T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

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.

This 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.