Sir Nathaniel Conant had clearly been fore- warned, and awaited them in his private chamber. He sat massive and motionless behind his table as John Townsend lowered himself uninvited onto one of the side chairs. The rest of the men, including Henry Morton, remained on their feet.
“This is not a formal hearing, gentlemen,” rasped out the Chief Magistrate. “The formal hearing will take place tomorrow morning in Bow Street Police Court, before the full panel. What we will do now is make a few preliminary enquiries, so that I can determine whether there be need to detain Mr. Morton.”
He turned his gaze to Henry Morton. “I am disappointed to see you here, sir.”
“I am disappointed to be here.”
“The objects recovered from your lodgings correspond in every point to certain antiquities belonging to the Earl of Elgin and stolen from the courtyard of Burlington House on or near the seventh of June of the present year.”
“I am sure they are the same,” said Henry Morton. “But I did not steal them.”
John Townsend inhaled snuff, and gave a loud, highly satisfactory sneeze into his handkerchief, his odd collection of clothing flapping once as he did so.
“How did they come to be in your possession?” demanded the Chief Magistrate, after an annoyed glance at the old Runner.
“My manservant was not at home for most of today, so my lodgings were unattended. Someone who wished me ill must have placed those goods there, just as they must have commissioned the notice in The Morning Chronicle.”
“So might any thief claim,” Sir Nathaniel said flatly. “Have you nothing more to say for yourself than that?”
“I have been looking into the doings at a particular flash house in the East End, sir, and twice I have been warned that the house was under the protection of someone at Bow Street. It seems very odd to me that I should discover this, and that almost immediately constables from Bow Street should find a notice listing my address and describing the antiquities I have been seeking. As you well know, I am aware of how such things are done-if I were a criminal I would not be such a fool as to list mine own address!”
John Townsend cleared his throat, and the Magistrate looked his way.
“I must say, my lord, that it does seem a scheme unworthy of Mr. Morton's intelligence. I have known him a good many years now, and have never had the slightest cause to doubt him.” He looked over at George Vaughan meaningfully. “And I cannot say that of every man at Bow Street.”
“You may have your say before the panel, sir,” Sir Nathaniel told him. “Mr. Morton is to be held in custody over the night, on my authority. Charges will be prepared, and he will answer to them tomorrow.” He took pen and signed the document before him, blotted it, and handed it to his clerk. Then he rose, as did Townsend. Two of the constables stepped in an uncertain manner toward Morton.
“You were not eager to attend to this matter,” Sir Nathaniel said to Morton as he gathered up the remaining papers from his table. “I remember that. You had no appetite for it, I seem to recall were your words.”
Morton said nothing.
As Sir Nathaniel collected his papers, he knocked over a beaker of water, which spilled its contents across the oak-topped table, and down onto the floor. The Magistrate stopped, looking up at Morton. “I have long heard the talk about this Office, and about the Runners. I did not want to believe it. In particular, I did not want to believe it of you.”
“There is still no reason to believe it of me, sir.”
The Magistrate continued to stare at Morton, his hands brutally clenching a stack of documents. “You have all played me for the fool,” he muttered bitterly, and strode out without another glance.
Townsend took Morton's elbow and, followed by a couple of patroles, escorted him as gently as he might across Bow Street to the Brown Bear.
Morton walked numbly, trying to take in what so swiftly and terribly had happened to him. He could not believe that he was now being escorted to the cells where he had led so many. So this was how it felt. And all at once he thought-with an awful vividness-of the Smeetons.
He could die. He could actually hang, there before Newgate like “that cully” Smeeton. Caleb Smeeton had been a fool. But Henry Morton had been a fool, too. Neither of them had understood George Vaughan until it was too late.
“Well, you are in the forge now,” the old Runner remarked with a sigh as they walked. “What have you to defend yourself?”
“Little, it seems. The flash house I looked into-the Otter, in Spitalfields. That is the key to it. I need proof that it is Vaughan who controls it.”
“Hard to get when you are locked up in the Bear.”
Morton said nothing.
As they ushered him into one of the upstairs rooms, the old Runner leaned in the door. “You may sleep soundly, Mr. Morton. I'll have a watch set that you can trust.”
Morton slumped down on the cot, staring at the thin crease of light that found its way beneath the door and spread like a stain across the filthy floor.
He must eventually have fallen into shallow slumber, because he was startled awake by the rattle of a key in the lock. He shielded his eyes as someone with a lantern came in, looming large and dark in the doorway.
“Who is that?” he mumbled. Suddenly he thought of the way the bald footpad's life must have ended, and he was on his feet, staggering from sleep.
The figure turned and quietly closed the door behind him. But it was a familiar voice that spoke.
“It's me, Morton. Presley.”
Henry Morton grunted and slumped back down, rubbing his eyes. “Ah, Jimmy. Welcome to my little palace. I've no armchairs, but help yourself to part of my settee here.”
Jimmy Presley hung his lantern from a hook and sat heavily beside Morton.
Morton reached around and placed an arm over the younger man's broad shoulders for a moment. “Thankee for coming, Jimmy. It's generous. What o'clock is it, by the by?”
“Near three.”
“Ah. A bit longer I have to wait for my breakfast.”
“What will you tell them?” he asked Morton.
“Tomorrow? Oh, I've a lot I can say. How much of it I can prove is the difficulty. And Sir Nathaniel is not just now of a mind to take much from me on trust.”
Presley nodded glumly. “The beak's been getting angrier and angrier,” he sighed. “I seen it. You've not been here, Morton, to hear him ask three times a day where you were and where that Elgin booty was.”
“But others were,” quietly remarked Morton. “Well,” and he sighed now, “I refused to serve Sir Nathaniel, when he asked me to explain how Bow Street really works. This is a mess much of my own making.”
“How did those marbles get in your lodgings, Morton? Have you really joined the flash crowd?”
“Do you think I have?” Morton laughed. “I'm surprised you're here!”
“Nay, I don't,” admitted Presley. “But I don't see how-”
“Oh, it's no great puzzle how,” Morton interrupted him. “My door was watched. When Wilkes went off, someone with the skill picked my back-door lock, and put them in there. There was even time to place a notice for the late printing of the Chronicle. How is no great matter. What is more to the point is why. And why now, exactly?”
Presley turned to look at him with a puzzled stare. “George Vaughan don't like you, Morton. I'll tell you that.”
“It's a bit more than just not liking me, Jimmy. Who already knew my address? Why, the same man who knew it tonight, and yesterday, too, when the place was empty. Tell me, Jimmy, did you ever know where I dwelt? Did I ever tell you?”
“No,” admitted Presley.
“No, I hadn't the habit of telling folk. But a Runner with a company of informants would not find it too hard to ascertain. That is, if he was of a mind to use them against his brother officers. And what about those pads who came after Mrs. Malibrant and me in the hackney-coach? D'ye think that was random?”
“The bald cove said they was commissioned by a short man.”
“Aye, which led me in several wrong directions. Maybe 'twas so, and one of George Vaughan's minions is short. Or maybe it was just said to throw us off the scent. The main point is, they meant to get Henry Morton and Arabella Malibrant thrown off a bit more permanently.”
“But why?” weakly asked Jimmy Presley.
“Well, now, Jimmy.” Henry Morton sighed, drawing back and looking at him, “You've got your own notions by now about Mr. George Vaughan, don't you? That is why you're here with me in this stink-hole, and not out somewhere with the flash men raising a glass with Officer Vaughan and toasting your good fortune.”
Presley swallowed and said nothing.
“Somebody didn't just nose on the Smeetons, did they? Somebody didn't just sell them to Bow Street. No, somebody went a distance farther than that. Somebody set up the whole scrap-recruited them, gave them the address and the time and even the tools to break in with, and then arranged to have his friends there to take the thieves in the act. Poor paltry thieves, those! But worth-what was it now?-seventy pound a head, all told. And for that the two cullies end up dancing on nothing, never knowing how it was done to them exactly, but suspecting, suspecting… especially by the end.” Morton rubbed his face with his hands again, still trying to dispel his grogginess. “And it wasn't likely the first time, was it?” he went on. “Many another's swung from the same tree, I'd guess.”
Jimmy Presley bowed his head in shame, but nodded all the same. Morton continued.
“Our George Vaughan has himself a little scheme that could earn him quite a few pound, or a Norway neck-cloth. You know it, Jimmy, and I know it, but what we don't have is proof.
“And maybe that's what's really puzzling me the most. I've been lying here trying to figure it. I may think I can see what Mr. Vaughan's business is, but I can't see that I have enough real evidence to do him any serious harm. So, as I said, why spring the trap now? Why try to put Henry Morton out of the way? Unless… unless I actually have more proof than I realise I have. Unless I'm closer to Mr. George Vaughan than I know. Have you ever been in the Otter House in Spitalfields, Jimmy?”
“Nay, thank God.”
“Well, I've made myself familiar with the place in the last week or so, and there's a curious thing the folk there keep saying when I make my well-intentioned enquiries into their general state of health. They say, Mr. Morton, sir, it's kind of you to ask, but in fact, we're already keeping Bow Street abreast of all our news.”
“Vaughan is there?”
“And, Jimmy, they were familiar with Caleb Smeeton, too, in the Otter. A low opinion they had of his wisdom, I must say. I think it's pretty clear the whole venture was set up right there. The Otter is George Vaughan's house, Jimmy.
“And you know who else paid a visit to the Otter House before he went on along to his maker, Jimmy? 'Twasn't just Smeeton. The Otter was the last place Halbert Glendinning is sure to have been amongst the living. And I thought, Mr. George Vaughan is not trying to work off Henry Morton because this Morton fellow suspects something about the safe-dead Smeetons. And he's certainly not going to do it because Morton knows he's excused some dueling swells a court appearance, for a modest sum. But maybe there really is one thing he can't quite forgive Henry Morton. Maybe he can't quite forgive Henry Morton for poking his unwelcome head into the Otter, and asking about Halbert Glendinning.
“Let's us put our minds to this Glendinning matter, Jimmy. George Vaughan knew that Glendinning had arrived at Portman House dead drunk, so to speak. Who told him that? And you remember the jarvey who drove the cove to Portman House and delivered him dead?”
“I misremember his name, but I know who you mean.”
“Ralph Acton was his name. When I went looking for him down by Cartwright Square, the ragged folk there told me he'd gone off. But when I asked them why, they said 'twas because of the horneys coming about.”
Presley blinked, not seeing it.
“Well, Jimmy, I thought they meant me. But I've since realized it could hardly be me. I hadn't but asked the man a few questions. And they spoke in the plural. Some other officer or officers had been to see our Master Acton before I got there, and given him a broad hint, likely some blunt, too, so he'd make himself scarce.”
“Vaughan?”
Morton nodded.
“Working for Rokeby?”
“As like as not. But one thing seems sure: George Vaughan is afraid I can prove Glendinning was killed out of that house. He is afraid the murder of gentry-folk will be taken more seriously than that of petty criminals like the Smeetons. And he is afraid too many people in the Otter House know about it-that there are too many witnesses. He can't kill all of them. So he has to kill me.”
“What would it take to get to get the proof you need, Morton?”
There was something very serious in the way Presley spoke. Morton regarded him carefully.
“It would be a hard task for you to take up, Jimmy, if that's what you're offering.”
But the younger man was shaking his head.
“I could never do it.” He lowered his voice. “But you see, Mr. Townsend sent me here. Said the guard watching over the hallway had disappeared and I should come look in on you to be sure you're all right. He gives me a key and says, ‘No one will ever know where this key came from. You take my meaning, Jimmy? Say the same to Mr. Morton and take him my compliments.’”
Morton swore. “And we've been sitting here jawing?”
“Does he mean what I think, Morton? That I'm to spring you?”
“No, Jimmy, nothing so direct. But if you were to go out and leave the door unlocked…It's a risky thing, Jimmy. Are you sure you're willing?”
Presley nodded once in acknowledgement. “No matter about that,” he said, low. “I've amends to make.”
Morton looked at him a moment more, then clapped him warmly on the arm. “Right then. Go on down now and check there's no patrole in the taproom. If there is, come back up. But if none's to be found, then just continue on out. You need do no more than that. Mr. Townsend will have looked after the flash crowd. No one will see you come or go.”
“But you, Morton; you'll need another along.”
“Nay, Jimmy, that's more than I can ask. If I can't find the proof I need we'd be swinging together. Get along out and don't worry about Henry Morton. You've done enough. More than enough.”
Presley stared at Morton a moment in the near dark and nodded once. Morton clasped his hand, neither speaking, and then the big Runner went out.
He waited for a count of a hundred and, when Presley hadn't returned, opened the door. The hallway was empty and lit by a single dingy lamp hanging near the stair head. In a moment Morton was on the steps, then down into the public room below. No one paid him any mind: In a dozen strides he was out into the open air of Bow Street.
Across the way a couple of constables from the Night Patrol were lounging in conversation on the doorstep of number 4. Morton bent his head and set off along the street at a brisk walk and in a moment was out of sight. Just another soul lost to the London night.