WE are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow Street Police.
To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of humbug about those
worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent
character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and
the like, they never lost a public occasion of jobbing and trading in
mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides by
incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and
hand-in-glove with the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of
superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly
ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in
their operations, they remain with some people a superstition to the
present day.
On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment
of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, proceeds so
systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workmanlike
manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of
the public, that the public really do not know enough of it, to know a
tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested
in the men themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland
Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no official objection, to
have some talk with the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission
being given, a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for
a social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The
Household Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In
consequence of which appointment the party ‘came off,’ which we are about
to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it might
for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or disagreeable to
respectable individuals, to touch upon in print, our description is as
exact as we can make it.
The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of
Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader’s fancy, will best
represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate for a round
table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and
the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in between that stately piece of
furniture and the wall.
It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot
and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the Theatre
opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly
setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and there is a
mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, deafening us for the
moment, through the open windows.
Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do not
undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here mentioned.
Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a
middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large, moist, knowing eye, a
husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his conversation by the aid of a
corpulent fore-finger, which is constantly in juxtaposition with his eyes
or nose. Inspector Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman—in
appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained
schoolmaster, from the Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield
one might have known, perhaps, for what he is—Inspector Stalker, never.
The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe
that they have brought some sergeants with them. The sergeants are
presented—five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant
Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective
Force from Scotland Yard, with one exception. They sit down in a
semi-circle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little distance
from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a
glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate
sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in
company could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation, twenty years hence.
The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about fifty years
of age, with a ruddy face and a high sunburnt forehead, has the air of
one who has been a Sergeant in the army—he might have sat to Wilkie for
the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is famous for steadily
pursuing the inductive process, and, from small beginnings, working on
from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and
thicker-set, and marked with the small-pox, has something of a reserved
and thoughtful air, as if he were engaged in deep arithmetical
calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance with the swell mob.
Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a
strange air of simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall,
a light-haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at
pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry
Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a door and
ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose to prescribe
to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant.
They are, one and all, respectable-looking men; of perfectly good
deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging or slinking in
their manners; with an air of keen observation and quick perception when
addressed; and generally presenting in their faces, traces more or less
marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. They
have all good eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at
whomsoever they speak to.
We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very
temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest amateur
reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield
immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his right hand, and
says, ‘Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can’t do better than call upon
Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why? I’ll tell you. Sergeant
Witchem is better acquainted with the swell mob than any officer in
London.’
Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we turn to
Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen language, goes
into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of his brother officers
are closely interested in attending to what he says, and observing its
effect. Presently they begin to strike in, one or two together, when an
opportunity offers, and the conversation becomes general. But these
brother officers only come in to the assistance of each other—not to the
contradiction—and a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From
the swell mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences,
public-house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out
‘gonophing,’ and other ‘schools.’ It is observable throughout these
revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and
statistical, and that when any question of figures arises, everybody as
by one consent pauses, and looks to him.
When we have exhausted the various schools of Art—during which discussion
the whole body have remained profoundly attentive, except when some
unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has induced some gentleman to
glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction, behind his next
neighbour’s back—we burrow for information on such points as the
following. Whether there really are any highway robberies in London, or
whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the
aggrieved party, usually precede the robberies complained of, under that
head, which quite change their character? Certainly the latter, almost
always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are
necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever becomes so
like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be cautious how he
judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or deceptive as such
appearances at first. Whether in a place of public amusement, a thief
knows an officer, and an officer knows a thief—supposing them,
beforehand, strangers to each other—because each recognises in the other,
under all disguise, an inattention to what is going on, and a purpose
that is not the purpose of being entertained? Yes. That’s the way
exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged
experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or
penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd. Lying is
their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie—even if they
hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want to make themselves
agreeable—than tell the truth.
From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated and
horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within the last
fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all
of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here,
down to the very last instance. One of our guests gave chase to and
boarded the emigrant ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London
was supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not
announced to the passengers, who may have no idea of it to this hour.
That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand—it being dark, and the
whole steerage abed and sea-sick—and engaged the Mrs. Manning who was on
board, in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small
pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the light.
Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly
re-embarked in the Government steamer along-side, and steamed home again
with the intelligence.
When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable
time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant
Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant Witchem, leaning forward a
little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly speaks as
follows:
‘My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my taking
Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn’t to tell what he has done himself; but
still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as nobody but myself can
tell it, I’ll do it in the best way I can, if it should meet your
approval.’
We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all
compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention.
‘Tally-ho Thompson,’ says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his lips
with his brandy-and-water, ‘Tally-ho Thompson was a famous horse-stealer,
couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a pal that
occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out of a good round
sum of money, under pretence of getting him a situation—the regular old
dodge—and was afterwards in the “Hue and Cry” for a horse—a horse that he
stole down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, and I applied
myself, of course, in the first instance, to discovering where he was.
Now, Thompson’s wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea.
Knowing that Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the
house—especially at post-time in the morning—thinking Thompson was pretty
likely to write to her. Sure enough, one morning the postman comes up,
and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson’s door. Little girl opens the
door, and takes it in. We’re not always sure of postmen, though the
people at the post-offices are always very obliging. A postman may help
us, or he may not,—just as it happens. However, I go across the road,
and I say to the postman, after he has left the letter, “Good morning!
how are you?” “How are _you_?” says he. “You’ve just delivered a letter
for Mrs. Thompson.” “Yes, I have.” “You didn’t happen to remark what
the post-mark was, perhaps?” “No,” says he, “I didn’t.” “Come,” says I,
“I’ll be plain with you. I’m in a small way of business, and I have
given Thompson credit, and I can’t afford to lose what he owes me. I
know he’s got money, and I know he’s in the country, and if you could
tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very much obliged to you, and
you’d do a service to a tradesman in a small way of business that can’t
afford a loss.” “Well,” he said, “I do assure you that I did not observe
what the post-mark was; all I know is, that there was money in the
letter—I should say a sovereign.” This was enough for me, because of
course I knew that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable
she’d write to Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt.
So I said “Thankee” to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the
afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I followed her. She
went into a stationer’s shop, and I needn’t say to you that I looked in
at the window. She bought some writing-paper and envelopes, and a pen.
I think to myself, “That’ll do!”—watch her home again—and don’t go away,
you may be sure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson was writing her letter to
Tally-ho, and that the letter would be posted presently. In about an
hour or so, out came the little girl again, with the letter in her hand.
I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it might have been;
but I couldn’t see the direction of the letter, because she held it with
the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the letter
there was what we call a kiss—a drop of wax by the side of the seal—and
again, you understand, that was enough for me. I saw her post the
letter, waited till she was gone, then went into the shop, and asked to
see the Master. When he came out, I told him, “Now, I’m an Officer in
the Detective Force; there’s a letter with a kiss been posted here just
now, for a man that I’m in search of; and what I have to ask of you, is,
that you will let me look at the direction of that letter.” He was very
civil—took a lot of letters from the box in the window—shook ’em out on
the counter with the faces downwards—and there among ’em was the
identical letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post
Office, B—, to be left till called for. Down I went to B— (a hundred and
twenty miles or so) that night. Early next morning I went to the Post
Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that department; told him who I
was; and that my object was to see, and track, the party that should come
for the letter for Mr. Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, “You
shall have every assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the
office; and we’ll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the
letter.” Well, I waited there three days, and began to think that nobody
ever would come. At last the clerk whispered to me, “Here! Detective!
Somebody’s come for the letter!” “Keep him a minute,” said I, and I ran
round to the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the
appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle—stretching the
bridle across the pavement, while he waited at the Post Office Window for
the letter. I began to pat the horse, and that; and I said to the boy,
“Why, this is Mr. Jones’s Mare!” “No. It an’t.” “No?” said I. “She’s
very like Mr. Jones’s Mare!” “She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,” says
he. “It’s Mr. So and So’s, of the Warwick Arms.” And up he jumped, and
off he went—letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so
quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by
one gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where
there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of
brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She
casually looked at it, without saying anything, and stuck it up behind
the glass over the chimney-piece. What was to be done next?
‘I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water (looking
pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn’t see my way out of
it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but there had been a
horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was full. I was obliged to
put up somewhere else, but I came backwards and forwards to the bar for a
couple of days, and there was the letter always behind the glass. At
last I thought I’d write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that
would do. So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it,
Mr. John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what that would do.
In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the postman down the
street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the Warwick Arms.
In he came presently with my letter. “Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying
here?” “No!—stop a bit though,” says the barmaid; and she took down the
letter behind the glass. “No,” says she, “it’s Thomas, and he is not
staying here. Would you do me a favour, and post this for me, as it is
so wet?” The postman said Yes; she folded it in another envelope,
directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat, and away he went.
‘I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. It was
addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R—, Northamptonshire, to be
left till called for. Off I started directly for R—; I said the same at
the Post Office there, as I had said at B—; and again I waited three days
before anybody came. At last another chap on horseback came. “Any
letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon?” “Where do you come from?” “New Inn,
near R—.” He got the letter, and away he went at a canter.
‘I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R—, and hearing it was a
solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a couple of
miles from the station, I thought I’d go and have a look at it. I found
it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The
landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to get into conversation with
her; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so
on; when I saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a
sort of parlour, or kitchen; and one of those men, according to the
description I had of him, was Tally-ho Thompson!
‘I went and sat down among ’em, and tried to make things agreeable; but
they were very shy—wouldn’t talk at all—looked at me, and at one another,
in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned ’em up, and finding
that they were all three bigger men than me, and considering that their
looks were ugly—that it was a lonely place—railroad station two miles
off—and night coming on—thought I couldn’t do better than have a drop of
brandy-and-water to keep my courage up. So I called for my
brandy-and-water; and as I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson
got up and went out.
‘Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn’t sure it was Thompson,
because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted was to
be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to
follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the
yard, with the landlady. It turned out afterwards that he was wanted by
a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that officer
to be pock-marked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have
observed, I found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand
upon his shoulder—this way—and said, “Tally-ho Thompson, it’s no use. I
know you. I’m an officer from London, and I take you into custody for
felony!” “That be d-d!” says Tally-ho Thompson.
‘We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up rough,
and their looks didn’t please me at all, I assure you. “Let the man go.
What are you going to do with him?” “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do
with him. I’m going to take him to London to-night, as sure as I’m
alive. I’m not alone here, whatever you may think. You mind your own
business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It’ll be better for you,
for I know you both very well.” _I_’d never seen or heard of ’em in all
my life, but my bouncing cowed ’em a bit, and they kept off, while
Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they
might be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said
to the landlady, “What men have you got in the house, Missis?” “We
haven’t got no men here,” she says, sulkily. “You have got an ostler, I
suppose?” “Yes, we’ve got an ostler.” “Let me see him.” Presently he
came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. “Now attend to me, young
man,” says I; “I’m a Detective Officer from London. This man’s name is
Thompson. I have taken him into custody for felony. I am going to take
him to the railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen’s name to
assist me; and mind you, my friend, you’ll get yourself into more trouble
than you know of, if you don’t!” You never saw a person open his eyes so
wide. “Now, Thompson, come along!” says I. But when I took out the
handcuffs, Thompson cries, “No! None of that! I won’t stand _them_!
I’ll go along with you quiet, but I won’t bear none of that!” “Tally-ho
Thompson,” I said, “I’m willing to behave as a man to you, if you are
willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you’ll come
peaceably along, and I don’t want to handcuff you.” “I will,” says
Thompson, “but I’ll have a glass of brandy first.” “I don’t care if I’ve
another,” said I. “We’ll have two more, Missis,” said the friends, “and
confound you, Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?” I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took
Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that
night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the
evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says
I’m one of the best of men.’
This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector
Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his host, and thus
delivers himself:
‘It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging
the Sou’-Western Railway debentures—it was only t’other day—because the
reason why? I’ll tell you.
‘I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder
there,’—indicating any region on the Surrey side of the river—‘where he
bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried in vain to get hold of
him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that
I’d got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would drive down next day
that he might view the lot, and make an offer—very reasonable it was, I
said—a reg’lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine
that’s in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day,
a precious smart turn-out it was—quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and leaving
my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of the horse, we
went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory,
there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning ’em up,
it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to try it on there. They were too
many for us. We must get our man out of doors. “Mr. Fikey at home?”
“No, he ain’t.” “Expected home soon?” “Why, no, not soon.” “Ah! Is
his brother here?” “I’m his brother.” “Oh! well, this is an
ill-conwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got
a little turn-out to dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the
turn-out down a’ purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.” “No, he ain’t in
the way. You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?”
“Why, no, I couldn’t. I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put
it off. Could you find him anywheres?” At first he said No, he
couldn’t, and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and try. So
at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently
down comes my man himself in his shirt-sleeves.
‘“Well,” he says, “this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours.”
“Yes,” I says, “it _is_ rayther a pressing matter, and you’ll find it a
bargain—dirt cheap.” “I ain’t in partickler want of a bargain just now,”
he says, “but where is it?” “Why,” I says, “the turn-out’s just outside.
Come and look at it.” He hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go. And the
first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who
knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along
the road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your life!
‘When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a standstill again,
Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge—me too. “There, sir!”
I says. “There’s a neat thing!” “It ain’t a bad style of thing,” he
says. “I believe you,” says I. “And there’s a horse!”—for I saw him
looking at it. “Rising eight!” I says, rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless
you, there ain’t a man in the world knows less of horses than I do, but
I’d heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I
says, as knowing as possible, “Rising eight.”) “Rising eight, is he?”
says he. “Rising eight,” says I. “Well,” he says, “what do you want for
it?” “Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is
five-and-twenty pound!” “That’s very cheap!” he says, looking at me.
“Ain’t it?” I says. “I told you it was a bargain! Now, without any
higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that’s my
price. Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take half the money down,
and you can do a bit of stiff {415} for the balance.”
“Well,” he says again, “that’s very cheap.” “I believe you,” says I;
“get in and try it, and you’ll buy it. Come! take a trial!”
‘Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show
him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-house window
to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and didn’t know whether it
was him, or wasn’t—because the reason why? I’ll tell you,—on account of
his having shaved his whiskers. “It’s a clever little horse,” he says,
“and trots well; and the shay runs light.” “Not a doubt about it,” I
says. “And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without
wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and
you’re my prisoner.” “You don’t mean that?” he says. “I do, indeed.”
“Then burn my body,” says Fikey, “if this ain’t too bad!”
‘Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. “I hope
you’ll let me have my coat?” he says. “By all means.” “Well, then,
let’s drive to the factory.” “Why, not exactly that, I think,” said I;
“I’ve been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we send for it.” He saw
it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to
London, comfortable.’
This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general
proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with
the strange air of simplicity, to tell the ‘Butcher’s Story.’
The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air of
simplicity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling tone of
voice, to relate the Butcher’s Story, thus:
‘It’s just about six years ago, now, since information was given at
Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and silks going
on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions were given for the
business being looked into; and Straw, and Fendall, and me, we were all
in it.’
‘When you received your instructions,’ said we, ‘you went away, and held
a sort of Cabinet Council together!’
The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, ‘Ye-es. Just so. We turned
it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we went into it,
that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordinarily cheap—much
cheaper than they could have been if they had been honestly come by. The
receivers were in the trade, and kept capital shops—establishments of the
first respectability—one of ’em at the West End, one down in Westminster.
After a lot of watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves,
we found that the job was managed, and the purchases of the stolen goods
made, at a little public-house near Smithfield, down by Saint
Bartholomew’s; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves, took
’em for that purpose, don’t you see? and made appointments to meet the
people that went between themselves and the receivers. This public-house
was principally used by journeymen butchers from the country, out of
place, and in want of situations; so, what did we do, but—ha, ha, ha!—we
agreed that I should be dressed up like a butcher myself, and go and live
there!’
Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear upon a
purpose, than that which picked out this officer for the part. Nothing
in all creation could have suited him better. Even while he spoke, he
became a greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured, chuckle-headed, unsuspicious,
and confiding young butcher. His very hair seemed to have suet in it, as
he made it smooth upon his head, and his fresh complexion to be
lubricated by large quantities of animal food.
‘—So I—ha, ha, ha!’ (always with the confiding snigger of the foolish
young butcher) ‘so I dressed myself in the regular way, made up a little
bundle of clothes, and went to the public-house, and asked if I could
have a lodging there? They says, “yes, you can have a lodging here,” and
I got a bedroom, and settled myself down in the tap. There was a number
of people about the place, and coming backwards and forwards to the
house; and first one says, and then another says, “Are you from the
country, young man?” “Yes,” I says, “I am. I’m come out of
Northamptonshire, and I’m quite lonely here, for I don’t know London at
all, and it’s such a mighty big town.” “It _is_ a big town,” they says.
“Oh, it’s a _very_ big town!” I says. “Really and truly I never was in
such a town. It quite confuses of me!” and all that, you know.
‘When some of the journeymen Butchers that used the house, found that I
wanted a place, they says, “Oh, we’ll get you a place!” And they
actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate Market, Newport Market,
Clare, Carnaby—I don’t know where all. But the wages was—ha, ha, ha!—was
not sufficient, and I never could suit myself, don’t you see? Some of
the queer frequenters of the house were a little suspicious of me at
first, and I was obliged to be very cautious indeed how I communicated
with Straw or Fendall. Sometimes, when I went out, pretending to stop
and look into the shop windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to
see some of ’em following me; but, being perhaps better accustomed than
they thought for, to that sort of thing, I used to lead ’em on as far as
I thought necessary or convenient—sometimes a long way—and then turn
sharp round, and meet ’em, and say, “Oh, dear, how glad I am to come upon
you so fortunate! This London’s such a place, I’m blowed if I ain’t lost
again!” And then we’d go back all together, to the public-house, and—ha,
ha, ha! and smoke our pipes, don’t you see?
‘They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common thing, while
I was living there, for some of ’em to take me out, and show me London.
They showed me the Prisons—showed me Newgate—and when they showed me
Newgate, I stops at the place where the Porters pitch their loads, and
says, “Oh dear, is this where they hang the men? Oh Lor!” “That!” they
says, “what a simple cove he is! _That_ ain’t it!” And then, they
pointed out which was it, and I says “Lor!” and they says, “Now you’ll
know it agen, won’t you?” And I said I thought I should if I tried
hard—and I assure you I kept a sharp look out for the City Police when we
were out in this way, for if any of ’em had happened to know me, and had
spoke to me, it would have been all up in a minute. However, by good
luck such a thing never happened, and all went on quiet: though the
difficulties I had in communicating with my brother officers were quite
extraordinary.
‘The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the Warehouse
Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlour. For a long time, I
never could get into this parlour, or see what was done there. As I sat
smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap, by the tap-room fire, I’d
hear some of the parties to the robbery, as they came in and out, say
softly to the landlord, “Who’s that? What does he do here?” “Bless your
soul,” says the landlord, “he’s only a”—ha, ha, ha!—“he’s only a green
young fellow from the country, as is looking for a butcher’s sitiwation.
Don’t mind him!” So, in course of time, they were so convinced of my
being green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the
parlour as any of ’em, and I have seen as much as Seventy Pounds’ Worth
of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a warehouse
in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood treat—hot
supper, or dinner, or what not—and they’d say on those occasions, “Come
on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost, young ‘un, and walk into it!”
Which I used to do—and hear, at table, all manner of particulars that it
was very important for us Detectives to know.
‘This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all the time,
and never was out of the Butcher’s dress—except in bed. At last, when I
had followed seven of the thieves, and set ’em to rights—that’s an
expression of ours, don’t you see, by which I mean to say that I traced
’em, and found out where the robberies were done, and all about
’em—Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one another the office, and at a time
agreed upon, a descent was made upon the public-house, and the
apprehensions effected. One of the first things the officers did, was to
collar me—for the parties to the robbery weren’t to suppose yet, that I
was anything but a Butcher—on which the landlord cries out, “Don’t take
him,” he says, “whatever you do! He’s only a poor young chap from the
country, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!” However, they—ha, ha,
ha!—they took me, and pretended to search my bedroom, where nothing was
found but an old fiddle belonging to the landlord, that had got there
somehow or another. But, it entirely changed the landlord’s opinion, for
when it was produced, he says, “My fiddle! The Butcher’s a purloiner! I
give him into custody for the robbery of a musical instrument!”
‘The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not taken yet.
He had told me, in confidence, that he had his suspicions there was
something wrong (on account of the City Police having captured one of the
party), and that he was going to make himself scarce. I asked him,
“Where do you mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson?” “Why, Butcher,” says he,
“the Setting Moon, in the Commercial Road, is a snug house, and I shall
bang out there for a time. I shall call myself Simpson, which appears to
me to be a modest sort of a name. Perhaps you’ll give us a look in,
Butcher?” “Well,” says I, “I think I will give you a call”—which I fully
intended, don’t you see, because, of course, he was to be taken! I went
over to the Setting Moon next day, with a brother officer, and asked at
the bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, up-stairs. As we were
going up, he looks down over the banister, and calls out, “Halloa,
Butcher! is that you?” “Yes, it’s me. How do you find yourself?”
“Bobbish,” he says; “but who’s that with you?” “It’s only a young man,
that’s a friend of mine,” I says. “Come along, then,” says he; “any
friend of the Butcher’s is as welcome as the Butcher!” So, I made my
friend acquainted with him, and we took him into custody.
‘You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when they first
knew that I wasn’t a Butcher, after all! I wasn’t produced at the first
examination, when there was a remand; but I was at the second. And when
I stepped into the box, in full police uniform, and the whole party saw
how they had been done, actually a groan of horror and dismay proceeded
from ’em in the dock!
‘At the Old Bailey, when their trials came on, Mr. Clarkson was engaged
for the defence, and he couldn’t make out how it was, about the Butcher.
He thought, all along, it was a real Butcher. When the counsel for the
prosecution said, “I will now call before you, gentlemen, the
Police-officer,” meaning myself, Mr. Clarkson says, “Why Police-officer?
Why more Police-officers? I don’t want Police. We have had a great deal
too much of the Police. I want the Butcher!” However, sir, he had the
Butcher and the Police-officer, both in one. Out of seven prisoners
committed for trial, five were found guilty, and some of ’em were
transported. The respectable firm at the West End got a term of
imprisonment; and that’s the Butcher’s Story!’
The story done, the chuckle-headed Butcher again resolved himself into
the smooth-faced Detective. But, he was so extremely tickled by their
having taken him about, when he was that Dragon in disguise, to show him
London, that he could not help reverting to that point in his narrative;
and gently repeating with the Butcher snigger, ‘“Oh, dear,” I says, “is
that where they hang the men? Oh, Lor!” “_That_!” says they. “What a
simple cove he is!”’
It being now late, and the party very modest in their fear of being too
diffuse, there were some tokens of separation; when Sergeant Dornton, the
soldierly-looking man, said, looking round him with a smile:
‘Before we break up, sir, perhaps you might have some amusement in
hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet Bag. They are very short; and, I
think, curious.’
We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as cordially as Mr. Shepherdson welcomed the
false Butcher at the Setting Moon. Sergeant Dornton proceeded.
‘In 1847, I was despatched to Chatham, in search of one Mesheck, a Jew.
He had been carrying on, pretty heavily, in the bill-stealing way,
getting acceptances from young men of good connexions (in the army
chiefly), on pretence of discount, and bolting with the same.
‘Mesheck was off, before I got to Chatham. All I could learn about him
was, that he had gone, probably to London, and had with him—a Carpet Bag.
‘I came back to town, by the last train from Blackwall, and made
inquiries concerning a Jew passenger with—a Carpet Bag.
‘The office was shut up, it being the last train. There were only two or
three porters left. Looking after a Jew with a Carpet Bag, on the
Blackwall Railway, which was then the high road to a great Military
Depôt, was worse than looking after a needle in a hayrick. But it
happened that one of these porters had carried, for a certain Jew, to a
certain public-house, a certain—Carpet Bag.
‘I went to the public-house, but the Jew had only left his luggage there
for a few hours, and had called for it in a cab, and taken it away. I
put such questions there, and to the porter, as I thought prudent, and
got at this description of—the Carpet Bag.
‘It was a bag which had, on one side of it, worked in worsted, a green
parrot on a stand. A green parrot on a stand was the means by which to
identify that—Carpet Bag.
‘I traced Mesheck, by means of this green parrot on a stand, to
Cheltenham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to the Atlantic Ocean. At
Liverpool he was too many for me. He had gone to the United States, and
I gave up all thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of his—Carpet Bag.
‘Many months afterwards—near a year afterwards—there was a bank in
Ireland robbed of seven thousand pounds, by a person of the name of
Doctor Dundey, who escaped to America; from which country some of the
stolen notes came home. He was supposed to have bought a farm in New
Jersey. Under proper management, that estate could be seized and sold,
for the benefit of the parties he had defrauded. I was sent off to
America for this purpose.
‘I landed at Boston. I went on to New York. I found that he had lately
changed New York paper-money for New Jersey paper money, and had banked
cash in New Brunswick. To take this Doctor Dundey, it was necessary to
entrap him into the State of New York, which required a deal of artifice
and trouble. At one time, he couldn’t be drawn into an appointment. At
another time, he appointed to come to meet me, and a New York officer, on
a pretext I made; and then his children had the measles. At last he
came, per steamboat, and I took him, and lodged him in a New York prison
called the Tombs; which I dare say you know, sir?’
Editorial acknowledgment to that effect.
‘I went to the Tombs, on the morning after his capture, to attend the
examination before the magistrate. I was passing through the
magistrate’s private room, when, happening to look round me to take
notice of the place, as we generally have a habit of doing, I clapped my
eyes, in one corner, on a—Carpet Bag.
‘What did I see upon that Carpet Bag, if you’ll believe me, but a green
parrot on a stand, as large as life!
‘“That Carpet Bag, with the representation of a green parrot on a stand,”
said I, “belongs to an English Jew, named Aaron Mesheck, and to no other
man, alive or dead!”
‘I give you my word the New York Police Officers were doubled up with
surprise.
‘“How did you ever come to know that?” said they.
‘“I think I ought to know that green parrot by this time,” said I; “for I
have had as pretty a dance after that bird, at home, as ever I had, in
all my life!”’
* * * * *
‘And was it Mesheck’s?’ we submissively inquired.
‘Was it, sir? Of course it was! He was in custody for another offence,
in that very identical Tombs, at that very identical time. And, more
than that! Some memoranda, relating to the fraud for which I had vainly
endeavoured to take him, were found to be, at that moment, lying in that
very same individual—Carpet Bag!’
* * * * *
Such are the curious coincidences and such is the peculiar ability,
always sharpening and being improved by practice, and always adapting
itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing itself to every
new device that perverted ingenuity can invent, for which this important
social branch of the public service is remarkable! For ever on the
watch, with their wits stretched to the utmost, these officers have, from
day to day and year to year, to set themselves against every novelty of
trickery and dexterity that the combined imaginations of all the lawless
rascals in England can devise, and to keep pace with every such invention
that comes out. In the Courts of Justice, the materials of thousands of
such stories as we have narrated—often elevated into the marvellous and
romantic, by the circumstances of the case—are dryly compressed into the
set phrase, ‘in consequence of information I received, I did so and so.’
Suspicion was to be directed, by careful inference and deduction, upon
the right person; the right person was to be taken, wherever he had gone,
or whatever he was doing to avoid detection: he is taken; there he is at
the bar; that is enough. From information I, the officer, received, I
did it; and, according to the custom in these cases, I say no more.
These games of chess, played with live pieces, are played before small
audiences, and are chronicled nowhere. The interest of the game supports
the player. Its results are enough for justice. To compare great things
with small, suppose LEVERRIER or ADAMS informing the public that from
information he had received he had discovered a new planet; or COLUMBUS
informing the public of his day that from information he had received he
had discovered a new continent; so the Detectives inform it that they
have discovered a new fraud or an old offender, and the process is
unknown.
Thus, at midnight, closed the proceedings of our curious and interesting
party. But one other circumstance finally wound up the evening, after
our Detective guests had left us. One of the sharpest among them, and
the officer best acquainted with the Swell Mob, had his pocket picked,
going home!