The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner (33 page)

“There is a great spirit in that tiny body. At least I plucked her away in time, if nothing else. I wonder if Rudd got his Marie clear as well?”

Arabella stared intensely at him, her green eyes glittering. Then she took hold of his lapels and shook him gently. “Henry, you do not listen when I speak. Lucy can get you free. She recognises George Vaughan and can identify him! She heard him give orders for any number of felonies. Those people, the Smeetons—some man named Taylor was treated the same and hanged as well.”

“Samuel Taylor?”

“That's the one.”

“Vickery arrested him…on Vaughan's intelligence. I remember it.” Her certainty was making some impression on Morton now. “Perhaps it is worth trying,” he mused. “Like enough, the panel will prevent her even from speaking. And if she does speak, they will probably not believe her. But perhaps 'tis the best hope I have.”

“It is the only hope. You'll see, when she begins to talk. She's rare, a prodigy, Henry. I swear she will make an impression on these Magistrates, if they have any heart at all.”

Morton smiled a little in wonderment. Lucy must certainly possess something extraordinary to have won over the hard-to-impress Arabella so quickly. “Did they tell you the hearing is set for tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“Yes, and we shall have her prepared. Louisa Hamilton knows of your plight and has come to Darley's. She's taken up our young Lucy with a will, and is having some clothes fitted for her so she'll look well in Police Court. Henry, you won't recognise that child.”

“And all this, at Portman House?”

Arabella nodded. “Yes, you have an admirer in Arthur. And now that he has heard Lucy's story…You are quite the hero over there at the moment.”

“Lucy is the hero,” Morton muttered. “Without her I would not have escaped.”

“Nor would she have escaped without you. They would have left her to the flames.”

For a second Arabella closed her eyes.

Morton caressed her cheek. But Arabella rallied, her eyes flicking opened, filled now with resolve. “We must think carefully about what we need to know from Lucy,” she told him. “We must prepare for the questions she'll be asked. Arthur has offered his barrister, Oswald Barrington. He speaks very highly of him.”

Morton smiled in gratitude. “Should I be bound over for Sessions Court in the Old Bailey,” he replied, “I shall certainly need the best legal wizardry available, and I'll accept the offer. But a prisoner is not allowed representation at his Police Court hearing. He must speak wholly for himself, even arrange his own witnesses, if he has any. The Magistrates listen to the testimony, draw up documents, and make any decisions about the laying of charges. And actually, because the procedure is less formal, it's often a man's best chance to avoid an appointment with Jack Ketch. And so it might be for me.”

“Then we must be very ready,” said Arabella with determination.

For the next half hour she and Morton went over the possible course of the hearing, the dangers and the possibilities. While they consulted, Constable Browne stared emptily at the wall, without appearing to react to anything that was said. Townsend had put Browne in here, but Morton couldn't help wondering if Vaughan's influence in Bow Street was deeper than even the old man knew.

W
hen morning came, Morton was ready
to rise and meet it. His warders were surprised at his demand that he be allowed to dress himself properly. Suspected felons were usually forced to appear before the Magistrates just as they were, unshaven, ragged, already criminal by their very appearance. But Morton loudly insisted that a barber be sent for and a messenger dispatched to Rupert Street to fetch him a change of shirt and breeches. Paying for everything with the last few coins in his pocket, he also ordered over a full breakfast from the Brown Bear. He had no intention of starting the struggle for his life weak from the lack of food.

A little sleep had gone a long way.

The shackles had to be removed while he was dressing, and several stone-faced constables stood in the room, arms folded and ready for anything as Morton was lathered and his cheeks scraped clean. Under the same scrutiny, he ate his sausage and black bread and drank his ale—coffee was too much to be hoped.

His clean shirt, and then his best dark green frock coat he pulled on—a painful operation over his aching shoulder—and the shackles were reapplied. Just before ten o'clock, a clerk looked in to inform them that the Magistrates were now entering court, and that the prisoner was to be brought. Morton breathed deep, and for the final time marshalled his thoughts.

And this was the moment Wilkes made his appearance. The old manservant was led in by Jimmy Presley.

“Good morning, Mr. Morton,” he said, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the circumstances.

“The Brighton Diligence is a slow, mean way to travel, I collect?” Morton's irritation was beginning to rise, despite his fondness for the old man. Why had it taken him so long!

“But walking is slower still. I had only to walk a few English miles, fortunately.”

“Come along, Mr. Morton, sir,” said the constable.

“Did you find Sempronius Stretton?”

“I did indeed, and a great long tale I heard of his battles and service to England and—”

“But could he provide what I asked?”

“Indeed, Mr. Morton.” And Wilkes handed Morton a folded sheet of paper, just as he was led away.

Police Court was held in the large, rather shabby central room of number 4 Bow Street, under the light of two aged chandeliers. A low wooden fence divided the room in two: one half for the judges and prisoners and constables, the other for the witnesses, those waiting their own turn before the panel, and the merely curious. The panel consisted of three Magistrates, perched behind individual
raised desks on a platform that ran along the end wall. Morton was brought in through the side door and led to the railed box situated exactly in the centre of the room. Here he was to stand—there was no chair—for however long it took his fate to be decided.

He turned stiffly to look behind him. The other side of the room was jammed full, and people leaned in at the long windows that gave out onto the street. More were packed into the corridor beyond the rear doors. All craned for a view of this scandalous spectacle: one of the famous Bow Street Runners finally accused of a crime! The constables whose duty it was to control access to the court must have been achieving substantial gain in the small entry fees they were permitted to collect.

Morton scanned the faces. Arabella and Darley had been able to procure a place near the rail—no doubt for a price—and both immediately waved to him. Darley was as poised as ever, but Arabella looked pale, and no matter how much the actress in her projected confidence, Morton could see her fear.

Also close to the barrier were the reporters, whose accounts in
The Morning Chronicle
and even
The Times
would start printing within minutes of the end of the hearing, eagerly awaited by a city and a nation whose resentment of their elite police had reached an unprecedented pitch. Just on the Magistrates' side of the barrier there lounged a little knot of Bow Street men, arms folded, waiting. George Vaughan was amongst them, his face as inscrutable as ever, eyes half-closed but watchful. Beside him were Dannelly, Mckay, Pelham, Vickery, and Johnson. Was this, Morton wondered, Vaughan's gang? But perhaps not. Vaughan would have been too subtle to group his supporters together in plain view. And Morton felt fairly certain that Vickery at least
was square, and probably Johnson too. Dannelly was Vaughan's man, though.

Farther along the wall, sitting alone on his own stool and unconcernedly perusing a newspaper, was John Townsend. Jimmy Presley was stationed in the doorway behind him, guarding the entrance back into the rest of the police offices. He tipped his hat briefly to Morton, and Morton nodded in response. Morton watched George Vaughan's narrowed eyes flicker to take in this little exchange.

The spindly-limbed clerk was calling the session to order, and Morton made one more swift survey of the room. He was looking for the one other face he had expected to see. But he could not find it. Louisa Hamilton was not there.

Sir Nathaniel Conant had taken his place at the centre desk and began to speak. The clamour of voices that had filled the room quickly quieted.

“The purpose of this hearing is to gather information, not conduct a trial,” he told his court. “The panel will tolerate no evasions and no argumentation. All persons with relevant knowledge are commanded in His Majesty's name to present it fully and truthfully. The panel will record such material, decide upon charges to be laid, if any, and make a deposition to be conveyed to their lordships at Sessions House in the Old Bailey.”

Sir William Parsons, the Magistrate on Sir Nathan-iel's left hand, cleared his throat. Like many in his profession, Sir William was no trained jurist. In fact, he had been appointed, doubtless by his friends, merely because he was a gentleman and literate—his normal occupation was professor of music and Master of the
King's Band. Even so, Morton had attended his sessions before and had a degree of respect for his common sense.

“Does Mr. Morton have any opening remarks?”

This was conventionally a chance for the man in Morton's place to confess, and spare everyone time and trouble. Morton intended to make different use of it.

“My lords, I am exceedingly glad of this opportunity to penetrate a matter of importance, and I am confident that well-founded charges will indeed be laid before this hearing is concluded. I ask you only to keep your habitually open minds. I daresay the charges will not fall where you now imagine they should.”

Across the panel eyebrows rose.

“The evidence will determine that,” commented Sir Nathaniel Conant.

Townsend was the first to take his place at the witness stand, in front and slightly to the left hand of the Magistrates. In his eccentric and garrulous way, he testified to the discovery of the stolen marbles in Morton's lodgings, and he read aloud the advertisement placed in
The Chronicle.

“You have served with Mr. Morton at Bow Street, Mr. Townsend?” unexpectedly asked Sir Nathaniel Conant.

Age had had its effect on the old Runner's hearing and the echo in the large room seemed to confuse it further. “How's that? Served with him? Indeed. Indeed, I have.”

“How long?”

“Oh, a goodly time. Some seven years, I daresay. Quite long enough to make a determination as to his character.”

“Thank you for anticipating my questions, sir,” Sir
Nathaniel said dryly. “And what has been his character, as a man and as an officer of police?”

“Oh, excellent. I should not hesitate to say that Mr. Morton is a model of honesty and dedication to duty.”

“But what is your view of the evidence you have provided? Is it not a clear sign of corruption?”

“It is a clear sign of corruption, without a doubt, but of whose corruption? That is less clear, I think.”

“Have you any contradictory evidence to offer, Mr. Townsend?” William Parsons asked abruptly.

“Eh?”

“
Contradictory evidence,
Mr. Townsend,” Parsons said loudly. “Have you any?”

“Oh, no, I'm sorry to say. Not at this time, Sir William.”

Parsons looked over spectacles at Sir Nathaniel, who dismissed the old Runner. He then turned to Morton's box.

“How do you explain your possession of the Earl of Elgin's property, sir?”

“It was placed in my rooms by another person,” replied Morton. “Without my knowledge, and while both my manservant and I were absent.”

“And the notice Mr. Townsend has read us from
The Chronicle
?”

“Placed by another person, my lord. A clumsy attempt to attribute the crime to me.”

Sir Nathaniel Conant pinched his lips together and made no response.

George Vaughan came next. He, too, testified to the discovery of the antiquities in Rupert Street, and to the advertisement which had led them there.