THE TRUE STORY OF ANTHONY BULLPIT.
Among the cases tried at the late assizes was one not only of local
interest, but exceedingly remarkable, because of the extraordinary
circumstances attendant upon the arrest of the prisoner, who, after
the commission of his crime, had absconded. We throw the particulars
of this case into the form of a narrative, as being likely to prove
more interesting to our readers. The three principal characters in the
story are Mr. James Pardon, a Solicitor; Mr. Anthony Bullpit, his
confidential clerk; and Mr. Vinnicombe, a detective. These terse
definitions would be sufficient for dramatic purposes, but a
more comprehensive description is necessary here for the purposes
of our story. Mr. James Pardon is the head of the well-known and
highly-respected firm of solicitors in High-street, and to his care is
intrusted a vast amount of important business. Not only as a
solicitor, but as a man and a churchwarden his name commands universal
respect. He employs a large staff of clerks, conspicuous among whom
was Anthony Bullpit, who had been in his service from boyhood, and
whose face is familiar to most of our townsmen. Mr. Vinnicombe, we
need scarcely say, is the name of the celebrated detective whose
unerring instinct, in conjunction with a powerful and keen intellect,
has been the means of bringing many a criminal to justice. In his
profession, Mr. Vinnicombe is _facile princeps_. There is a fourth
character, who plays a minor but important part, and whom it will be
sufficiently explicit to describe as Mr. Vinnicombe's friend. Now for
the story.
To all outward appearance trustworthy and attentive to his duties,
Anthony Bullpit rose step by step in the office of Mr. James Pardon
until he had arrived at the position of head clerk; his manners were
civil and plausible, and not the slightest suspicion was entertained
of his honesty. He had access to the safe and cheque-book of the firm,
and was intrusted with much confidential business. On the twenty-first
of last month Mr. James Pardon had occasion to go to London on a
matter of great importance; he expected to be absent for at least
three weeks, and Anthony Bullpit was left to superintend the affairs
of the firm. It fortunately happened that Mr. Pardon's business in
London was transacted more rapidly than he had anticipated, and he
returned to Hertford, without warning, after an absence of fourteen
days only. His confidential clerk was absent; and to his astonishment
he was informed that, three days before his return, Anthony Bullpit
had stated in the office that he had received a letter from Mr.
Pardon, desiring his immediate attendance in London, to render
assistance in the matter on which Mr. Pardon was engaged. As Mr.
Pardon had sent no such letter to Anthony Bullpit, his suspicions that
all was not as it should be were naturally aroused, and he at once
made an examination of the affairs of the business. A very slight
inquiry was sufficient to justify his suspicions: not only had all the
money which had been received during his absence been abstracted, but
a cheque for seven hundred pounds, taken from his cheque-book, and
purporting to be signed by James Pardon, had been presented to the
bank, and cashed without hesitation. The signature was a most skilful
imitation, and Mr. Pardon acknowledges that any person might have been
deceived by it. Thus far the story is, unhappily, but an ordinary one
in the history of crime; but now come the extraordinary incidents
which elevate it almost into the sphere of romance. Mr. Pardon's
indignation was extreme, and being determined to bring the delinquent
to justice, he went at once to the police-court, and laid his charge.
While it was being taken down a person, who did not appear to be
particularly interested in the narration, was sitting by the fire,
apparently deeply engaged in a newspaper which he held in his hand.
When Mr. Pardon had finished, he gave expression to his indignation,
and to his determination to inflict upon the forger the utmost
punishment of the law. The person who was reading by the fire said
aloud, 'First catch your hare, then cook it.' Mr. Pardon, not being
aware whether the stranger was quoting from the paper he was reading
or was making an independent observation, asked, in his quick manner,
whether the words were addressed to him. 'To any one,' answered the
stranger. 'And you said----' prompted Mr. Pardon. 'I said,' repeated
the stranger, 'first catch your hare, then cook it. You see,' added
the stranger, 'the first thing you have to do is to catch your clerk;
then you can cook him--not before. Now how are you going to do it?'
Mr. Pardon confessed that he did not know how it was to be done, but
he supposed that the police---- The stranger interrupted him. 'This
clerk, Anthony Bullpit, is more than a match for the police. You
acknowledge that your name was so skilfully forged that you might have
been taken in by it yourself. Now, the skill which enabled Anthony
Bullpit to write your name in such a way as might deceive even you,
was not acquired in an hour or a day. He has been secretly practising
your signature for years, and has been secretly practising, I don't
doubt, many other things you're not acquainted with, which might come
useful to in one day or another. What does this imply? That Anthony
Bullpit is a shallow bungling sort of criminal, or an artful,
scheming, designing sort of criminal?' Mr. Pardon, himself the
shrewdest of lawyers, was struck by the shrewd intelligence of the
stranger, and admitted that it was clear that Anthony Bullpit was a
scheming, artful, designing scoundrel. 'But he had a quiet way with
him,' said Mr. Pardon, 'that any person might have been taken in by.'
The stranger smiled. 'One of your sneaking kind,' he said; 'I know
them. They're the most difficult to deal with, and the most difficult
to catch. The chances are that Anthony Bullpit had all his plans well
laid beforehand. And don't forget that he's got three days' start.
Why, you don't even know what road he has taken!' Mr. Pardon
acknowledged the reasonableness of these observations. 'May I ask,' he
said, 'with whom I have the pleasure of conversing?' 'My name is
Vinnicombe,' replied the stranger, rising. 'Mr. Vinnicombe, the famous
detective!' exclaimed Mr. Pardon. 'The same,' was the answer. Mr.
Pardon immediately made a proposition to Mr. Vinnicombe, and the
result was that, within an hour, Mr. Vinnicombe presented himself at
Mr. Pardon's office, saying that he was ready to take the case in hand
at once. What follows is from the eminent detective's own lips,
_verbatim et literatim_, taken down in our own office by the editor of
this paper:[1]
[Footnote 1: It is evident, from the manner in which he presented his
report of the case to his readers, that 'the editor of this paper' was
in advance of his times; he would have made an admirable descriptive
reporter in these days. Mr. Vinnicombe also, as is apparent from the
style of the narrative, was an advanced detective; but the qualities
which are necessary for the making of a good detective, and the spirit
which animates the class, do not differ, whatever the year.--Author.]
'The first thing Mr. Pardon wanted me to do,' said Mr. Vinnicombe, was
to trace the notes; but I said, No; the thief first, the property
afterwards. If I could trace him by the property, all right; but there
was no time to lose in ascertaining what road he had taken, and where
he was bound to. In a very short time I discovered by what means and
by what road Anthony Bullpit had left the town. That road did _not_
lead to Liverpool, and immediately I learnt this, I decided that
Liverpool was the port which he intended to reach. Why port? you ask.
Well, it wasn't likely that a cunning card like this Bullpit was going
to remain in England. I picked up a bit of gossip concerning him, and
I found out that he had had a love affair with a young lady--I mention
no names, and I only mention it professionally--and that her family,
not liking his sneaking ways, had shut their doors on him; I found out
also that this young lady was soon to be married to a gentleman who
was more worthy of her. That was one reason why it wasn't likely he
was going to remain in England; having filled his pockets with another
man's money was another reason. But there were stronger reasons than
these. He had peculiar marks about him, and if he wasn't found out
to-day by these marks, he would be to-morrow; and he knew it. So what
he had to do was to get out of the country as quick as he could. Now,
there's only two ports in England from where a man as wants to go can
go to all parts of the world, civilised and uncivilised. These ports
are London and Liverpool.
'Bullpit wouldn't go to London. Why? Mr. Pardon was there. He'd go
naturally to Liverpool, because Mr. Pardon was _not_ there. Now, I'll
tell you about these peculiar marks of his. First, he had--a knob on
the top of his head. But the knob couldn't be seen, you'll say,
because he had a bushy head of hair. That's right enough, but it don't
do away with the knob; he had it, and that was enough for me. I don't
know as ever I had any business in connection with a man as had a knob
on his head, and that circumstance made the case interesting to me. I
like to do with all sorts. Second, he had a peculiarity with his
teeth. The two middle ones in the top jaw--I hope you don't think I'm
going to swear or use bad language; but jaw's a word, and when a
word's got to be used, I use it--the two middle teeth in his top jaw
had a slit between 'em, a slit as you could see daylight through, if
there was such a thing in his mouth. That slit ain't much, you'll say.
All right. Third, he had a habit of biting his nails. Well, now, that
ain't a crime, you say. _I_ don't say it is, but he had it, and that
was enough for me. These peculiarities and a general description of
Bullpit--as to how tall he was (a man can't alter _that_), how stout
(nor that), what kind of complexion, and other personal details--were
all I had to go upon. I tracked him, without ever making a miss, in
the contrary direction of Liverpool, and then back again by another
road in the direction of Liverpool, and there I lost sight of him
completely. But I knew he must be there, and that was enough for me. I
had travelled faster than he had, and I reckoned I had gained a day
and a half on him. According to my calculation, he hadn't had time to
get away yet; he could only have been in Liverpool two days, and as
Mr. Pardon wasn't expected home for a week after he left, there was no
need for him to put on any show of hurry; it might look suspicious.
Now, what should I do? Bullpit would be sure to disguise himself--clap
on a pair of false whiskers and coloured spectacles perhaps, cut his
hair short, wear a wig; he would certainly not walk about in the
clothes he run away in. Thinking of these things I felt that Bullpit
might prove more than a match for _me_. There was the knob on his head
certainly; but I couldn't go up to every suspicious-looking stranger,
pull off his hat, and feel for the knob; people might resent it as a
liberty, and treat it accordingly. There was his habit of biting his
nails; but he would be sure to restrain himself, though it is about
the most difficult thing in the world for a man to keep from, when
he's been accustomed to it all his life. I don't see what there is in
nails except dirt to make people fond of 'em. They ain't sweet and
they ain't tasty. Well, but Bullpit. He'd be cunning enough to
restrain himself from biting his nails, knowing it was a mark to go
by; still nails don't grow in a day, and they'd be short on _his_
fingers naturally. But he'd wear gloves. Then the slit between his
teeth. Well, that couldn't be altered; but he could keep his mouth
shut. Now if I was to tell you everything I did in the first two days
I was in Liverpool, it would fill a book, and that's what you don't
want; what you _do_ want is for me to come to the point, and that I'll
do in a jiffy. I went down to the docks, and took up my lodgings near
there; I didn't stop in any particular place, but shifted from one
eating-house to another, and mixed with the customers, and talked to
the waiters; no ship sailed out of the Mersey without my being on it
at the last minute, with my eyes wide open; I communicated with the
captains and the ship-agents; I watched every new arrival at the
eating-houses, and drank with them, and did a hundred other
things--and at the end of the fourth day I was as far off as ever; I
hadn't picked up a link. Now, that nettled me; it did--it nettled me.
I had set my heart on catching this Bullpit; he was worth catching, he
was such a sly cunning customer; I looked upon it as a match between
us, and I wanted to win, and here was I four days in Liverpool, with
never a link in my hands for my pains. On the fifth day I met--quite
by accident--a professional friend, who had come down to Liverpool to
say good-bye to a relative of his who was going to America. The ship
was to sail that afternoon; it was called The Prairie Bird. We had a
bit of dinner together in the coffee-room, where other men were
dining. Over dinner I told my friend what had brought _me_ to
Liverpool; I spoke in a low tone, so as not to be overheard, and I was
not sorry when the man who was eating at the next table to ours went
away in the middle of my story; he was a little too close to us. Well,
we finished dinner; my friend insisted on paying the reckoning, and I
moved a step or two towards the next table, where the man who went
away in the middle of my story had been dining. The waiter was
clearing the table, when I saw something that set me on fire. Now,
what do you think it was? You can't guess. I should think you
couldn't, if you tried for a week. What do you say to a piece of
bread? You laugh! Well, but that piece of bread was enough for me. It
wasn't a link. It was the chain itself. In what way? I'll tell you.
You see, that piece of bread was partly eaten, and the man who had
been dining had put it down after taking his last bite at it. The
marks of his teeth were in it, but the only mark I saw was a little
ridge in the centre of the bite--just such a ridge as would be left by
a man who had a slit between two of his upper teeth, as Anthony
Bullpit had. Would that little mark have been enough for you?
'Now I had seen this man a dozen times; a most respectable-looking man
he was, with leg-of-mutton whiskers, and most respectably dressed,
something like a clergyman; and I knew he was a passenger by The
Prairie Bird. I had never for one moment suspected him. Anthony.
Bullpit was a pale-faced man; this man had a high colour. There was
nothing particular in Anthony Bullpit's walk; this man dragged one leg
behind the other slightly. Anthony Bullpit's hair was black; this
man's hair was sandy. Anthony Bullpit had good eyebrows; this man had
no eyebrows at all to speak of. Ah, he's a cunning rascal is Anthony
Bullpit, and was worth catching. I put things together very quickly in
my mind, and I settled it--if it wanted settling after the first sight
of that piece of bread--that this man, and no other, was the man I
wanted. There was only one thing that puzzled me, and that was his
nails; they were long. However, I wasn't going to let that stop me, so
I laid a little plot with my professional friend, and we went aboard
The Prairie Bird--not in company, because of the little plot I laid,
but one a minute after the other. There was my respectable customer,
standing by himself; I was puzzled even then as I looked at him, he
was so well disguised; but his height was there, and his bulk was
there, with a little added to it, which might be padding. Well, while
I stood a little distance away, with my eye on him, but not in an open
way, my professional friend walks up to him from behind, until he gets
close, and this is what my professional friend whispers to him: "Don't
start," whispers my professional friend, most confidentially; "don't
turn your head, or it might attract notice. My name's Simpson, and I
cashed the cheque for seven hundred pound for you in the Hertford
Bank. I was in the bank for six years, and I've done a little bit of
business on my own account, and have got clear away. Twelve hundred
pounds I've got about me, and I'm a fellow passenger of yours; when
The Prairie Bird gets to America, what's to hinder you and me going
partners and making our fortunes? Two such heads as ours'll be sure
to make a big one. I sha'n't speak another word to you till we're
safely off, but I'm glad I've got a friend on board." With that, my
professional friend slips quietly away. Now, if my respectable-looking
customer hadn't been the man I wanted, he would have turned round on
my professional friend, and hit him in the eye perhaps; at all events,
he would have kicked up a row. But he listened to every word, with his
eyes looking down on the deck, and the only movement he made was a
kind of twitching with his fingers, and a rising of them to his lips,
as if he wanted to set to work on his nails. He didn't get so far as
his mouth with them; he had himself too well in hand; but I was sure
of my man--his own cunning was the trap in which he was caught. I
waited until the last minute, until those who weren't going to the
other side of the Atlantic in The Prairie Bird were scrambling away
lest they should be taken by mistake; and I saw my respectable friend
give one triumphant look around, being sure then he was safe. At the
same moment, as if he couldn't stand it any longer, up went his
fingers to his lips; his longing to get at those nails of his must
have been something dreadful. Then I stepped up to him suddenly, and
before he knew where he was I had the handcuffs on him. "It's no use
making a noise about it," I said; "I want you, Anthony Bullpit. Here's
the warrant." And quick as lightning I passed my hand over his head,
and felt the knob. He saw it was all over with him, and I could see
that he turned deadly white, for all his false colour. "You sha'n't be
done out of a voyage across the sea," I said; "but it'll be a longer
voyage than the one to America. Botany Bay'll be the place as'll
suit _you_ best, I should think." He never spoke a word; I got his
trunk, and found the money in it--all changed into gold it was, the
cunning one. Well, everything was comfortably arranged, and I was
about to guide him down the ladder to the boat, when he whispered to
me, "There's another man on board as you'd like to have. He's a better
prize than I am. If you'll make it easier for me, I'll tell you who it
is." "What man?" I asked, with a quiet chuckle. "A man as has robbed
the bank of twelve hundred pound." Just then my professional friend
came to my side. "That's him," said Anthony Bullpit "And you and him's
going partners when you get safe across," I said, with a wink at my
professional friend; "he cashed that cheque for you, didn't he? Lord!
you're not half as clever as I took you to be!" He was clever enough
to understand it all without another word, for he only gave a scowl;
and when me and him and my professional friend was in the boat, he
fell-to on his nails without restraint, and before the day was out he
had eaten them down to the quick. He only asked one question, and that
was how I had discovered him. I pulled the piece of bread from my
pocket, and pointed to the marks of his teeth in it, and to the ridge
the slit in his teeth had left. I brought my man safely back, and you
know what has become of him. If I live till I'm a hundred--which isn't
likely--I shall never forget the feeling that came over me when I saw
that piece of bread with the ridge in it that brought Anthony Bullpit
to justice.'
We have only to add to Mr. Vinnicombe's statement that Anthony
Bullpit, when placed in the dock, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to
twenty-one years' transportation. The sentence would have been for
life, but for Mr. Pardon's intercession, who pleaded for mercy for the
infamous scoundrel who had abused his trust. We have occupied more
space than we otherwise should have done with the details of this
case, for the purpose of pointing out how often the most trivial
circumstance will lead to the detection and punishment of the most
cunning criminals.
Apart from the circumstance of this Anthony Bullpit being one of my
grandmother's lovers, the narrative was interesting to me from the
really remarkable manner in which the forger was discovered. I
refolded the printed paper carefully, and replaced it in the interior
of the stone figure; and in the course of a couple of days I made a
drawing of Anthony Bullpit, as I imagined him to be, a sneaking
hang-dog figure of a man, with a hypocritical face, gnawing his
finger-nails.