A SUCCESSFUL CONSPIRACY
My way home lay through Dean Street as far as St. Ann's Church: then I
passed across Leicester Fields: and through Green Street at the
south-east angle of the Fields into St. Martin's Lane. All this part of
the way is greatly infested at night by lurking footpads from the choice
purlieus of Seven Dials and Soho. Of footpads, however, I had very
little fear: they are at best a cowardly crew, even two or three
together, and a man with a stout cudgel and some skill at a
quarter-staff or single-stick need not be afraid of them: generally, two
or three passengers will join together in order to get across the Fields
which are especially the dangerous part: on many nights it was so late
when I left the Square that even footpads, highwaymen, pickpockets and
all were fairly home and in bed before I walked through the streets.
This evening by bad luck, I was alone. I found no other passengers going
my way. But I had no fear. I poised my cudgel and set out, expecting
perhaps an encounter with a footpad, but nothing worse. And it was not
yet late, as hours go, in London: there were still people in the
streets.
What had happened was this. As soon as Probus learned the truth about
the gaming-table--a fatal thing it was to disclose my knowledge--he
understood two things: first, that his money was irrevocably gone: and
second, that if I revealed the truth to the Alderman in his suburban
retreat, he must needs investigate the position of things in which case
Bankruptcy would be precipitated. After that, whether I died or signed
the agreement, or refused to sign it would matter nothing to him.
Whereas, on the other hand, if my signature could be obtained before the
bankruptcy, then money could be raised upon the succession: and if I
were to die, then the whole of the money would be paid on the day of my
death to Matthew. Whatever was done must therefore be done as soon as
possible.
Therefore, he resolved that the plot should be carried into execution on
the very Monday evening. He caused the cottage to be watched by one of
the girls who frequented the Black Jack: she followed me all the way
from Lambeth to Soho Square: and she carried intelligence where to find
me to the tavern, where Probus himself with Merridew, the Bishop, and
the Captain, was now waiting.
They understood that I was playing at a concert: they therefore sallied
out about the time when the concert would be finishing and waited for me
in the Square: at eleven o'clock I sallied forth: I walked down Dean
Street: they ran down Greek Street to meet me at the other end, where
there are fewer people: but (I heard this afterwards) changed their
minds and got over the Fields into Green Street behind the Mews, where
they resolved to wait for me. The Bishop posted himself on one side: the
Captain on the other: Mr. Probus and Mr. Merridew waited a little
further down the street. It was a dangerous plot that they were going to
attempt: I am not surprised that neither the Bishop nor the Captain had
much stomach for the play. At this place, which has as bad a reputation
as any part of London, there are seldom any passengers after night-fall;
after midnight, none. It is dark: the houses are inhabited by criminal
and disorderly people--but all this is well known to everybody.
I walked briskly along, anticipating no danger of this kind. Suddenly, I
heard footsteps in front of me and behind me: there was a movement in
the quiet street; by such light as the stars gave, I saw before me the
rascally face of the Bishop: I lifted my cudgel: I half
turned:--crash!--I remember nothing more.
When I came to my senses, or to some part of my senses, I found myself
lying on a sanded floor: my head was filled with a dull and heavy pain:
my eyes were dazed: to open them brought on an agony of pain. For awhile
the voices I heard were like the buzzing of bees.
I grew better: I was able to distinguish a little: but I could not yet
open my eyes.
The first voice that I recognized was that of Mr. Probus--the rasping,
harsh, terrifying voice--who could mistake it?
'A bad case, gentlemen,' he was saying, 'a very bad case: it was
fortunate that I was passing on my way, if only to identify the
prisoner. Dear me! I knew his honoured father, gentlemen; I was his
father's unworthy attorney. His father was none other than Sir Peter
Halliday. The young man was turned out of the house for misconduct. A
bad case----Who would have thought that Sir Peter's son would die at
Tyburn?'
Then there was another voice: rich and rolling, like a low stop of the
organ--I knew that too. It was the voice of the Bishop.
'My name, Mr. Constable, is Carstairs; Samuel Carstairs; the Rev. Samuel
Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity, Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor, sometime of
Trinity College, Dublin. I am an Irish clergyman, at present without
cure of souls. I was walking home after certain godly exercises'--in the
Black Jack--I suppose--'when this fellow ran out in front of me, crying
"Your money or your life." I am not a fighting man, Sir, but a servant
of the Lord. I gave him my purse, entreating him to spare my life. As he
took it, some other gentleman, unknown to me, ran to my assistance, and
knocked the villain down. Perhaps, Mr. Constable, you would direct his
pockets to be searched. The purse contained seventeen guineas.'
I felt hands in my pocket. Something was taken out.
'Ha!' cried the Doctor. 'Let the money be counted.'
I heard the click of coin and another voice cried 'Seventeen guineas.'
'Well,' said Mr. Probus, 'there cannot be much doubt after that.'
'I rejoice,' said the Doctor, 'not so much that the money is
found--though I assure you, worthy Sir, I could ill afford the loss--as
because it clearly proves the truth of my evidence--if, that is to say,
there could be any question as to its truth, or anyone with the
hardihood to doubt it.'
At this point, I was able to open my eyes. The place I knew for a Round
House. The Constable in charge sat at a table, a book before him,
entering the case: Mr. Probus stood beside him, shaking his virtuous
head with sorrow. The Doctor was holding up his hands to express a good
clergyman's horror of the crime: Mr. Merridew was standing on the other
side of the Constable, and beside him the Captain, who now stepped
forward briskly.
'My name,' he said, 'is Ferdinando Fenwick. I am a country man from
Cumberland. I was walking with this gentleman'--he indicated Mr.
Merridew. 'We were walking together for purposes of mutual protection,
for I have been warned against this part of London, when I saw the
action described by this pious clergyman. The man ran forward raising
his cudgel. I have brought it with me--You can see, Sir, that it is a
murderous weapon. I saw the gentleman here, whose name I did not
catch----'
'Carstairs--By your leave, Sir--Samuel Carstairs--The Rev. Samuel
Carstairs--Doctor of Divinity--Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor.'
'Thank you, Sir. I saw him hand over his purse. The villain raised his
cudgel again. I verily believe he intended to murder as well as to rob
his victim. I therefore ran to the rescue and with a blow of my stick
felled the ruffian.'
The Constable looked doubtfully at Mr. Merridew, whom he knew by sight,
as everybody connected with the criminal part of the law certainly did:
he knew him as Sheriff's officer, nominally: thief-taker by secret
profession: thief-maker, as matter of notoriety at the Courts. From him
he looked at Mr. Probus, but more doubtfully, because he knew nothing
about him except that he was an attorney, which means to such people as
the Constable, devil incarnate. He also looked doubtfully at the
Captain, whose face, perhaps, he knew. Considering that the Captain had
been living for eight years at least in and about St. Giles's, and
robbing about all the roads that run out of London, perhaps the
Constable did know him by sight.
'Well,' he said, 'I suppose Sir John will look into it to-morrow. As for
this gentleman who says he is----I remember----'
Here Mr. Probus slipped something into his hand.
'It is not for me,' the worthy Constable added, 'to remember anything.
Besides, I may be wrong. Well, gentlemen, you will all attend to-morrow
morning at Bow Street and give your evidence before Sir John Fielding.'
So they went away and I lay on the floor still wondering stupidly what
would happen next.
Just then two watchmen came in. One was leading, or dragging, or
carrying a young gentleman richly dressed but so drunk that he could
neither stand nor speak: the other brought with him a poor creature--a
woman--young--only a girl still--dressed in rags and tatters;
shivering: unwashed; uncombed; weak and emaciated: a deplorable object.
The Constable turned to the first case.
'Give the gentleman a chair,' he said. 'Put him before the fire. Reach
me his watch and his purse. Search his pockets, watchman.'
'Please your honour,' said the watchman, 'I have searched his pockets.
We came too late, Sir. Nothing in them.'
'The town is full of villains--full of villains,' said the officer, with
honest indignation. 'Well, put him in the chair. A gentleman can send
for guineas if he hasn't got any guineas. Did he assault you, watchman?
I thought so--Well--Let him sleep it off. Who's this woman?'
The watchman deposed to finding her walking about the deserted streets
because she had nowhere to go.
'Has she got any money? Then just put her in the strong room--and carry
this poor devil in after her. If that story holds--well--lay him on the
bench--and take care of his head.'
They pushed the girl into the strong-room: carried me after her: laid me
down on a wide stone bench without any kind of pillow or covering. Then
they went out locking the door behind them.
I suppose that I should have suffered more than I did had it not been
for the stupefying effect of the blow upon my head. I have only a dim
recollection of the night. The place was filled with poor wretches, men
and women, who could not afford to bribe the Constable. In this land of
freedom to be a poor rogue is hanging matter: to be a rogue with money
in pocket and purse is quite another thing: that rogue goes free. The
rogue runs the gauntlet: first, he may get off by bribing the watchman:
if he fails to do that, he may bribe the constable: or if the worst
happens, he may then bribe the magistrate. I understand, however, that
this has been changed, and that there are now no Justices who take
bribes. Now, if the watchman brings few cases to the constable, and
those all poor rogues, he may lose his place: and if the constable
pockets all the bribes and brings the magistrate none, he may lose his
place. So that it is mutually agreed between the three that each is to
have his share. All mankind are for ever seeking and praying for
Justice, and behold, this is all we have got in the boasted eighteenth
century. I suppose, however, that in such a case as mine, a charge of
highway robbery, in which the prisoner was taken red-handed, no
constable would dare to take a bribe.
From time to time in the night we were disturbed by the grating of the
key in the lock as the door was opened for the admission of another poor
wretch. Then these interruptions ceased, and we were left in quiet.
When the day broke through the bars of the only window, I could look
round upon the people, my companions in misfortune. There were three or
four women in tawdry finery--very poor and miserable creatures who would
be happier in the worst prison than in the way they lived: two or three
pickpockets and footpads: one or two prentices, who would be sent to
Bridewell and flogged for being found drunk. There was very little talk.
Mostly, the wretches sat in gloomy silence. They had not even the
curiosity to ask each other as to the offenses with which they were
charged.
As the light increased the women began to whisper. They exhorted each
other to courage. Before them all, in imagination, stood the dreadful
whipping-post of Bridewell. Some of them have had an experience of that
punishment.
'It takes but two or three minutes,' they said. 'Then it soon passes
off. Mind you screech as if they were murdering you. That frightens the
Alderman, and brings down the knocker. Don't begin to fret about it.'
They were talking about their whippings in Bridewell. 'Perhaps Sir John
will let you go. Sometimes he does.' My head pained, and I closed my
eyes again.
At about eight o'clock the doors were flung wide open. Everyone started,
shuddered, and stood up. 'Now, then,' cried a harsh voice, 'out with
you! Out, I say.'
I was still giddy with last night's blow: my hair was stiff with blood:
my head ached, but I was able to walk out with the others. The
constables arranged us in a kind of procession, and put the handcuffs on
every one. Then we were marched through the streets two by two, guarded
by constables, to Bow Street Office, the Magistrate of which was then
Sir John Fielding.
There was some slight comfort in the thought that he was blind: he could
not be prejudiced against me by my appearance, for my face was smeared
with blood: my hair was stiff with blood. There was blood on my coat,
and where there was not blood there was the mud of the street in which I
had lain senseless.
The business of the Court was proceeding. The Magistrate sat at a table:
his eyes were bandaged. The eyes of Justice should be always bandaged.
Over his head on the wall hung the Lion and the Unicorn: the prisoners
were placed in a railed space: the witnesses in another, those in my
case, I observed, were in readiness and waiting: three or four Bow
Street runners were standing in the Court: there was a dock for the
prisoner facing the magistrate.
The cases took little time. There is a dreadful sameness about the
charges. The women were despatched summarily and sent off to Bridewell:
they received their sentences with cries and lamentations, which stopped
quickly enough when they found that they could not move the magistrate:
the pickpockets were ordered to be whipped: the other rogues were
committed to prison. They were destined, for the most part, to
transportation beyond the seas. It is useful for the country to get rid
of its rogues: it seems also humane to send them to a country where they
may lead an honest life. Alas! the humanity of the law is marred by the
execution of the sentence, for though the voyage does not last more than
six or eight weeks, the gaol fever taken on board the ship; the sea
sickness; the stench; the dirt; the foul air of the ship, commonly kill
at least a third of the poor creatures thus sent out. As for those who
are left, many of them run away from their masters: make their way to a
port, get on board a ship, and are carried back to London, where they
are fain to go back to their old companions and resume their old habits,
and get known to Mr. Merridew and his friends, and so at last find
themselves in the condemned cells.
My case came on, at last. I was placed in the dock facing the
magistrate. The clerk read to him the notes of the case provided by the
chief constable.
'Your name, prisoner?' he asked.
'I am William Halliday,' I said, 'only son of the late Sir Peter
Halliday, formerly Lord Mayor of London. I am a musician now in the
employment of Madam Vallance, Proprietor of the Assembly Rooms in Soho
Square.'
The Magistrate whispered to his clerk.
Then the evidence was given. One after the other they manfully stood
up: kissed the book: and committed perjury. Sir John Fielding asked the
Doctor several questions. He was evidently doubtful: his clerk whispered
again: he pressed the doctor as to alleged profession and position.
However, the man stuck to his tale. The fact that the purse was found in
my pocket was very strong. Then the Captain told his story.
Mr. Merridew did not attempt any disguise: he was too well known
in Court: he stated that he was a Sheriff's officer--named
Merridew--everybody in the court gazed upon him with the greatest
curiosity, the women whispering and looking from him to me. 'Who is he?'
they asked each other. 'What has he done? Do you know him--do you?' The
surprise at the appearance of a stranger in the dock charged on the
evidence of the worthy sheriff's officer caused general surprise.
However, Mr. Merridew took no notice of the whispering. He was
apparently callous: he took it perhaps as proof of popularity and
admiration: he gave his evidence in the manner of one accustomed to bear
witness, as indeed he was, having perhaps given evidence oftener than
any other living man. He stated that he had joined a stranger to walk
from the Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross, each carrying a cudgel
for self-defence: that he observed the action described by the worthy
and learned Doctor of Divinity from Ireland: that his companion, this
gallant young gentleman, rushed out to the rescue of the clergyman, and
so forth. So he retired with a front of iron.
Mr. Probus added to the evidence which you have already heard the
statement that he came accidentally upon the party and after the
business was over: that he happened to have been attorney to the late
Sir Peter Halliday: that he recognized the robber as the unnatural son
of that good man, turned out of his father's home for his many crimes
and vices: and that in the interest of justice and respect for the laws
of his country he went out of his way, and was at great personal loss
and inconvenience in order to give this evidence.
The Magistrate put no questions to him. He turned to me and asked if I
had anything to say or any evidence to offer.
I had none, except--that I was no highwayman, but a respectable
musician, and that this was a conspiracy.
'You will have the opportunity,' said Sir John, 'of proving the fact.
Meantime, in the face of this evidence, conspiracy or not, I have no
choice but to commit you to Newgate, there to remain until your trial.'
They set me aside and the next case was called.
So you understand, there are other ways of compassing a man's death
besides simple murder. It is sufficient to enter into a conspiracy and
to charge him with an offence which, by the laws of the country, is
punishable by death.