This time Henry Morton was closely confined in a back room at Bow Street, shackled at wrist and ankle, a constable from the Horse Patrol constantly in attendance. Exhausted after a long day and sleepless night, dirty and unkempt, his shoulder throbbing from the injury received breaking out of the Otter's cellar, he slumped on a hard wooden bench against the wall.
Sir Nathaniel had postponed his hearing until the morrow, in order that the situation in Bell Lane be assessed.
Some time in the afternoon Vickery came in to tell him what had happened. A thundershower had assisted the fire company in its work. But by the time the blaze had finally been extinguished, three houses had been destroyed. In the ruins of number 12 they found five charred bodies: One was large, adult, and four were children.
They had sifted through the wreckage, and discovered the apparent location of the storage space, as Morton had described it. But there was nothing there. No stolen goods, certainly no marble sculpture. If there had ever been a tunnel, it had been covered forever in the collapse of the neighbouring house.
Morton nodded, slowly, seeing it all. There was little for either to say. Vickery went out, leaving his brother officer to the cold comfort of his thoughts.
An uncertain time later he heard shouting beyond the door. He and Browne, the constable who was watching him, both looked up in surprise.
“Order, what order! Who gave you such an order?”
“What does it concern you, you young fool, so long as they did!”
The voices were recognisable. The first belonged to Jimmy Presley. The second to the constable Dannelly, who was apparently mounting guard outside the room.
“I'll give you an order-with my fist, so help me God.”
There was a silence, and then Morton heard the locks being worked. The door swung in, but instead of Jimmy Presley, Arabella Malibrant entered alone, and the door was pulled sharply shut behind her.
She strode unhesitatingly across the room to sit down beside Henry Morton, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips to his hair. He could hear Browne shift in discomfort, but Morton leaned against her, unable because of his shackles to put his own arm about her, and silently accepted her warmth, her embrace, the sweet familiar scent of her that filled his nostrils.
For a long moment they sat thus without speaking. At length she drew back, and quickly cleaned her wet cheeks with the back of one white-gloved hand.
“The Otter burned,” Morton said at last, “taking all the children with it. The poor, misused children. Only Lucy escaped.”
“And you,” Arabella murmured.
“Yes, but only for a time. There was a man's body found there, too, in the ashes, and it will prove to be the barkeep Joshua, I've no doubt. He was ready to testify. They must have seen that. They took no risks.”
Arabella pulled away so that she could look at him, her hands pressed against his chest. The lamplight shone in her hair, turning it the hue of failing embers, but her skin was very pale.
“But we have a witness still,” she said. “Lucy has told me much. Much that I did not care to hear-and so naively stated. How could any girl's mother…?” But she let that sentence die. “Lucy knows everything, Henry, everything we need them to hear.”
“She could know every bit of villainy George Vaughan had ever perpetrated and it would not matter to the Magistrates. She is a child, and a child raised in a criminal environment where lying comes as easily as the pox. They will not believe her, that's certain.” Morton took Arabella's hands in his own. “I fear it will not answer.” He gazed at her face, so filled with worry, and tried to change the subject. “But how is she? How is our young Lucy?”
“She is very well. I have her at Portman House still. She told me what happened last night, Henry, how you got her free from that place. She is a marvel. An absolute marvel. How could such a child have sprung from so corrupt a house?”
“There is a great spirit in that tiny body. At least I plucked her away in time, if nothing else. I wonder if Rudd got his Marie clear as well?”
Arabella stared intensely at him, her green eyes glittering. Then she took hold of his lapels and shook him gently. “Henry, you do not listen when I speak. Lucy can get you free. She recognises George Vaughan and can identify him! She heard him give orders for any number of felonies. Those people, the Smeetons-some man named Taylor was treated the same and hanged as well.”
“Samuel Taylor?”
“That's the one.”
“Vickery arrested him…on Vaughan's intelligence. I remember it.” Her certainty was making some impression on Morton now. “Perhaps it is worth trying,” he mused. “Like enough, the panel will prevent her even from speaking. And if she does speak, they will probably not believe her. But perhaps 'tis the best hope I have.”
“It is the only hope. You'll see, when she begins to talk. She's rare, a prodigy, Henry. I swear she will make an impression on these Magistrates, if they have any heart at all.”
Morton smiled a little in wonderment. Lucy must certainly possess something extraordinary to have won over the hard-to-impress Arabella so quickly. “Did they tell you the hearing is set for tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“Yes, and we shall have her prepared. Louisa Hamilton knows of your plight and has come to Darley's. She's taken up our young Lucy with a will, and is having some clothes fitted for her so she'll look well in Police Court. Henry, you won't recognise that child.”
“And all this, at Portman House?”
Arabella nodded. “Yes, you have an admirer in Arthur. And now that he has heard Lucy's story…You are quite the hero over there at the moment.”
“Lucy is the hero,” Morton muttered. “Without her I would not have escaped.”
“Nor would she have escaped without you. They would have left her to the flames.”
For a second Arabella closed her eyes.
Morton caressed her cheek. But Arabella rallied, her eyes flicking opened, filled now with resolve. “We must think carefully about what we need to know from Lucy,” she told him. “We must prepare for the questions she'll be asked. Arthur has offered his barrister, Oswald Barrington. He speaks very highly of him.”
Morton smiled in gratitude. “Should I be bound over for Sessions Court in the Old Bailey,” he replied, “I shall certainly need the best legal wizardry available, and I'll accept the offer. But a prisoner is not allowed representation at his Police Court hearing. He must speak wholly for himself, even arrange his own witnesses, if he has any. The Magistrates listen to the testimony, draw up documents, and make any decisions about the laying of charges. And actually, because the procedure is less formal, it's often a man's best chance to avoid an appointment with Jack Ketch. And so it might be for me.”
“Then we must be very ready,” said Arabella with determination.
For the next half hour she and Morton went over the possible course of the hearing, the dangers and the possibilities. While they consulted, Constable Browne stared emptily at the wall, without appearing to react to anything that was said. Townsend had put Browne in here, but Morton couldn't help wondering if Vaughan's influence in Bow Street was deeper than even the old man knew.