The Wages Of Virtue (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 8)

by Andrew Wareham

  Joseph's brain was alert again, bubbling over with ideas - Rothwell saw that the secretary, sat at his own desk to the side, had five separate folders open in front of him, had made notes in each that morning, judging by the fresh colour of the ink.

  "Six distinct innovations this morning, Rothwell! Problems I have been mulling over for weeks, months in one case, and their solutions appearing as if by magic, springing to the forefront of my brain."

  It was quite obvious to Joseph that the Persian opium - obviously wholly different to the Chinese sort, in no way noxious - had been the agent to release his temporarily suppressed genius. Mourning his wife and then his father had clearly impaired his ability to create new devices and the smoke had helped set everything back in order; he still grieved, he discovered, and that was only right, but it was no longer overpowering. It would definitely be a wise act to procure his own pipe and a small supply of Persian opium, to use occasionally, as the need showed itself, for he could not guarantee that the excesses of despair might not come upon him again; he had a duty to the Family, in fact, to do what was necessary to rebuild his mental stamina.

  For the while, he must ready himself to travel up to Darlington, taking Rothwell with him - the young man deserved such an indulgence, the opportunity to see for himself the new world that was almost upon them.

  "Chaise and four for the morning, McGregor - you will have to sit forward, I am afraid, but that will not be too great a hardship I am sure!"

  "I do not think that will be adequate to our needs, Mr Joseph. You are forgetting Lord Rothwell's man, and it would be as well for Locke to accompany you, in the circumstances."

  Rothwell nodded mournfully.

  "I really think that Worth must remain at my side, Joseph - I would never hear the last of it if I were to leave him behind."

  "Two it is, then, which means that Locke will fill a dozen portmanteaus with 'the very least that it is possible for a gentleman to travel with'."

  "I have been possessed by Worth for little more than a sennight, but I know exactly what you mean, sir."

  McGregor penned his note to the posting house - they would probably not have eight fresh horses immediately to hand, but could make their arrangements given the rest of the day to do so. There were two livery stables in the town as well as three posting inns, and they would recognise the need to respond to the name of Andrews; quite possibly some other, lesser, travellers would find themselves behind two horses for their next stage, their protests over-ruled. There was an easy excuse because the prevalence of injury and death to post-horses was very high - few of the beasts lasted two years in harness - and delays for such a cause were not uncommon; potholed highways broke horses' legs only too often and the postboys were often bribed to value speed above caution.

  "There have been three robberies at banks in the Bristol area in the last month, Mr Murphy. Mostyns has not yet suffered, sir, but must surely be on the list."

  The London newspapers had made no mention of the crimes, but probably would not have been aware of them - there was very little dissemination of news from the provinces. Murphy relied upon the information that banks shared amongst themselves, and they often kept their losses secret from each other. Lord Mostyn was reading from a letter, presumably from his Bristol manager.

  "Undesirable, my lord. If that is not checked then we will soon see the gang moving elsewhere in the country or their example being commonly followed. I will send four of the special guards immediately, and instruct an investigator to take himself to Bristol to seek out names."

  "Four guards, Mr Murphy? No more than two on duty at a time? Will that be sufficient?"

  Murphy checked an exclamation of impatience - young Lord Mostyn had never experienced violence, knew nothing of what could be done by a well-trained veteran of the wars.

  "With respect, my lord, the criminal out of the gutter has very little knowledge of the weapons he carries. The criminal is frightened by guns and believes that all others will be equally terrified. My guards are all men aged thirty or more, with experience at war, and have used guns and blades more than once at hand to hand - they know what can and cannot be done with a pistol or a hanger or a carbine. We take them to the range every two months, to keep their eye in, as it were, and I know that some practice more frequently for their own amusement. Two guards, each with a long gun by his side and four, at least, of pistols in his belt and a blade of his own choosing to hand, could deal with eight attackers in as many seconds between them. The banks will have their ordinary men on the door, and they will attract the immediate attention of the robbers, giving my people all of the time they need."

  Mostyn half wished that he might see what happened - but on balance was more content to read about it afterwards; he did not express a wish to go to Bristol himself.

  "Have there been any killings in these raids, my lord?"

  "Not in the letters I have received, Mr Murphy. Let me see - 'fowling pieces waved', 'pistols pointed at cashiers', 'a knife held to a manager's throat' - no actual bloodshed, but the feeling that there could have been."

  "Sure, and that can tip over the edge so easily, my lord. It needs only the one man to panic and try to run away, even to go into a swoon and fall forwards into a man with a gun, and a shot can be fired that was never wholly meant. Time and again in these last few months, my lord, a man has said to me that he did not wish or intend to use the deadly weapon he carried as a threat, and I believe them! But there have still been men killed who should have lived long years in peace, going about their lawful concerns all undisturbed."

  Lord Mostyn did not like the trend of Murphy's comments, the implication that he would be inclined to encourage his men to take the most drastic action.

  "The Courts of Law must play their proper part in all this, you know, Mr Murphy."

  "So they shall, my lord - but whether it be Coroner or Judge will depend on the circumstance, my lord, for I shall not be telling my lads to risk their own lives for the sake of bringing prisoners to the bar!"

  Simple defiance - who did this Paddy think he was?

  Lord Mostyn of Achnasheen - a very Scottish name, he believed - drew himself up, about to dismiss Murphy from the bank's service - but it occurred to him in time that the problem of Bristol was immediate, and that he could not replace the man within the next day or two, or week or two, for that matter. If he sacked Murphy, then the only course would be to go to Bristol himself...

  "Yes... well, Mr Murphy... I would not like to think that the bank was in any way associated with any intent to kill those who bring customers and employees into jeopardy, although, of course... well, if they do die, then it is a visitation upon them, one might say, an end brought about by their own evil ways... You must take that action which you find proper, Mr Murphy."

  He thought about that and decided that he was passing the responsibility to an underling; he was no man of violence but neither was he a coward.

  "That said, Mr Murphy, I am your master and the orders you give are made in my name. If your men must shoot, then be sure that I shall stand in any court to say that it was my will that they should do so."

  Murphy was surprised - he had written the young lord off as a weakling, his father's son and possessed of no other virtue.

  "I shall go to Bristol myself, my lord, I can be away from London for a few days, I believe. There may be a killing or two, but be sure, my lord, it will be because no other way was to hand."

  Mostyn did not like this surrogate violence - he was honest enough that he could see his own hands not to be clean. Perhaps Mr Murphy could be set up in his own, separate, business, working under contract to Mostyns, and soon to other banks as well; the decisions would then truly be his. A pity that there was no police force to take a professional and disinterested approach - the law of the land could then be maintained by its own servants, men who could be trusted to use violence only as a last resort.

  "Mr Murphy, you saw a little of the Police Force in New York, did
you not?"

  "And I heard a lot more, my lord. 'The best police force that money can buy', was said by an acquaintance - it took only a very few days to realise the full connotations of that appraisal, my lord! A shame in many ways - so many of them Irish born!"

  "Oh!"

  "It is only to be expected, my lord. It is, in fact, unavoidable - all police forces will always be corruptible, to some extent. If a gang leader can make a hundred thousand in a year, and a policeman sees thirty dollars a month, then the result is obvious for all to see. Pay your police a very respectable salary and the bribes will have to be very high indeed to corrupt them - they would have to reach the level demanded by politicians, in fact!"

  Murphy returned to his house, dug out the pistol he had taken from Godby Fletcher as evidence of his demise, and took a cab to the gunsmith he patronised from the bank.

  "Could you do me the favour of looking over this machine, Mr Adams? Just to see that I can use it without blowin' me own hand off, you might say."

  "One of Egg's specials, Mr Murphy - all very well, whilst it is very well! Let me see, sir... Used on occasion, and only very poorly cleaned, I fear, corrosion showing at the touchholes, as is only to be expected, and the central axle, round which the barrel revolves, showing wear. At some stage, sir, quite possibly on an early occasion, then there will be a leakage, as it were, of flame from one barrel to the next, conceivably to all, and triggering the one shot might result in four simultaneous explosions. That might, of course, lead solely to a very surprised villain at the 'business end', if I may be excused the levity!"

  Mr Adams tittered, rather taken with his own wit.

  "Equally, Mr Murphy, it is very probable that the pistol would shatter in your hand, the axle shearing and the exploding barrels falling every which way, which might have undesirable result, both for yourself and for any others in the immediate vicinity. You might, sir, fire this pistol one hundred more times, all without ill-effect - but it might kill you tomorrow, it is impossible to predict. Suffice it to say, sir, that I shall never use it!"

  "Then, Mr Adams, no more shall I. It must be put away, possibly placed over the mantel-shelf as a decoration."

  "A wise move, Mr Murphy!"

  "What have you in stock, Mr Adams, to provide me with an immediate replacement?"

  The demand for pistols was high and Adams had a score in various bores and barrel lengths and could build to his customer's hand in two days from a stock of made barrels, needing only to craft the butt to the specific shape.

  "I am out of Town from tomorrow morning on necessary business, Mr Adams. Two long-barrel belt pistols and two for the pockets, perhaps?"

  Powder flasks, percussion caps and ball were all to hand, neatly cased for the pocket and convenience of use.

  "The account to the bank, Mr Murphy?"

  "No, Mr Adams, I shall retain these for my personal use, so shall pay for them myself. No great need to write out a bill of sale, sir, or a receipt, just a sum total will do."

  It was none of Mr Adams' affair if a customer preferred his purchase to remain unrecorded, particularly where the gentleman was known to him and was the source of a regular income.

  Murphy had no overwhelming desire to keep the transaction quiet, except that he was an Irishman in London and saw no need ever to bring himself to the attention of the authorities. If the Fenians were to become active then every Paddy would be at risk of the noose - better not to be visible, not to be known to have bought pistols recently.

  Murphy joined the men at the Bristol bank on a Thursday morning; the previous three robberies had taken place late in the working day on a Thursday, the banks commonly high in coin then. Most firms paid their wages on a Saturday, drawing the cash on a Friday morning to make up the packets in advance.

  "Mostly silver, I would have thought, sir?"

  The manager agreed - ten pounds in half-crowns and shillings and sixpences for every sovereign, and a substantial amount of copper too. Notes were not normally used to pay wages - few weekly paid hands would see as much as the ten pounds that was generally the smallest note.

  "Once a month, Mr Murphy, some of the more senior managers are paid in our notes, but most in fact still prefer sovereigns - easier to change and far better to save."

  "A matter of pride, as well - the shopkeeper respects a man who settles his wife's accounts in gold every month."

  "The man who pays in gold is remembered, more than the man who passes the same sum across in silver."

  That would be especially the case in the back streets, in the pubs where fences and informers abounded and most criminals had their being.

  "Silver is less visible, one might say, so our bank-robbers have some idea what they are doing."

  "But they are still not very clever, Mr Murphy. One robbery every four weeks, three times repeated, and the next due today. Probably to be us, sir - which is why I made a fuss earlier in the month, demanded assistance from Head Office. They started at the bank closest to the river, sir, Barclay Brothers, and then have moved inland, step by step."

  "I'll tell my lads, sir. Warn your own people to do nothing to draw attention to themselves at all. Do any of them carry arms in the normal way of things?"

  "No, Mr Murphy. Bank clerks and firearms are not ordinary friends."

  "Very right that it should be so, as well. Let us hope that any customer who is present is also a man of discretion."

  It was a bright, sunny day, late autumn at its rare best, and four men in drab coats drew immediate attention as they walked down the street.

  "Frieze coats, Mr Murphy - ankle-length. Buttoned up."

  Heavy overcoats, warm in the snow, within reason dry in rain, sweltering and sweaty in any sunshine.

  Murphy wandered casually towards the doors, a customer on his way out apparently, stopped to exchange a word with the uniformed porter.

  "No risks now, corporal!"

  "Not me, sir!"

  The ex-marine leant back in his box, hand creeping towards the helve of a pick-axe leaning in the corner.

  Murphy's men had instructions to shoot without warning at any man who showed a fowling-piece - scatter guns were lethal at close range, far more dangerous than a pistol.

  The four stepped inside the bank, swept their coats open, the buttons false, occasioning no delay. Two of them lifted double-barrelled long guns, brought them half-way to the horizontal as the heavy pistols fired; they dropped screaming, fell silent to a second ball apiece in the back of the head at six inches range.

  Murphy shouted a warning, indistinct words lost in the explosion of his short pistols, left and right into the nearer man, who had levelled his own hand-gun and was thumbing back the hammer, clumsily, unused to the weapon.

  The porter used his club, a low upward swing into the chest with all of his weight behind it lifting his man off his feet, dropping him silent, mouth open and gasping.

  "Less than five seconds, lads - well done!"

  Murphy looked about the bank, saw a pair of frozen customers at the counter, one elderly gentleman sinking onto a bench, four bank-tellers gaping in silent amaze. The manager appeared from his office, trying to maintain the poise and sang-froid demanded of his position.

  "Sydney!"

  A boy came running at his call, stopped transfixed at the sight of the bodies.

  "Tea, please, Sydney. Best porcelain for our valued customers, and make for all of the staff as well. Quickly now!"

  The manager moved around the three customers, apologising but boasting just a little of how well the bank protected their deposits - successful robberies did not occur at Mostyns!

  "What next, Mr Murphy? What must we do now?"

  "A constable, sir, and a message to the office of the coroner, I believe. The three dead must be taken to some chapel of rest, I imagine, though the coroner will decide what and where. For the fourth, I know not - a constable must take him in charge and bring him to the attention of an apothecary or doctor."

  "Will he
survive, Mr Murphy? It would be well to have one to bring before a court."

  "I heard the ribs crunch as he went down, sir. Living after that will be luck, I would hazard, sir. In fact, he does not seem to be making a great fist of breathing at all, sir."

  "Nor he does, Mr Murphy. I would say, in fact, that he does not seem to be living at all."

  "Neither he does. Do you think you could tell your boy to bring a sack of rags here, sir - there's a fair amount of blood and other business to be mopped up, and you would not want your customers to be treading their fine footwear in it at all."

  The manager retired, wearing good shoes himself.

  A constable came and immediately left again, faint at the sight of so much blood. He sent an urgent demand for assistance by a cab to the Sheriff's office.

  The Sheriff happened to be in attendance at his office that day and sent a message to the Mayor, who wanted nothing to do with corpses and wrote a note to the most senior of the magistrates sitting in Thursday's court. Four dead criminals was sufficient to attract the JP's attention - he had some ambition to become a member and could see advantage in having his name mentioned in the newssheets in connection with the apprehension of the notorious gang of local bank-robbers.

  "My name is Trelawney, sir, and I am to discover the facts of this affair."

  "Mr Murphy, in charge of the well-being and peace of Mostyns' banks in the country as a whole."

  They exchanged bows, clasped their hands behind their backs and surveyed the scene.

  "I have as yet given no order to move the corpses, Mr Trelawney, it being as well, I thought, for the authorities to survey the tragic bloodshed for themselves."

  Trelawney was in his thirties and had reached the rank of captain in his battalion of the line in Spain before his elder brother had died without heir, forcing him to sell out and return to the family estates. He had seen carnage on a far greater scale, was not in the least disturbed to discover four bloody bodies in the genteel precincts of the bank.