T.F. Banks: The Thief-Taker

He had never doubted that George Vaughan, like quite a few other Bow Street men over the years, took more money for his services than the statutes specified. That he took bribes, and favours from low women, and had disreputable friends among the flash crowd he was supposed to be policing, Morton had long assumed. But what was emerging in Presley's account was something more, something on rather a larger and uglier scale.

Presley looked up at him now, appealed to him, Morton thought.

“Take heed, Jimmy,” he finally replied, low and full of meaning. The other stared back at him, his face working with suppressed feeling.

“There's nothing to be done now about the Smeetons, that's sure,” Morton continued. “But it's time for you to do some thinking. Men like George Vaughan might dance a fine jig on the right side of the law, thinking they'll never misstep, but if Sir Nathaniel ever gets proof of it, Vaughan'll be dancing at Beilby's Ball instead. And I'll tell you this, George Vaughan will throw them anyone he can to save his own neck. Don't let that be you, Jimmy. I'd hate to see that. I'd regret it more than I can say.”

When Morton boarded Sir Nathaniel's carriage the Chief Magistrate nodded to him over the edge of a neatly folded newspaper.

“We are without the coroner, I see,” Morton observed.

“We shall collect Sir Charles as we go.” Sir Nathaniel turned his attention away from his reading, letting the paper drop, then striking it once with the backs of his fingers. “Have you seen what Peel has to say of us, Mr. Morton?”

The thief-taker shook his head.

Sir Nathaniel lifted the paper. “Before Parliament yesterday. The Runners are, and I quote, ‘a closely knit caste of speculators in the detection of crime, self-seeking and unscrupulous.’ He admits that they are sometimes ‘daring and efficient,’ but only ‘when it coincides with their private interest.’” He let the paper drop again. “Mark me, Mr. Morton, we shall see an end to the present system of rewards and incentives, and sooner than some might wish. I for one have wearied of defending the reputations of my Runners.” He shook the paper once. “And while this is being spoken in Parliament, we have Mr. Vaughan and Jimmy Presley out proving that Mr. Peel is right on every count!”

Sir Nathaniel turned his attention to the passing scene. The sunlight falling into the carriage illuminated the Magistrate's long, pale hands, still clutched tightly around the morning news. After a moment he turned back to Morton. “I regard you as a person of principle, Mr. Morton, and I'll not say that for all your colleagues. You're an adept at your profession, yet I'd like to believe you take no more than is your due for it.”

“I thank you for your confidence,” murmured the Runner.

“You and your comrades have interrupted affairs of honour before?”

“Many times.”

“Then tell me, sir, how much does it cost a man to fight a duel in the environs of London and not find himself before a panel of Magistrates?”

Morton smiled a bitter inward smile, though he regarded his superior with a level gaze. How much, indeed. Who was doing the dueling? Who was doing the arresting?

The Chief Magistrate had been in his position at Bow Street for a little more than a year. He would stay perhaps another year or two, and then go on to another government appointment, courtesy of some other well-connected friend. Henry Morton would work with men like George Vaughan and Jimmy Presley all his life.

Did Sir Nathaniel realise what he was asking of Morton?

“Whenever I've interrupted a duel, sir, I've brought the principals before my Magistrate, you may be sure. But occasionally we do find that reconciliations have occurred before our arrival. Perhaps apologies have been tendered. Gentlemen do occasionally resort to their own better instincts. In such cases a warning is all that's required-indeed, there is little more we can do.”

Sir Nathaniel gazed at him for a moment, shook his head, and leaned back in his seat.

“Very well, Mr. Morton,” he replied coldly.

Sir Charles Carey, the coroner, was waiting for Sir Nathaniel and Morton on his front step and they went directly on to Portman House. After they had viewed the body in the small sitting-room, Lord Arthur Darley introduced them to Sir William and Lady Caroline Glendinning in his library. The dead man's parents were already dressed in silken mourning suits, cut to a style of the last century more commonly glimpsed now in the country than in London. Both had powdered hair. They sat on Lord Arthur's elegant sabre-leg chairs with a rigidity that Morton guessed reflected both repressed grief and a deep distaste for the conversation they were about to endure.

“I'm sure that the gentlemen from Bow Street do not require Lady Caroline's attendance,” murmured Darley in considerate tones.

“Thank you, Lord Arthur,” she replied, “but I will stay.”

Sir Nathaniel cleared his throat.

“The question before us is whether or not my officers should be directed to make further enquiry into this unhappy event.” Sir Nathaniel glanced at Morton. “It is Mr. Morton's opinion that your son's death is of a somewhat… anomalous nature. His whereabouts before his arrival at this house last night are… uncertain, the causes of mortality… imperfectly understood.”

Morton could see the effect of these words on Lady Caroline. It was the first she had heard of such things, he felt sure.

Lady Caroline raised a handkerchief to her mouth. “But what are you suggesting?”

“Only that the matter might bear looking into,” Sir Nathaniel said.

“I do not mean to distress you, Lady Caroline,” Morton said, fearing Sir Nathaniel was being too delicate. He addressed both parents. “I'm quite certain we know where your son was before he took a carriage for Portman House, and it was a particularly notorious criminal den, where-”

“How can that be, sir?” Sir William interjected. “What are you suggesting about my son? That he consorted with criminals?” Like his wife, he had a faint north country or Scots accent.

“Indeed not, sir. Your son is said to have been a man of character. That is why I have suggested we look into this matter a little more. What was Mr. Glendinning doing in such a place just before his end? And what might have happened to him there?”

“You are very certainly misinformed, sir!” Sir William cried. “My son was a gentleman. A man of letters. Not an habitue of low houses.”

Morton started to respond, but Sir Nathaniel cut him off with a gesture. “Your son's character is not in question, Sir William, let me assure you. But it is very suspicious that he fought a duel in the morning and… died later the same day.”

“His honour had been impugned and he defended it,” Sir William said, drawing himself up a little, proud of his son. “His untimely passing was a sad coincidence. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Sir Nathaniel, “but we do not know what caused this untimely passing.”

“I have spoken to the surgeon who attended poor Halbert upon his arrival here, and I am satisfied that there was nothing untoward about his death. His constitution was ever delicate,” Sir William said. The pride disappeared from his face, however, and he slumped down a little. His wife reached out and gently placed her small hand over his.

Their son was dissolute, that is what they believed, Morton realised. They thought he'd drunk himself to death in a bawdy house, and they wanted it to go no further.

“Sir,” Morton said. “I was present at the time of this surgeon's examination and can tell you that it was less than thorough. Your son did not choke. I am quite sure of it. A proper examination might tell us the cause…of this unfortunate event.”