business, suggested to his partners the “doing” of the shop of Messrs.
Inglis & Horner, silk mercers at the Cross of Edinburgh, “as the goods
there were very rich and valuable, and a small bulk of them carried off
would amount to a large sum.” He and Smith frequently went to examine
the padlock, “which they did most commonly on the Sunday forenoon when
the people were in church.” They found this necessary, as the lock
proved to be of a difficult construction. Brodie made a key for it
himself, and went one night alone to test its efficacy, probably with
the view of stealing a march upon the rest, and doing a little private
practice outwith the knowledge of his colleagues. When he tried the key,
however, although it unlocked the padlock it would not lock it again,
and he had to disclose the state of matters to the others. On learning
of his attempt “they were all very angry with him, and said that he had
more than likely spoilt the place after all the trouble they had been
about; but Brodie told them he hoped not, as he had fixed the padlock
with a bit stick in a way that it would not be discovered, and upon
looking at the place afterwards, which they all did, they found the lock
to be just as it was.” Eventually Smith made a key that was more
reliable, and on the night of 8th January, 1788, an entry was effected,
and silks and cambrics to the value of between £300 and £400
successfully removed.
Next day a reward of £100 was offered by the Procurator-Fiscal for the
discovery of the criminals, but, as usual, without success. The owners,
however, did not let the matter rest there, and on their representations
the Government, on 25th January, offered an increased reward of £150 to
any one who, within six months, would give such information as should
lead to the discovery and conviction of the perpetrators, and twenty
guineas for the names of the offenders whether they should be convicted
or not. In addition, “His Majesty’s gracious pardon” was promised to any
accomplice who should within the like period procure the apprehension of
the guilty parties. Though this offer elicited no information at the
time, it was, ultimately, as we shall see, the means of breaking up that
dangerous association from whose depredations the inhabitants of the
good town of Edinburgh had so long and severely suffered.
From the spoils of Inglis & Horner’s shop Smith tells us that Brown
selected “a piece of plain white sattin, a piece of variegated ditto,
and a lead-coloured silk, in quantity about ten yards, which he gave to
a girl, an acquaintance of his of the name of Johnston.” One is pleased
to notice in passing this indication of a gentler element in Mr. Brown’s
rugged nature. The remainder of the goods were concealed in a cellar
which Ainslie had hired for the purpose in Stevenlaw’s Close, and were
subsequently despatched in two trunks--one by the Berwick carrier and
the other by the Newcastle waggoner--to our old friend at the “Bird in
Hand,” Chesterfield. We shall hear more of them later.
The reader must have been struck, in following the account of the
robberies committed by Deacon Brodie, with the singular incapacity
displayed by the official guardians of the public safety. These were the
Old Town Guard, a body of armed police which existed in Edinburgh from
an early date until 1817, when it was finally disbanded. The corps was
composed of some hundred and twenty veterans, chiefly drawn from the
Highland regiments, who were in continual conflict with the youth of the
capital. Fergusson, in his poems, has many a hit at the peculiarities of
this “canker’d pack”--
And thou, great god of _aqua vitæ_!
Wha sways the empire of this city--
When fou we’re sometimes capernoity--
Be thou prepar’d
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard.
Indeed, so frequently does he refer to them that Scott, in “The Heart of
Midlothian,” calls him their poet laureate. Evidently these antiquated
warriors were no match for the Deacon and his merry men.
* * * * *
Notwithstanding the many calls upon his time, owing to the varied
character of his engagements and pursuits, Deacon Brodie managed to drop
in at the club in the Fleshmarket Close of an evening as frequently as
ever, and, in spite of the magnitude of his recent operations, was not
above winning a few guineas from any one foolish enough to lose them. On
the night of the 17th of January, therefore, Brodie, Smith, and Ainslie
were at Clark’s, according to their own account, “innocently amusing
themselves with a game of dice over a glass of punch,” when their
privacy was intruded upon by John Hamilton, a master chimney-sweep in
Portsburgh, who insisted on joining them at play. This person was,
within a surprisingly short time, relieved by the trio of “five guinea
notes, two half guineas in gold, and six shillings in silver,” and being
apparently a bad loser, he promptly seized the dice, which, on
examination, were found to be “loaded, or false dice, filled at one end
or corner with lead.” Here was a pretty scandal for the respectable
Deacon to be mixed up in! Outraged innocence was of no avail--the dice
spoke for themselves.
But the master sweep’s blood was up, and the matter was not allowed to
end there. Hamilton forthwith presented to the magistrates of Edinburgh
a petition and complaint against Brodie, Smith, and Ainslie, setting
forth his meeting with them at Clark’s, and his being invited to join
them in a friendly game, with the result above narrated. The petitioner
concluded with praying for a warrant to apprehend and incarcerate the
said persons until they should repeat the sum of which he had been so
defrauded, and pay a sum over and above in name of damages and expenses.
Answers were lodged for Brodie, and separate answers for Smith and
Ainslie, in which it was stated that if false dice were used it was
unknown to the defenders, as the dice they played with belonged to the
house; that Brodie had only gained seven and sixpence; and that “the
petitioner himself was a noted adept in the science of gambling, and it
was not very credible that he would have allowed himself to be imposed
upon in the manner he had alleged.”
Hamilton’s replies to these answers are conceived in a fine vein of
irony--“Mr. Brodie knows nothing of such vile tricks--not he! He never
made them his study--not he! Mr. Brodie never haunted night houses,
where nothing but the blackest and vilest arts were practised to catch a
pigeon, nor ever was accessory, either by himself or others in his
combination, to behold the poor young creature plucked alive, and not
one feather left upon its wings--not he, indeed! He never was accessory
to see or be concerned in fleecing the ignorant, the thoughtless, the
young, and the unwary, nor ever made it his study, his anxious study,
with unwearied concern, at midnight hours, to haunt the rooms where he
thought of meeting with the company from which there was a possibility
of fetching from a scurvy sixpence to a hundred guineas--not he, indeed!
He is unacquainted altogether either with packing or shuffling a set of
cards--he is, indeed!” This, one would think, must have been painful
reading for the Deacon’s fellow-Councillors; but nothing further appears
to have been done in the matter, and the affair blew over without
damaging the worthy man’s repute: a singular comment on the moral
standard of the time.
* * * * *
In spite of the consummate skill with which Deacon Brodie had hitherto
sustained his double character, one is hardly prepared, in view of his
manner of life, to find him figuring in a criminal trial in any other
capacity than that of the central figure. Strange as it may seem,
however, his next public appearance was in the jury-box of the High
Court of Justiciary, when, on 4th February, 1788, Allan M‘Farlane,
officer of Excise, and Richard Firmin, soldier in the 39th Regiment of
Foot, were placed at the bar charged with the murder of Dougald
Fergusson, ferryman at Dunoon, Argyllshire.
The facts brought out at the trial were, briefly, as follows:--A party
of Excise officers, accompanied by some soldiers, had, in the previous
July, gone to Dunoon and seized certain illicit stills, which they put
on board their boat. Fergusson, a zealous freetrader, had rung the kirk
bell, assembled a mob, who pelted the officers with stones, and,
boarding the boat, had knocked down the two boatmen and attempted to
carry off the stills. In these circumstances, M‘Farlane ordered Firmin
to fire, which he did, killing Fergusson on the spot. The charge against
Firmin was abandoned by the Lord Advocate in his address, as it was
proved that he had only acted under orders; and the point for the jury
to consider was whether M‘Farlane was justified in giving the order to
fire in self-defence, in view of the danger to which the Excise party
were exposed from the hostile mob behind them, had Fergusson succeeded
in carrying off the boat. The jury unanimously found both panels not
guilty.
Thus did the Deacon, at the very time when all Edinburgh trembled at his
depredations and the authorities were straining
[Illustration: The Old Excise Office, Chessel’s Court, Canongate.
(From a Drawing by Bruce J. Home.)]
every nerve to discover the guilty author, calmly officiate upon a jury
to judge of the crimes of others. But, although he may have laughed in
his sleeve at this ironical situation--for he had a pretty wit, and
doubtless relished the humour of it keenly--fate had prepared for him
one yet more dramatic. A few months later he himself would sit in that
dock on trial for his life, the same counsel would conduct the
prosecution, the same judges occupy the bench; but the verdict would be
a different one, and the sentence to follow upon it, death.
* * * * *
Undisturbed by any shadow of coming disaster, and emboldened by his
previous successes, Deacon Brodie now decided to carry out a robbery
upon a grander scale than any he had previously attempted, the daring
and danger of which were commensurate with the advantages to be gained.
The General Excise Office for Scotland was at that period kept in a
large mansion, enclosed by a parapet wall and iron railing, situated in
Chessel’s Court, Canongate. The building had formerly been occupied as a
dwelling-house, and was by no means a secure repository for the great
sums of money which in those days were collected there from all parts of
the country. The Deacon, in his professional capacity, was familiar with
the arrangements of the office, his men having at various times executed
repairs on the premises. A connection of his, Mr. Corbett, of Stirling,
too, was in the habit of coming to Edinburgh frequently on Excise
business, and Brodie took the opportunity of accompanying him upon these
occasions with a view to studying how the land lay.
Having learned all that was necessary for his purpose, the Deacon went
one day to the office with Smith, on pretence of inquiring for Mr.
Corbett, and while he thus engaged the attention of the cashier, Smith
took an impression in putty of the key of the outer door, which,
according to the prevailing ingenuous custom, was hung upon a nail
inside it. From this Brodie prepared a drawing of the wards, and Smith
filed a key of similar pattern. The next step was to ascertain the
habits of the watchman who guarded the premises, and for this purpose
Ainslie--whose department seems to have been scouting--was deputed to
observe the office on several successive nights. He found that it was
usually closed for the day at eight o’clock; that when all the clerks
had left the outer door was locked, and the key taken to Mr. Dundas,
“the housekeeper,” who lived in the court, and that the night watchman
did not come on duty until ten o’clock. The Excise Office was thus left
wholly unguarded between the hours of eight and ten at night.
Smith and Brown had already tried the efficiency of the new key, which
readily opened the outer door, but the lock of the inner door to the
cashier’s room refused to yield to their persuasive methods. Smith was
of opinion that its resistance could only be overcome by violence,
observing that the coulter of a plough would be a suitable instrument
for that purpose. Accordingly, on the afternoon of Friday, 28th
February, Ainslie and Brown repaired to Duddingston as a likely spot for
picking up such an implement. Having refreshed themselves after their
walk with a bottle of porter at a house in the village, they entered a
field in the neighbourhood, where they had seen a man ploughing, and,
when his back was turned, removed the coulter of the plough and two iron
wedges, which on their way home by the King’s Park they hid in Salisbury
Crags. Unfortunately for themselves and Smith, they were accompanied
upon this country ramble by a black dog, belonging to the latter, named
“Rodney,” which, curiously enough, was at a later stage to bear
testimony against its master before the Sheriff.
On Tuesday, 4th March, a final consultation was held by the four
desperadoes at Smith’s house in the Cowgate to arrange the details of
the attack upon the Excise Office, which was fixed for the following
night, when, as they had ascertained, it was the turn of an old man, who
watched night about with the other porter, to be on guard. According to
Smith’s second declaration, “it was concerted by Brodie, in case of
interruption by the man coming into the office before the business was
accomplished, to conceal themselves quietly until he was gone to rest,
and then to secure him; and they were, if this happened, to personate
smugglers who came in search of their property that had been seized; and
the declarant had a wig of Brodie’s father in his pocket in order to
disguise himself.” Little did that decent old gentleman dream to what
base uses his respectable wig would one day be assigned by his cynical
and degenerate offspring. The Deacon also furnished Smith with a coil of
rope to be knotted into a ladder, so that if taken by surprise they
could lock the outer door of the office and make good their escape by
the back windows into the garden behind. Having decided upon their plan
of campaign, the meeting adjourned till the following afternoon.
Wednesday, the 5th of March, 1788, was a busy day for the Deacon.
Between two and three o’clock he was back at Smith’s, attired in “the
white-coloured clothes he usually wore,” with various requisites for the
night’s adventure--pick-locks, false keys, an ivory whistle, “a strong
chisel with a brass virral,” and a spur, which was to be left on the
scene of the robbery, “to make it believed it had been done by some
person on horseback, in order that it might appear, when found, to have
dropped from the foot by its being torn by accident at the buckle.”
By three o’clock he was presiding in his own dining-room, with the panel
painting and the great arched window, at a dinner-party consisting of
his aunt, his two sisters, Matthew Sheriff, his brother-in-law, and “a
stranger gentleman” whose identity was not disclosed. “We drank
together,” says Mr. Sheriff, “from dinner to tea, which I think was
brought in about six o’clock, and then the stranger gentleman went
away.” Probably he thought discretion the better part of valour. The
brothers-in-law, however, continued the sederunt till shortly before
eight o’clock, when Sheriff retired to his residence in Bunker’s
Hill--the name by which St. James’ Square was then known. The moment his
guest had gone the Deacon, hastily attiring himself in an old-fashioned
black suit, a cocked hat, and a light-coloured great-coat, put his
pistols and dark lantern in his pocket, and hurried off to the business
of the evening.
It had been arranged that the gang should assemble at Smith’s house at
seven o’clock, since which hour the others had been impatiently awaiting
their leader’s arrival. The Deacon was in a merry mood; his spirits were
high as his hopes, and the potations of the afternoon had doubtless
contributed to their elation. He burst in upon his anxious friends with
a pistol in his hand, singing a stave from his favourite “Beggar’s
Opera”--
Let us take the road;
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!
The hour of attack approaches;
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold;
Let the chemists toil like asses
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns our lead to gold.
It was a raw and wintry evening of a type familiar to the Edinburgh
spring--that “meteorological purgatory” of Stevenson; there had been a
considerable fall of snow, followed by an intense frost, and few people
were out of doors. Smith, Brown, and Ainslie were sitting in an upper
room beguiling the time with a light refection of herrings and chicken,
washed down by draughts of gin and “black cork,” _i.e._, Bell’s beer.
Ainslie and Brown had, whenever it was sufficiently dark, brought the
coulter of the plough and the iron wedges from their hiding-place in
Salisbury Crags. No time was to be lost, and so soon as the Deacon
arrived the final arrangements were quickly made. Three brace of
pistols--one of which had been obligingly lent by Michael
Henderson--were loaded by Smith with powder and ball, each member of the
party, excepting Ainslie, being armed with a pair, “as they were
determined not to be taken, whatever should be the consequence.” Three
crape masks were also prepared for the use of Smith, Ainslie, and Brown.
To Smith and Brown was appointed the task of forcing the doors and
rifling the premises; the Deacon was to be stationed in the hall behind
the outer door to prevent a surprise; while it was Ainslie’s duty to
keep watch within the “palisadoes” outside the office, where, concealed
by the parapet wall, he could command a view of the court and entry.
Ainslie was provided with a whistle of ivory, purchased by Brodie the
night before, with which, if the watchman appeared, he was to give one
whistle, so that they might be prepared to secure him; and, if more than
one man or any appearance of danger was perceived, he was to give three
whistles, and then make the best of his way to the gardens behind, in
order to assist the others in escaping by the back windows. Brodie, on
hearing the signal, was, in turn, to give the alarm to Brown and Smith
within the building.
In pursuance of this arrangement, Ainslie left first for the scene of
action in Chessel’s Court, carrying with him the coulter, and, having
taken up his position within the “palisadoes,” saw the porter come out
with a light and lock the outer door behind him. Shortly thereafter
Smith arrived. On hearing that the coast was clear, he lost no time in
opening the front door with his false key and went into the office. He
was followed five minutes later by Deacon Brodie, who, learning that
Smith was within, but that Brown had not yet put in an appearance, went
back up the court to look for him. They met in the entry and returned
together, Brown explaining that, on his arrival, he had seen the old man
who usually locked up the office leaving the court, and had dogged him
home as a precautionary measure. Brown then inquired of Ainslie “whether
or not he had ‘Great Samuel’?”--by which playful appellation he referred
to the coulter--and Ainslie handed it to him through the railings. The
Deacon and Brown then entered the office, leaving the outer door on the
latch, behind which the former ensconced himself.
Smith had meanwhile opened the spring catch of the inner door with a
pair of curling irons or “toupee tongs” which he had prepared for that
purpose, and was awaiting Brown in the hall. By means of the coulter and
an iron crow--“Little Samuel,” in Brown’s humorous phraseology--the two
burglars at length succeeded in forcing the door of the cashier’s room,
and by the light of the Deacon’s lantern they proceeded to prize open
every desk and press which it contained. In the cashier’s desk they
found and appropriated two five-pound notes, six guinea notes, and some
odd silver; but after half-an-hour’s diligent searching their utmost
efforts failed to discover the accumulated riches which they had
confidently expected to secure.
In the hurry of the search, by a curious chance, a secret drawer,
concealed beneath the cashier’s desk, containing no less than £600
sterling, escaped their notice.
Unwilling to accept their defeat, the two men were ransacking the desks
afresh when they heard the front door open, but, supposing Brodie to be
at his post, paid no attention. They were about to leave the room to
prosecute their investigation of the premises when they heard some one
come hastily down the stairs, “which made them stop or they must have
met him.” Upon this Brown whispered, “Here must be treachery; get out
your pistols and cock them!” They then heard the front door close with a
crash. Perceiving that something was wrong, they now hastened into the
hall, when, to their amazement, they found that the Deacon had vanished,
and, on opening the door, that Ainslie also had disappeared. Cursing
their ill luck and the defection of their companions, the puzzled
burglars hurried through the court into the Canongate; and, quite at sea
as to what had happened, made the best of their way to Smith’s house,
leaving behind them in the office the heavy coulter and the spur which
was designed to mislead the discoverers of the robbery.
We must now return to Ainslie, whom we left on the watch behind the
railings. A servant girl, returning from a message to her master’s house
in the court, saw him looking over the wall, and, “judging him to be a
light or suspicious person”--in which diagnosis she was not far
wrong--sought safety within doors. He had not been long at his post when
the silence of the court was broken by the sound of a man running into
it from the street, and Ainslie, peering through the railings, was
alarmed to see him go in at the open door of the Excise Office. At the
very moment of his entrance another man rushed from the doorway and fled
at full speed up the court; and before Ainslie could recover from his
surprise at this unlooked-for situation, a third man, as he supposed,
came immediately out of the office and also disappeared towards the
Canongate after the other.
The scanty oil lamps with which in those days the city was “illuminated”
after nightfall served but as feeble foils to the surrounding darkness,
and to Ainslie, in the dimly-lighted court, friend and foe were equally
indistinguishable. These mysterious and unlooked-for doings proved too
much for the watcher’s nerve; so, having hastily given the agreed-on
signal of retreat by three blasts upon his whistle, he, too, made for
the entry, and, turning down St. John’s Street, came through the gardens
of the Canongate to the back of the Excise Office. Finding no trace of
his associates there, Ainslie in his turn repaired to Smith’s.
The explanation of these occurrences, which had dispersed the gang in
bewilderment and consternation, was singularly simple, but the issue
might have been very different. Mr. James Bonar, Deputy Solicitor of
Excise, had returned to the office about half-past eight o’clock to get
certain papers which he had left in his room. Finding the outer door on
the latch, he assumed that some of the clerks were still in the
building, and was entering the office when the Deacon, who appears to
have lost his usual presence of mind, bounced out from behind the door,
and, brushing past him, fled hastily from the court. Mr. Bonar attached
no importance to this incident, thinking the person belonged to the
office, and, being pressed for time, ran upstairs to his own room, got
what he wanted, and hastened from the building, slamming the outer door
after him.
If Ainslie had not lost his head at the sudden entrance and exit of the
Solicitor and the Deacon, but had blown his whistle, as he should have
done, whenever the former appeared, Smith and Brown, rushing out with
their pistols cocked, would have encountered Mr. Bonar in the lobby, and
murder would doubtless have been done. As it was, that gentleman
probably owed his life to the pusillanimity of Ainslie and Brodie, the
latter of whom could, from his ambush, easily have closed with him as he
entered the hall.