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

this person there?”
    “Spoke to one who was, appears.”
    “I admire my brother officer's sources,” remarked Henry Morton a bit sourly, “but I was in Portman House last night myself, and I am less certain the man's death was natural.”
    George Vaughan looked at him wordlessly, but it was evident to Morton that the man was far from pleased to be contradicted. Nor was this the first time the two of them had been at odds.
    “Why?” demanded Sir Nathaniel Conant.
    “There are several suspicious circumstances,” Morton replied. “He had not choked on his vomit, as his mouthand throat were clear of it. He was young and in apparent good health. But more to the point, not only had someone aimed to kill him earlier that morning—our notorious Colonel Rokeby—but he had come to Portman House from one of the worst criminal dens in London. I tracked down the hackney-coach driver who brought him, and the man was frightened out of his wits. Something transpired at this flash house, and I think the driver knows or suspects something of it. I gave him a bit of time to mull it over.”
    “Which flash house was this?” grunted the Chief Magistrate.
    “The Otter House, Bell Lane, Spitalfields. I think there should be an investigation, my lord, and the coroner called in to authorize a postmortem examination.”
    Sir Nathaniel scowled in distaste. “And what is it you think happened to him, Mr. Morton?”
    “I am not sure, sir, but it seems very likely he was murdered, and it would not be difficult to guess who had this done.”
    The Magistrate eyed him. “Have you a witness?”
    “I have not. Not yet.”
    Sir Nathaniel shook his head. “A man who frequents a house like that,” he remarked, “courts such a fate. And perhaps deserves it.”
    “Lord Arthur Darley, his host, assured me that Glen-dinning was a man of modest deportment, and excellent character, not given to such … practices. The body, incidentally, lies at his house for the moment. I asked him to wait upon our warrant.”
    “What are you suggesting we do?” Sir Nathaniel demanded impatiently.
    Morton drew breath. “I would like to have Sir Benjamin—”
    “Oh, your precious Brodie, again,” scoffed Vaughan with a glance at the ceiling.
    Sir Benjamin Brodie was undoubtedly England's foremost, indeed single, expert on poisons, and had lectured on the subject with great authority in London, as well as at Cambridge. But Henry Morton was the only man at Bow Street who believed that such knowledge could be of use in police detection, and Sir Nathaniel had had only too much experience with the fate of Morton's supposed “evidence” at Sessions Court. Never once had their lordships accepted it, and he'd had to listen to many a stern lecture on its inadmissibility. The simple truth was that there was no reliable test for the presence of even a single kind of poison in a dead body. Quack chemists had completely muddied the waters, rendering any such claims doubtful. Convictions were only ever obtained with direct, corroborating testimony.
    “Spare me your alchemical lore, Mr. Morton,” the Chief Magistrate told him.
    “The death was suspicious,” repeated Henry Morton.
    As Sir Nathaniel Conant mused, his glance shifted from Morton to Vaughan to Presley. The impression came unbidden into Morton's mind that there was something more than he entirely grasped going on amongst the people in this little room. But he was far from understanding what it was. An intuition, a vague feeling, was all he had.
    “Very well,” decided the Chief Magistrate. “I will summon Sir Charles Carey and we'll go to Portman House together to view the remains, after I adjourn my court for midday. Send word to Lord Arthur not tomake any arrangements until our arrival. We shall need to speak with the man's family. Offer my condolences and ask if they would wait upon us there at, what? Half noon?”
    Morton dipped his head in acquiescence. The Magistrate moved on to another