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

his coach, so that the little vehicle swayed and squeaked on its springs and the horse snorted and shook its harness. But the Runner's voice, when he spoke, was even.
    “A dead man was found in your carriage this evening and the circumstances under which he died were not so innocent, now, were they, Ralph Acton?”
    The little man began to shake. He kept opening his mouth as though to speak but no words followed.
    Well, well, Morton thought.
    “Speak up, lad. I'm all that stands between you and a cell at Newgate, for if you're honest with me I'll let you go home this night, and no one will be the wiser. Lie to me, and you'll meet the Magistrate at Bow Street, and then no one will care what happens to you. No one but you. You do care, don't you, Ralph?”
    The little driver nodded.
    “Good. Now, from where did you fetch him?”
    All the coachman's resistance had fled. He gave off, at close range, a sharp, sour stink of unwashed clothes and fear.
    “Picked him up in Spitalfields,” he wheezed.
    “Spitalfields. Where?”
    “At the tavern there, in Bell Lane, by the brew'ry.”
    Henry Morton frowned in surprise. “What—the Otter? That flash house!”
    The jarvey mumbled something unintelligible.
    “Did you find him up at the Otter?” And Morton gave him another shake. The driver's imperfect memory was beginning to be intriguing.
    “Seems so,” the coachman muttered. “Appeared a common enough public house to me.”
    “You know bloody well it's a flash house,” observedMorton. “Or you'd have told me the name straight off. What was the man's condition when he boarded your coach?”
    “He was half-seas over. Careens out of that public, and tells me where to take him. Fast as me poor nag can manage.”
    Morton stared at him thoughtfully a moment more, then released him and stepped back, dusting off his hands a little. Then he put his right hand casually into his frock-coat pocket. The pocket where gentlemen would generally keep their silver.
    “So the man was alive… ?”
    “I told you so, yer honour.”
    “… and moving under his own power when he entered your coach?”
    The jarvey looked particularly anxious, his eyes on Morton's buried hand. But he answered.
    “Happens, maybe, some culls about the Otter helps him out. A bit. He were right cut. But he were sober enough to tell me the address in Mayfair.”
    “These culls—did they take anything from him?”
    “Not as I saw. But they could have done, couldn't they?”
    “Who were they?”
    The man shrugged, glancing down at the cinders. He was terrified: Morton could see that, but it wasn't Henry Morton that inspired the fear, now. There was something else. Arabella had been right.
    “Did you know, Ralph, that someone tried to kill this same gentleman earlier today?”
    The jarvey looked up, eyes flaring from fear. He shook his head in denial.
    “Why didn't you stay at Portman House?” Morton pressed.
    “They was all saying he was dished,” said the man. He shrugged. “I thought they might be looking to blame someone….” he said weakly.
    “Why would they blame you?”
    “That's the way of things, ain't it? Blame the one wot's least able to defend hisself.”
    The jarvey was keeping something back, but Morton doubted he could be made to tell. There were things in London more frightening than a Bow Street Runner, or even Newgate Prison.
    He was satisfied, however, that Acton had only driven Glendinning from Spitalfields to Mayfair. The coachman had no part in whatever had happened—but something had indeed happened.
    “Where do you dwell, Ralph Acton?”
    Acton hesitated.
    “The innkeep knows where to find you, does he?”
    The jarvey's shoulders sagged. “Off Cartwright Square,” he said. “Up the east alley.”
    Morton mulled it over a moment more. “What is it you're not telling me, Ralph? You know who these men were?”
    “Nay, nay. They were no one to me.” The jarvey shifted from foot to foot.
    Morton stared hard at the man, but