T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

But Louisa Hamilton had not come to discuss Byron.

“I have spoken with Lord Arthur Darley,” she finally began.

When she turned her head a little Morton could make out a silhouette beneath the veil. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a generous mouth. There was something else, but he could not say what it was. Something in the way she looked at him, her head turned slightly away.

“He told me you believe Halbert Glendinning's death to have been … unnatural.”

Morton made a noncommittal gesture with one hand. “I do not know how Mr. Glendinning died, only that he did not choke, as the surgeon at Portman House suggested.”

“But there is more, is there not? Lord Arthur intimated that there was, though he would not say what.”

“Well, Mr. Glendinning did go out in an affair of honour that same morning. It is a coincidence with obvious implications.” Morton hesitated. Was Darley right? This woman and Glendinning were set to announce their engagement?

“I fear you are protecting me from something harsher, Mr. Morton. As was Lord Arthur.”

Morton breathed deeply. He should say nothing more. After all, who was he to impugn the dead man's name?-exactly as his family had feared. But then there was the little matter of the truth. Henry Morton had a certain stubborn streak about it. “I spoke with the jarvey who carried Glendinning up to Portman Square. He had collected him from a particularly notorious flash house in Spitalfields, I am sorry to say.”

“Pray, pardon my female ignorance. What is a flash house, Mr. Morton?”

“A den for criminals-we call them ‘flash customers’ or ‘flash coves.’ Actually, that's what they call themselves. It's a public house, usually, employed by a criminal gang as a base of operation, and for… their entertainment. There are dozens in London, sometimes in ill neighbourhoods, but sometimes not. At times they face streets of perfect respectability, and could never be guessed at by their outward show. In fact,” Morton smiled wryly, “there is one directly across from the Bow Street Public Office, called the Brown Bear. We use it from time to time to lock up suspected persons.”

“And you are sure that Halbert Glendinning was in such a place?”

“I am quite certain.”

She shook her head, looking down at her gloved hands clasped on the black-and-grey lap of her dress.

“People have been whispering,” she said. “What is it about this place you are not telling me, Mr. Morton?”

It was a question Morton was not eager to answer. He said nothing.

After a moment she looked up at him directly and the light from the lamp seemed to penetrate her veil. Two things struck him. She was a very comely woman. But, yes, there was something else….

“Mr. Morton. Please do not spare my feelings. The whisperings are worse than the truth, I fear.”

Morton hoped she was right. But he doubted it. “The Otter, for that is the name of the place, is a house where men come to fulfill some very base appetites.”

She closed her eyes. “Go on, Mr. Morton,” she whispered. “You may say it.”

One of Henry Morton's ideas about truth was that if people said loudly and clearly enough that they wanted to hear it, they should.

“They go there to consort with children, Miss Hamilton. Little girls.”

For a moment she was very still, and then her eyes sprang open. Even behind the veil their gaze was startling.

“Never,” she breathed. “Never could Halbert have done such a thing.”

“Doubtless you're right,” Morton said softly. He half expected her to denounce him next, denounce him and his precious truth. But she did not.

Instead, Louisa Hamilton drew herself up. “Halbert Glendinning was of the simplest, finest character,” she began.

“So Lord Arthur assured me.”

“Hear me out, Mr. Morton. Halbert was the gentlest soul I have ever known. He could bring himself to hurt nothing. He was entirely free of the sort of odious inclination you have just named-I can say it with certainty. It is utterly inconceivable in him.” And something in her manner did in fact go a distance toward persuading Morton. She was certainly intelligent, and perhaps not quite so unworldly as many females of her class. But she was puzzling, too, with this combination of shyness and strength, stiffness and sudden protective passion.

“Understand, Miss Hamilton, that I never suggested-”

“Of course, Mr. Morton. I realise you didn't, but still… you did not know him. He wrote poetry and worshiped art….” She shook her head, for a moment unable to say more. Then, very quietly and firmly, she went on. “What you have told me, Mr. Morton, makes me even more certain that my fiance died unnaturally. I am here to engage you to discover his killer, and to aid in that person's prosecution.”

Morton's surprise left him speechless.

“You do take on such work, don't you?” she asked. “When I spoke with Mrs. Malibrant at Lord Arthur's, she assured me that you did.”

“You saw Mrs. Malibrant at Lord Arthur's … this evening?”

She nodded.

Morton felt his mood lower a little. “Well, yes, I do,” he answered her question. “I am paid only a small retainer by the Magistrate at Bow Street.” Morton was embarrassed to say it was but five shillings a day. “Like my brother officers, I earn my living largely through rewards for convictions, and private work. I used to attend the Drury Lane Theatre, for instance, so that ladies might feel comfortable wearing their jewelry. I made Mrs. Malibrant's acquaintance that way.”

“And how much would you earn for gaining the conviction of a murderer?”

“For a murderer, nothing. That is a duty.”

“For other crimes?”

“Theft over fifteen shillings-forty pounds.”

“I am prepared to pay you ten times that much. Half immediately.”

Morton reached for his port-wine. Four hundred pounds was a good year's income for many men. Poor Louisa indeed!

“Will you take up this task?” she asked.

“I can do nothing else,” he replied. “You offer far more money than I can imagine turning down. You should pay me less.”

“I would pay you more, if it made success any more likely.”

“It wouldn't.”

She smiled.

“I believe I have made a good choice in you, Mr. Morton,” she said quietly. Then she looked again at the book on the table.

“You seem to be an educated man, if I may say so,” she remarked. “How many officers of police read the latest poets?”

“Too few.”

She laughed, and her indirect glance met his for an instant through the veil. Then Morton had it, what was strange about her: She had a wandering eye. Only very slightly so, but detectable all the same. A woman who never looked quite directly at the world.

Even so, he thought a little flicker of understanding passed between them. Then they both looked down, and when she raised her handsome face again her expression was businesslike once more.

“How will you begin?” she asked.

“I will likely speak to the jarvey again. Visit this flash house in Bell Lane. Talk to anyone who might have seen Mr. Glendinning the day of his death. Try to discover all of his movements and activities that day, and indeed for several days before. I will want to know more of this duel….” A lamp guttered, and Morton reached out to adjust the wick.

“Mr. Morton?” she asked quietly. “Members of my family, and of Halbert's, are concerned for my… well-being. They feel the whole matter should be forgotten as quickly as possible. Were I known to be doing this, there would be a very strong effort to dissuade me. If you could keep the identity of your commissioner hidden during your enquiries, I would be greatly obliged.”