T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

George Vaughan gave his mirthless smile. “Just as you say, my lord. Well, then, I must ask you: Do you have any proofs against me outside of what Mr. Morton and his little … friend have provided? Do you have one solid piece of evidence?”

The trio of Magistrates stared wordlessly back at him, which Vaughan took as acknowledgement of his point.

“Nay, none at all. But you do have a solid piece of evidence against Mr. Morton, don't you? But, you may be thinking, the little duchess says some terrible things.” He turned and looked hard at Lucy. Morton and Presley stirred, but Vaughan stayed where he was.

“Who is this witness who condemns me? This little parrot who repeats all that she's been taught? A child. And not a clean, respectable child, either. Do you not remember what you have here, my lords? Despite her oneday finery, and all the words she's been coached to say, do you not know what this is, here on your witness stand?” He continued to stare at her for a long moment. Then he faced the panel. “A whore,” he said. “She told it you herself. And not just any man's whore, either.” He pointed at Morton. “But this man's whore. How much has he profited from her labours, I wonder? How much socket-money has he pocketed?”

“My lords!” Morton struggled to keep his voice calm, as provocation was precisely what was intended. “Simply to voice such unfounded calumnies is not testimony! It is not argument.”

“Confine yourself to what you have evidence for, Mr. Vaughan,” cautioned Francis Beadwell.

“Yes, my lords,” came back Vaughan, for the first time letting a little anger of his own creep into his voice. “They say to you that George Vaughan ran the Otter House. I tell you Henry Morton did, not I. I tell you that this is his fancy-girl here, testifying at his behest. Are you going to hang an honest man on the word of a little cesspool of corruption like her?”

“We don't hang anyone, Mr. Vaughan,” replied Bead-well with the ghost of a smile. “The judges at Sessions House do that.”

But now Sir William Parsons opened his mouth.

“It is entirely true, as many are aware,” he pronounced, “that such licentiousness, especially at so early an age, cannot but have an unnatural, distorting effect on the female character.”

George Vaughan nodded at him. “Aye, my lord, and officers of police have had occasion to see it many times.”

Morton smiled bitterly at Vaughan's ability to make such a darkly ironic jest at a moment like this. The Master of the King's Band, of course, was oblivious.

“I must, on reflection,” Parsons continued, “urge the panel to disregard the testimony of this young witness. Such things as she has experienced cannot but have a corrupting and perverting effect upon her fragile female nature. Nothing she says can be taken as truth.”

Beadwell looked vexed, and glanced over at Sir Nathaniel Conant. But the Chief Magistrate stayed silent, as if he could not trust himself to speak. He merely stared darkly at Vaughan.

“I confess,” Francis Beadwell began, “that I share some of Sir William's doubts on this matter. A female child of such age, and such a… background, is indeed a slender reed upon which to build. I don't know if she could have been coached to say such things, but certainly she is a cunningly clever girl. Her… unfortunate profession must count strongly against her in the mind of any upright man. This Police Court needs more solid, impartial evidence. Lacking such proof, I do not see how I can recommend any charges be laid except the obvious one against Mr. Morton for theft.”

William Parsons nodded agreement. Sir Nathaniel sat glowering but, Morton realised, his views must essentially be the same. He might want the outcome to be otherwise, but he could not possibly allow himself to believe the word of a child prostitute.

The room had fallen eerily silent.

“The prisoner is to be bound over for trial, then,” sighed Beadwell, “on the charges of-”

“My lords!” Jimmy Presley had risen, striding out into the open floor. His whole manner was stiff and awkward, like that of a furious child.

“What is it, Mr. Presley?” Francis Beadwell asked.

“It was me that pinched the Smeetons, man and wife, and I didn't note it at the time but it was not quite as square as it all seemed. Mr. Vaughan gave me all the information and told me to say that it came from my informant, so that I might get my appointment to Bow Street. I thought he was helping me, but I don't think that now. He told me to bring Mr. Morton along and even arranged to have Morton here at number four so that I'd not have to search about for him. ‘You go by Bow Street and get Sir Galahad,’ he said. That's what he called Morton. And then he said, ‘They'll never doubt him.’”

The three members of the panel stared at him in disbelief. “Are you admitting that you gave false evidence in my court?” Sir Nathaniel demanded, incredulous.

Presley's gaze darted around the room, everywhere but to Sir Nathaniel. With a sinking heart, Morton realised Presley had spoken before he'd thought. A roar was growing in the room as the audience began to clamour in anger and excitement.

“Aye, he did for the Smeetons, just as we said!” someone cried out.

George Vaughan was adding his voice to those besieging the panel. “My lords! My lords! What has this to do-”

Beadwell and the clerk were calling for silence, while Sir Nathaniel continued to sit motionless, staring at Vaughan. It was only then that Morton caught sight of Arabella. She was pointing to Lucy, and calling out something.

“My lord!” Henry Morton shouted.

“Peace! Peace!” cried Francis Beadwell. “Mr. Presley, resume your place! This is not to the issue just now. We are not here to discuss the Smeetons, and to raise up the passions of this city again.”

Presley unwillingly obeyed, but a scattering of voices continued to sound in the room.

“Nay, nay, you'll not have that !”

“You'll not have him heard, will you!”

“My lord…” Morton continued desperately to try to make himself heard. “My lord! My witness has not done.”

“Mr. Morton, we have ruled on the value of the testimony of this-”

“Not testimony, my lord! She-”

“I have the paper,” piped Lucy in a small, clear voice.

“No more of this-” scornfully began George Vaughan.

Suddenly Sir Nathaniel Conant rose at his desk. He brought his hand down with a crash.

“Quiet!”

And now there really was a startled silence. The Chief Magistrate heavily lowered himself into his seat again, and turned toward Lucy. “What paper, maid?”

“Maid!” scoffed George Vaughan, low and bitter.

“ Silence yourself, sir! ” Sir Nathaniel roared in a thunderous bellow of pent-up fury. The stillness of the courtroom deepened into a frightened hush. Lucy looked pale, but stood her ground, perched still on her chair in the witness dock. The Chief Magistrate's voice was slightly unsteady as he once more asked: “What paper have you?”

“The letter, my lord. That the gentleman had. The swell dressed all in dark clothes.”

“Mr. Glendinning?”

“Yes, my lord.” And Lucy reached into the reticule she had kept tucked tightly under her arm the entire time. From it she removed a small volume, which Morton recognised at once as Arabella's Byron. With childish concentration she applied herself to the string tied around it, releasing the many bits of paper stuffed between its leaves. Her small fingers nimbly searched through these for the one she needed.

“Miss Hamilton told me not to forget to show it to you,” Lucy breathlessly explained. “And I almost did forget!”

“Miss Hamilton?” gruffly wondered Sir Nathaniel.