The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (21 page)

There was a silence, and Morton could feel the curious eyes of the whole gathering upon him while Stretton bent his head a little in what seemed to be deep contemplation. Then, slowly, the old soldier beckoned to Morton to come and join him. The man sitting nearest vacated his place unasked, and Morton made his way through to sit where he had been invited.

“Who art thou who asks?” wondered Sempronious Stretton quietly.

“Henry Morton. I have come from London and am a friend of the lady Davenant was to have wed.”

Stretton stared at him a moment, and though the gaze was not entirely unfriendly it was certainly suspicious.

“There are those up in London-town who have spread lies about my captain and fouled his fine name,” the old soldier said, his voice dark.

“I am not one of them. These rumours have been repeated so often that they have begun to acquire the lustre of truth. I would gladly gainsay them but I was not there, at Albuera. What can you tell me of Richard Davenant and his last hours, that I might tell his lady?”

The man gazed at Morton a moment more, only the insects pulsing in the invisible fields beyond, the gathered men drawing on their pipes and watching. Then Stretton nodded, turning his gaze away.

“Captain Davenant commanded Third Company,
First Battalion, for some two years. That was my company, and I did know him, I knew him well. He was a fine officer, the finest I ever served, and most every man he commanded would say just the same. He was a gentleman of true generosity and tested valour, who cared for the lives and comforts of his soldiers. He was the soldiers' friend, sir, and that was not to be said of every man who held a commission. He fought with honour in a dozen engagements in Portugal and in Spain, and he died at Albuera, in May of the year eleven.”

He finished speaking, and a deep quiet fell over the men in the inn yard. Here and there a red glow brightened as men had thoughtful recourse to their pipes.

When Morton felt it proper to break the silence, he asked: “Were you there that day, Sergeant Stretton?”

“I was there,” the man replied, still not looking at Morton.

“Did you see him fall?” Morton asked very softly. Sempronious Stretton took a long breath, then he began to speak again.

“The battle fought at Albuera was a very terrible battle, sir. We were under the command of General Beresford, who was a good soldier, but not so able a field general as the Duke of Wellington, who was in the north at that time. We were facing Marshal Soult, who was the best the French had in Spain. The weather was hot as a smith's forge, and the place where we fought was covered in tall grasses—so dry that the flame from the muzzles of our muskets set the grasses afire. Even as we engaged, the ground was burning, and men who fell were sometimes burned to death before they could be helped—or they died of the smoke, which was harsh and thick. It was here that Colborne's brigade was lost,
and where Myers was killed and most of his fusileers destroyed while taking the center. It cost them all but fifteen hundred of their six thousand. We were on the right flank, and we lost close to half, and more than half our officers. All through that terrible afternoon Captain Davenant was calling for us to go forward, and we did go forward. Again and again he rallied us and called to the other captains to bring up their companies, even when matters seemed to be going very hard for us. I saw him, sir, before he died, but I did not see him fall. I was in the wing squad, second rank. I saw him go ahead into the smoke, he and all those with him, and be swallowed up in it.”

Silence again left Morton wondering if that was all Stretton had seen. After another long moment, he asked: “Were you amongst those who carried him back?”

“Nay, sir, I was not. I was in ranks all night. I heard later that he had fallen. Like so many others.”

“I am told, Mr. Stretton, that there was a captain and some other soldiers who carried him back to the dressing-post.”

“It may be so. I did not see it nor ever hear of it.”

With reluctance, Morton decided he must press the issue even further.

“The battalion surgeon, Bromley, claims that the men who carried Captain Davenant back said he was shot while fleeing the French.”

“He did not flee,” Stretton said firmly, more than a little menace in his voice. “He did not flee. I know men who were near him at the end—men I would trust with my life and whose word I would never question. They were there, and Captain Davenant was before them.”

Morton gazed quickly about the gathering. Men
shuffled their feet and looked down at the earth. Some muttered to their fellows. But he was here to find the truth and he would not leave without it.

“But he received his wound in the back,” Morton said.

“What of it, sir?” Stretton said, his voice clearly angry now. “Many a man is shot while helping another, or turning back to call others forward. Some are shot by their own in the thick of battle, and there was no battle in which such a thing were more likely to happen. The smoke was thick as night at times, and men from both sides shot their own—more times than any would care to know.

“You may tell this man Bromley he'd best not come into Sussex, and repeat his lies here where men know better. And you may also tell Captain Davenant's lady that she should keep his memory bright. You may tell her, and you may tell all of those who have heard the lies, that Richard Davenant was as brave a man as I have ever known—and I have known many. That is all I have to say about it.”

Next morning Henry Morton rode back to London through the shining green and chestnut countryside with a lighter heart. Always he had gone forward, Captain Davenant, urging the men on. Fighting, calling to the other captains. Until…he had disappeared into the smoke.

No more was possible, but it was surely enough. Enough to tell Miss Hamilton, and enough for Morton himself. Some malice—and not an aimless malice—had determined to tarnish a good man's name. It might have needed only a few words spoken at the right time and
into the right ears. Then the usual avidity with which people took up and spread such a story took over, and soon enough the damage was done. A thousand pities that London would never hear the simple eloquence of private soldier Stretton.

Why had Morton ridden so far to hear this? Because if Richard Davenant was being defamed, whoever was responsible was a man whose other activities Henry Morton wanted to look into further.

And who else might that be than the little dispenser of poisons, Dr. Robert Bromley?

I
t was too late to carry the good news to Louisa
Hamilton, so Morton had Wilkes return the hackney-horse to its livery, bathed and changed, and went down to Drury Lane for the last act of Arabella's new production of Dibden's
Revenge
. As he strode up to the theatre he saw a dark, solitary figure looming through the fog, seemingly awaiting him on the front steps under the marble portico. It proved to be Vickery, another of his brother officers from Bow Street, who had obtained Morton's old job of guarding on performance nights. It was in this function that Morton had first met Mrs. Malibrant, retrieving a valuable ring that had been snatched from her in the foyer.

“Well, Mr. Vickery, any excitement?”

James Vickery was a sober, slow-spoken man.

“Well, Mr. Morton, the flash crowd are out and about on a dim night like this, that's sure.”

“Oh, aye?”

“A lady's diamond bracelet taken, just an hour ago, but I saw the dab and gave him chase.”

“Nab him?”

“Aye, I did. Ran him down in Little Russell Street. The lady gave me a guinea for me trouble, too. But then the management of the theatre here comes out and abuses me for deserting me post.”

Morton laughed. Typical enough! The private parties who hired Runners for a specific service seemed to think they should drop every other demand of their profession. But no one, as Morton's colleagues would often say indignantly to each other, ever promised these clients exclusive use of an officer of justice.

“What are the swells saying about the new play?”

“Well, Mr. Morton, you know I don't listen much to their prattle. Sounds as if they approve Mrs. Malibrant, though.”

Morton smiled and gave him a friendly slap on the arm before going in.

Henry Morton approved Mrs. Malibrant too, as he told her an hour or so later, backstage. It had been a few days since they'd had this kind of privacy and the kisses tasted particularly good, the look in each other's eyes as they held each other out for inspection particularly warm.

“Let's retreat to my little castle and have a supper” was Arabella's suggestion.

There'd been a full house and out on the front porch there was still near-pandemonium in the fog. A huge press of carriages struggled to move down the narrow street to the theatre doors. Competing with the coachmen and the private lackeys calling out to try to locate clients and masters were the link men with their torches, bawling “
Who goes home!
” to offer their services as escorts.

“Perhaps we should just stroll down to the Strand and see if we can get a cab there,” suggested Morton.

But then a hackney-driver hailed them, seeming to make a superhuman effort to barge his way past his competition to reach them. Other potential fares shouted at the man in indignation but he was determined to give Morton and Mrs. Malibrant the benefit of his exertions. Morton smiled. The jarveys took pleasure in serving the beauties of Drury Lane.

A few minutes later they had struggled free of the crowd and, in the intimacy of the coach interior, after a few more kisses of reacquaintance, Henry Morton brought his fair companion abreast of his efforts.

Arabella seemed to regard Morton oddly as he told her what he had done with his last two days. “Well, if nothing else comes of it,” she offered flatly, “Louisa will be glad of the news.” She eyed Morton. “I should think she will be very grateful indeed.”

“Now, Arabella,” Morton said, sensing the drift of things, “I did not do it for that reason, as you well know. There could easily be some connection between Davenant's death and Glendinning's. You remarked on it yourself.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose. But do be aware, Henry, of your propensity to rescue women in distress—especially troubled women. And if they are comely into the bargain…”

“If I did not know better I would say you were jealous.”

“You do know better,” Arabella answered, pulling her shawl about her, and in doing so, moving imperceptibly away from him in the carriage.

Morton did not quite know how to retrieve his last remark, or save the situation, and they rode on in silence for a time.

“I suppose it comes back to this man Bromley,” he said at last.

Arabella glanced at him, and then quickly away, but then she relented. “I suppose it is the unavoidable conclusion, though I will be disappointed to see that rogue Rokeby go free. Did you not say that Rokeby, Davenant, and Bromley were all in the same regiment?”

“Nay, Bromley transferred from Davenant's Thirty-fifth to Rokeby's Guards, and that is odd enough. Then Bromley ruins the reputation of Louisa Hamilton's dead fiancé. Rokeby makes a play for Miss Hamilton, but she refuses him. Some months later Rokeby provokes Glendinning into a duel, and when that fails someone with some knowledge of physic administers a draught of poison later the same evening.”

“Well, then Bromley has assisted Rokeby,” Arabella said, though without her usual enthusiasm. “How else can you read this book?”

“I fear this is a book with too many possible endings. If you consider—”

“Where on earth are we going?” Arabella suddenly interrupted.

Morton stared at her in surprise for an instant, then twisted round and peered out the coach window. They had turned into a narrow stone passage that neither of them recognised. This was not the way to Red Lion Square and Theobald's Road.

“Henry,” said Arabella, looking out the other side.

They came swarming out of the foggy shadows as the coach rolled to a stop. Four, perhaps five of them, silent and swift.