THE MILLBANK CALENDAR
Millbank as a depot for convicts sentenced to
transportation—Identified with a large proportion of the criminals
of the day—Notorious robbers who spent some period of their sentence
there—Burglars—Jewel robberies—The receivers of stolen goods—Thieves
at the Custom House—Great Gold Dust robbery—“Money Moses”—Fraudulent
shipwreckers—Forgeries to obtain stock—Gentlemen convicts—Gigantic
commercial fraud—A modern Bluebeard—A racing parson—“Men of the
world”—Striking the Queen—Bank of England robbed—Cauty, “father of
the robbers”—A famous receiver—The Police Officers’ gang—Some female
thieves—Alice Grey or “Brazil”—Emily Laurence—Daring thefts.
For some time past Millbank had doubled its uses; a penitentiary for
reformation and a depot for those awaiting transportation quickly
beyond the seas. It had ceased to receive only selected prisoners
and worked under the general system of secondary punishment; and
many of the most notorious criminals of the day made it a temporary
resting-place. We have seen in previous chapters how persistently
turbulent were the inmates of the prison and we shall better understand
this by a survey of the most prominent offenders of the time, and the
misdeeds for which they were in durance _en route_ to penal exile.
Criminal methods for the most part remained unchanged or the same
crimes flourished under different names.
Although highway robbery was now nearly extinct, and felonious outrages
in the streets were rare, thieves or depredators were by no means idle
or unsuccessful. Bigger “jobs” than ever were planned and attempted, as
in the burglary at Lambeth Palace, when the thieves were fortunately
disappointed, the archbishop having, before he left town, sent his
plate-chests, eight in number, to the silversmith’s for greater
security. The jewellers were always a favourite prey of the London
thieves. Shops were broken into, as when that of Grimaldi and Johnson,
in the Strand, was robbed of watches to the value of £6,000. Where
robbery with violence was intended, the perpetrators had now to adopt
various shifts and contrivances to secure their victim. No more curious
instance of this ever occurred than the assault made by one Howard
upon a Mr. Mullay, with intent to rob him. The latter had advertised,
offering a sum of £1,000 to any one who would introduce him to some
mercantile employment. Howard replied, desiring Mr. Mullay to call
upon him in a house in Red Lion Square. Mr. Mullay went, and a second
interview was agreed upon, when a third person, Mr. Owen, through
whose interest an appointment under Government was to be obtained for
Mullay, would be present. Mr. Mullay called again, taking with him £500
in cash. Howard discovered this, and his manner was very suspicious;
there were weapons in the room—a long knife, a heavy trap-ball bat,
and a poker. Mr. Mullay became alarmed, and as Mr. Owen did not
appear, withdrew; Howard, strange to say, making no attempt to detain
him; probably because Mullay promised to return a few days later,
and to bring more money. On this renewed visit Mr. Owen was still
absent, and Mr. Mullay agreed to write him a note from a copy Howard
gave him. While thus engaged, Howard thrust the poker into the fire.
Mullay protested, and then Howard, under the influence of ungovernable
rage, as it seemed, jumped up, locked the door, and attacked Mullay
violently with the trap-ball bat and knife. Mullay defended himself,
and managed to break the knife, but not before he had cut himself
severely. A life and death struggle ensued. Mullay cried “Murder!”
Howard swore he would finish him, but proved the weaker of the two,
and Mullay got him down on the floor. By this time the neighbours were
aroused, and several people came to the scene of the affray. Howard was
secured, given into custody, and committed for trial. The defence he
set up was, that Mullay had used epithets towards him while they were
negotiating a business matter, and that, being of an irritable temper,
he had struck Mullay, after which a violent scuffle took place. It was,
however, proved that Howard was in needy circumstances, and that his
proposals to Mr. Mullay could only have originated in a desire to rob
him. He was found guilty of an assault with intent, and sentenced to
transportation for fourteen years.
At no period could thieves in London or elsewhere have prospered had
they been unable to dispose of their ill-gotten goods. The trade of
fence, or receiver, therefore, is very nearly as old as the crimes
which it so obviously fostered. One of the most notorious, and for
a time most successful practitioners in this illicit trade, passed
through Newgate into Millbank and beyond. The name of Ikey Solomons
was long remembered by thief and thief-taker. He began as an itinerant
street vendor at eight years of age, at ten he passed bad money, at
fourteen he was a pickpocket and a “duffer,” or a seller of sham
goods. He early saw the profits in purchasing stolen goods, but could
not embark in it at first for want of capital. He was taken up when
still in his teens for stealing a pocket-book, and was sentenced to
transportation, but did not get beyond the hulks at Chatham. On his
release an uncle, a slopseller in Chatham, gave him a situation as
“barker,” or salesman, at which he realized £150 within a couple of
years. With this capital he returned to London and set up as a fence.
He had such great aptitude for business, and such a thorough knowledge
of the real value of goods, that he was soon admitted to be one of the
best judges known of all kinds of property, from a glass bottle to a
five hundred guinea chronometer. But he never paid more than a fixed
price for all articles of the same class, whatever their intrinsic
value. Thus, a watch was paid for as a watch, whether it was of gold or
silver; a piece of linen as such, whether the stuff was coarse or fine.
This rule in dealing with stolen goods continues to this day, and has
made the fortune of many since Ikey.
Solomons also established a system of provincial agency, by which
stolen goods were passed on from London to the seaports, and so
abroad. Jewels were re-set, diamonds re-faced; all marks by which
other articles might be identified, the selvages of linen, the stamps
on shoes, the number and names on watches, were carefully removed or
obliterated after the goods passed out of his hands. On one occasion
the whole of the proceeds of a robbery from a boot shop was traced to
Solomons’; the owner came with the police, and was morally convinced
that it was his property, but could not positively identify it, and
Ikey defied them to remove a single shoe. In the end the injured
bootmaker agreed to buy back his stolen stock at the price Solomons had
paid for it, and it cost him about a hundred pounds to re-stock his
shop with his own goods.
As a general rule Ikey Solomons confined his purchases to small
articles, mostly of jewelry and plate, which he kept concealed in
a hiding-place with a trap-door just under his bed. He lived in
Rosemary Lane, and sometimes he had as much as £20,000 worth of goods
secreted on the premises. When his trade was busiest he set up a
second establishment, at the head of which, although he was married,
he put another lady, with whom he was on intimate terms. The second
house was in Lower Queen Street, Islington, and he used it for some
time as a depot for valuables. But it was eventually discovered by
Mrs. Solomons, a very jealous wife, and this, with the danger arising
from an extensive robbery of watches in Cheapside, in which Ikey
was implicated as a receiver, led him to think seriously of trying
his fortunes in another land. He was about to emigrate to New South
Wales, when he was arrested at Islington and committed to Newgate on a
charge of receiving stolen goods. While thus incarcerated he managed
to escape from custody, but not actually from gaol, by an ingenious
contrivance which is worth mentioning. He claimed to be admitted to
bail, and was taken from Newgate on a writ of _habeas_ before one of
the judges sitting at Westminster. He was conveyed in a coach driven by
a confederate, and under the escort of a couple of turnkeys. Solomons,
while waiting to appear in court, persuaded the turnkeys to take him to
a public-house, where all might “refresh.” While there he was joined
by his wife and other friends. After a short carouse the prisoner went
into Westminster, his case was heard, bail refused, and he was ordered
back to Newgate. But he once more persuaded the turnkeys to pause
at the public, where more liquor was consumed. When the journey was
resumed, Mrs. Solomons accompanied her husband in the coach. Half-way
to Newgate she was taken with a fit. One turnkey was stupidly drunk,
and Ikey persuaded the other, who was not much better, to let the
coach change and pass Petticoat Lane _en route_ to the gaol, where the
suffering woman might be handed over to her friends. On stopping at a
door in this low street, Ikey jumped out, ran into the house, slamming
the door behind him. He passed through and out at the back, and was
soon beyond pursuit. By and by the turnkeys, sobered by their loss,
returned to Newgate alone, and pleaded in excuse that they had been
drugged.
Ikey left no traces, and the police could hear nothing of him. He had
in fact gone out of the country, to Copenhagen, whence he passed on
to New York. There he devoted himself to the circulation of forged
notes. He was also anxious to do business in watches, and begged his
wife to send him over a consignment of cheap “righteous” watches, or
such as had been honestly obtained, and not “on the cross.” But Mrs.
Solomons could not resist the temptation to dabble in stolen goods,
and she was found shipping watches of the wrong category to New York.
For this she received a sentence of fourteen years’ transportation,
and was sent to Van Diemen’s Land. Ikey joined her at Hobart Town,
where they set up a general shop, and soon began to prosper. He was,
however, recognized, and ere long an order came out from home for his
arrest and transfer to England, which presently followed, and he again
found himself an inmate of Newgate, waiting trial as a receiver and a
prison-breaker. He was indicted on eight charges, two only of which
were substantiated, but on each of them he received a sentence of seven
years’ transportation. At his own request he was reconveyed to Hobart
Town, where his son had been carrying on the business. Whether Ikey was
“assigned” to his own family is not recorded, but no doubt he succeeded
to his own property when the term of servitude had expired.
No doubt, on the removal of Ikey Solomons from the scene, his mantle
fell upon worthy successors. There was an increase rather than an
abatement in jewel and bullion robberies in the years immediately
following, and the thieves seem to have had no difficulty in disposing
of their spoil. One of the largest robberies of its class was that
effected upon the Custom House in the winter of 1834. A large amount
of specie was nearly always retained here in the department of the
receiver of fines. This was known to some clerks in the office, who
began to consider how they might lay hands on a lot of cash. Being
inexperienced, they decided to call in the services of a couple of
professional housebreakers, Jordan and Sullivan, who at once set to
work in a business-like way to obtain impressions of the keys of the
strong room and chest. But before committing themselves to an attempt
on the latter, it was of importance to ascertain how much it usually
contained. For this purpose Jordan waited on the receiver to make a
small payment, for which he tendered a fifty-pound note. The chest was
opened to give change, and a heavy tray lifted out which plainly held
some £4,000 in cash. Some difficulty then arose as to gaining admission
to the strong room, and it was arranged that a man, May, another Custom
House clerk, should be introduced into the building, and secreted there
during the night to accomplish the robbery. May was smuggled in through
a window on the esplanade behind an opened umbrella. When the place
was quite deserted he broke open the chest and stole £4,700 in notes,
with a quantity of gold and some silver. He went out next morning with
the booty when the doors were re-opened, and attracted no attention.
The spoil was fairly divided; part of the notes were disposed of to
a travelling “receiver,” who passed over to the Continent and there
cashed them easily.
This occurred in November 1834. The Custom House officials were in a
state of consternation, and the police were unable at first to get
on the track of the thieves. While the excitement was still fresh, a
new robbery of diamonds was committed at a bonded warehouse in the
immediate neighbourhood, on Custom House Quay. The jewels had belonged
to a Spanish countess recently deceased, who had sent them to England
for greater security on the outbreak of the first Carlist war. At her
death the diamonds were divided between her four daughters, but only
half had been claimed, and at the time of the robbery there were still
£6,000 worth in the warehouse. These were deposited in an iron chest of
great strength on the second floor. The thieves, it was supposed, had
secreted themselves in the warehouse during business hours, and waited
till night to carry out their plans. Some ham sandwiches, several
cigar-ends, and two empty champagne bottles were found on the premises
next day, showing how they had passed their time. They had had serious
work to get at the diamonds. It was necessary to force one heavy door
from its hinges, and to cut through the thick panels of another. The
lock and fastenings of the chest were forced by means of a “jack,” an
instrument known to housebreakers, which, if introduced into a keyhole,
and worked like a bit and brace, will soon destroy the strongest lock.
The thieves were satisfied with the diamonds; they broke open other
cases containing gold watches and plate, but abstracted nothing.
The police were of opinion that these robberies were both the work of
the same hand. But it was not until the autumn that they traced some
of the notes stolen from the Custom House to Jordan and Sullivan.
About this time also suspicion fell upon Huey, one of the clerks, who
was arrested soon afterwards, and made a clean breast of the whole
affair. There was a hunt for the two well-known housebreakers, who were
eventually heard of at a lodging in Kennington. But they at once made
tracks, and took up their residence under assumed names in a tavern in
Bloomsbury. The police lost all trace of them for some days, but at
length Sullivan’s brother was followed from the house in Kennington
to the above-mentioned tavern. Both the thieves were now apprehended,
but only a small portion of the lost property was recovered,
notwithstanding a minute search through the room they had occupied.
After their arrest, Jordan’s wife and Sullivan’s brother came to the
inn, and begged to be allowed to visit this room; but their request, in
spite of their earnest entreaties, was refused, at the instigation of
the police. A few days later a frequent guest at the tavern arrived,
and had this same room allotted to him. A fire was lit in it, and
the maid in doing so threw a lot of rubbish, as it seemed, which had
accumulated under the grate, on top of the burning coals. By and by the
occupant of the room noticed something glittering in the centre of the
fire, which, to inspect more closely, he took out with the tongs. It
was a large gold brooch set in pearls, but a portion of the mounting
had melted with the heat. The fire was raked out, and in the ashes were
found seven large and four dozen small brilliants, also seven emeralds,
one of them of considerable size. A part of the “swag” stolen from the
bonded warehouse was thus recovered, but it was supposed that a number
of the stolen notes had perished in the fire.
The condign punishment meted out to these Custom House robbers had no
deterrent effect seemingly. Within three months, three new and most
mysterious burglaries were committed at the West End, all in houses
adjoining each other. One was occupied by the Portuguese ambassador,
who lost a quantity of jewelry from an escritoire, and his neighbours
lost plate and cash. Not the slightest clue to these large affairs was
ever obtained, but it is probable that they were “put up” jobs, or
managed with the complicity of servants. The next year twelve thousand
sovereigns were cleverly stolen in the Mile End Road.
The gold-dust robbery of 1839, the first of its kind, was cleverly
and carefully planned with the assistance of a dishonest employee. A
young man named Caspar, clerk to a steamship company, learned through
the firm’s correspondence that a quantity of gold-dust brought in a
man-of-war from Brazil had been transhipped at Falmouth for conveyance
to London. The letter informed him of the marks and sizes of the cases
containing the precious metal, and he with his father arranged that
a messenger should call for the stuff with forged credentials, thus
anticipating the rightful owner. The fraudulent messenger, by the
help of young Caspar, established his claim to the boxes, paid the
wharfage dues, and carried off the gold-dust. Presently the proper
person arrived from the consignees, but found the gold-dust gone. The
police were at once employed, and after infinite pains they discovered
the person, one Moss, who had acted as the messenger. Moss was known
to be intimate with the elder Caspar, father of the clerk to the
steamship company, and these facts were deemed sufficient to justify
the arrest of all three. They also ascertained that a gold-refiner,
Solomons, had sold bar gold to the value of £1,200 to certain bullion
dealers. Solomons was not straightforward in his replies as to where
he got the gold, and he was soon placed in the dock with the Caspars
and Moss. Moss presently turned approver, and implicated “Money Moses,”
another Jew, for the whole affair had been planned and executed by
members of the Hebrew persuasion. “Money Moses” had received the
stolen gold-dust from Moss’ father-in-law, Davis, or Isaacs, who was
never arrested, and passed it on to Solomons by his daughter, a widow
named Abrahams. Solomons was now also admitted as a witness, and
his evidence, with that of Moss, secured the transportation of the
principal actors in the theft. In the course of the trial it came out
that almost every one concerned except the Caspars had endeavoured
to defraud his accomplices. Moss peached because he declared he had
been done out of the proper price of the gold-dust; but it was clear
that he had tried to appropriate the whole of the stuff, instead of
handing it or the price of it back to the Caspars. “Money Moses” and
Mrs. Abrahams imposed upon Moss as to the price paid by Solomons; Mrs.
Abrahams imposed upon her father by abstracting a portion of the dust
and selling it on her own account; Solomons cheated the whole lot by
retaining half the gold in his possession, and only giving an I. O.
U. for it, which he refused to redeem on account of the row about the
robbery.
Moses, it may be added, was a direct descendant of the Ikey Solomons
already mentioned. He was ostensibly a publican, and kept the Black
Lion in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane, where secretly he did business as one
of the most daring and successful fencers ever known in the metropolis.
His arrest and conviction cast dismay over the whole gang of receivers,
and for a time seriously checked the nefarious traffic. It may be added
that prison life did not agree with “Money Moses;” a striking change
came over his appearance while in prison. Before his confinement he
had been a sleek round person, addicted obviously to the pleasures
of the table. He did not thrive on prison fare, now more strictly
meagre, thanks to the inspectors and the more stringent discipline, and
before he embarked for Australia to undergo his fourteen years, he was
reported to have fallen away to a shadow.
As the century advanced crimes of fraud increased. They were not only
more numerous, but on a wider scale. The most extensive and systematic
robberies were planned so ingeniously and carried out so cleverly that
they long escaped detection. Among the earliest of the big operators
in fraudulent finance was Edward Beaumont Smith who uttered false
exchequer bills to an almost fabulous amount. Another fraud greatly
developed was the wilful shipwreck and casting away of a ship which
with her cargo, real or imaginary, had been heavily insured. The
_Dryad_ was a brig owned principally by two persons named Wallace,
one a seaman, the other a merchant. She was freighted by the firm of
Zulueta and Co. for a voyage to Santa Cruz. Her owners insured her for
a full sum of £2,000, after which the Wallaces insured her privily
with other underwriters for a second sum of £2,000. After this, on the
faith of forged bills of lading, the captain, Loose by name, being a
party to the intended fraud, they obtained further insurances on goods
never shipped. It was fully proved in evidence that when the _Dryad_
sailed she carried nothing but the cargo belonging to Zulueta and Co.
Yet the Wallaces pretended to have put on board quantities of flannels,
cloths, cotton prints, beef, pork, butter, and earthenwares, on all of
which they effected insurances. Loose had his instructions to cast away
the ship on the first possible opportunity, and from the time of his
leaving Liverpool he acted in a manner which excited the suspicions of
the crew. The larboard pump was suffered to remain choked up, and the
long-boat was fitted with tackles and held ready for use at a moment’s
notice. The ship, however, met with exasperatingly fine weather, and
it was not until the captain reached the West India Islands that he
got a chance of accomplishing his crime. At a place called the Silver
Keys he ran the ship on the reef. But another ship, concluding that he
was acting in ignorance, rendered him assistance. The _Dryad_ was got
off, repaired, and her voyage renewed to Santa Cruz. He crept along the
coast close in shore, looking for a quiet spot to cast away the ship,
and at last, when within fifteen miles of port, with wind and weather
perfectly fair, he ran her on to the rocks. Even then she might have
been saved, but the captain would not suffer the crew to act. Nearly
the whole of the cargo was lost as well as the ship. The captain and
crew, however, got safely to Jamaica, and so to England, the captain
dying on the voyage home.
The crime soon became public. Mate, carpenter, and crew were eager to
disavow complicity, and voluntarily gave information. The Wallaces
were arrested, committed to Newgate, and tried at the Old Bailey.
The case was clearly proved against them, and both were sentenced to
transportation for life. While lying in Newgate, awaiting removal to
the convict ship, both prisoners made full confessions. According
to their own statements the loss of the _Dryad_ was only one of
six intentional shipwrecks with which they had been concerned. The
crime of fraudulent insurance they declared was very common, and the
underwriters must have lost great sums in this way. The merchant
Wallace said he had been led into the crime by the advice and example
of a city friend who had gone largely into this nefarious business;
this Wallace added that his friend had made several voyages with the
distinct intention of superintending the predetermined shipwrecks. The
other Wallace, the sailor, also traced his lapse into crime to evil
counsel. He was an honest sea-captain, he said, trading from Liverpool,
where once he had the misfortune to be introduced to a man of wealth,
the foundations of which had been laid by buying old ships on purpose
to cast them away. This person made much of Wallace, encouraged his
attentions to his daughter, and tempted him to take to fraudulent
insurance as a certain method of achieving fortune. Wallace’s relations
warned him against his Liverpool friend, but he would not take their
advice, and developing his transactions, ended as we have seen.
A clergyman nearly a century later followed in the steps of Dr. Dodd,
but under more humane laws did not lose his life. The Rev. W. Bailey,
LL. D., was convicted at the Central Criminal Court, in February,
1843, of forgery. A notorious miser, Robert Smith, had recently died
in Seven Dials, where he had amassed a considerable fortune. But among
the charges on the estate he left was a promissory note for £2,875,
produced by Dr. Bailey, and purporting to be signed by Smith. The
executors to the estate disputed the validity of this document. Miss
Bailey, the doctor’s sister, in whose favour the note was said to have
been given, then brought an action against the administrators, and at
the trial Dr. Bailey swore that the note had been given him by Smith.
The jury did not believe him, and the verdict was for the defendants.
Subsequently Bailey was arrested on a charge of forgery, and after a
long trial found guilty. His sentence was transportation for life.
A gigantic conspiracy to defraud was discovered in the following
year, when a solicitor named William Henry Barber, Joshua Fletcher,
a surgeon, and three others were charged with forging wills for the
purpose of obtaining unclaimed stock in the funds. There were two
separate affairs. In the first a maiden lady, Miss Slack, who was the
possessor of two separate sums in consols, neglected through strange
carelessness on her own part and that of her friends to draw the
dividends on more than one sum. The other, remaining unclaimed for ten
years, was transferred at the end of that time to the commissioners for
the reduction of the National Debt. Barber, it was said, became aware
of this, and he gained access to Miss Slack on pretence of conveying
to her some funded property left her by an aunt. By this means her
signature was obtained; a forged will was prepared bequeathing the
unclaimed stock to Miss Slack; a note purporting to be from Miss Slack
was addressed to the governor of the Bank of England, begging that the
said stock might be handed over to her, and a person calling herself
Miss Slack duly attended at the bank, where the money was handed over
to her in proper form. A second will, also forged, was propounded
at Doctors’ Commons as that of a Mrs. Hunt of Bristol. Mrs. Hunt
had left money in the funds which remained unclaimed, and had been
transferred, as in Miss Slack’s case. Here again the money, with ten
years’ interest, was handed over to Barber and another calling himself
Thomas Hunt, an executor of the will. It was shown that the will must
be a forgery, as its signature was dated 1829, whereas Mrs. Hunt
actually died in 1806. A third similar fraud to the amount of £2,000
was also brought to light. Fletcher was the moving spirit of the whole
business. It was he who had introduced Barber to Miss Slack, and held
all the threads of these intricate and nefarious transactions. Barber
and Fletcher were both transported for life, although Fletcher declared
that Barber was innocent, and had no guilty knowledge of what was being
done. Barber was subsequently pardoned, but was not replaced on the
rolls as an attorney till 1855, when Lord Campbell delivered judgment
on Barber’s petition, to the effect that “the evidence to establish his
(Barber’s) connivance in the frauds was too doubtful for us to continue
his exclusion any longer.”
Foremost on the Millbank calendar stand those of the upper classes,
who were afterwards styled in Australia, “specials,” or “gentlemen
convicts.” It was said that of these there were at one and the
same time in Millbank two captains, a baronet, four clergymen, a
solicitor, and one or two doctors of medicine. The tradition is _ben
trovato_, if not exactly true. Of course in such a prison there would
be representatives of every class, and although the percentage of
gentlemen who commit crimes is in the long run far below that of the
middle or lower classes, there is no special natural law by which the
blue blood is exempted from the ordinary weakness and imperfections of
humanity. Most of these genteel people who found themselves in Millbank
owed their fate to forgery or fraud. There was the old gentleman
of seventy years of age, who had been a mayor in a north-country
manufacturing town, and who had forged and defrauded his nieces out
of some £360,000. The officers spoke of him as “a fine old fellow,”
who took to his new task of tailoring like a man, and who could soon
turn out a soldier’s great-coat as well as any one in the prison.
Another convict of this stamp was Mr. T., a Liverpool merchant in a
prosperous business, who was a forger on quite a colossal scale. It
was proved at his trial that he had forged thirty bills of exchange,
amounting to a total of £32,811, and that he had a guilty knowledge
of one hundred and fifteen other bills, which were valued in all at
£133,000. In his defence it was urged that he had taken up many bills
before they were due, and would undoubtedly have taken up all had not
the discovery of one forgery exposed his frauds and put an end suddenly
to his business. Still, said his counsel, his estate could have paid
from twelve to fifteen shillings in the pound, and it could hardly be
maintained against him that he had any moral intention of defrauding.
Judge Talfourd appears to have commented strongly, in summing up, upon
such an idea of morality as this; and then and there sentenced Mr. T.
to transportation for life. Unfortunately for the criminal himself,
his sentence came a little too late: had he gone out to New South
Wales twenty years earlier, with his commercial aptitude and generally
unscrupulous plan of action, he would have run well to the front in the
race for wealth amidst his felon competitors.
More contemptible, but not less atrocious, was the conduct of Mr. B.,
who had taken his diploma as surgeon, and practised as such in many
parts of the country. His offence was bigamy on a large scale: he was
guilty of a series of heartless deceptions, so that it was said the
scene in court when this Blue Beard was finally arraigned, and all
his victims appeared against him, was painful in the extreme. He was
brought to book by the friend of a young lady to whom he was trying to
pay his attentions. This gentleman, being somewhat suspicious, made
inquiries, and discovered enough to have him arrested. Four different
certificates of marriage were put in evidence. It seemed that, although
already married in Cornwall, he moved thence and took a practice in
another county, where he became acquainted with a lady residing in
the neighbourhood, who had a little money of her own. He made her
an offer, married her, and then found that by marriage she forfeited
the annuity she previously enjoyed. After a short time he deserted
her, having first obtained possession of all her clothes, furniture,
trinkets, and so forth, which he sold. His next affair was on board an
East Indiaman bound to Calcutta, in which he sailed as surgeon—wishing
doubtless to keep out of the way for a while. Among the passengers was
a Miss B., only fifteen years of age, who was going out to the East
with her mother and sisters. He succeeded in gaining her affections,
and obtained the mother’s consent to the marriage on arrival at
Calcutta. He made out, by means of fraudulent documents prepared on
purpose, that he had inherited £5,000 from his father, and offered to
settle £3,000 on his bride. The marriage came off in due course at
Calcutta, and then the happy pair returned to England. Soon after their
arrival, Mr. B. deserted his new wife in a hotel in Liverpool, and
after that he began the affair which led to his detection.
Mr. B. is remembered in Millbank as a man of considerable attainments.
He was well educated, and spoke several languages. One of his favourite
feats was to write the Lord’s Prayer on a scrap of paper not larger
than a sixpence, in five different languages. In his appearance there
was nothing to justify his success with the female sex. If anything he
was plain, thereby supporting Wilkes, who asserted that he was only
five minutes behind the best looking man in a room. In complexion Mr.
B. was dark, almost swarthy; in figure, stout. He could not be called
even gentlemanlike in his bearing. But he had a good address; spoke
well and readily; and he was extremely shrewd and clever. As a prisoner
his conduct was all that could be desired. He passed on like the rest
eventually to Australia, where he again married.
The clergymen whose crimes brought them to Millbank were rather
commonplace characters; weak men, mostly, who could not resist their
evil propensities. Of course they were not always what they pretended
to be. One of the most noteworthy was the Honourable and Reverend
Mr.——, who was really an ordained minister of the Church of England,
and had held a good living in Ireland, worth £1,400 a year. But he was
passionately addicted to the turf, and attended every meeting. His
luck varied considerably—sometimes up and sometimes down. He came at
length to lose every shilling he had in the world at Manchester races.
The inveterate spirit of gambling was so strong within him that he was
determined to try his luck again. He had been staying at a friend’s
house—a careless man, of good means, who left his cheque-book too
accessible to others. The Honourable and Reverend Mr.—— went straight
from the course to his friend’s study, filled in a cheque, forged the
signature, cashed the same _en route_ to the races, and recommenced
operations forthwith. Meanwhile his friend went also, quite by
accident, to the bank for cash. They told him a large cheque had only
just been paid to his order.
“I drew no cheque!” he exclaimed.
“Why, here it is?”
“But that is not my signature.”
Whereupon the honourable and reverend gentleman was incontinently
arrested in the middle of the grand stand. His sentence was
transportation for life, and from Millbank he passed on in due course
to the antipodes. He was a poor creature at the best times, and under
prison discipline became almost imbecile and useless. After a long
interval he gained a ticket-of-leave, and was last heard of performing
divine worship at an out-station at the rate of a shilling a service.
Of a very different kidney was the Rev. A. B., a man of parts, clever
and dexterous, who succeeded in everything he tried. He spoke seven
languages, all well; and when in prison learned with ease to tailor
with the best.
Somewhat similar to him in character was the Rev. Dr. B., a doctor of
divinity, according to his own statement, whose career of villainy was
of long duration. This man had served several long sentences, which in
no wise prevented his return to crime. He also was a man of superior
education, who could read Hebrew, so the warders said, as easily as
the chaplain gave the morning prayers. Dr. B. was discovered one day
writing in Hebrew characters in his copy-book at school time, just
when a party of distinguished visitors were inspecting the prison. One
of them, surprised, said, “What! do you know Hebrew?”
“Yes,” was the impudent reply, “I expect a great deal better than you
do.”
A better story still is told of this man later, when set at large
on ticket-of-leave. Through barefaced misrepresentation he had been
permitted to take the duty of a beneficed clergyman during his absence
from the parish. In due course came an invitation to dine with the
local magnate, whose place was some distance from the rectory. Our
ex-convict clergyman ordered a carriage and pair from the neighbouring
town, and drove to the hall in state. As he alighted from the carriage,
his footman, hired also for the occasion, recognized his face in the
blaze of light from the open door. “Blow me, if that ain’t Slimy B.,
the chaplain’s man, who did his ‘bit’ along with us at the ‘Steel,’” he
exclaimed. Both coachman and lacquey were ex-convicts too, and after
that the secret soon leaked out. The reverend doctor found his country
parish rather too hot to hold him. Some of his later misdeeds consisted
in decoying and plundering governesses in search of situations; he also
established himself in various neighbourhoods as a schoolmaster, and
more than once succeeded in obtaining church duty.
Of the military men, the most prominent was a certain Captain C., who
belonged to an excellent family, but who had fallen very low, going
by degrees from bad to worse. He was long known as a notorious gambler
and loose liver. At length, unable to earn enough money to gratify his
vices by fair means, he sought to obtain it by foul, and became allied
to a mob of ruffians who styled themselves “Men of the World.” In other
words, he took to obtaining goods under false pretences. Captain C. was
principally useful as a respectable reference to whom his accomplices
could apply when they entered a strange shop and ordered goods. “Apply
to my friend Captain So-and-so, of such-and-such a square; he has known
me for years.” Reference is made to a house gorgeously furnished, an
establishment in every way _bien monté_, the master thereof a perfect
gentleman. “Do I know Mr. ——? Oh, dear, yes; I have known him for a
long time. He is one of my most intimate friends. You may trust him
to any amount.” Unhappily the pitcher goes often to the well, but it
is broken at last. And at this game of fraud the circle of operations
grows naturally ever narrower. At length the whole conspiracy became
known to the police, and Captain C. found himself ere long in Millbank.
He seems to have been treated there rather too well for an idle,
good-for-nothing rascal, who would do no work, and who expected—so said
the officers—to be always waited upon. Undoubtedly he was pampered,
had his books from the deputy-governor’s own library, and extra food.
More than this, his wife—a lady once, also of good family, but fallen
with her husband to an abyss of infamy and depravity which made her
notorious for wickedness even in this wicked city—was frequently
admitted to visit him, coming always in silks and satins and flaunting
attire, which was sadly out of keeping with her husband’s temporary
abode.
Another ex-military officer was Mr. P., whose offence at the time
created wide-spread and righteous indignation. This was the gentleman
who for some occult reason of his own, committed the atrocity of
striking our young Queen in the face just as she was leaving the
palace. The weapon he used was a thin cane, but the blow fell lightly,
as the lady-in-waiting interposed. No explanation was offered, except
that the culprit was out of his mind. This was the defence set up
by his friends, and several curious facts were adduced in proof of
insanity. One on which great stress was laid, was that he was in the
habit of chartering a hansom to Wimbledon Common daily, where he amused
himself by getting out and walking as fast as he could through the
furze. But this line of defence broke down, and the jury found the
prisoner guilty. He himself, when he came to Millbank, declared that
he had been actuated only by a desire to bring disgrace on his family
and belongings. In some way or other he had seriously disagreed with
his father, and he took this curious means to obtain revenge. The
wantonness of the outrage called for severe punishment, and Mr. P. was
sentenced to seven years’ transportation; but the special punishment
of whipping was omitted, on the ground of the prisoner’s position
in life. Whether it was that the mere passing of this sentence was
considered sufficient, or that the Queen herself interposed with
gracious clemency, this Mr. P. at Millbank was treated with exceptional
leniency and consideration. By order of the Secretary of State he was
exempted from most of the restrictions by which other prisoners were
ruled. He was not lodged in a cell, but in two rooms adjoining the
infirmary, which he used as sitting and bedroom respectively; he did
not wear the prison dress, and he had, practically, what food he liked.
He seems to have awakened a sort of sympathy on the part of the warders
who attended him; probably because he was a fine, tall fellow, of
handsome presence and engaging manners, and because also they thought
his offence was one of hot-headed rashness rather than premeditated
wickedness. Eventually Mr. P. went to Australia.
These are a few of the most prominent of the criminals who belonged
to the upper or professional classes. Others there were, and will
be, always; but as a rule such cases are not numerous. Speaking in
general terms of the “gentleman convict,” as viewed from the gaoler’s
side, he is an ill-conditioned, ill-conducted prisoner. When a man
of energy and determination, he wields a baleful influence around
and among other prisoners if proper precautions are not taken against
inter-communications. His comrades look up to him, especially if he is
disposed to take the place of a ringleader and to put himself forward
as the champion of insolence and insubordination. They render him
too, a sort of homage in their way, scrupulously retaining the titles
which have been really forfeited, if indeed they were ever earned. Mr.
So-and-so, Major This and Captain That, are the forms of address used
by Bill Sykes when speaking of or to a gentleman convict. For the rest,
if not openly mutinous, these “superior” felons are chiefly remarkable
for their indifference to prison rules, especially those which insist
on cleanliness and neatness in their cells. Naturally, by habits and
early education they are unskilled in sweeping and washing, and keeping
bright their brass-work and their pewter utensils. In these respects
the London thief or hardened habitual criminal, who knows the interior
of half the prisons in the country, has quite the best of it.
Somewhat lower in the social scale, but superior also to the common
burglar or thief, are those who occupy positions of trust in banks or
city offices, and for whom the temptation of an open till or slack
administration are too strong to be resisted. A good instance of
this class was Mr. B., who was employed as a clerk in the Bank of
England. With the assistance of a confederate who personated a Mr.
Oxenford—there was no special reason for selecting this gentleman,
in preference to any other Smith, Brown or Jones—he made over to
himself stock to the amount of £8,000 standing in Mr. Oxenford’s name.
His accomplice was a horse jobber. The stock in question was paid
by a cheque on Lubbock’s for the whole sum, whither they proceeded,
asking to have it cashed—all in gold. There were not eight thousand
sovereigns available at the moment, but they received instead eight
Bank of England notes for £1,000 each, which they promptly changed at
the bank for specie, taking with them a carpet-bag to hold the money.
The bag when filled was found to be too heavy to lift, but with the
assistance of the bank porters it was got into a cab. They now drove
to Ben Caunt’s public in St. Martin’s Lane, and there secured a room
for the night; the money was transferred to their portmanteaus, several
in number, and next morning they took an early train to Liverpool
_en route_ for New York. The steamer _Britannia_, in which they took
passage, started almost immediately, and they soon got clear out of
the country. But the detectives were on their track: within a day or
two, officers followed them across the Atlantic, and landing at Halifax
found the fugitives had gone on to Boston and New York. They were
followed thither, and on, also, to Buffalo and to Canada. Thence back
again to Boston. Here the culprits had taken up their residence—one on
a farm, the other in a public-house, both of which had been purchased
with the proceeds of the fraud; £7,000 had been lodged also in the
bank to their credit. One of them was immediately arrested, and hanged
himself. The other escaped in a boat, and lay hid in the neighbouring
marshes; but the reward that was offered led to his capture, and he
was brought home to England, where he was tried, found guilty, and
sentenced to transportation for life.
There were many other criminals who came in these days to Millbank
who belonged to the aristocracy of crime, if not to the great world
of fashion. Some of them, to use their own language, were quite top
sawyers in the trade. None in this way was more remarkable than old
Cauty, who was called the “father of all the robbers.” Few men were
better known in his time and in his own line than Cauty. He was to be
seen on every race course, and he was on friendly terms with all the
swells on the turf. He had a large acquaintance also among such of the
“best” people in town as were addicted to gambling on a large scale. He
was in early life a croupier or marker at several west-end hells; but
as he advanced in years he extended his operations beyond the Atlantic,
and often made voyages by the West Indian packets. He liked to meet
Mexicans and rich Americans; they were always ready to gamble, and as
Cauty travelled with confederates, whose expenses he paid, he seldom
lost money on the cards.
These, however, were his open avocations. “Under the rose” for many
years he devoted all his abilities and his experience to planning
extensive bank robberies, which were devised generally with so much
ingenuity, and carried out with so much daring, that a long time
elapsed before the culprits could be brought to justice. He had many
dexterous associates. Their commonest plan of action was to hang about
a bank till they saw some one enter whom they thought likely to answer
their purpose. They followed and waited till the victim, having opened
his pocket-book, or produced his cheque, was paid his money over the
counter. At that moment a button dropped, or a slight push, which was
followed by immediate apology, took off attention, and in that one
instant the money or a part of it was gone—passed from hand to hand,
and removed at once from the building.
Cauty came to grief at last. Of course he was known to the police, but
the difficulty was to take him red-handed. The opportunity arrived
when, with an accomplice, he made an attempt to rob the cashier of
the London and Westminster Bank of his box. They were both watched in
and out of the bank in St. James’s Square day after day. The police
kept them constantly in sight, and the cashier himself was put on
his guard. The latter admitted that the cash-box was at times left
unavoidably within the reach of dishonest people, and that it contained
property sometimes worth £100,000 or more. But if the police were
patient in the watch they set, the thieves were equally patient in
waiting for a chance. Once at the moment of fruition they were just
“sold” by the appearance of a police-sergeant, who came in to change
a cheque. But at length, almost as a conjuror does a trick, they
accomplished their purpose. Cauty went into the bank first, carrying a
rather suspicious-looking black bag. Three minutes afterwards he came
out without it, and raised his hat three times, which was the signal
“all right” to his accomplice. The latter, Tyler, a returned convict,
thereupon entered the bank in his turn, and almost immediately brought
away the bag. The two worthies were allowed to go without let or
hindrance as far as the Haymarket, and then secured. The black bag was
opened—inside was the cash-box.
This brought Cauty’s career to an end. He got twenty years, and then it
came out how extensive was the business he had done. Through his hands
had passed not a little of the “swag” in all the principal robberies of
the day—all the gold from the gold-dust robberies, all the notes and
bills stolen from big banking houses. It was said that in this way he
had touched about half-a-million of money.
Some years afterwards another leader and prince in the world of crime
was unearthed in the person of a Jew—Moses Moses—whose headquarters
were in Gravel Lane, Houndsditch, and who was discovered to be a
gigantic receiver of stolen goods. He was only detected by accident. A
quantity of wool was traced to his premises, and these were thereupon
rigorously examined. In lofts and in many other hiding-places, were
found vast heaps of missing property. Much was identified as the
product of recent burglaries. There was leather in large quantities,
plush also, cloth and jewelry. A wagon-load of goods was, it was said,
taken away, and in it pieces of scarlet damask, black and crimson
cloth, doeskin, silver articles, shawls, and upwards of fifty rings.
An attempt was made to prove that Moses was new to the business, and
had been led astray by the wicked advice and example of another man.
But the Recorder would not believe that operations of this kind could
be carried on by a novice or a dupe, and he sentenced Mr. Moses to
transportation for fourteen years.
For unblushing effrontery and insolence, so to speak, in criminal
daring, the case of King the police-officer and detective, is almost
without parallel. Although supposed to be a thief-taker by profession,
he was really an instigator and supporter of crime. He formed by
degrees a small gang of pickpockets, and employed them to steal for
him, giving them full instruction and ample advice. He took them to
the best hunting-grounds, and not only covered them while at work, but
gave them timely warning in case of danger, or if the neighbourhood
became too hot to hold them. His pupils were few in number, but they
were industrious and seemingly highly successful. One boy stated his
earnings at from £90 to £100 a week. King was a kind and liberal
master to his boys. They lived on the fat of the land. Reeves, who gave
information of the system pursued by King, said he had a pony to ride
in the park, and that they all went to theatres and places of amusement
whenever they pleased. The rascally ingenuity of King in turning to
his own advantage his opportunities as an officer of the law savours
somewhat of Vidocq and the _escrocs_ of Paris. King got fourteen years.
But the most notorious prisoners in Millbank were not always to be
found on the “male side.” Equally famous in their own way were some of
the female convicts—women like Alice Grey, whose career of imposture
at the time attracted great attention, and was deservedly closed by
committal to Millbank on a long sentence of transportation. Alice
Grey was a young lady of artless appearance and engaging manners.
Her favourite form of misconduct was to bring false charges against
unfortunate people who had never seen her in their lives. Thus, she
accused two boys of snatching a purse from her hand in the street,
and when a number were paraded for her inspection she readily picked
out the offenders. “Her evidence was so ingenuous,” says the report,
“that her story was implicitly believed, and the boys were remanded
for trial.” As a sort of compensation to Miss Grey (her real name was
“Brazil,” but she had several—among others, Anastasia Haggard, Felicia
Macarthy, Jane Tureau, Agnes Hemans, etc.) she was given a good round
sum from the poor-box. But she was not always so successful. She was
sentenced to three months in Dublin for making a false charge, and
eighteen months soon afterwards at Greenock. At Stafford she accused a
poor working man of stealing her trunk, value £8; when put into the box
she was taxed with former mistakes of this kind, whereupon she showed
herself at once in her true colours and reviled every one present in a
long tirade of abuse. Her cleverness was, however, sufficient to have
made her fortune if she had turned her talents to honest account.
There was more dash about women like Louisa M. or Emily L. The former
drove up to Hunt and Roskell’s in her own carriage to look at some
bracelets. They were for Lady Campbell, and she was Miss Constance
Browne. Her bankers were Messrs. Cocks and Biddulph. Finally she
selected bracelets and head ornaments to the value of £2,500, which
were to be brought to her house that evening by two assistants from the
shop, who accordingly called at the hour named. The door was opened by
a page. “Pray walk upstairs.” Miss Browne walks in. “The bracelets?
Ah, I will take them up to Lady Campbell, who is confined to her
room.” The head assistant demurred a little, but Miss Browne said,
“Surely you know my bankers? I mentioned them to-day. Messrs. Hunt and
Roskell have surely satisfied themselves?” With that the jewels were
taken upstairs. Half an hour passes. One assistant looks at the other.
Another half hour. What does it mean? One rings the bell. No answer.
The other tries the door. It is locked. Then, all at once discovering
the trap, they both throw up the window and call in the police. They
are released, but the house is empty. Pursuit, however, is set on
foot, and Miss Constance Browne is captured the same night in a second
class carriage upon the Great Western Railway, and when searched she
was found to have on her a quantity of diamonds, a £100 note, rings
and jewelry of all sorts, including the missing bracelets. She had
laid her plans well. The house—which was Lady Campbell’s—she had hired
furnished, that day, paying down the first instalment of rent. The
page she had engaged and fitted with livery also that very day, and
the moment he had shown up the jeweller’s men she had sent him to the
Strand with a note. Here was cleverness superior to that of Alice Grey.
Probably Emily L. carried off the palm from both. As an adroit and
daring thief she has had few equals. She is described as a most
affable, ladylike, fascinating woman, well educated, handsome, and
of pleasing address. She could win almost any one over. The shopmen
fell at her feet, so to speak, when she alighted from her brougham and
condescended to enter and give her orders. She generally assumed the
title of Countess L., but her chief associate and ally was a certain
James P., who was a lapidary by trade, an excellent judge of jewels,
and a good looking respectable young fellow—to all appearance—besides.
They were long engaged in a series of jewel robberies on a large scale,
but escaped detection. Fate overtook them at last, and they were both
arrested at the same time. One charge was for stealing a diamond
locket, value £2,000, from Mr. Emanuel, and a diamond bracelet worth
£600 from Hunt and Roskell. At the same moment there cropped up another
charge of stealing loose diamonds in Paris to the tune of £10,000.
Emily was sentenced to four years, and from the moment she entered
prison she resolved to give all the trouble she could. Her conduct at
Millbank and at the prison to which she passed, was atrocious; had the
discipline been less severe she would probably have rivalled some of
the ill-conducted women to whom I referred in the last volume. But at
the expiration of her sentence she returned to her evil ways outside.
Brighton was the scene of her next misfortune. She there entered
a jeweller’s shop, and having put him quite off his guard by her
insinuating manners, stole £1,000 worth from under his nose, and while
he was actually in conversation with her. The theft was not discovered
till she was just leaving Brighton. Apprehended at the station, she
indignantly denied the charge, asserting that she was a lady of high
rank, and offering bail to any amount. But she was detained, and a
London detective having been called in, she was at once identified.
For this she got seven years, and was sent to Millbank once more.
This extraordinary woman, notwithstanding the vigorous examination to
which all incoming prisoners were subjected, succeeded in bringing in
with her a number of valuable diamonds. But they were subsequently
discovered in spite of the strange steps she took to secrete them.