by Steve Hayes
He’d edged forward to the corner of the granary and raised his voice. ‘Jesse! Frank! We know you’re in there, an’ we got the place surrounded! Come out with your hands up an’ no one gets hurt!’
They waited, but there was no response, and a few moments later the windows went dark.
‘They’re gonna make a fight of it,’ he whispered tautly. ‘Well, that’s just fine.’
Minutes passed. He and his men waited, watched, but nothing happened. After another five minutes he pulled the pot-flare from where he’d been cradling it beneath his jacket. It was wrapped in cloth and soaked in coal-oil. ‘Pass the word,’ he hissed. ‘The minute Jesse and Frank come bustin’ out, gun ’em down.’
‘But that’s murder, Mr Liggett!’
‘No, Emmett, that’s justice. The James boys’ve made a fool of me once too often, an’ I don’t intend for ’em to do it again tonight. Now, pass the word, goddammit!’
He touched the glowing tip of his cigar to the end of the bomb’s two fuses, waited for them to burn a little, then crept in closer until he was near enough to hear the muted conversation coming from within the sitting room.
The last thing he heard before he hurled the bomb through the kitchen window was the sound of a young boy, giggling.
The sound of shattering glass sounded much louder than it should have. Immediately there was a commotion from inside, the sound of running feet. A moment later there came the dull thump of an explosion that shook the ground and shattered the rest of the windows.
The pot-flare had exploded and though he didn’t know it at the time, a shard of it slammed right through young Archie Samuel’s chest. Jesse’s ma, Zerelda, screamed as her right arm was torn off.
Realizing then that this probably had been a step too far, Liggett had scurried back to the trees, where he watched the woman, clutching the remnants of her arm, her husband Reuben, and their Negro servant come outside.
There was no sign of Jesse, no sign of Frank.
There was, however, more screaming and shouting when they discovered that the back of the house was alight and the flames were spreading fast. He learned later that the pot-flare had also ignited the supply of kerosene in the Samuel pantry.
He and the others had watched them struggle to put the fire out. No one said a word, or moved to help. It was done, and there was no undoing it. The best he could hope for now was that the public was so sick of Jesse’s shenanigans that they would see this attack on his family as good thing.
They didn’t.
In the weeks that followed, Zerelda Samuel told anyone who’d listen that the plan had been to kill everyone in the house and let it burn to the ground, destroying such evidence as there was; the public, the same gullible public who’d been on the receiving end of Jesse’s depredations all this time, believed her.
As a wave of sympathy for Jesse and Frank had swept the state, Cage Liggett’s name became mud. He’d thought Allan Pinkerton and the public at large would applaud him for taking the fight to Jesse. Instead the opposite had applied. Worse, Jesse had let it be known that Cage was going to have to answer to him for what had happened, and soon.
The sound of footsteps hurrying down the ramshackle wharf interrupted his thoughts. He grabbed the horn-handled knife that had once belonged to Blackrat Lynch, hid behind the door and prepared to strike.
But it was only his brother, who jumped back as Cage lunged at him.
‘Whoa, hold it!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘It’s just me. But you might like to keep that blade handy,’ he added, ‘’cause you’re gonna need it.’
‘What does that mean?’
Jack threw the Illustrated London News on to the table. Liggett picked it up and looked at the page it was folded to. It was the society page, a report of a social gathering headlined AMERICAN VISITOR THRILLS GUESTS AT MONTAGUE MANSE. Several engravings accompanied the article, each depicting one important guest or another. But it was to the illustration of a man spinning a lasso over his head that Jack pointed.
Cage looked a little closer, then closer still. A cold knot of dread suddenly tightened in his belly.
It was unmistakably Jesse James, named in the caption below as ‘Mr Thomas Howard from Missouri.’
Liggett angrily stabbed the knife into the table top. ‘It’s true, then! Some sonofabitch Pinkerton must’ve ratted me out!’
‘Sure looks that way,’ Jack agreed grimly. ‘But it don’t make sense. If Jesse’s come all this way to kill you, why the hell’s he performin’ rope tricks and havin’ his picture drawn?’
‘I dunno,’ Liggett growled. ‘And I don’t care. Only thing that matters now is that we get him ’fore he gets us.’
‘Us?’ countered Jack. ‘What’s he want to kill me for? I ain’t even met him.’
‘’Cause you’re my goddamn brother! That’s more’n enough reason for Jesse. Hell, Frank had to stop him from shootin’ one of the Daltons for laughin’ when Jesse’s horse threw him.’
Jack paled and said: ‘Then we better find a way to ambush the bastard, quick.’
Liggett shook his head. ‘No. Where Jesse’s concerned, even an ambush is too risky. If somethin’ went wrong an’ he got a chance to draw his guns …’ Leaving the rest unsaid, he lay back on his bunk and tried to think.
Outside, the river current gently swelled. The old barge creaked and groaned as rippling water slapped against its sides.
‘Maybe we should make a run for it,’ Jack said. ‘Europe’s an easy place to get lost in.’
‘So’s the North Pole, but I ain’t goin’ there!’
‘All right then, what about Australia? I’ve heard it’s got lots of open spaces. And cattle and sheep ranches run by wranglers and cowboys.’
‘Yeah, an’ they’re all escaped limey convicts,’ Liggett said. Then an idea hit him and he sat up, saying: ‘I got it!’
‘Got what?’ Jack said, eagerly leaning forward.
‘How we’ll fix Jesse.’
‘I’m listenin’.’
‘We’ll frame the no-good bastard.’
‘How?’
Liggett said only: ‘Trust me, little brother. We’re gonna turn us a handsome profit and let Scotland Yard take care of Mr Thomas Howard in the process.’
CHAPTER 13
Stick-Up!
The new day’s business was already under way, and the Square Mile – that district at the very heart of London dominated by the city’s financial institutions – was bustling. Office workers hurried to and fro, dodging omnibus, growler and hansom cab alike in order to cross from one side of the narrow cobbled streets to the other, and sweepers were already out in force, fighting their never-ending battle to keep the streets clean of manure.
The pace of life was frantic and noisy, as befitted the capital of the world’s trade and commerce. Consequently, few people paid much attention to the five riders dressed in buttoned-up cotton dusters and dark, wide-brimmed Stetsons riding their horses casually along Jewry Street. They eventually dismounted – two more expertly than the rest – outside the city branch of the Crosbie & Shears bank.
As four of these men passed their reins to the fifth, a little man who kept sniffing and wiping his runny nose, their eyes seemed to be everywhere at once. Although the morning was bright and dry, the street was bathed in shadows, for the sun rarely found its way down between the tall, red-brick buildings to ground level. After some moments the leader gave an authoritative nod. As one, all but the designated horse-handler covered their faces with neckerchiefs and entered the bank.
As they burst through the doors into the large, ornate main room, dusters flapping around their calves, boots clattering over the tiled floor, clerks and customers whirled around in surprise.
Drawing revolvers, the robbers covered everyone.
‘You,’ the leader snarled at the customers, ‘get down on your faces!’
Panicked, they obeyed, the women among them screaming. One, an elderly matron, paled and stood there a moment, close to fainting. Th
e men stiffened. One of them took a defiant step toward the robbers. The leader pistol-whipped him, sending him sprawling.
‘Next one of you don’t do like I say gets a bullet!’ the leader growled. ‘Now, all of you – on the floor, goddammit!’
As the customers obeyed, the leader turned to the startled cashiers standing behind the counter with their hands up. ‘You fellers hand over all your paper money and nobody gets hurt, understand?’
Some of the cashiers nervously nodded, others stared wide-eyed at the robbers. For another long moment no one moved. The leader raised his weapon and aimed it at the nearest clerk, a thin-faced young man with oiled black hair and dark eyes. ‘You hear me, jerk-head?’
The clerk stared back at him, suddenly showing more anger than fear. He started to protest, but before he could say anything the manager appeared from a doorway behind him. ‘Do as he says, Martin!’ he ordered. ‘You other fellows as well!’
Immediately the cashiers emptied out their cash drawers. The other gang members stepped over the prostrate customers and produced gunnysacks into which the money was dropped.
The leader looked toward the doorway. Outside, the horse-handler was still checking the street in both directions and occasionally wiping his nose.
So far their luck was holding.
‘Hurry it up, you morons!’
The robbers grabbed the now-filled gunnysacks and hurried to the front door. The leader, guns still covering the customers and bank staff, slowly backed up after them.
‘We’re goin’ now, folks. Anybody tries to follow us gets a ticket to hell.’
As he turned to leave, one of his men whispered loudly: ‘Wait! What about the safe, Jesse?’
‘Shut up, you fool!’ the leader hissed. ‘Now they all know who I am!’
The man cringed, as if fearing a bullet, and ducked out through the doors. The other men quickly followed.
Alone, the leader gave a mocking salute to the customers and bank staff. ‘The James boys thank you, ladies an’ gents!’
Taking aim at the big crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the domed ceiling, he fired twice. The chandelier shuddered as the bullets broke the chains and then dropped to the tiled floor, shattering on impact. Crystal shards flew in every direction, bringing more screams from the women.
A moment later the leader was gone, vaulting in to his saddle and riding off with his men.
It was lunchtime when Watson bustled into their Baker Street lodgings. ‘Holmes,’ he exclaimed, joining his friend at the window. ‘Holmes, you’ll never believe what’s happened!’
‘The bank robbery, you mean?’
Deflated, Watson threw his copies of The Times and the Graphic on to a chair. ‘You’ve already seen the papers, I take it?’
‘No. But as you will observe, the window is open and I have heard the cries of the paperboys selling their wares. I have only been awaiting your return so that we might deal with the matter together.’
‘Well, you don’t seem at all surprised.’
‘I’m not. I have been expecting such a turn.’
Watson shook his head disparagingly. ‘I knew we couldn’t trust that fellow.’
‘Once a thief, always a thief, eh?’
Watson scowled at the implied criticism. ‘I am willing to concede that in the case of Mrs Kidd I was mistaken. But Jesse James has been an outlaw for years. His is clearly a recidivist nature. Besides, you cannot argue with the facts.’ He gestured to the discarded newspapers. One headline read JAMES GANG ROBS LONDON BANK, the other JESSE JAMES TERRORIZES LONDON. Below each headline was a picture of Jesse.
‘And these are “facts”?’ asked Holmes.
‘As presented by the people who were there, yes.’
‘Then may I suggest that all is not necessarily as it may appear? Aside from anything else, Jesse James is here to settle a very personal matter with the Liggetts. I do not think he would endanger that mission upon such a whim, no matter how recidivist his nature. For another matter, there were five robbers in total. Where did he recruit his four companions, especially at such short notice? No, Watson – Jesse James definitely did not commit this crime.’
‘Then who did?’
Before Holmes could reply there was a knock at the door. ‘Come.’
Mrs Hudson appeared. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, but that dreadful boy Wiggins has just left you a message.’
Holmes was immediately attentive. ‘Which is…?’
‘“No joy”,’ she replied.
Holmes nodded, clearly disappointed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson.’
Watson, who’d had time to answer his own question, waited for the landlady to leave, then said: ‘Holmes, are you saying that this robbery was the work of the Liggetts?’
‘I am saying that that is certainly more plausible than the alternative,’ Holmes replied. ‘But what say we ascertain the truth of the matter for ourselves? Let us see. The robbery was committed in Jewry Street, which puts it squarely in the jurisdiction of the Seething Lane division of the City of London Police. That makes it the responsibility of Inspector Varney – a competent if occasionally short-sighted investigator.’
‘By all means,’ Watson said. ‘Lead on.’
They arrived at Seething Lane police station just as Inspector Jacob Varney was donning his overcoat and preparing to leave. The big, bearded policeman looked up when they were shown in and, though in a hurry, took a moment to shake their hands warmly.
‘This is an unexpected surprise, and no mistake,’ he said. A man of average height and considerably overweight, he was about forty and seemingly incapable of looking anything other than dishevelled. ‘What brings you here, Mr Holmes? And you’d better be quick. I’m off to catch a criminal.’
‘Has there been a breakthrough in this morning’s robbery?’
‘Let’s just say that I’m confident of an arrest,’ said Varney. He shook his head in wonder. ‘You know, I didn’t even suspect that James fellow was in the country! But it will do me no harm to be known as the man who brought him to heel.’
Holmes smiled sardonically. ‘With the help of an anonymous tip-off, no doubt?’
‘What do you know about that?’ Varney asked suspiciously.
‘May I see the message?’
Varney hesitated, then grudgingly picked up a manila folder from his cluttered desk and handed it over. Holmes opened the folder to reveal a single sheet of thick, cream-coloured notepaper. The white envelope in which it had arrived was affixed to the letter by a pin. It had not been sealed with wax; the flap had merely been tucked into the body of the envelope. The message was written in neat, careful capitals:
THE OUTLAW JESSE JAMES IS HIDING OUT AT COUNTESS ELAINA MONTAGUE’S RESIDENCE IN RICHMOND.
It was signed, A CONCERNED CITIZEN
‘Thank goodness for the great British public, eh?’ said Varney. ‘They’ll never let you down.’
‘This is the work of an American,’ said Holmes.
‘Eh? How the dickens can you tell that?’
‘The turn of phrase,’ said Holmes. ‘“Hiding out” is an American term. We would simply use the phrase “in hiding”. By the way,’ he added, ‘when was this delivered?’
‘Not twenty minutes since. And before you ask, sir, no; the desk sergeant didn’t see who delivered it.’
‘And yet you still insist on acting upon it?’
‘I can’t afford not to, sir.’
‘True. But you do know it is just a ruse – a red herring to throw you off the scent of the real perpetrators?’
‘I know no such thing, sir.’
‘Tell me what you know about the robbery, Inspector.’
Varney was about to remind them that he was on his way out, then thought better of it. After all, this was Sherlock Holmes, a man for whom he had the greatest respect. Besides, he had an uneasy feeling that he might need Holmes before this case was closed. Briefly he reported the facts as they had been given to him by the witnesses.
‘So, just to clarify the matter,’ said Holmes, ‘at least two of the robbers spoke with an American accent, and the manager and staff were able to deduce their identity first by one of them letting slip the name “Jesse” and then by the man, Jesse, referring to himself and his men as “the James boys”?’
‘Correct,’ said Varney.
‘Doesn’t that strike you as being somewhat … clumsy? Even obvious?’
‘Not necessarily, sir. We all let things slip in the heat of the moment.’
‘Then why did they go to the trouble of wearing masks?’
‘Old habits?’
Holmes’s thin mouth narrowed still further. ‘How much was stolen from the bank?’
‘Close on a thousand pounds, sir.’
‘Then the reward for information leading to the arrest of the culprits and the return of the money would generate a reward of not less than one hundred pounds.’
‘That’s quite correct,’ the inspector confirmed.
‘And yet your informant prefers to remain anonymous, and forgo what is a considerable amount?’
‘Perhaps he has a social conscience, sir. Perhaps bringing this criminal to heel is reward enough.’
‘Or perhaps he is just out to make mischief, and cause the countess no small embarrassment.’
‘The countess,’ Varney said distastefully. ‘We all know about her.’
‘We have all heard the rumours,’ corrected Holmes.
‘Yes, rumours. But it’s my experience that where there’s smoke there’s fire, Mr Holmes. Could a woman of that type knowingly harbour a criminal? I do not think it beyond the realms of possibility. So I have to check it out.’
‘Naturally. All I ask is that you use discretion, Inspector. The countess is a friend of mine and I should not like to see her distressed by this slur.’
‘I will be the very epitome of discretion,’ Varney promised, pronouncing the word as eppy-tomey.
