The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (24 page)

“Hello, Mr. Morton, sir. Haven't clapped eyes on me in a twelvemonth, have you?”

“Valentine Rudd,” murmured Morton in recognition.

“It's me. Been down in Cornwall, sojourning with me cousins there. But I did miss London-town, Mr. Morton, I'll say that.”

“Are you back cursing the moon?”

Morton had known Rudd at Drury Lane the previous year, where the big countryman had employed himself as a link man, carrying a torch and offering protection to the patrons on their somewhat dangerous nighttime trip back to their homes. Such men were called moon-cursers, as bright moonlight supposedly made their services unnecessary. Rudd was not a man of much wit, but Morton had always liked him.

“Nay, I'm 'prenticing now, with a locksmith in Brick Lane.”

“What brings you into a wretched place like this, Rudd? I always thought you were a man of decent habits.”

Valentine Rudd looked a little crestfallen.

“Well, Mr. Morton, here's the way of it. It's rather a
strange yarn, I'll admit to you. True, this house is not for the likes of me. But I wandered in here by chance, soon after I got back. I didn't know what it was, Mr. Morton, this place. I went upstairs, as all I wanted was a regular bit o' laced mutton, as I'll say to you I do indulge in from time to time, when the inclination arises. You'll understand that, sir, and not think too much the worse of me?”

Morton shrugged.

“Well, I goes up, just for the usual knock or two. But there she is, the sweetest little mort. Not as I expected at all.”

“But a kinchin-mort, Rudd. A child!”

“Nay, she's older than she looks!” He blushed. Then blurted it once and quickly. “And she's all my heart now!” He grinned helplessly at Morton. “I come back to see her when I can, and I tell her when I can raise enough from my toil, I'll buy her free, and we'll be wed. So I promised her, and so I'll do, too, God help me.”

Morton shook his head in wonder at this odd romanticism. However, he knew of other marriages in the city that, against all likelihood, had begun this way, and even succeeded. Then a troubling thought. “Is the one you're nutty on the little wench Lucy?”

“Oh, nay, Mr. Morton. Mine's named Marie, my little charmer, French-like. And she's nay so young. Full fifteen year she is, just she looks younger.” A furrow of reflection passed across his broad brow. “Nay, that Lucy's a deep one. That Lucy's not for the likes of me.”

Morton pondered.

“How much money do you need to get your girl free?”

“Oh, be…” he calculated, “some twenty shilling more.”

Such a small price! The child was not strictly the
property of the Otter, of course. Hers was probably some kind of informal indentured servitude, and the sum was a debt owed the Otter either by her parents or herself. If Morton simply removed young Marie and defied them to take her back they might, or might not, resist. The law was murky in this area, as in so many others. But it would probably be cleaner for her, and for Rudd, if they got their money.

Morton leaned forward slightly, to be quite sure they were not overheard.

“Very well, Valentine Rudd. You help me, and it'll be worth twenty shillings to you. Now listen here—and don't look too happy while you're talking to a horney.”

Rudd grinned in incomprehension, realised what Morton meant, and belatedly attempted to look grim.

“I need two things,” went on Morton. “I need a little information I can trust, and I need a key to this house. The lock's a Bramah, so the key will be small and easily enough pinched. Can you do it?”

Rudd thought, then very slowly nodded.

“Mayhap, we can. If Marie can fetch the key for me, I can get a copy made at our forge. We've done Bramahs before.”

For what purposes? silently wondered Morton, but made no more of it.

“Wait outside for me, at the corner of Bishopsgate and Union streets, nigh the Charley there. I'll not be more than an hour more, and we'll speak on this.” He sat back and said in a louder voice: “You're even stupider than the rest!”

And Valentine Rudd seemed prone to demonstrate this by looking, at least for a moment, genuinely hurt.

There were only a few more to speak to. When he was done, Morton called to Joshua, who was morosely
surveying his deserted tavern. Each of his customers had beat a hasty retreat once Morton had talked to him.

“I'll take another dram of your brandy before I go.”

Joshua looked black, but complied and, as Morton had hoped, called for Lucy to deliver the order. Lucy brought it as before, but when her back was turned from the bar she favoured Morton with a brilliant, conspiratorial grin. So, it appeared she had not been harmed. With any luck, the old woman had not reported Morton's early visit at all.

He was rewarded with something more than this reassurance, however. As she carefully set down the drink before him, the girl leaned very slightly forward, and in a clear quick whisper, said:

“ ‘The Ass-syr-ian came down like the wolf on the
fold
. And his co-horts were gleam-ing in purple and
gold
!’”

Morton laughed aloud in surprise, and with a joyous flash of her brown eyes she darted off again.

His anger had drained away. Joshua's goodwill might preserve Lucy from any consequences of this suspicious fraternisation with the enemy, so this time Morton paid for his drink, and even added a few coins to compensate for the broken table and glassware before he left.

Valentine Rudd was waiting as instructed, chatting in friendly fashion with the aged “Charley,” one of London's notoriously ineffectual nightwatchmen, who had crept for a while from the safety of his sentry box. Morton took the Cornishman by the arm and they walked along Bishopsgate, passing from the shadows into the yellow glow of the lamps and then back into the darkness again.

“Were you there in the Otter on Friday last, Rudd?”

“Nay, Mr. Morton, I weren't. But there's a cull who
surely was. He's there most every night. I've never gone but he weren't there.”

“Who is that?”

“Wardle, Amos Wardle. He is a confectioner, and has his shop at the corner of Osborne Street and Whitechapel, just by us. Seems he has a weakness for the kinchin-morts. Brings them candy. He's a mutton-monger, sure.”

“Married man?” wondered Morton.

“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd emptily.

“Any daughters?” asked Morton, bitterly.

“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd, “I seem to recall.” And his surprised glance at the Runner's face told Morton that the simple man did not see the point of the question. Morton changed the subject.

“What can you tell me about the Otter itself? Who is the owner? Is it that cove Joshua?”

“Nay, I can't say as I ever heard anyone say who owned it.” Rudd scratched his head. “Now, Mr. Morton, sir, I suppose I didn't really have my eyes about me in there. I only had my eyes one place, that's the truth.”

Morton tried to describe the burly man he had seen before, from whom Joshua seemed to be taking his instructions.

“Oh, him, aye. I think I know the cove you mean. He's called Bill, I think.”

“Bill who?”

Rudd looked at him helplessly. Morton saw one of the infrequent hackney-coaches coming down the street toward them and decided he had enough for the moment.

As he flagged the cab, he turned back to Rudd, reaching into his pocket.

“See if you can find me Bill's name. Here is ten
shillings. Bring that key to my lodgings by the forenoon tomorrow, and there will be ten more left for you with my landlady. See that you go promptly and buy out your Marie, too, and get her clear of that place. I shall come and look for you in Brick Lane soon enough, to hear what else you can remember.” And he gave Rudd his address and climbed into the cab, telling the jarvey to take him to the hotel in Mayfair where he was to meet Arabella for a late supper.

Valentine Rudd gave him a hearty wave and started to stroll off into the dark, whistling as he went, a man at peace with the world.

As soon as he dropped back into his seat, Henry Morton, by contrast, began to brood. He began to wonder why only one child should be rescued from the Otter. He thought of the little girl who, in such a place, was resolutely going about learning to read, of all things! But was he going to rescue them all? And then, what about all the rest scattered about London? And in every other city in the land? But why stop there? The world was full of mistreated females.

“Bloody Sir Galahad,” he muttered aloud, and stared unhappily out at the dark shapes passing in the shadowy streets of London.

M
orton was rather slow to rise the next
morning. Even the steaming coffee that Wilkes brought him did little to clear his head, or soothe the rawness of his mood from the previous evening. The Otter had been unpleasant enough. Then he and Arabella had quarreled in the hotel dining room, green-eyed jealousy once again raising its head, and she had gone off to Darley instead of coming home with him. Morton in turn had sought other distractions, primarily of the liquid sort. Now he sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his face as his manservant arranged his shaving bowl and razor and laid out his clothes in tactful silence.

Finally, Henry Morton looked up.

“How would you take to a little jaunt in the country, Wilkes?” he asked thickly.

“I believe it would answer for any number of reasons,” Wilkes replied. “Where shall we go?”

“Down into East Sussex. But I shan't be coming. Get a hack from Master Toller—” But there was something about the look on Wilkes's face.

“I can no longer ride, sir,” the old man murmured apologetically. “It's my hands—the horses cannot bear the shaking.”

“Ah. I should have thought. No matter, just take the Brighton Diligence.” Morton closed his eyes a moment. “There's an old veteran down there—man with a peg leg—Sergeant Sempronious Stretton….”

Morton spent much of the day loitering about the Old Bailey, waiting to give evidence in the trial of three simpletons who had attempted extortion and then murder—failing notably at both. The three were so benighted that Morton hardly thought it fair to hang them—they had not the wit of a single man amongst them. But their lordships were not so moved by this lack of God-given reason. They were condemned, and the thief-taker found himself enriched by thirty pounds for his part in their downfall.

The whole business left him in an even lower humour than he had begun the day.

As he emerged from the Old Bailey, someone hailed him, and at a distance he thought for a moment that it was Byron. But as the man drew near Morton realised it was not the poet, but Peter Hamilton again.

“Good day to you, sir,” Morton greeted him.

“Hello, Mr. Morton.”

Hamilton looked out of sorts, too, Morton thought. But the precincts were not cheerful, and the business that brought folk here was rarely of a pleasing nature.

“Nothing untoward, I hope?” Morton nodded toward the grim grey structure behind them.

“Not at all. A friend of mine is a barrister.” Hamilton
fell in beside Morton. “It is fortunate that I ran into you. I confess, I have been wondering how your investigation was going.”

Morton was reluctant. It seemed Hamilton wasn't entirely in his sister's confidence—and after all, she was paying for Morton's efforts, not he.

“I have discovered a number of things, though they don't yet sum to very much,” Morton admitted.

The other man bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Ah,” he said. Then: “Darley told me that Lady Caroline let him glance through Halbert's effects, but he found no letter.”

Morton had not yet heard of this. He tried to hide his frustration. “Unfortunate,” he muttered.

“I'm sure. I wonder what happened to the letter? Do you suppose his valet might have it?”

“No. I spoke with the man and am quite sure its whereabouts are unknown to him. It went into the trash, I suspect.”

“Do you think you can still snare Rokeby without it?”

“You seem rather sure it was Rokeby,” Morton observed.

“Well, I suppose he is the obvious villain. I should, however, not leap to conclusions. To be fair.”