The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner Read Online Free PDF

furniture.
    “How did you know of it?” he demanded.
    “Mr. Presley received a tidy little warning,” Vaughan said. “An abigail came by—”
    “Who?”
    “A lady's maid, my lord. And Mr. Presley took charge of the matter, promptly found me, and was good enough to carry me up to the Scrubs with him. Most commendably direct, he was.”
    “Who was she?”
    Morton caught just a flicker of a glance from Presley to Vaughan before both men shrugged.
    “Didn't say,” answered Presley. “Nor named who sent her, neither.”
    “And the principals in this affair were…?” Sir Nathaniel looked from one Runner to the next. “Morton? Were you part of this?”
    “Nay,” said Henry Morton. “I was in Whitechapel all morning.”
    “Mr. Vaughan?”
    “A Mr. Halbert Glendinning,” said Vaughan. “Up against our Colonel Rokeby. Seconds: for Glendinning, a Mr. Hamilton. For Rokeby, his toady-man Pierce, as ever.”
    While they spoke, Sir Nathaniel's factotums busied themselves about the chamber. Briefs and order papers were stacked in the cabinets lining the wall behind the Magistrate; the wig was lifted discreetly from his head; a goblet of Madeira was decanted and placed comfortably to hand on the table.
    He sipped his wine. “This bloody man Rokeby's killed five times; isn't that what's said?”
    Morton noticed a look of considerable surprise pass over young Presley's face at this. But then he swiftly composed himself again.
    “At least.” Morton himself quietly answered the question.
    “And you did nothing?”
    “We warned 'em very firm, Sir Nathaniel” was Vaughan's ready retort. “I'll warrant they took our meaning, too.”
    “Oh, aye, I'll warrant they did. I'll warrant there was some handy giving and taking.”
    Vaughan's eyebrows raised as though this suggestion of impropriety impugned his honour.
    Perhaps Sir Nathaniel realised he had overstepped a bound as well. If he was going to make accusations against a Runner they would have to be in a court of enquiry. The Magistrate swallowed again from his glass and one of his assistants whispered urgently in his ear.
    Presley caught Morton's eye and with a small grin rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The little gesture, Morton realised, did not go unnoticed by the portly man seated behind the table, who then returned his attention to the Runners.
    “No felony was committed,” said Vaughan evenly. “We performed our proper duty.”
    “What was it over, this duel?” the Magistrate asked, ignoring Vaughan's defense.
    “Mere idle talk, sir. Hot words, is all,” replied Presley disdainfully, but Vaughan drew himself up and eyed the Magistrate darkly.
    Sir Nathaniel Conant regarded him a moment, reflecting. “In future, sir,” he said coldly, “when men discharge weapons at one another, you are to arrest them and bring them before this Police Court, as a case of attempted murder. The panel, not you, shall be the judge of the seriousness of the infringement on His Majesty's peace.”
    “As you say, my lord,” drawled George Vaughan.
    There was enough defiance in this laconic response to make the Chief Magistrate hesitate an instant, but not quite sufficient to draw him into further confrontation.
    “There is a complication,” announced Henry Morton. All their eyes went to him. “Last night, the same day as his interrupted duel, Mr. Halbert Glendinning turned up dead.”
    “Cor!” blurted Jimmy Presley. Sir Nathaniel Conant stared.
    “What on earth do you mean, sir, ‘turned up dead’?”
    “I mean, my lord, that he arrived at a social function in a hackney-coach, and he was dead when the footman opened the door.”
    George Vaughan cleared his throat. “I heard he was drunk. Choked on his own puke.”
    It was now the turn of the other three to look in surprise at him.
    “You know of this, too?” demanded Sir Nathaniel.
    “Town's full of it, my lord. I had it from an informant of mine—member of the serving class, but reliable.”
    “Was