The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (35 page)

George Vaughan was shaking his head in disgust. But Sir Nathaniel Conant seemed to have acknowledged that, at least for the moment, Morton had the upper hand.

“Proceed, sir,” the Magistrate growled.

Morton turned to Lucy, who looked up at him with the same frank and ready gaze. Morton felt a wave of intense and grateful emotion for this wonderful girl. He breathed in deeply a moment, so that this feeling did not discompose him, then smiled again at her.

“Lucy, do you remember ever seeing a man in the Otter House named Caleb Smeeton?”

She nodded. “Yes, he was there many times.”

“What was the opinion of Mr. Vaughan and Bill and the others of this Mr. Smeeton?”

“They thought him a cull. They called him Brother Hodge, or Captain Cully.”

“A cull is a fool,” Morton explained for the benefit of two of the Magistrates. “What happened to Mr. Smeeton?”

“Oh, they dished him up,” calmly replied Lucy. “They did that to people. Mr. Vaughan called it putting a man in a play.”

“What did he mean by that?” Sir Nathaniel bent forward to ask.

“I don't know, sir. But Mr. Vaughan would say, ‘I think he's earned a part onstage.’ And then the man would be arrested and hanged.”

This caused whispering among the crowd, and the panel responded as well.

Morton took up the questioning again. “So what did they do to Caleb Smeeton? Mr. Vaughan and Bill and the others?”

“They told Mr. Smeeton there was a draper's panney that would be very easy to rob, and that he could make a pot of gold. They told him the address and they gave him the crow to break open the door, and … and something else. Oh, I know: the phos bottle to light their lantern with when they were inside. They told him to bring his wife to help. Then after Mr. Smeeton had gone home, they started to laugh, and made a plan to have them caught by the Bow Street Runners. Mr. Vaughan said he would set young Mr. Presley on him. And he would get Sir Galahad to be there, too, so it would look square.”

Morton cleared his throat, his face slightly hot.

“Lucy?” Francis Beadwell said in a surprisingly soft voice. “Who was this? Sir Galahad?”

“I don't know, si—my lord. A man they didn't like, though. They often said so.”

Sir Nathaniel raised an eyebrow to Morton.

“I believe it is a reference to me, my lord,” Morton admitted, and there was a small titter through the crowd. Morton turned back to the baffled Lucy. “What happened to Mr. Smeeton, then? Did they talk about that?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He and Mrs. Smeeton were caught, just as planned. They were stretched—I mean hanged. And Mr. Vaughan told the others how much money they were going to get once the rewards were handed out. They got twice as much because there were two people. They were all very contented about that.”

“And this sort of game was played at other times, you said?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“And did no one ever consider the fate of the folk who were hanged?” Sir William cried out suddenly.

Lucy gazed at him, a little scared by his vehemence. “No, my lord,” she said in a very soft voice.

Morton paused to let the rumbling of voices settle. He glanced at the panel. Beadwell was writing something. Sir William looked shocked and was slowly shaking his head. But it was Sir Nathaniel whose aspect most impressed. The Chief Magistrate sat motionless now, staring hard at Lucy. His face bore a look of such a depth of outrage, sorrow, and dawning recognition that Morton realised all at once that Sir Nathaniel had never truly been a cynic. He had believed, after all, in the basic decency of his officers. And what he was experiencing now was the deepest, bitterest sensation of betrayal. Morton felt his own breast fill with respect for a man who could feel such pain over the violation of trust.

“My lords,” Morton drew breath and said, “with your permission, I shall proceed to the second matter upon which this witness can shed light.”

Sir Nathaniel Conant gave him a very slight, wordless nod.

N
ow, Lucy,” said Morton, “I'll ask you to
recall to mind an evening about a fortnight past, when you were serving drinks at table in the Otter House.”

She looked attentive.

“On this particular night, a young gentleman came into the house. He was dressed in dark clothes, and you would have been taking him glasses of—”

Francis Beadwell interrupted him.

“Do not lead the witness, Mr. Morton.” The Magistrate looked to Lucy. “Did you see such a gentleman?”

“Yes, my lord. It was not a fortnight past, however. It was exactly eleven days ago. He was drinking brandy. Mr. Morton asked me about him before. But everyone in the house knew we weren't supposed to talk about him, or say he had been there.”

Beadwell looked thoughtful as he turned back to Morton. “Proceed, sir.”

“Were you the one taking drink to this gentleman, Lucy?”

“Yes, sir. He were a very stylish swell, got up like Beau Brummell, Joshua said. But I thought him rather shy, actually.”

“What was he doing there, besides drinking brandy?” Lucy looked knowledgeable, and quite pleased with herself. “He was waiting for Mr. Vaughan and another man.”

This startled even Morton. He did not quite know what to do with it. Beadwell filled the pause.

“How did you know that, girl? Did the gentleman tell you?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then how?”

“He had a paper that I read. It was a letter that said he was to go to the Otter House and wait for Mr. Vaughan.”

“You can read, child?” wondered Sir William Parsons in astonishment.

“Yes, sir. I was taught by my mamma, and by Joshua.”

“She can read, my lords,” Morton added. “I have witnessed this myself.” He turned back to Lucy. “So you overlooked this letter, and saw that it told him to wait for Mr. Vaughan?”

Lucy looked a little confused by this, and instead of answering, she nodded.

“Did this gentleman…go upstairs, Lucy? Did he go with any of the other girls?”

“No, sir. He stayed at the table the whole time.”

“Did he speak to anyone?”

She thought. “Yes, sir. For a moment. He talked to Mr. Sweets a little.”

“Mr. Sweets?”

“Oh, that's not his real name, sir! He is a fat man,
who always brings candies and buns for the girls. He comes most every night.”

Morton grimaced involuntarily at this reminder of the confectioner Wardle. “How much did he drink? I mean, the young gentleman.”

“He had but three glasses of brandy, sir. I know because I took him them all.”

“Now, Lucy, was there anything special about any of these glasses of brandy?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Joshua put something in each glass.”

Now there was perfect silence.

“You saw him do this?”

“Yes, sir. I stood beside him, behind the bar, when he did it, sir. He told me to wait. Then he took out a little bottle and tipped some… water into the brandy, and stirred it with a spoon.”

“Did you know what that water, or liquid, was, Lucy?”

Her simple shake of the head made it clear that she still did not know, or guess.

“Did Joshua say anything about why he was doing it?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you ever seen him do this before? Add something to a man's glass?”

“No, sir.”

“Now, Lucy, and this is my very last question for you: Did you see the young gentleman after he drank his last glass of brandy? Did you see him leave the Otter House?”

“No, sir. The house was near empty by then, and Joshua let me go back into the storeroom to sleep. I never saw the gentleman again.”

“The panel will note,” said Henry Morton, “that the
events described by the witness took place on Friday, June ninth, the date of the death of Mr. Halbert Glendinning. I believe some of us have attended the public lectures of Sir Benjamin Brodie, an authority on poisons and their effects. The description of the barman's special liquid, and the condition of Mr. Glendinning's corpse later that evening, would indicate that the substance Joshua added to Mr. Glendinning's drink at the Otter House was oil of almonds, or hydrocyanic acid—a lethal poison.”

“Very well. Mr. Vaughan…” It was Francis Beadwell who seemed to have taken control of the hearing. Sir Nathaniel Conant sat heavy and motionless. “What do you say in response to the testimony we have just heard? Why should we not lay charges against you for these crimes?”

George Vaughan laughed a brief, sarcastic laugh. He raised himself from the half-sitting posture he had adopted on the wooden barrier, and began to move into the centre of the room, where Lucy Hammond still stood in the witness stand. The girl shied visibly back. Several men reacted at once.

Before Morton could speak, the deep voice of Jimmy Presley rumbled out. “Stand clear of her!” The young man had started forward from the wall, and John Townsend was also quickly on his feet.

Vaughan mockingly raised his hands, palms outward, and stepped back a bit. “Keep your hats on, gentlemen,” he said. “I'll not meddle with your little duchess.” He continued his stroll, till he settled on a spot near the desk of Sir William Parsons.

“What have you to say, sir? Speak up.” Beadwell's voice was perfectly level.

“First off, my lords,” and Vaughan's tone settled now
into a bored drawl, “as I'm sure you have guessed, I've never been in the Otter House in all my life. Mr. Morton and his squirrel are trying to put a noose about my neck, to save their own. They have been telling you nothing but lies from the start of it to the end.”

The panel watched him. Beadwell and Sir William with attention, Sir Nathaniel Conant with a dark, smouldering detestation.

“I'm not an eloquent man, my lords. I've not been to a university, as your friend Mr. Morton has. But I know what is true and what is not.” He pointed to Morton, in the box. “You have a man here, a corrupt officer of police. You find stolen goods in his lodgings. You find a newspaper notice. As Mr. Townsend himself likes to say— ‘When you hear hoofbeats, expect horses, not zebra.’ The obvious is likely true: The man who possesses the goods, stole them.

“Now, these goods are valuable. English law says a man hangs for a theft of this value. Mr. Morton, caught with his hands still sticky, is like to dance on air. He's got to find somebody else to step in for him, hasn't he?”

“Pray do the panel the respect of getting along with your arguments, Mr. Vaughan,” Beadwell interjected calmly. “It is entirely clear to us that either you or Mr. Morton is lying. The motive in either case would be transparent.”

George Vaughan gave his mirthless smile. “Just as you say, my lord. Well, then, I must ask you: Do you have any proofs against me outside of what Mr. Morton and his little …
friend
have provided? Do you have one solid piece of evidence?”

The trio of Magistrates stared wordlessly back at him, which Vaughan took as acknowledgement of his point.

“Nay, none at all. But you do have a solid piece of evidence against Mr. Morton, don't you? But, you may be thinking, the little duchess says some terrible things.” He turned and looked hard at Lucy. Morton and Presley stirred, but Vaughan stayed where he was.

“Who is this
witness
who condemns me? This little parrot who repeats all that she's been taught? A child. And not a clean, respectable child, either. Do you not remember what you have here, my lords? Despite her oneday finery, and all the words she's been coached to say, do you not know what this is, here on your witness stand?” He continued to stare at her for a long moment. Then he faced the panel. “A whore,” he said. “She told it you herself. And not just any man's whore, either.” He pointed at Morton. “But this man's whore. How much has he profited from her labours, I wonder? How much socket-money has he pocketed?”

“My lords!” Morton struggled to keep his voice calm, as provocation was precisely what was intended. “Simply to voice such unfounded calumnies is not testimony! It is not argument.”

“Confine yourself to what you have evidence for, Mr. Vaughan,” cautioned Francis Beadwell.

“Yes, my lords,” came back Vaughan, for the first time letting a little anger of his own creep into his voice. “They say to you that George Vaughan ran the Otter House. I tell you Henry Morton did, not I. I tell you that this is his fancy-girl here, testifying at his behest. Are you going to hang an honest man on the word of a little cesspool of corruption like her?”

“We don't hang anyone, Mr. Vaughan,” replied Bead-well with the ghost of a smile. “The judges at Sessions House do that.”

But now Sir William Parsons opened his mouth.

“It is entirely true, as many are aware,” he pronounced, “that such licentiousness, especially at so early an age, cannot but have an unnatural, distorting effect on the female character.”

George Vaughan nodded at him. “Aye, my lord, and officers of police have had occasion to see it many times.”

Morton smiled bitterly at Vaughan's ability to make such a darkly ironic jest at a moment like this. The Master of the King's Band, of course, was oblivious.

“I must, on reflection,” Parsons continued, “urge the panel to disregard the testimony of this young witness. Such things as she has experienced cannot but have a corrupting and perverting effect upon her fragile female nature. Nothing she says can be taken as truth.”