T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

“He were too careful for that, my lord,” quickly answered Vaughan.

“Confine yourself to direct answers to the questions, sir,” calmly came back Beadwell.

“I saw nothing specific, my lord, until we searched his rooms these two nights past.”

“Thank you.”

Two other constables were called to testify as to what they had found under Morton's bed. Morton watched them, and concluded that they were not part of Vaughan's mob. This apparently was his technique-the same technique he had used with the Smeeton arrests. He arranged for unsuspecting and fully respectable men to provide an appearance of legitimacy to his operations. Townsend and these constables in this instance, and Presley and Morton himself on the earlier occasion.

Finally, Lord Elgin's private secretary assured the panel that the reliefs found in Morton's rooms were indeed the same as had been stolen from the courtyard of Burlington House.

“Excuse me, sir,” then asked Henry Morton, “but are the pieces you have recovered complete and intact?”

The man glanced at Sir Nathaniel to be sure that he was right in answering questions from the man in the dock. The Chief Magistrate nodded.

“In fact, sir, an element of the smaller fragment appears to be missing.”

“Would it be the image of a woman, sir?” asked Henry Morton. “A naiad with one breast uncovered and one hand raised, holding a wreath?”

The secretary looked surprised.

“Yes. Precisely so.” As he stepped down, Sir Nathaniel Conant turned to Henry Morton.

“We have goods stolen, and appearing later in your possession, sir. We have your own apparent familiarity with these goods, even down to an unrecovered fragment. We have a newspaper notice apparently inviting the owners of these goods to contact your lodgings, presumably with a view to buying them back. Before I lay charges, do you have anything more specific to say in explanation of all this, other than that you are the victim of some monstrous plot?”

“I do.”

“The panel,” Sir Nathaniel told him, “will listen to no further testimonials to your character. The material evidence is so strong against you that no endorsement of your personal virtues would be sufficient to prevent the laying of charges. You must save such witnesses for Sessions House.”

“I agree to forgo any such testimony, my lord.”

“Then what do you have to tell us?”

“I have to tell you that you should arrest and charge Mr. George Vaughan for this crime, not me.”

A stir went through the room. Vaughan's mocking smile broadened a little, while some of the Runners standing about him scoffed visibly. Sir Nathaniel Conant's face remained expressionless.

“Upon what evidence, sir?”

Morton turned away from Vaughan and looked into the faces of the panel members. “I am aware of the exact appearance of a missing part of the marble carvings at issue because I saw it, two nights ago, in the back storeroom of number twelve, Bell Lane, Spitalfields.”

“Where is that missing fragment now, sir?” Sir William asked.

“I do not know. The denizens of that house have doubtless hidden it again, and have burned down the house to protect themselves.”

“This is speculative.”

“Informed speculation, my lord.”

“Why should we not believe that it is you yourself who placed the sculpture there?” Parsons asked.

“The explanation is not brief, my lords,” Morton said, and he described his last visit to the Otter, the fight there, his escape through the tunnel. As he did, however, he spoke only of himself, not yet hinting that anyone had escaped with him.

Beadwell asked the next question.

“You do not claim that Mr. Vaughan was amongst those you confronted in this house. Why are you accusing your brother officer in these matters?”

Morton proceeded, carefully and in detail, to relate his interviews with Wardle and Rudd, particularly with regard to their insistence that there was a Bow Street presence at the Otter. Then he told them about Joshua.

“This man identified the Bow Street officer who controlled the house, my lords,” Morton said. “He identified him by name. And the name he gave was George Vaughan.”

Into the rush of low voices that this produced, Vaughan interjected, sardonically echoing Morton's earlier objection. “Hearsay, my lords. Let this Joshua cove testify.”

“He can't, my lords,” calmly explained Morton. “George Vaughan and his accomplices have done him to death.”

This produced an even louder burst of voices, so that the court clerk had to rap his rod hard against his desktop to restore order.

“What proof have you of such an outrage, sir?” demanded the Chief Magistrate. “What proof have you of any of this, except that you say other folk told it you? Other folk who are not here and cannot testify themselves.”

“Wardle and Rudd can be summoned.”

“That, too, will be a matter for the Old Bailey. If you cannot produce direct, independent proof of your claims, what possible reason do we have to accept them?”

Henry Morton drew breath. “The best possible reason, my lords. There is another witness. A witness who has seen and can tell this Police Court enough to have George Vaughan committed to Newgate a dozen times over.” Now he turned his head in the startled silence and looked pointedly at Vaughan.

The other Runner was not quite impervious to what he had just heard. There was a certain fixity in his look, although the smile remained on his thin lips. Was he thinking, trying to imagine whom Morton might mean? One thing was certain: Morton had George Vaughan's attention now.

“What witness, sir?” demanded Sir William. “Can you produce this person?”

“I can. It is someone these men neglected, whose eyes and ears they probably never once considered as they planned and committed their crimes.”

The three Magistrates regarded him wordlessly. Morton nodded to Arabella, who swiveled round and made a small wave of her hand to Merwin, Darley's butler, at the very back of the room. He disappeared, and returned moments later with Arabella's maidservant Christabel. Together they elbowed their way through the crowded room. Sheltered between them was a small person dressed in a white frock.

Arabella and Louisa had done a magnificent job. The girl had been reborn as a perfect little daughter of the gentry. Her hair, now that it was clean, proved to be a glowing honey colour. Her face shone with excitement, and she tripped forward with a light, childish spring that contrasted charmingly with her elegant muslin dress and reticule.

None of the men standing around Vaughan moved as the three reached the bar dividing the room. Even the clerk sat immobile, as if frozen, gazing open-mouthed. It was the courtly John Townsend who stepped promptly across to open the gate and let them in, even bowing slightly as he did. A few moments more and Lucy was ensconced on the witness stand, where she was given a chair to stand on, for she was too small to be seen over the rail.

Morton looked over at the partner of his escape and smiled encouragingly. He was favoured by a brilliant grin in return. Then she quickly settled her features into an expression of great seriousness, and looked expectantly toward the Magistrates.

“What is her name?” asked the clerk.

“Lucy Hammond!” came the clear, firm response from the girl herself.

Now Morton took time for another brief glance at George Vaughan. The face was still set, expressionless. But the small smile had vanished. Vaughan was watching now with the utmost attention.

“What is her-your abode?”

“I was living at number twelve, Bell Lane. But I am visiting now,” she added with a certain complacency, “with friends in Portman Square.”