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

licences in the low four hundreds be in the hands of innkeeps in the City. Beyond St. Paul's, sir.”
    “The City it is, Willam,” Morton said, tugging open the coach door. The warmth of a bed—first Arabella's and now his own—receded into the cool, distant hours of the morning. Sleep would be brief, if he managed any at all. Morton had an early, and unpleasant, appointment to keep: the hanging of a man and wife.
    Finding coach 417 was not as easy a task as Morton had hoped, and, as always, the Londoners' natural suspicion of the police did not help. Finally a stableman Willam knew suggested they try the Scotsman Blenkinsop, proprietor of the Three Georges, Cheapside.
    The courtyard of the Three Georges was silent and still when Morton arrived, the shapes of a dozen or so coachesfilling most of its dark space. Only a small number would be out at this hour. But those that were would surely be due back soon, to let the day drivers take them.
    The Runner found the ostler in the stables, cleaning harness by the dim light of a smoking lantern.
    “Four-seventeen?” The wizened little man stood and released a small groan as he bent his spine, his hands pressed into the small of his back. “Oh, aye, Constable. That be one of ours.”
    “He in yet?”
    “Nay. Be the only 'un that ain't. Should be here soon enough, though.”
    “I'll tarry, then,” said Morton. He paid Willam his fare, and, tucking his baton of office into his belt, took a cheroot from his frock-coat pocket. The old ostler bore the lantern over and offered him a light.
    “Mind the hay,” he muttered as he shuffled back to his task, reseating himself with a sigh. “Come a cropper, has he, our Ralph?”
    “Oh, nay,” replied the Runner.
    The other looked a little disappointed.
    “Yorkshireman. Never know wif them, does one?”
    Morton blew out a puff of smoke, and nodded sagely. “Not so bad as an Irishman, though,” he said.
    “Nay,” agreed the other readily.
    “You know this cully, driving four-seventeen?”
    The ostler shook his head. “Keeps to hisself. Know his name, that's all. Ralph Acton.”
    But time was never to be wasted, so as Morton smoked, flicking his ashes out into the cinder-yard, he kept up an easy conversation with his new informant, while the latter went on with his labour. The stableman's views, the success of the trade he was in, the personalities, the gossip and wrongdoings of hisneighbourhood—all were fodder for Henry Morton's casual curiosity, and the other man was glad enough to tell. Most people, the Runner had always noticed, were happy to talk about even the most mundane details of their own lives. What was rare was someone prepared to listen; even a “horney” like Morton would sometimes do.
    Perhaps three quarters of an hour passed in this way, before hooves and the rattle of wheels were heard, approaching from the east.
    “Here he be, Constable.”
    Down Lothbury Street now slowly came clopping the tired horse, behind it the dark bulk of the coach, the hunched shape of the driver above.
    Morton tossed away his fag end and sauntered out into the yard. The sallow, grey-jacketed man who looked down at him as the coach drew up knew at once what Henry Morton's profession was.
    “Coach four-seventeen?”
    The jarvey grimaced and jerked his head rudely downward toward the number plate nailed to the side of the carriage.
    “Tell us about this gentleman you let down at Port-man House, Mayfair, earlier this night.”
    The man blinked in surprise, then blurted out: “Wot of him? Bilker never paid!”
    “The dead are notorious shirkers, Ralph,” Morton said dryly.
    “He was drunk, is all!” the jarvey protested. His voice had an irritating whine.
    “And you didn't stay to collect your fare? Come down here.”
    “See here, you've no call to—” the driver began to object, but got no further. Morton reached up and jerkedthe man from his seat by his scruffy lapels and slapped him roughly back against the side of