The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (32 page)

“That is quite enough.” Sir Nathaniel's harsh voice was resigned now. He had listened. Henry Morton fell silent.

The Magistrate paced back and forth in silence a few moments more, his eyes down, and his hands clasped behind his back. Then he stopped and straightened himself, looking at Morton.

“I will instruct Mr. Townsend to assemble members of the Horse Patrol and go to this house on a warrant which I will sign myself. I will instruct these officers to proceed to the Otter House and make a search for precisely the goods you make reference to. They will also seek out
any
persons in the place who might provide information. Not merely the one whom you seem to believe will do you good. We'll see what they all have to say.”

“But we must go quickly, this very moment, before the iron goes cold.”

Sir Nathaniel Conant frowned, and then without further speech went out to give the necessary instructions to his household. Even so, it was some minutes more before the horse was harnessed and he and Morton were safely into his gig and headed for London.

The Magistrate chose to take the longer Saint Pancras road, in the hopes of seeing the incoming Horse Patrol from the north, but this manoeuvre proved fruitless. No other constables were encountered on the whole journey, despite Sir Nathaniel's spending several long minutes questioning the toll men at the Battle Bridge Gate as to their whereabouts.

“Damned useless system of patrol,” he muttered as he climbed back up into the carriage. “Where would a man be if he was in any real need?”

Other than this, however, the Chief Magistrate kept a bleak silence throughout, and Morton made no further attempts to engage him in conversation. The portly man sat immobile as a rock, his jaw set, gaze fixed ahead, his hands gripping the traces hard.

At number 4 Bow Street, where they arrived with the sun fully above the horizon and the streets beginning to fill with early traffic, nothing could be done speedily either. The Horse Patrol had not come in, and Townsend was not about and had to be sent for. Morton was to be fitted with irons this time. The clerk had to start over several times writing the warrant, as Sir Nathaniel thought of changes he wanted to make.

Just after John Townsend arrived, so also did George Vaughan.

“Mr. Vaughan,” suddenly announced the Chief Magistrate, seeing him, “you will accompany Mr. Townsend to the Otter House in Spitalfields.”

Henry Morton, who was sitting half-forgotten in the corner of Sir Nathaniel's room, leapt up to object, his chains clanking as he did, but Sir Nathaniel silenced him with a look. “You, too, will accompany the expedition, Mr. Morton. But you are both to be observers of this matter, not participants. I wish you both to be satisfied that the business is properly done.”

Morton looked at his superior in surprise. So, he had recognised what the choice was. Morton turned to George Vaughan, who returned his gaze steadily.

Then, in his usual drawl, Vaughan said: “Just as pleases you, Sir Nathaniel.”

The Chief Magistrate regarded them both.

“I'll see one of you hang, gentlemen,” he said. “Be certain of it. And believe me, I am perfectly indifferent which of you it be.”

Soon after, the Horse Patrol came in and Townsend took charge. Now the operation moved forward with efficiency. The old Runner, for all his fussiness, knew what he was about. They were on the streets heading east within moments, the horsemen clopping in front in double file and the two coaches bearing the Runners and supporting constables close behind. All, except Morton and Vaughan, were armed with sabres or pistols. Morton was in the first carriage, beside Townsend. Vaughan came in the second.

Once they were under way, Morton said: “If you care to reach into my side vest pocket, Mr. Townsend, you'll find a key that will give you entry to the Otter House.”

John Townsend looked at him in surprise.

“I cannot manage it myself,” explained Morton, making a gesture with his shackles.

The other officer felt about until he retrieved the Bramah key, which had fortunately not been lost during Morton's various adventures over the previous evening.

“I must make the observation, Mr. Morton,” said Townsend, turning the key over in his hand, “that your possession of such a convenience does not match well with your protestations of innocence in regard to the aforementioned house.”

“Do you really think I have joined with the flash crowd?”

“No. No, Morton, I do not, but even so. Sir Nathaniel will find it most peculiar that you would have such a key in your possession.”

“I shall produce a witness to testify that it was a copy made for me only days ago, from an original provided by one of the girls within the house.”

Townsend stared at him a moment. “I pray this witness can impress the Magistrate with his integrity. For your sake.”

For his own part, Morton prayed that matters at the Otter had not altered too much when they arrived. If Vaughan had been surprised by the preparations under way at Bow Street, Sir Nathaniel's canniness had at least prevented him from slipping ahead to warn his minions.

When Morton had made his escape a few hours ago, what would Bill have assumed? Perhaps that the disgraced Runner would flee the country, or even that he would make another attempt to intimidate someone in the house. But he would surely never have guessed that Morton would return to Bow Street and let himself be imprisoned again.

The Otter mob would not have known that he'd seen the stolen sculpture in their storeroom—perhaps they hadn't noticed that it was there themselves, that it had been left behind when the other marbles were removed. Had Joshua been able to persuade them that he'd not peached to Morton? With any luck, nothing fundamental would have changed in the shady little world of the flash house.

They were getting close. The familiar confines of Spitalfields were flowing past Morton's window, and he felt his chest tightening in anxiety.

As the carriages started moving up Bell Lane, they slowed to a crawl and then stopped dead. One of the mounted constables rode back to report to Townsend, his voice on edge with alarm.

“Trouble, Mr. Townsend! Trouble!”

And even as he spoke, Morton began to catch it. The acrid smell, the burning in his eyes. A man pelted past the carriage, dressed in a heavy black overcoat, a scarf tied round his mouth. A firedrake.

“The phoenix-men are here, sir, but it's too late, sure!” the constable cried.

John Townsend uttered a heartfelt, if somewhat antique, curse, and clambered from the carriage. Morton followed awkwardly. As soon as they were in the crowded street and trying to push their way forward through the excited onlookers, the smoke in the air became obvious. A few steps more and the flames leaping above the rooftops hove into view, and Morton's spirit sank.

The parish fire company had arrived, its unsalaried officers milling rather helplessly about in the narrow lane amidst a blizzard of swirling grey ash. The insurance company brigades were better equipped and more efficient, of course, but what likelihood was there that the owner of this particular property had ever insured it?

Not that anyone would have been able to do much now. Great hands of flame reached out of the windows and door frames of the Otter, grasping at nothing but air. As was Henry Morton at that very moment.

T
his time Henry Morton was closely confined
in a back room at Bow Street, shackled at wrist and ankle, a constable from the Horse Patrol constantly in attendance. Exhausted after a long day and sleepless night, dirty and unkempt, his shoulder throbbing from the injury received breaking out of the Otter's cellar, he slumped on a hard wooden bench against the wall.

Sir Nathaniel had postponed his hearing until the morrow, in order that the situation in Bell Lane be assessed.

Some time in the afternoon Vickery came in to tell him what had happened. A thundershower had assisted the fire company in its work. But by the time the blaze had finally been extinguished, three houses had been destroyed. In the ruins of number 12 they found five charred bodies: One was large, adult, and four were children.

They had sifted through the wreckage, and discovered the apparent location of the storage space, as Morton
had described it. But there was nothing there. No stolen goods, certainly no marble sculpture. If there had ever been a tunnel, it had been covered forever in the collapse of the neighbouring house.

Morton nodded, slowly, seeing it all. There was little for either to say. Vickery went out, leaving his brother officer to the cold comfort of his thoughts.

An uncertain time later he heard shouting beyond the door. He and Browne, the constable who was watching him, both looked up in surprise.

“Order, what order! Who gave you such an order?”

“What does it concern you, you young fool, so long as they did!”

The voices were recognisable. The first belonged to Jimmy Presley. The second to the constable Dannelly, who was apparently mounting guard outside the room.

“I'll give you an order—with my fist, so help me God.”

There was a silence, and then Morton heard the locks being worked. The door swung in, but instead of Jimmy Presley, Arabella Malibrant entered alone, and the door was pulled sharply shut behind her.

She strode unhesitatingly across the room to sit down beside Henry Morton, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips to his hair. He could hear Browne shift in discomfort, but Morton leaned against her, unable because of his shackles to put his own arm about her, and silently accepted her warmth, her embrace, the sweet familiar scent of her that filled his nostrils.

For a long moment they sat thus without speaking. At length she drew back, and quickly cleaned her wet cheeks with the back of one white-gloved hand.

“The Otter burned,” Morton said at last, “taking all the children with it. The poor, misused children. Only Lucy escaped.”

“And you,” Arabella murmured.

“Yes, but only for a time. There was a man's body found there, too, in the ashes, and it will prove to be the barkeep Joshua, I've no doubt. He was ready to testify. They must have seen that. They took no risks.”

Arabella pulled away so that she could look at him, her hands pressed against his chest. The lamplight shone in her hair, turning it the hue of failing embers, but her skin was very pale.

“But we have a witness still,” she said. “Lucy has told me much. Much that I did not care to hear—and so naively stated. How could any girl's mother…?” But she let that sentence die. “Lucy knows everything, Henry, everything we need them to hear.”

“She could know every bit of villainy George Vaughan had ever perpetrated and it would not matter to the Magistrates. She is a child, and a child raised in a criminal environment where lying comes as easily as the pox. They will not believe her, that's certain.” Morton took Arabella's hands in his own. “I fear it will not answer.” He gazed at her face, so filled with worry, and tried to change the subject. “But how is she? How is our young Lucy?”

“She is very well. I have her at Portman House still. She told me what happened last night, Henry, how you got her free from that place. She is a marvel. An absolute marvel. How could such a child have sprung from so corrupt a house?”