The Thief-Taker

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Morton had all but finished dressing, and was basking in the glow of warmth and well-being, albeit moderated by a few stinging bruises, that followed his remarkable evening at Jackson's.

“Mr. Morton… sir?” a voice said breathlessly.

Morton looked up to find a boy, gasping in the doorway as though in the throes of an asthmatical convulsion.

“Henry Morton, yes.”

“I've run all the way, sir…” the child managed. “ 'Tis Mrs. Malibrant…. Asks that you come directly.” A few desperate breaths were needed. “I'm to say 'tis most urgent, sir. Most terrible urgent.”

Morton tossed aside a towel. “Nothing has befallen Mrs. Malibrant, I hope?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Morton. 'Tis the gentleman, sir. The young gentleman who just arrived at Lord Arthur's.” The boy straightened a little and shook his head. “He appears to be dead, sir. Most thoroughly dead.”

It was but a short walk from Jackson's in Bond Street to their destination in Portman Square, but even so, Morton's long, purposeful stride soon had the boy out of breath again, precluding conversation. Following along the dimly lit street came the hollow echo of a tired horse and tradesman's cart, the owner shuffling numbly beside. A pile of cobbles and rubble forced Morton and the boy outside the line of iron posts that protected unwary pedestrians from street traffic. Here they found their footing with care in the foul street.

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