There were more people in the Otter that night than Morton had seen on either of his previous visits, making it feel more like a normal public house in a shabby quarter of town. Men were crowded along the walls and played cards at both of the tables amidst a clutter of gin glasses and beer mugs. Pipe smoke hung in a dense cloud along the low wooden rafters.
As he stepped into the room, baton prominent in his hand, he listened to the voices abruptly die away. There was an uncomfortable silence. Joshua glowered resentfully from his place behind the bar again, but Morton did not see either of the other men who had been present the first night.
He felt his anger begin to rise within him, his disgust at this place. The destruction of children, murder, theft-what crimes had not been fomented here? It was always best, and safest, to be aggressive and confident in these situations, but for Henry Morton tonight there would be little need to pretend.
“I am an officer of police on His Majesty's warrant,” he announced loudly. “No man is to part these premises until I've had speech with him.”
“There's no call for this,” objected Joshua from his place. “My customers are law abiding. You've no right disturbing them.”
“I'll disturb whom I please,” retorted Morton coldly. “And God help him who tries to stop me.”
“You've no actual warrant to-” began Joshua again.
But Henry Morton's rage flared and he brought down his baton on the nearer tabletop with a furious crash, splitting the flimsy board and sending the cards and coins and glassware spilling noisily onto the floor. The men who had been sitting at it scrambled up anxiously and backed away.
“You'll hold your peace!” Morton bellowed. The silence now was complete. He looked around the dim room. “This is a den of vile corruption, and any man here for its filthy commerce gets no consideration from me!”
He stepped forward, slapping his baton against his gloved palm, and letting his words sink in.
“A gentleman was murdered out of this house last week, and every one of you is under suspicion for it. I want each man here to come to this table and tell me his whereabouts on Saturday last, and how he can prove it.”
The men at the other table made way, snatching up their drinks and other belongings. Morton took a place from which he could keep his eye on the doorway and sat, laying his hat and baton down before him. He looked over at Joshua and pointed at him.
“You first. The rest of you keep off and give us room.”
Joshua reluctantly came and took his place. Morton kept his voice low, if still full of menace, so that it could not be generally overheard.
“I asked you about a gentleman who visited this house, and I am going to ask you again. This time I want the truth. I have a dozen witnesses who heard the jarvey say he picked him up here. Respectable witnesses, do you understand? Gentry-folk.”
“Happens there may have been such,” muttered Joshua now. Morton regarded him closely. Was he intimidated? Or had his instructions changed?
“What was he drinking?”
“Happens maybe brandy wine, if 'twas him we're speaking of.”
“When did he arrive?”
Joshua's eyes narrowed, and he hesitated.
“I've heard lies enough in my time,” Morton told him evenly. “So do not think yours will pass me. I'll have the truth, Joshua, or you'll be coming with me to Bow Street where we have a cozy little room where the truth always comes out.”
Joshua paused a moment more, then spoke.
“Early in the evening he came. I've no notion what o'clock 'twas.”
“What did he want? Why was he here?”
“Wot else did he want but wot most coves want?” The publican jerked his head briefly, to indicate the upper regions of the house. “That and his brandy. He was half-seas over when he left, but he was content. Coves leave here content, now, don't they?”
“Are you telling me positively that he went upstairs with one of these… children?”
“Aye, he did. Two on them, before he was done. Just as do plenty of you swells….”
The Runner restrained his disgust.
“Did he drink enough to vomit?” he demanded. “Did he flash the hash?”
The barman dourly shook his head. “Not while he was here.”
“Whom did he keep company with?”
“None was with him.”
Morton considered Joshua coldly. “Had he ever been here before, this gentleman?”
“I know not. But I'm not always here, am I?”
Morton stared a long moment. The barman's eyes were full of concealment, that was sure, but Morton believed he'd told all he would without further persuasion. He waved him away, and pointed to another man at random.
His reference to Saturday had been deliberately misleading. In fact, Halbert Glendinning had died not on Saturday, but Friday. Morton let the Otter's customers make their denials for the former day, argued with them awhile, and then as it were casually asked them whether they had been in the house on the latter. Frequently enough they were glad to admit it, as if such a concession would make the Runner more likely to believe them on the first account. Then he came at them hard.
“Did you see a gentleman in here that night, dressed all in dark clothes and drinking brandy?”
“Nay, yer worship. No such cove.”
“And are you blind? Is that what you will tell me next? I say he was here, and you did see him, and maybe you helped murder him, too!”
“Nay, yer honour! I swear to you!”
“What good's the oath of a liar? I know he was here. Did you see him, or shall I clap you in irons and haul you down to Bow Street?”
But as much as he pressed them, he could squeeze little of the wine of truth from such worthless mash. A few might really have seen Glendinning. A few of those seemed to confirm that he had really been drinking brandy-although it was anyone's guess how much. All of them were lying about at least part of their story, of that Morton was certain. Some of the folk here couldn't open their mouths at all without lying, even if they had no cause to. They were certainly being as secretive as they dared now. Indeed, there was something a bit more brazen about them than Morton usually encountered when he made a visit like this to a flash house. They were afraid, he thought. But not of him. Not enough.
Then his luck changed. The man who sat down across from him broke into a crooked smile.
“Hello, Mr. Morton, sir. Haven't clapped eyes on me in a twelvemonth, have you?”
“Valentine Rudd,” murmured Morton in recognition.
“It's me. Been down in Cornwall, sojourning with me cousins there. But I did miss London-town, Mr. Morton, I'll say that.”
“Are you back cursing the moon?”
Morton had known Rudd at Drury Lane the previous year, where the big countryman had employed himself as a link man, carrying a torch and offering protection to the patrons on their somewhat dangerous nighttime trip back to their homes. Such men were called moon-cursers, as bright moonlight supposedly made their services unnecessary. Rudd was not a man of much wit, but Morton had always liked him.
“Nay, I'm 'prenticing now, with a locksmith in Brick Lane.”
“What brings you into a wretched place like this, Rudd? I always thought you were a man of decent habits.”
Valentine Rudd looked a little crestfallen.
“Well, Mr. Morton, here's the way of it. It's rather a strange yarn, I'll admit to you. True, this house is not for the likes of me. But I wandered in here by chance, soon after I got back. I didn't know what it was, Mr. Morton, this place. I went upstairs, as all I wanted was a regular bit o' laced mutton, as I'll say to you I do indulge in from time to time, when the inclination arises. You'll understand that, sir, and not think too much the worse of me?”
Morton shrugged.
“Well, I goes up, just for the usual knock or two. But there she is, the sweetest little mort. Not as I expected at all.”
“But a kinchin-mort, Rudd. A child!”
“Nay, she's older than she looks!” He blushed. Then blurted it once and quickly. “And she's all my heart now!” He grinned helplessly at Morton. “I come back to see her when I can, and I tell her when I can raise enough from my toil, I'll buy her free, and we'll be wed. So I promised her, and so I'll do, too, God help me.”
Morton shook his head in wonder at this odd romanticism. However, he knew of other marriages in the city that, against all likelihood, had begun this way, and even succeeded. Then a troubling thought. “Is the one you're nutty on the little wench Lucy?”
“Oh, nay, Mr. Morton. Mine's named Marie, my little charmer, French-like. And she's nay so young. Full fifteen year she is, just she looks younger.” A furrow of reflection passed across his broad brow. “Nay, that Lucy's a deep one. That Lucy's not for the likes of me.”
Morton pondered.
“How much money do you need to get your girl free?”
“Oh, be…” he calculated, “some twenty shilling more.”
Such a small price! The child was not strictly the property of the Otter, of course. Hers was probably some kind of informal indentured servitude, and the sum was a debt owed the Otter either by her parents or herself. If Morton simply removed young Marie and defied them to take her back they might, or might not, resist. The law was murky in this area, as in so many others. But it would probably be cleaner for her, and for Rudd, if they got their money.
Morton leaned forward slightly, to be quite sure they were not overheard.
“Very well, Valentine Rudd. You help me, and it'll be worth twenty shillings to you. Now listen here-and don't look too happy while you're talking to a horney.”
Rudd grinned in incomprehension, realised what Morton meant, and belatedly attempted to look grim.
“I need two things,” went on Morton. “I need a little information I can trust, and I need a key to this house. The lock's a Bramah, so the key will be small and easily enough pinched. Can you do it?”
Rudd thought, then very slowly nodded.
“Mayhap, we can. If Marie can fetch the key for me, I can get a copy made at our forge. We've done Bramahs before.”
For what purposes? silently wondered Morton, but made no more of it.
“Wait outside for me, at the corner of Bishopsgate and Union streets, nigh the Charley there. I'll not be more than an hour more, and we'll speak on this.” He sat back and said in a louder voice: “You're even stupider than the rest!”
And Valentine Rudd seemed prone to demonstrate this by looking, at least for a moment, genuinely hurt.
There were only a few more to speak to. When he was done, Morton called to Joshua, who was morosely surveying his deserted tavern. Each of his customers had beat a hasty retreat once Morton had talked to him.
“I'll take another dram of your brandy before I go.”
Joshua looked black, but complied and, as Morton had hoped, called for Lucy to deliver the order. Lucy brought it as before, but when her back was turned from the bar she favoured Morton with a brilliant, conspiratorial grin. So, it appeared she had not been harmed. With any luck, the old woman had not reported Morton's early visit at all.
He was rewarded with something more than this reassurance, however. As she carefully set down the drink before him, the girl leaned very slightly forward, and in a clear quick whisper, said:
“ ‘The Ass-syr-ian came down like the wolf on the fold. And his co-horts were gleam-ing in purple and gold!’”
Morton laughed aloud in surprise, and with a joyous flash of her brown eyes she darted off again.
His anger had drained away. Joshua's goodwill might preserve Lucy from any consequences of this suspicious fraternisation with the enemy, so this time Morton paid for his drink, and even added a few coins to compensate for the broken table and glassware before he left.
Valentine Rudd was waiting as instructed, chatting in friendly fashion with the aged “Charley,” one of London's notoriously ineffectual nightwatchmen, who had crept for a while from the safety of his sentry box. Morton took the Cornishman by the arm and they walked along Bishopsgate, passing from the shadows into the yellow glow of the lamps and then back into the darkness again.
“Were you there in the Otter on Friday last, Rudd?”
“Nay, Mr. Morton, I weren't. But there's a cull who surely was. He's there most every night. I've never gone but he weren't there.”
“Who is that?”
“Wardle, Amos Wardle. He is a confectioner, and has his shop at the corner of Osborne Street and Whitechapel, just by us. Seems he has a weakness for the kinchin-morts. Brings them candy. He's a mutton-monger, sure.”
“Married man?” wondered Morton.
“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd emptily.
“Any daughters?” asked Morton, bitterly.
“Oh, aye,” replied Rudd, “I seem to recall.” And his surprised glance at the Runner's face told Morton that the simple man did not see the point of the question. Morton changed the subject.
“What can you tell me about the Otter itself? Who is the owner? Is it that cove Joshua?”
“Nay, I can't say as I ever heard anyone say who owned it.” Rudd scratched his head. “Now, Mr. Morton, sir, I suppose I didn't really have my eyes about me in there. I only had my eyes one place, that's the truth.”
Morton tried to describe the burly man he had seen before, from whom Joshua seemed to be taking his instructions.
“Oh, him, aye. I think I know the cove you mean. He's called Bill, I think.”
“Bill who?”
Rudd looked at him helplessly. Morton saw one of the infrequent hackney-coaches coming down the street toward them and decided he had enough for the moment.
As he flagged the cab, he turned back to Rudd, reaching into his pocket.
“See if you can find me Bill's name. Here is ten shillings. Bring that key to my lodgings by the forenoon tomorrow, and there will be ten more left for you with my landlady. See that you go promptly and buy out your Marie, too, and get her clear of that place. I shall come and look for you in Brick Lane soon enough, to hear what else you can remember.” And he gave Rudd his address and climbed into the cab, telling the jarvey to take him to the hotel in Mayfair where he was to meet Arabella for a late supper.
Valentine Rudd gave him a hearty wave and started to stroll off into the dark, whistling as he went, a man at peace with the world.
As soon as he dropped back into his seat, Henry Morton, by contrast, began to brood. He began to wonder why only one child should be rescued from the Otter. He thought of the little girl who, in such a place, was resolutely going about learning to read, of all things! But was he going to rescue them all? And then, what about all the rest scattered about London? And in every other city in the land? But why stop there? The world was full of mistreated females.
“Bloody Sir Galahad,” he muttered aloud, and stared unhappily out at the dark shapes passing in the shadowy streets of London.