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

date, of course; news from Belgium and France never appeared less than three or four days after the events. The Times, however, was usually fairly reliable and gathered information from disparate sources.
    The foreign news was gathered under various headings. DUTCH MAIL, or FLANDERS PAPERS. Official accounts invariably appeared under the headings WAR DEPARTMENT or OFFICIAL BULLETIN, the latter sometimes subtitled “Downing Street.” Nothing new here.
    But under the banner FRENCH MAIL Morton found a brief item originating from Paris regarding “the Emperor” (the Times itself, unlike its continental correspondents, never honoured him with this title but alwayscalled him “Buonaparte”). “It is creditably believed that the Emperor left Paris on June 12…” Morton read, and then paused.
    Everyone knew that the allies were gathering their armies for a thrust into France, and here was Napoleon leaving Paris, perhaps for Ostend, it was speculated. Morton felt a small, cold wave of apprehension wash through him. What if “the Emperor” had no intention of waiting for the allies to combine their forces?
    But obviously Wellington would have better intelligence than the Times, Morton thought, and turned his attention back to the paper, poring over the various reports.
    As he read, his manservant Wilkes slipped into the room, collecting the remains of Morton's tea. Wilkes had been rescued by Morton little more than a year ago. For many years he had served in a prominent household, but then had developed a noticeable shake in his hands—the palsy, it was feared. Morton had taken him on out of kindness. But there was also a part of the Runner—a part he was not unaware of—which took some satisfaction in employing as a gentleman's gentleman a man who had served an earl. Morton himself was only a “ha'penny gentleman,” someone who wasn't born to the life, but used his barely adequate income to keep up the appearance.
    Fortunately Wilkes's condition had not seemed to worsen with time, and though he did break a bit of glass-ware now and then, Morton found him otherwise beyond criticism. And he learned a great deal from Wilkes, a great deal about gentlemen and their habits—not all of it flattering. Which also rather pleased him, in a different way.
    He and the old man had developed an odd…friendship. Morton could think of no other word for it. They had come to like each other. They did not, after all, have class standing between them.
    Which is why Wilkes could say, as he did now, “You look troubled, sir.”
    “Do I?” Morton asked, then let the paper fall. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.” He gestured to a chair. “Have I spoken to you about George Vaughan?”
    “A fellow Bow Street man?”
    “Yes.” And Morton found himself repeating the concerns he had earlier shared with Arabella. His manservant's response was rather more satisfactory.
    “You think this man Vaughan corrupt, sir,” Wilkes concluded.
    “Oh, yes, he's corrupt. But I would have said only in the manner and degree of his time. What Jimmy Presley's story suggests is something more.”
    “Perhaps you should speak to Sir Nathaniel.”
    “Yes, I likely should. Though do not forget that young Jimmy Presley was also involved—as was I, for that matter, for Jimmy and I made the arrest. It was all very tidily arranged.” Morton shook his head. “I doubt we could make a case of it. I'm sure Vaughan could produce someone claiming to be his informant in the matter, and who could gainsay him? Certainly not the Smeetons, that is certain. No, if Vaughan did arrange the whole thing he managed it carefully. And Jimmy Presley might be in more trouble than Vaughan—after all, he swore to things of which he had no direct knowledge.”
    As Morton gazed down into the rain-washed street below, the old man asked: “And this other matter, sir— of the young man who was killed?”
    “I don't know for certain that he was murdered, but there is something very odd