T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

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.

“What is your view, sir, of the moral character of Mr. Morton?”

Vaughan took his time answering. Henry Morton studied the man's expression, struck as never before by how obscure a countenance his really was. The eyes deep set, the lips habitually compressed tightly in a small, mirthless smile. Morton had often thought that George Vaughan was mocking his fellow man, that his attitude was carelessly contemptuous of most of humanity. But now he saw it differently: The man seemed to him to possess an air of alert stillness and waiting, of concentration, like some solitary predator of the forest.

“He always had a good name, my lord,” said George Vaughan, and stopped.

“But does that reputation reflect your own opinion, sir?”

Vaughan paused again, seemingly with reluctance. He looked at Henry Morton, and Morton smiled coldly at him. Tell your lie, sir, he silently made the invitation. Vaughan's face remained expressionless.

“I never trusted him, my lord,” he replied.

“Why not? What evidence did you have for this feeling?”

“The money he had. Things he let drop. Things the other lads let drop about him.”

Morton loudly broke in. “This is innuendo and hearsay, my lords. Let these others testify if they have something of substance to say.”

Sir Nathaniel pivoted angrily. “Keep your peace, sir, until it is your turn! The panel will judge the admissibility of testimony. This is not Sessions House and you are not a lawyer.”

But Morton knew that his point had registered, and that everyone in the room was aware of it.

“Did you ever witness Mr. Morton committing any irregularity?” now asked Francis Beadwell, the third Magistrate. He was a thin, quiet man, recently appointed, about whose character or abilities Morton knew little.