T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

“And you did nothing?”

“We warned 'em very firm, Sir Nathaniel” was Vaughan's ready retort. “I'll warrant they took our meaning, too.”

“Oh, aye, I'll warrant they did. I'll warrant there was some handy giving and taking.”

Vaughan's eyebrows raised as though this suggestion of impropriety impugned his honour.

Perhaps Sir Nathaniel realised he had overstepped a bound as well. If he was going to make accusations against a Runner they would have to be in a court of enquiry. The Magistrate swallowed again from his glass and one of his assistants whispered urgently in his ear.

Presley caught Morton's eye and with a small grin rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The little gesture, Morton realised, did not go unnoticed by the portly man seated behind the table, who then returned his attention to the Runners.

“No felony was committed,” said Vaughan evenly. “We performed our proper duty.”

“What was it over, this duel?” the Magistrate asked, ignoring Vaughan's defense.

“Mere idle talk, sir. Hot words, is all,” replied Presley disdainfully, but Vaughan drew himself up and eyed the Magistrate darkly.

Sir Nathaniel Conant regarded him a moment, reflecting. “In future, sir,” he said coldly, “when men discharge weapons at one another, you are to arrest them and bring them before this Police Court, as a case of attempted murder. The panel, not you, shall be the judge of the seriousness of the infringement on His Majesty's peace.”

“As you say, my lord,” drawled George Vaughan.

There was enough defiance in this laconic response to make the Chief Magistrate hesitate an instant, but not quite sufficient to draw him into further confrontation.

“There is a complication,” announced Henry Morton. All their eyes went to him. “Last night, the same day as his interrupted duel, Mr. Halbert Glendinning turned up dead.”

“Cor!” blurted Jimmy Presley. Sir Nathaniel Conant stared.

“What on earth do you mean, sir, ‘turned up dead’?”

“I mean, my lord, that he arrived at a social function in a hackney-coach, and he was dead when the footman opened the door.”

George Vaughan cleared his throat. “I heard he was drunk. Choked on his own puke.”

It was now the turn of the other three to look in surprise at him.

“You know of this, too?” demanded Sir Nathaniel.

“Town's full of it, my lord. I had it from an informant of mine-member of the serving class, but reliable.”

“Was this person there?”

“Spoke to one who was, appears.”

“I admire my brother officer's sources,” remarked Henry Morton a bit sourly, “but I was in Portman House last night myself, and I am less certain the man's death was natural.”

George Vaughan looked at him wordlessly, but it was evident to Morton that the man was far from pleased to be contradicted. Nor was this the first time the two of them had been at odds.

“Why?” demanded Sir Nathaniel Conant.

“There are several suspicious circumstances,” Morton replied. “He had not choked on his vomit, as his mouth and throat were clear of it. He was young and in apparent good health. But more to the point, not only had someone aimed to kill him earlier that morning-our notorious Colonel Rokeby-but he had come to Portman House from one of the worst criminal dens in London. I tracked down the hackney-coach driver who brought him, and the man was frightened out of his wits. Something transpired at this flash house, and I think the driver knows or suspects something of it. I gave him a bit of time to mull it over.”

“Which flash house was this?” grunted the Chief Magistrate.

“The Otter House, Bell Lane, Spitalfields. I think there should be an investigation, my lord, and the coroner called in to authorize a postmortem examination.”

Sir Nathaniel scowled in distaste. “And what is it you think happened to him, Mr. Morton?”

“I am not sure, sir, but it seems very likely he was murdered, and it would not be difficult to guess who had this done.”

The Magistrate eyed him. “Have you a witness?”

“I have not. Not yet.”

Sir Nathaniel shook his head. “A man who frequents a house like that,” he remarked, “courts such a fate. And perhaps deserves it.”

“Lord Arthur Darley, his host, assured me that Glen-dinning was a man of modest deportment, and excellent character, not given to such … practices. The body, incidentally, lies at his house for the moment. I asked him to wait upon our warrant.”

“What are you suggesting we do?” Sir Nathaniel demanded impatiently.

Morton drew breath. “I would like to have Sir Benjamin-”

“Oh, your precious Brodie, again,” scoffed Vaughan with a glance at the ceiling.

Sir Benjamin Brodie was undoubtedly England's foremost, indeed single, expert on poisons, and had lectured on the subject with great authority in London, as well as at Cambridge. But Henry Morton was the only man at Bow Street who believed that such knowledge could be of use in police detection, and Sir Nathaniel had had only too much experience with the fate of Morton's supposed “evidence” at Sessions Court. Never once had their lordships accepted it, and he'd had to listen to many a stern lecture on its inadmissibility. The simple truth was that there was no reliable test for the presence of even a single kind of poison in a dead body. Quack chemists had completely muddied the waters, rendering any such claims doubtful. Convictions were only ever obtained with direct, corroborating testimony.

“Spare me your alchemical lore, Mr. Morton,” the Chief Magistrate told him.

“The death was suspicious,” repeated Henry Morton.

As Sir Nathaniel Conant mused, his glance shifted from Morton to Vaughan to Presley. The impression came unbidden into Morton's mind that there was something more than he entirely grasped going on amongst the people in this little room. But he was far from understanding what it was. An intuition, a vague feeling, was all he had.

“Very well,” decided the Chief Magistrate. “I will summon Sir Charles Carey and we'll go to Portman House together to view the remains, after I adjourn my court for midday. Send word to Lord Arthur not to make any arrangements until our arrival. We shall need to speak with the man's family. Offer my condolences and ask if they would wait upon us there at, what? Half noon?”

Morton dipped his head in acquiescence. The Magistrate moved on to another topic.

“The matter of the two Smeeton miscreants… went off duly?”

A curious way to ask if being suspended by a rope around the neck had had its usual effect, Morton thought.

“It went off…” he answered bleakly.

“There was some difficulty?” asked Sir Nathaniel, in response to Morton's unspoken reservation.

“The condemned man made certain accusations from the scaffold.”

George Vaughan released a snort of contemptuous laughter, but Morton noticed that Jimmy Presley only looked rather pale.

“It is hardly the first time,” remarked the Chief Magistrate.

“He named the officers of police involved in his capture,” went on Henry Morton. “He accused us of profiting from his death and his wife's, of bringing them about, even, for our own gain. He cursed us and claimed that his wife was innocent-”

“Innocent!” scoffed George Vaughan.

“The populace seems to be predisposed to listening to such cant,” Sir Nathaniel said. “But we have our duties to attend to.”

Morton joined in the little chorus of agreement. But then, as they all began to rise and reach for their hats, he said: “I should say, Sir Nathaniel, the hostility toward us is strong this time. Decent and respectable common-folk are angry, and this makes the rabble bold. I caution you, Mr. Vaughan, Mr. Presley: We should be on our guard.”