The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (11 page)

“I know nothing of his private doings, Mr. Morton. But the maidservants in the Glendinning houses, both town and country, reported nothing amiss of him in the way of improper familiarities. I asked them particularly, when it began to seem Miss Hamilton might regard him with favour.”

“You take good care for your mistress's welfare, I think. If you had heard that he had in fact behaved in…an indiscreet or reprehensible way, would you have reported this to her?”

Nan's response was unhesitating. “Indeed I would. And to Master Peter.”

Morton made an approving sound, then posed the question that had been nagging at him.

“Do you know if Mr. Glendinning's familiars called him ‘Richard’?”

Nan responded slowly. “Not that I ever heard.”

“Who is ‘Richard,’ then, Nan?”

She looked steadily at him, considering. “I can't think of anyone by that name who could be relevant to this matter, sir. But it is a common enough name.”

“I suppose it is. Did Mr. Glendinning have any detractors?”

“I would hardly know, sir,” Nan said. “He was very mild in his manner and congenial to all, so far as I knew.”

When she was gone, Morton examined the banker's draught with more care and found, to his own amusement, that his pulse sped up slightly as he did. How often did even the great John Townsend receive a sum like this? But once before, a letter of this sort had proven fraudulent, and in the end Morton had only been able to dispose of it for a few pence on the pound. He'd best cash this one before he invested too much time and energy in the matter.

Then he sat, tapping the paper on the arm of his chair, and thinking out his strategy. By rights, he ought to report to Bow Street now. But he felt, as he had told Arabella, that he might do well to keep himself out of Sir Nathaniel's view till the Chief Magistrate's ire had cooled. Let him think he was searching for the Earl of Elgin's stolen antiquities.

In fact, as regarded that matter, there really was nothing he could do but wait. He had mined all his sources of information in London and uncovered nothing. Whoever had stolen that particular swag was being very quiet.

Not for the first time, Morton wondered who the thief
was. Elgin had enemies, and his plundering of the Parthenon was controversial—Byron, for one, had spoken out bitterly against it. Were the Greeks trying to recover their heritage? Or had a wealthy collector commissioned the crime—that would at least explain why the goods weren't being fenced. But, no, the most likely explanation was still some opportunist amongst the flash crowd. He'd make his move soon enough.

Wilkes came in then bearing a tray with Morton's usual morning fare, as well as a second bowl of
café au lait
.

“Ah, Wilkes, you are a rare treasure, I must tell you.” Morton took up the bowl. “Well, we were right about Nan. She was not about to offer much knowledge to the likes of you and me.”

“This man Glendinning, sir…”

A bit despite himself, Wilkes had begun to find himself attracted to his employer's profession. Morton smiled.

“Yes?”

“Was there a reason for someone else to kill him? Someone, I mean, other than Colonel Rokeby? I don't suppose there was a convenient will and an indebted nephew?”

“To be honest, I know very little as yet. But it's true that the reasons for murder are seldom subtle. Do you know what Townsend says? ‘When you hear hoofbeats, assume horses, not zebra.’ Someone tried to kill Mr. Glendinning in the morning—I hardly think it was someone else who managed it later the same day.”

Wilkes continued to ponder the thing, however, hovering halfway between the table and the doorway to the kitchen, the tray with Morton's empty bowl on it trembling precariously. “Even so, sir, the manner of it does
seem odd. Why the Otter? But then, if someone in the flash house murdered him in the usual way, why was he not robbed and his remains dumped into the river Thames? Why would they poison a man and then put him in a hackney-coach?”

“Questions I have asked myself. Mind you, it appears young Glendinning did get into the coach under his own steam—more or less. It seems more likely that the man who murdered Halbert Glendinning did it for revenge, not profit. A gentleman would have no need of a watch or a man's pocket money—not that Rokeby is much of a gentleman. But the question remains: revenge for what?”

“Or upon whom?” Wilkes said thoughtfully.

Morton stared at his companion wordlessly, rather struck by that particular question.

A
fter a very satisfactory visit to his banker,
Henry Morton set out for the West End with the kind of spring in his stride that only a healthy bank balance can give a man. Nan had told him that the Hamiltons were due to leave for Sussex early in the afternoon, and he wanted a chance to interview Peter Hamilton, Louisa's brother, before he departed.

Hamilton was unmarried, and in London he and his sister shared an elegant redbrick terrace house on the east side of Hanover Square. Morton presented himself at its door just after ten o'clock, and was ushered into a small salon on the ground floor to wait.

It was quiet, and sun shone brightly through the silks of the elaborately dressed window. Against one wall a massive eight-day clock, taller than Morton himself, ticked with a clear, jeweled ring on every beat. On either side of the timepiece were mounted several small, exquisite silverpoint studies from Canova.

Somewhere above him, he supposed, Louisa Hamilton was preparing for her journey. Or perhaps she was
merely sitting alone in the window light with her grief, waiting. Had word drifted up to her that he was here? Might she come and speak to him?

The door opened, and a young man came in.

As Morton turned, the new arrival bowed very slightly and stiffly, then clasped his hands behind his back. His rather heavy face was dark and unhappy.

“Mr. Morton?” His voice was surprisingly harsh, as if it were the voice of someone much older. This was the brother of the gracious Louisa Hamilton?

“Mr. Hamilton,” replied Morton in a civil manner, “I greatly appreciate your receiving me, at what must be a difficult moment.”

Another slight bow greeted this speech.

“I am an officer of police,” Morton went on, “and have been commissioned to make some enquiries into the death of Halbert Glendinning.”

Peter Hamilton cleared his throat. “But it is my impression, Mr. Morton, that the Bow Street Magistrate has spoken with Sir William and Lady Caroline Glendinning, and that they have declined to have this matter enquired into further.”

“I am fulfilling another commission, Mr. Hamilton, for a private party—partly with a view to clearing away any unfortunate imputations that might cloud Mr. Glendinning's name. I gather that you and he were close friends?”

Peter Hamilton breathed deeply, as though restraining strong feelings. As Morton watched him, waiting, he could see how his face, with its broad brows and large, soft eyes, did after all show a resemblance to Miss Hamilton's, even if his voice and manner were strikingly different.

“Who has given you such a commission, Mr. Morton?”

Morton had not forgotten what Miss Hamilton had said about the concerns of her family and friends.

“I am not at liberty to say, but you may trust it is at the command of one who wishes Mr. Glendinning's name well. Such proceedings are common and entirely legitimate.”

“It seems a bit irregular to me, considering the wishes of Halbert's own family.”

“Which is why I have been asked to carry out my enquiry with the utmost discretion. Did you not think it odd, Mr. Hamilton, that your friend was involved in a duel in the morning and then died the same evening?”

Hamilton considered a moment—perhaps debating whether to answer at all. “Well, I suppose, Mr. Morton,” he remarked, “that life is full of strange coincidences, most happier than that one, thankfully.” The man gestured to a chair and then sat himself. He sighed heavily. “But yes, it is odd, as you say.” He looked directly at Morton then. “Do you believe there is reason to think Halbert's death… questionable?”

Morton nodded.

“But did a surgeon not see him and pronounce it to be of natural causes?”

“He did, but I was there as well and thought his examination less than methodical. I also discovered that Mr. Glendinning had come to Portman House from a particularly odious establishment.”

Hamilton looked down, nodding. “Yes,” he said, “I had that from Lord Arthur.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall miss Halbert terribly. And poor, poor Louisa…” He looked up at Morton, appealingly. “By all means, let
us erase any doubts about his passing. It shall be difficult enough for us all to get over as it is. But always to wonder if there was foul play… How may I assist you, Mr. Morton?”

“I am given to understand you were his second in the duel with Colonel Rokeby.”

Hamilton nodded.

“What was this duel about?”

The other man stared back at him for a long moment.

“Colonel Rokeby,” he said very deliberately, “made remarks, in public, of a character no gentleman may brook. Halbert Glendinning issued a challenge. However, as you are perhaps aware, your
colleagues,
” and here Hamilton's graveled voice betrayed a hint of anger, “intervened, and prevented satisfaction.”

Morton tried to conceal his surprise.
Glendinning had challenged Rokeby!
That verse of the dead man's poetry came back to him, with its tone of despair and pessimism.
It will find you soon enough.

“What was the subject of these ‘remarks’?” he asked Peter Hamilton.

Hamilton took a breath and let it out in a tired sigh. “They made reference to Halbert himself, and to my half-sister, Louisa. You will forgive me if I do not repeat the remarks themselves.”

Morton nodded. “Where did Mr. Glendinning go after the duel was interrupted? Do you know what he did with that day?”

“Not with all of it, no. After the duel, Halbert and I parted immediately, agreeing that we would see each other again at Portman House that evening. He was exhausted, and shaken, and I urged him to return to his rooms and rest. I had never seen Halbert so, Mr. Morton, so I stopped in on him later that day, to be certain he was
well. His manservant said he was asleep, and I thought it best not to wake him. I never saw him again until they bore him up the steps at Lord Arthur's. Have you spoken with his manservant? Perhaps he knows more.”

“I haven't yet, but I shall.”

Hamilton closed his eyes for a second. “Before the duel I looked at Halbert thinking it might well be the last time I saw him alive. But after it was interrupted I trusted the danger past. And then…”

“Was Mr. Glendinning skilled with a pistol?”

The man shrugged. “I never got a chance to see. When he requested I be his second I asked him if he was confident, and he claimed he was.”

“Had he no idea who Colonel Rokeby was? The man is as proficient a killer as you will find, Mr. Hamilton.”

Peter Hamilton nodded grimly. “The Colonel's reputation had preceded him.”

Morton waited, but Hamilton said no more. His silence seemed a kind of testament to his late friend's courage. Or perhaps to his desperation.

“I am told that Mr. Glendinning was normally a man of moderate habits, as regards strong drink,” prompted Morton after a moment.

“His habits were those of… many gentlemen, in this regard.”

“His family seem to feel he was rather less the
bon vivant
than many gentlemen.”

Hamilton smiled wanly. “His family did not, of course, know his every action. He gave them no overt cause for concern, in his domestic manners.”

“But, from time to time, outside the circle of polite company, his behaviour was… less restrained?”

“He was a young man, Mr. Morton, given to the
habits of young men. But I never felt that his dedication to such pleasures would bring him to ruin, as it has so many.”

“Had you ever seen him drink himself insensible?”

“No, although I confess, I have seen Halbert imbibe enough that he required some assistance on stairs and entering carriages.”

Morton decided to go back to the duel. “You are familiar with Colonel Rokeby, I take it?”

Hamilton scowled. “Yes, he courted Louisa's favour for a short while. But she quickly saw through to his true nature.”

“Do you think her rejection of him could have led to a desire for revenge?”

Peter Hamilton raised his hands slightly in a gesture of helplessness. “It is hard for me to say. The Colonel's words were… cruel and rather calculated, I think, when I look back on it. Certainly they indicated a bitterness and resentment. I suppose it's not impossible. Perhaps even likely, when one thinks of it.”

“Where were these provocative remarks of Colonel Rokeby made?”

“At a private dinner at the Guards Club.”

“Were others present?”

Hamilton had risen and walked a few paces, agitated. “Some few officers, whose names I cannot recollect. Perhaps I never did know them.” He turned and faced Morton then. “Mr. Morton, I hope you will excuse me. We are to travel to Sussex today, Louisa and I, to attend Halbert Glendinning's funeral. I would certainly be pleased to continue this at another time….”