T.F. Banks - The Thief-Taker

A second voice came then, quieter and more dignified. “Mr. Morton? No folly, sir. We have a warrant. Best open.”

Morton breathed deep in surprise, and turned to Arabella, who hovered behind him in the doorway. “It's Townsend! Townsend with a warrant!”

Morton set his gun down on the hall table and unbarred the door. In came trooping George Vaughan and several of the constables of the Night Patrol, with John Townsend apologetically in the rear.

Morton saw the hard, still look in Vaughan's face, and began to realise what was happening. Vaughan had somehow recognised how things stood, and had moved first. This was deadly serious.

Townsend was bowing in courtly fashion to Arabella Malibrant.

“Allow me to apologise, madam.” Then he turned to Morton. “It wasn't my doing. Sir Nathaniel sent me along to see that things were managed properly.” His voice and expression were rueful.

“What the devil is going on!”

Now, however, the old Runner was required to behave in an official manner, and he did. His voice became more formal. “We bear warrants to search your dwelling, Mr. Morton,” he replied. “You may examine them. They were signed by Sir Nathaniel Conant but two hours past.”

“Search? For what?”

Townsend solemnly pulled out another paper, and then his spectacles.

“Shall we not begin?” muttered George Vaughan.

“I will satisfy Mr. Morton first,” Townsend retorted with noticeable coolness. He read from the paper. “ ‘Item: a fragment of marble, two and a half feet long by fourteen inches deep by three inches wide, carved in relief with a votive scene, portraying the goddess Ceres and-’”

“The antiquities stolen from Burlington House,” interrupted Henry Morton. “What is this foolishness? I haven't found them yet, if that's what Sir Nathaniel is asking.”

“Have you not?” murmured George Vaughan.

“ ‘Item: a fragment of-’”

“Spare me the recitation, Mr. Townsend! I know the particulars.”

Townsend produced a neatly folded section of newspaper.

“From The Morning Chronicle of today's date, Mr. Morton. Permit me to read. ‘ Precious Goods ’-that is the heading- ‘of ancient provenance. God of lightning and Goddess of the sickle’ -a clear reference to the images of Zeus and Ceres, but cunningly indirect- ‘If grateful to a finder, apply upstairs, number seven Rupert Street, for hopeful tidings. ’” Townsend refolded the paper and turned his gaze to Morton, an eyebrow lifting.

“I did not place that advertisement, sir!” Morton said hotly. “Why on earth would I? It is absurdly inept! And to give my own address! What sort of fool do you think me?”

“That we shall discover,” George Vaughan said. “Proceed!” he ordered the patroles.

“Mr. Townsend,” Morton protested. “Anyone can place a notice in a newspaper!”

To which Townsend nodded gravely. “But search we must. I'm sure you see that.”

Vaughan let the other constables in from the balcony. They had come in absurd numbers. As they began their work, Morton stepped back and watched, wondering for an instant if he had fallen asleep and into nightmare. Then he remembered the figure he'd seen run off from the empty doorway. Vaughan's man, no doubt. A sickening possibility was occurring to him, and its cold hand gripped his heart. He had sent Wilkes off to Sussex, leaving his rooms empty all day.

“Might we permit Mrs. Malibrant to return to her home, Mr. Townsend?” he asked quietly, hoping his anxiety would not be detectable in his voice. He felt Arabella look at him in surprise. “The matter hardly concerns her. The hour is late, and she was about to leave when you arrived.”

“Nay,” harshly said George Vaughan, stepping to the doorway from the next room. “They are together in everything. She's his whore, and as like they'll swing together, too, like that cully Smeeton and his sow.”

At this Arabella went white to the roots of her red hair, and Morton wheeled on Vaughan in fury. Two constables stepped between them.

“You shall rue this, George Vaughan! By God, I'll make you rue it!”

Townsend looked from one Runner to the other, as though to weigh them, and then said softly to Arabella: “Madam would oblige me if she would tarry here just a moment longer.”

It was not much longer. Within a few minutes there was a cry from the constables going through Henry Morton's bedchamber. From beneath the blue silk draperies of the four-posted bed frame they had pulled a heavy oblong of white stone. Marble. And then another.

Arabella's first remark was rather incongruous. “They're beautiful,” she whispered.

The two white segments had been laid out for inspection on Morton's sitting-room carpet. About a foot broad, the sinuous half-clothed male and female figures formed a continuous pattern along the length of each piece of marble. Morton, too, as he gazed at them, was almost taken out of himself.

Townsend unnecessarily took the written description from his pocket and compared them carefully-giving Morton the benefit of the doubt-or perhaps he merely did it to aggravate Vaughan, who stood back a little, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his narrow face. Browne and one of the other constables hovered near Morton, not touching him but clearly ready to prevent him from fleeing, should he have a mind to try.

Henry Morton had no such notions. He spoke to the senior Runner. “These objects were placed here by some unknown person,” he said. “I am the victim of an imposition.”

Ignoring him, Townsend frowned slightly at his paper, looked once more at the reliefs on the floor, then folded the paper up and put it away.

“Well, Mr. Morton, you shall have to explain this to the Magistrates. But I must arrest you for the crime of thieving these valuable antiquities.”

“The blowen, too,” muttered Vaughan.

A pained expression passed quickly across John Townsend's round face.

“Madam,” he said to Arabella, “permit me to ask if you have ever seen these objects before?”

Arabella quickly shook her head. “Never.” She was carrying herself well, but Morton could see how frightened she really was. Vaughan's vicious remark about the fate of the Smeetons had done that.

“Have you any knowledge of how they came to be in Mr. Morton's possession? Had he ever spoken to you of them?”

“No. Never.”

Townsend nodded sagely. “There is a carriage below, madam, which will convey you to your home. Pray remain available for the Magistrates' summons, should they wish to question you further on this business.”

“She'll bolt!” objected George Vaughan. “She's as bad as-”

“You shall not offer insult to this lady again, sir!” Townsend cut him off, and everyone in the room was suddenly very still. Vaughan fell silent.

Arabella reached out toward Morton as she was escorted away, but the distance was too great. Then she was through the door and gone.

“Wrap up these goods and carry them down into the other carriage,” commanded Townsend. “I shall not restrain you, Mr. Morton, if you give me your word you'll not attempt to flee.”

Morton pulled himself out of his stunned distraction with an effort.

“You have it.”

“You have no weapons upon your person?”

Morton shook his head. One of the patroles had already taken up the pistol. But his hands were clenched into fists, and he looked slowly over at George Vaughan.

“Mr. Morton…” Townsend cautioned. Vaughan's cold blue eyes met Morton's steadily. There was no bravado there. And no fear. There was not even any hatred-only purposefulness. It occurred to Henry Morton that this was what Halbert Glendinning really saw when he'd faced Rokeby down the barrel of a pistol. This was the way a killer looked.