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

appear refined, but his jaw was strong. Arabella said he had the eyes of a poet, whatever that might mean. “Soft and soulful,” he guessed, but dark and inquisitive was his own assessment—too inquisitive.
    “It is odd,” he said more seriously. “Why was the jarvey so frightened, do you think? Could it have been merely the fear the poor feel when they think some accusation might be leveled at them? Glendinning died in the man's carriage, after all. Did he fear that these nobs would blame him in some way? If only for negligence?”
    Arabella did not take a seat, but instead paced across the small sitting-room. Morton watched her go, hungrily, his own feelings not in tune with the mood. “No, I think it was something else.” She struggled to give voice to what was in her mind. “It…it was not that kind of fear, Henry,” she said at last.
    Morton suddenly found himself listening. He was not sure why. As though his own feelings had been deafening him to what Arabella had been saying. Like most people of her profession, Arabella was an acute observer of human nature, and Morton had come to trust her intuition.
    “I'm sure you're right,” he said, “but it seems unlikely I will find him now. We might offer a reward for him to come forward.” There were some thousand hackney-coach licences granted in London, not to mention those who plied the trade unsanctioned.
    Arabella stopped her pacing. “Four-seventeen,” she said firmly.
    For a moment Morton stared at her blankly, then his face lit in a smile. “The coach number?” he said.
    “Of course! After what I saw, you did not think Iwould forget to note it? Mr. Morton, you do me a disservice.”
    “Not at all, my dear. Many a Bow Street officer has cursed himself after the fact for not noting a hackney number in the heat of the moment.” He smiled at her, hoping his praise would ease the tension between them. “I shall find the man tomorrow, and speak with him, if you think it worthwhile.”
    “I do, but don't wait until tomorrow. I tell you, Henry, this jarvey will be gone by then. He was that frightened. Gone, and then you shall never find him.”
    To Morton's distress she went directly to the door, opening it like a matador flourishing a cape. “I will reserve tomorrow evening for you,” she announced. “You may fetch me directly after my performance and tell me that I was absolutely right. That this young jarvey did know something more, and that the death of Mr. Richard Glendinning, or Halbert, if that was his name, was suspicious in the extreme.”
    “But, Arabella…”
    But Arabella would brook no argument.
    She did give in a little as he passed, favouring him with a most promising kiss—but it was a promise for the future, not this night.

    Morton found himself out on the street, his mood alternating between amusement and chagrin. Arabella Malibrant had him in thrall, as she did much of London at the moment. At least he was not alone in his thralldom.
    There was nothing for it but to locate this worthless jarvey and find out why he bolted from Lord Darley's door—for innocent enough reasons, Morton suspected. And if he could not find the driver of coach 417…Well,he did not care to consider the price he would pay for failure.
    The mists in the still-dark streets were heavy, and his footfalls echoed dimly in the muffled silence.
    He could not go to the Hackney-Coach Office in Essex Street, to find out who held licence number 417, until it opened in the morning. But Morton had an idea that such a visit might not be required. He'd made this kind of enquiry before.
    He walked the few blocks to the theatre district, where it took only a moment to locate a familiar coach driver.
    “Evening, Willam.”
    “Evening, Mr. Morton. Where might I carry you, sir?”
    “I'm not sure myself. I'm looking for a jarvey who was about in four-seventeen this evening.”
    The driver nodded and stroked the stubble staining his chin. “Well, Mr. Morton, most of the