella's arms sliding luxuriously around his neck as his own encircled her shapely waist.

  He started to speak. “I should be—”

  But she silenced him with a kiss. Her breath was warm, faintly redolent of wine. “No,” she murmured, brushing her lips across his cheek and down over his bare throat. “You have your duties here. It comes for us all, as the poet said, and soon enough. We needn't go seeking it.” She pressed her face close to him a moment. “Soon enough,” she whispered.

  Chapter 14

  Next morning Morton rose early and made his way to Cartwright Square. Enquiries around the shabby neighbourhood led him to a ruinous rookery in a narrow passageway on the east side, just as Acton, the hackney driver, had said. Stepping gingerly to avoid the sewage that trickled in the gutter running down the center of the alley, Morton picked his way through the crowd of staring urchins and hollow-looking women who inhabited this miserable warren.

  Here and there a figure sat on a stone step, head bent, lost entirely to the world, while others leaned out of the low windows, gazing at him with empty curiosity, staring blankly at the baton of office he carried in clear view in his hand, so that he needn't guard his pockets at every step.

  Whenever Morton entered these parts of the city, he felt uneasy, almost at odds with himself. Part of him stiffened in resistance, as if against some kind of contagion, the contagion of poverty and social oblivion. He felt a kind of anger at these people, with their silent misery, their fecklessness, their lack of hope. The criminals, who tried to seize what they wanted from life, were almost better. But he also couldn't help feeling a certain sympathy for the gutter-folk, even pity, and a sense of bafflement. Morton, too, had been born without fortune, but he had made something of his life.

  “Here but for fortune,” he whispered.

  He asked for the jarvey by name.

  “Oh, aye, yer worship, Raff Akin dwelt here, he did. But he's off now, an' his wife and kinchins gone wif him.”

  A little crowd had gathered round and was staring up at Morton. Their spokesman was an almost inconceivably dirty little male person with the face of a grotesque dwarf and an indeterminate age somewhere between six and sixty.

  Morton wondered if Acton had really left or if this was a lie—merely the common suspicion of police. “Unfortunate; I had a small reward for him,” Morton said. “But he's gone, you tell me?”

  “Oh, aye, yer worship; yesternight.”

  “Where to?”

  “Didn't say, yer worship” was the listless reply.

  “Back to Yorkshire,” someone else volunteered. “That's where he hailed from, Raff did.”

  Morton tapped his baton on his gloved palm, perplexed, hardly noticing that the ragged people around him watched this little movement as if fascinated.

  “Why?” he mused, as much to himself as to them.

  “Hardly any wonder, yer worship, what with horneys coming about for him,” suggested someone at the back of the crowd, and everyone nodded.

  Morton reached into his pocket and took out a coin— a silver one. “I mean no harm to Ralph Acton,” he told them. “I will give this to anyone who can lead me to him.”

  He was offering enough for anyone hereabouts to give up a neighbour, but no one stepped forward. Acton, Morton guessed, was really gone.

  He exchanged the coin for a few coppers, which he distributed randomly. The jarvey had not told all that he knew, but even so, it was a surprise to find the man had fled. Something had happened at the Otter—or Ralph Acton believed so. And whoever had been involved frightened Acton enough that he vacated the city, or at least Cartwright Square—not that it would likely have taken much to frighten the little driver. Whatever the truth, it made Glendinning's death more peculiar.

  Nan had provided him with the temporary address of Halbert Glendinning's valet. The man, whose name was William Reddick, was staying at a cousin's tenement in Whitechapel as he searched for a new situation. In a cramped and stuffy little parlour also occupied by a toothless grandmother and several crawling children, he and Morton sat and talked.

  “I am commissioned by a friend of Mr. Glendinning to look into his death,” Morton explained.

  Reddick nodded expectantly.

  “Can you tell me what happened with Mr. Glendinning that day? Did he speak of the duel?”

  “No, sir. He said only that he would go out to an affair of honour in the morning—this was the night before—and he gave me orders as to what clothes he would wear.”

  “Did he say why he would fight this duel?”

  “No, sir, only what I said, and I didn't ask more. He was not one for explaining himself, Mr. Morton. He was a bit dark, was Mr. Glendinning.”

  “And the day of the duel?”

  “He had me wake him earlier than usual—much earlier—though I don't think he had slept much the night before. I'd heard him up pacing late into the night and then in the morning he were very pale, sir. I brought him his usual breakfast but he barely touched it. Drank his coffee, dressed very neat, and went out. Gave me five pound when he left and said I'd always been a good gentleman's gentleman. It were most affecting, sir. Most affecting…” Reddick paused to brush at his eyes
with the back of his hand.

  Henry Morton murmured that he was sure it was. And thought, did men with vile appetites awaken this kind of affection in their servants?

  Reddick continued. “I fretted the morning away, sir, as you may imagine. Mr. Glendinning had not seemed at all confident when he left, you see. But at half eleven he returned. He were not at all happy looking, though, even if he were still alive. Indeed, sir, he looked more melancholy than when he had left. He gave me orders that he was not to be disturbed, and went directly up to his study. And he were very quiet up there, Mr. Morton. I thought he might have fallen asleep on the divan, as sometimes he did.

  “Mr. Hamilton called in the early afternoon, but I told him my master was asleep and not to be disturbed. He asked after him, and then went on his way, saying only that he'd meet up with him at Lord Arthur's that evening. A little later I heard Mr. Glendinning up, pacing the floor. There were certain floorboards that creaked tellingly. But he never came down, nor did he ring.

  “Just shy of five, a boy appeared with a note. I took it up to my master and found him awake at his desk. He took the paper and I saw nothing more of him until he rang and had me draw a bath and lay out his clothes for Portman House later that night. He went out about nine or a little past, and that was all I ever knew until one of the servants from Lord Arthur's came by to say that… he was gone.” The man drew his hand over his face.

  “Do you know whom the note was from? Did you see its contents?” Morton asked.

  Reddick sighed deeply and shook his head.

  “I don't suppose this note was left in his study?”

  “I wouldn't know, sir. His family took all of his effects, so you must ask Sir William.”

  Morton nodded. He'd likely get nothing from Sir William Glendinning, especially if the note said “You can find what you want at the Otter House.”

  “Was the note-bearer known to you?”

  “Nay, sir. He were just a boy as you might see about the street.”

  “William, was your master of a melancholy disposition, would you say?”

  The man hesitated. “Well, sir, he and Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Peter Hamilton, were men of letters. Their book-learning led them into all manner of strange notions, and to ask peculiar questions. I sometimes heard their discussions, sir. They were as like to question the morning, Mr. Morton. I had never heard such things. They were queer on these poets: Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Wordsworth, and Lord Byron. Talked about them for hours. Mr. Glendinning was beside himself with joy to have Lord Byron visit, though it were for barely a half an hour, sir. Read some of Mr. Glendinning's poems, and was very complimentary, Mr. Glendinning said. Thereafter, my master and Mr. Hamilton took to getting themselves up in dark clothing, as though someone had died.” He shook his head. “I thought it was this man Brummell they were in imitation of but it was Lord Byron, I came to realise.”

  Morton concealed a smile at the perplexity of this simple serving-man over his betters' fopperies.

  Reddick continued. “I suppose I never really understood what they were about, sir. But it seemed to me t'were a romantical kind of sadness they worked themselves into. As though there were some pleasure to be had from taking such a dark view of the world.” He shrugged. “He were a happier man before he discovered Lord Byron and those others, Mr. Morton.”

  Morton considered how to phrase his next question.

  “Do you think, in this mood of romantical sadness, it's possible your master despaired to the point of…not wanting to go on?”

  Reddick sat back and looked at Morton gravely. “Do you mean self-murder, Mr. Morton?”

  “It might have been that his relations with Miss Hamilton were, perhaps, not quite as he wished them?”

  Reddick sat back in his chair, glancing once at the old woman rocking a baby in the corner.

  “It would help me to know these things, William. It would help the person who commissioned me to know the truth.”

  Reddick looked down at the ancient planked floor. “It were always hard,” he said softly. “Not that she isn't a good, kindly lady, Miss Hamilton, but even so…Mr. Glendinning seemed always… confused. One day atop the world, the next in the depths, if you know what I mean.” He looked up at Morton suddenly. “He lived and died by that young woman, Mr. Morton. That were the way of it.”

  Morton found Jimmy Presley in the Golden Apple in the Strand, a favourite haunt of the Runners. The younger man was poring over a well-thumbed conduct manual, which he swiftly tucked away when Morton sat down. They greeted each other in friendly enough fashion, although the shadow of their last conversation still hung over them.

  “Now, Jimmy, tell me about that duel you and George Vaughan broke up. I'm doing a little looking into that Glendinning cove who was in it.”

  “Who's having you do that?” Presley immediately wondered. “I heard Sir Nathaniel said we'd go no further.”

  “This is private work,” calmly answered Henry Morton. “Now, on Wormwood Scrubs that morning…”

  “Aye, then.” But Presley looked worried. “What would you know?”

  “How did things stand when you got there?”

  “We heard the shot—”

  “One shot?”

  “Aye, just one. I don't know who told Sir Nathaniel otherwise. We heard it as we were coming up through the woods, to the south of them. George Vaughan cursed, and we started to run. We had the constables of the Horse Patrol with us, you understand, dismounted.”

  Morton nodded.

  “So, as we came out into the clearing, we found them there, smoke hanging in the air. George Vaughan commanded them to stand down, and they did. That's really all there was, Morton. There was the seconds, and a cove who was probably the surgeon. Two carriages.”

  “Did you get the name of the surgeon? I'd like to talk with him.”

  Presley looked embarrassed. “Nay, we never did ask.”

  Morton frowned. If the police officers hadn't found out, certainly none of the dueling party would betray their doctor, who was also breaking the law.

  “Did they object, when you stopped the fight? Did Rokeby and Pierce object?”

  Presley considered. “Not that one would take note of. 'Twas all very gentlemanlike. The Glendinning cove looked like you could push him over with a feather, so we wondered if he'd been hit, after all. But he hadn't. Colonel Rokeby, he was cool as ice, and said as how his pistol had hung fire and only went off when he lowered it. And that was all there was.”

  Morton smiled at his young companion's obvious lack of relish for the next part of the story.

  “Not quite all, Jimmy, now was it? Didn't you and Vaughan talk to them? Make certain arrangements?”

  Presley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, Morton—”

  “Never fear, Jimmy,” Morton interrupted him. “I'm not concerned about the amounts, and I've no mind to peach to Sir Nathaniel about any of this. Not that it would surprise him. It's all done, that part. But I want to know what words passed between you, and how these gentlemen appeared.”

  Presley released his breath and shrugged. “It was George Vaughan, mainly, as handled it. You should ask him.”

  “I want it from you.”

  “Well, Glendinning and Rokeby both went back to their carriages. And Vaughan had words with Pierce and the other second.”

  “Peter Hamilton?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Had words with them both, together?”

  “Nay, each of them, private-like. Pierce first, then the other. And I talked to Pierce, after.”

  “What did he say?”

  “A lot of not very much,” said Presley with a laugh. “This is a cove with a jaw! But of all I remember, he was saying how the Colonel wasn't really angry against the young swell, and that he didn't see how there had to be a bother over the duel, and how something would be worked out so that everyone was satisfied, including us officers, for our trouble.”

  “Did you hear anything of Vaughan's conversatio
n with him?”

  “Nay, they stood apart a bit. But at the end, he says something to the effect—Pierce does—we'll meet by and by, Mr. Vaughan.”

  “What did he mean?”

  Presley shook his head. “Maybe only that the Colonel was likely to be fighting more duels, and us Runners were likely to be interrupting them again. The notion didn't seem to worry him very much.”

  “What did Vaughan say to the other side? To Peter Hamilton?”

  “I heard little enough of that, either. But I think they arranged something, so…we could have our… what he called our consideration. He said he hadn't enough on his person to satisfy us.”

  “Why did Hamilton pay it, and not Rokeby? Or were they both going to contribute?”

  “I know not,” said Presley. “Hamilton spoke low.”

  “So, they met later, Hamilton and Vaughan? Or was it Pierce and Vaughan? Or both?”

  Presley shrugged again. “All I know is George Vaughan gave me my share at Bow Street that afternoon.”

  Morton mused.

  “I know you saw very little of Halbert Glendinning. Did you get any chance to judge of his character, Jimmy? What manner of man he was?”

  “He was dressed the gentleman of fashion, all in dark cloth as the young swells fit themselves out now. That was all. And he seemed as weak as a woman, for a man whose opponent's pistol missed fire.”

  “If it actually did,” muttered Morton.

  “Why would the Colonel bother to lie about that?”

  “Maybe to keep himself just exactly on the lee side of the law. Or maybe so that it'd never be known he'd actually missed his mark. Someone obviously spread news that there were two shots, and it reached the Chief Magistrate that way. Perhaps you weren't close enough to hear the first report.”

  Presley conceded the possibility. Or perhaps the rumour had originated with a member of the Horse Patrol, who had simply got it wrong.

  “It's a strange business, isn't it, for two gents to try to kill each other when they're not even angry? Maybe 'twas all for show,” Jimmy Presley suggested then. Morton smiled once more. In which case, there hadn't been much of a crime, or any reason to feel guilty about accepting a “consideration” not to report it.