The Thief-Taker : Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner by T.F. Banks Page B

then the gate sagged, and a small, serious boy lifted his head into view.
    “It's time, ma'am!” the girl gasped. “Mamma's screaming something terrible and said to beg you hurry.”
    Morton's mother swept up out of her chair. “I am sorry, Henry. But I must bring another howling human into this world of misery. I pray that you won't be chasing after this one in a few years' time.”
    She hurried into the house, and emerged a moment later carrying a cloth bag. She drew up before Morton, looking suddenly as though a tear might fall. Reaching out a hand, she straightened the lapel of his frock-coat.
    “Look at you,” she said, her voice rich and deep. “Turning yourself out so. But even with your perfect manners and your educated talk you'll not fool them for long. Remember that, Henry. They'll always find you out.” She put her cheek against his, then kissed him quickly and went out through the gate, taking the frightened children in tow.
    Morton stood for a moment looking at the opening in the hedge. Then he gathered up the remains of their tea and carried it inside, leaving some small sum of money on the tray.

Chapter 12
    A s the midmorning sitting at Police Court would be under way by now, Morton decided he could hazard a brief visit to Bow Street without much risk of encountering Sir Nathaniel. He found George Vaughan lounging in the front chamber, a small ruffian with a bleeding nose slumped disconsolately beside him—doubtless awaiting their interview with the Magistrates. Morton threw himself down on the bench across from Vaughan, stretching out his legs and crossing them.
    “This cull looks ready for a hearty choke-and-caper sauce,” he remarked, and smiled cheerfully at Vaughan's prisoner. It was an underworld witticism for hanging, and Vaughan chuckled, his lean, hard features relaxing a little.
    “Jack Ketch'll have him for breakfast, sure,” he agreed. “He's hardly a mouthful, though. Likely get stuck between his teeth.” And they laughed together at the other man's obvious discomfiture. Even so, Morton sensed a particular wariness in his colleague. DidVaughan know that Morton's knowledge of his doings had recently been augmented by Jimmy Presley?
    Even at the best he and Vaughan had never been in sympathy, and this little exchange of rough police humour almost suggested that both were trying, for some reason, to pretend otherwise.
    Vaughan continued the bantering mood.
    “So, what's this particular Bow Street Runner chasing today?”
    “In fact, I've been thrown a scrap of work regarding this swell, Glendinning.”
    “Oh, aye?” Vaughan's studied casualness was understandable now, of course. Was Morton trying to find out about the bribe that must have been paid to Presley and Vaughan to avoid prosecution? But Morton had no interest in that, and he wanted Vaughan to see it directly.
    “Just as to what set him off. A modest gent, by all reports, faint-hearted even, some might say. But here he is trying to get his brains blown out by a man like Rokeby, then drinking himself into an early grave in some bordello. I've been asked to see if I can find out why.”
    The other Runner gave a brief laugh.
    “The answer to your question is simple, Mr. Morton. The man was an ass. Though I don't suppose your people paid you to learn that.”
    “No, I don't suppose they did. You and Mr. Presley were at this little dance. What was that quarrel about, after all?”
    George Vaughan shrugged. “You know our Colonel Rokeby. He's an unfortunate tendency with his jaw, hasn't he?”
    “He has indeed. But I don't think I'd be for getting myself killed over a few words.”
    “You'd need to be a gent to understand,” GeorgeVaughan drawled. “And, Mr. Morton, nor you nor I is such a thing, it seems.”
    Morton straightened the seam on his perfectly tailored breeches. “So it would appear, Mr. Vaughan. So it would appear. But this man Glendinning,” he went on, “was he up to the task, do you think? Would he