Thumbscrews!”
Henry Morton nodded. He sat opposite Sir Nathaniel Conant, the Bow Street Chief Magistrate, in his book-lined office. He had really come here looking for Jimmy Presley, to ask him some questions about the nameless woman who now lay in Skelton's surgery, but he had been asked to attend the “Beak.”
“Mr. Skelton is certain? Beyond doubt?”
“I believe he is, Sir Nathaniel.”
The Magistrate gave a visible little shiver. Morton's respect for his superior had grown in last month's business about the corrupt Runner George Vaughan. Sir Nathaniel's moral compass was certain.
The Public Office's most celebrated police man, John Townsend, sat to Morton's right, listening quietly.
“And you don't know who this woman might be?” the old Runner asked, his deep, smoky voice echoing in the small chamber.
“I hope that I shall know soon. Her clothing was distinctive. It is very possible that it was French.”
Sir Nathaniel stirred his bulky person uncomfortably in his chair. “Is she a citizen of France, do you think?”
“Many people have a partiality for things French, Sir Nathaniel.”
“Of course.” He splayed a large-knuckled hand across the blotter on his desk. “Why in the world would anyone apply a thumbscrew to this woman? What had she done?”
“What did she know, is the question I would ask,” John Townsend said, and then continued, with that bland and oblivious pedantry of his that to Morton always sounded faintly ironic: “The thumbscrew is a small iron implement that compresses the digit for which it is named between two hard surfaces. Why the thumb? Because it is bigger and more convenient than the other fingers. The flesh below the protective nail on any digit is far and away the most sensitive part of a human body, so this is done for only one purpose-to cause pain of such intensity that one will tell all, betray a brother or even a lover. It is a terrible device, and the men who applied it are either desperate or monstrous. I do not know which I would hope for.”
Sir Nathaniel continued to stare at his hand on the desk, then picked up a quill. “Didn't Presley fetch the body in? If you feel the need, Mr. Morton, employ young Presley. I should like some answers in this matter as soon as may be.” He nodded to the Runners, who rose and left.
In the antechamber outside, Morton touched his old friend on the shoulder before he could take his leave.
“You had more to say, I think, Mr. Townsend,” Morton ventured.
The venerable old Runner paused to think, rooting about in his frock coat for his snuff and examining his younger colleague as he did. “I will tell you this, Morton-you are beyond the realm of common crime now. Torture is imposed for reasons either of religion or of state. The Spanish Inquisition is a thing of the past. You have entered the world of politics, I would say.”
Morton nodded slowly, trying to take it in. He respected Townsend immeasurably. The little man's mannerisms were impossibly eccentric, and some of their younger colleagues snickered behind his back. But Morton knew his worth and knew just how discreetly successful this odd old dandy had been. Townsend was an intimate of the highest circles in London, a friend and servant of the Prince Regent himself, and he had been quietly putting away his ample reward monies for more than five decades. He could probably buy up Sir Nathaniel and the whole lot of them, if he so chose. When he spoke in serious tones, as he did now, Morton listened.
“The world of politics is a different and more dangerous world altogether.” Townsend paused and nodded, as if to himself. “Your common London malefactor will not give his life for a cause. No, he will preserve his life at all costs, and we Runners have come to depend on that. Knowing this tells us a great deal about what a criminal will do and what he will not. The world you enter now has different rules. Men who have been afflicted with the madness of politics might choose to take your life at the cost of their own, just to preserve their cause.” He met Morton's eye. “Be wary, sir. I know I have cautioned you before in different circumstances, but mark what I say: none of those situations were as dangerous as this.”