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

the reasons for murder are seldom subtle. Do you know what Townsend says? ‘When you hear hoofbeats, assume horses, not zebra.’ Someone tried to kill Mr. Glendinning in the morning—I hardly think it was someone else who managed it later the same day.”
    Wilkes continued to ponder the thing, however, hovering halfway between the table and the doorway to the kitchen, the tray with Morton's empty bowl on it trembling precariously. “Even so, sir, the manner of it doesseem odd. Why the Otter? But then, if someone in the flash house murdered him in the usual way, why was he not robbed and his remains dumped into the river Thames? Why would they poison a man and then put him in a hackney-coach?”
    “Questions I have asked myself. Mind you, it appears young Glendinning did get into the coach under his own steam—more or less. It seems more likely that the man who murdered Halbert Glendinning did it for revenge, not profit. A gentleman would have no need of a watch or a man's pocket money—not that Rokeby is much of a gentleman. But the question remains: revenge for what?”
    “Or upon whom?” Wilkes said thoughtfully.
    Morton stared at his companion wordlessly, rather struck by that particular question.

Chapter 11
    A fter a very satisfactory visit to his banker, Henry Morton set out for the West End with the kind of spring in his stride that only a healthy bank balance can give a man. Nan had told him that the Hamiltons were due to leave for Sussex early in the afternoon, and he wanted a chance to interview Peter Hamilton, Louisa's brother, before he departed.
    Hamilton was unmarried, and in London he and his sister shared an elegant redbrick terrace house on the east side of Hanover Square. Morton presented himself at its door just after ten o'clock, and was ushered into a small salon on the ground floor to wait.
    It was quiet, and sun shone brightly through the silks of the elaborately dressed window. Against one wall a massive eight-day clock, taller than Morton himself, ticked with a clear, jeweled ring on every beat. On either side of the timepiece were mounted several small, exquisite silverpoint studies from Canova.
    Somewhere above him, he supposed, Louisa Hamilton was preparing for her journey. Or perhaps she wasmerely sitting alone in the window light with her grief, waiting. Had word drifted up to her that he was here? Might she come and speak to him?
    The door opened, and a young man came in.
    As Morton turned, the new arrival bowed very slightly and stiffly, then clasped his hands behind his back. His rather heavy face was dark and unhappy.
    “Mr. Morton?” His voice was surprisingly harsh, as if it were the voice of someone much older. This was the brother of the gracious Louisa Hamilton?
    “Mr. Hamilton,” replied Morton in a civil manner, “I greatly appreciate your receiving me, at what must be a difficult moment.”
    Another slight bow greeted this speech.
    “I am an officer of police,” Morton went on, “and have been commissioned to make some enquiries into the death of Halbert Glendinning.”
    Peter Hamilton cleared his throat. “But it is my impression, Mr. Morton, that the Bow Street Magistrate has spoken with Sir William and Lady Caroline Glendinning, and that they have declined to have this matter enquired into further.”
    “I am fulfilling another commission, Mr. Hamilton, for a private party—partly with a view to clearing away any unfortunate imputations that might cloud Mr. Glendinning's name. I gather that you and he were close friends?”
    Peter Hamilton breathed deeply, as though restraining strong feelings. As Morton watched him, waiting, he could see how his face, with its broad brows and large, soft eyes, did after all show a resemblance to Miss Hamilton's, even if his voice and manner were strikingly different.
    “Who has given you such a commission, Mr. Morton?”
    Morton had not forgotten what Miss Hamilton had said about the concerns of her family and friends.
    “I am