by Chris Hales
He still didn't understand. “What is it exactly we're doing?” he asked, desperate to be involved in the plot.
He finished his drink and smiled evilly. “We are letting him think he's winning. That he's more powerful than either of us.” He tossed the glass aside. “I have my spies in place. We will use them to ensure his downfall. He'll be the instigator of his own end and we'll reap the rewards.”
Jacob thought he understood. They would allow him to bring about his own demise. It was clever, more so than even Jonathan could hope to be. The only question was how long would it take for him to start the ball rolling?
142
Roger Johnson had spent a great deal of time thinking of a name for his ship. In the end he named it Madeline, after his horse. Many thought this strange, considering his horse was, in actual fact, a stallion.
His crew was a good bunch of lads, even though they were a ragtag collection of petty thieves and moderate sailors. The power and control he had over them was enjoyable and devious and he proved to be a hard task master. Most of the excitement in running his ship across the seas came from avoiding other vessels. He'd often find himself dreaming of being a pirate.
Jonathan had established a phoney shipping company which would prove, to any who looked on, that his warehouses were official and legitimate. Roger had to admire him for the way he ran his business.
Nearly a year had passed since Jonathan had asked him to captain a ship and so far there had been few problems with either the thieves or his crew. That was until, on one dark and rainy evening, he was approached by his first mate who was delivering some concerning news.
They had sailed into port only a few hours earlier under the cover of darkness. The crew and the warehouse workers had started to unload the stolen merchandise. It would stay in this warehouse until Jonathan decided where it was to be moved next.
Roger stood on the bow of the Madeline, watching the moonlight reflect across the water and the ripples which drifted outwards endlessly. He turned to see his short and skinny first mate approach, a number of papers in his hand.
“Roger, we have a problem,” he explained.
He raised both eyebrows, causing his forehead to wrinkle and twitch. It was an indication to continue.
“This is the manifest we were given in Holland” he passed the papers to Roger, “and this is what we took when it was all unloaded.” He held the sheets in the air. “They don't match.”
Roger could see the problem. If one of the lads, whether they be a member of his crew or the warehouse staff, was nicking from the manifest it would reflect badly upon him. He couldn't stand for such action.
“Someone’s stealing from me? Do you have any idea who?” he asked.
“I have a pretty good suspicion,” replied the first mate.
He was led to the back of the warehouse where a number of the lads were enjoying a good laugh. The first mate pointed to a young man by the name of Philip and Roger called him over.
Philip did, of course, claim to know nothing of any theft. That did not, however, stop him beating the lad until he learned the truth.
The stolen items were found and he savaged Philip to within an inch of his life. As he lay on the warehouse floor, in a pool of his own blood, Roger lectured him on the subject of betrayal.
He left him to tend to his wounds and returned to the ship. He did not give it another moment’s thought.
143
The thieves of London knew something was happening. Expectation stiffened the air and caused a sick feeling of dread to wash over all those involved.
The only man who knew the details of the fight which was to come was the Thief Taker of great legend. It was his decision. Charles could attack unexpectedly, but that would be no fun. He needed to wait until Jonathan was ready. If he was forced to wait too long then, yes, he would simply wade in, pistols blazing.
Convinced he was still in control of the situation Charles sat back and waited. It wasn't long before a young messenger arrived on his doorstep. His statement was clear and to the point.
“Wednesday morning, nine o'clock.”
This was it. Now they could move against Jonathan in a final push. His days would quickly come to an end. Preparations needed to be made in the timeframe given. This was action which could and would change London forever.
144
It was early in the morning when Tom heard a loud, persistent, banging, at his door. Leaving his wife and daughter to sleep he quickly dressed and answered at the entrance.
Collins stood before him in the company of two constables. His face was sorrowful and betrayed. “Tom,” he stated. “I'm sorry, but you're under arrest.”
“Excuse me?” he enquired as the constables slowly approached.
Collins was as shocked as he. When he had heard the news he refused to believe it, but the evidence spoke for itself. Someone had to take action and as the closest to Tom he decided it should be him. Personally.
“I'll explain everything at the Bailey,” Collins said, “but, we've discovered some troubling evidence…, against you.” He did, truly, look apologetic, sorry Tom may not seem as innocent and perfect as he claimed.
With little option but to surrender to them Tom left the house, his mind always questioning what had happened. There was nothing he had done to warrant this action.
145
He was locked in a cell beneath the Bailey. He was there for a couple of hours with nothing more than his own thoughts for company before Collins arrived, unlocked the cell doors and entered.
“David, what the hell is going on?” He asked angrily.
Collins leant against the wall, sheets of paper held firmly in one hand. “Do you remember when we raided all of those warehouses?” It was a silly question. “Well, we seized a lot of paperwork and the court clerks helped us to sort through it.” He held the papers in the air. “They found something very odd on the documents of purchase for all three warehouses.”
Tom was confused. “What did they find?”
Collins passed the papers to Tom. As he read, his heart sank. His temperature rose. It was slowly dawning on him. He was realising why he was here.
The papers for each warehouse were covered in a gentleman's handwriting.
Tom's handwriting.
At the bottom of each page was his own signature.
“As you can see, it puts a lot of questions before you,” he explained. “People are wondering what you have to do with it all.” He didn't know whether to believe it or not. He trusted Tom more than any other, but the evidence was undeniable. “The magistrates have suspended your status as a marshal. They've placed a bail on your head.”
“How much?”
He smiled uncomfortably. “Two hundred pounds.”
“Jesus Christ!” he swore. Everyone believed Jonathan to be an honest businessman. If that were the case there would be no need to arrest him. No reason for placing such a high bail. “What forced this decision?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “In the third warehouse they found quite a lot of stolen goods. I'm sure you can imagine the implications.”
Such a find would be cause for arresting and charging the Thief Taker, but these documents identified Tom as the man behind it all. Jonathan was framing him for his crimes.
“They're obviously forgeries,” he protested. “Surely you can see that?”
Collins nodded. “There is that possibility.” He wanted to trust in Tom, but he knew that in London anything was possible.
“You have to pay my bail,” he begged. He knew Collins was a hoarder. That he diligently saved his earnings. “Get me out of here and I'll prove my innocence.” He said nothing. He stared into space as if he were a scared child. “Do you trust me, David?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” he answered, “but there is another problem,” Tom's eyes grew wider. “This morning a young lad came to the Bailey. He'd quite literally had the shit kicked out of him. Very badly beaten.”
“And?”
Collins sighed loudly. “He'll only talk to you and no other.”
“He asked for me by name?” he questioned.
Collins nodded the affirmative. He was left in his cell for only a while longer. Soon the bail was paid and Tom was allowed to walk free. Together they proceeded upstairs for him to question the poor, beaten boy. All he wanted to do was discover the reasons for his arrest. He was sure it was all Jonathan's doing.
146
Entering a small room usually used for questioning Tom recoiled at the sight before him. He sat glaring at the young man. Both eyes were badly bruised, one swollen and forced shut. He sported all manner of painful cuts and scars and he held one arm with difficulty. He was restless and wanted to get down to business quickly. Philip returned the curious glare and felt his face painfully.
“My name is Tom Edwards,” he said.
“You're the city marshal?” asked Philip. “You don't look like one.” Still wearing the casual clothes reserved for home he did not appear anywhere near as professional as he usually did.
“I understand you wanted to talk with me?” he enquired.
He nodded slowly. “I have information for you,” Philip also wanted this over as soon as possible.
“Information about the man who did this to you?” He had never seen a boy this badly beaten. He must have been a thief who had wronged another, more powerful man.
“Well, yeah,” he stuttered, “kind of…”
Philip had followed his instructions perfectly. Even he knew he had done an admirable job. He had gladly taken the beating for money. A lot of money. It was all part of his employer’s plan.
“Who did this to you?” Tom enquired again.
“Roger Johnson.”
Tom turned to Collins, astonishment causing his skin to tingle. “The highwayman? I thought he was dead,” Collins shrugged as he turned back to Philip. “And why did he do this to you? What did you do to anger him?”
He sat back in his seat and soothed his painful arm. “Roger captains a ship which journeys out of the country a couple of times a week,” he leaned forward with interest. “I work for a crew which loads and unloads the ship. I was caught stealing from the store,” he indicated towards his beaten features, “hence, this...”
“This is interesting,” he agreed, “but I don't quite see the urgency. Why did you ask, personally, for me?”
“Roger has his boss too,” he explained. “The warehouse where I work is owned by Jonathan Wild. He's in charge of the whole operation.”
It hit Tom hard. “And the stock? It's stolen?” Philip nodded. He slumped in his seat and looked to Collins. “That's what he's been doing. That's why most of what we found couldn't be identified as stolen goods. He's taking his thieves’ stolen items and shipping it to another country. In return they give him their stolen goods and send it back here to London.” It all made sense now. Philip nodded in agreement as he came to the logical conclusion. They'd need more than this young, beaten lad's word, but by golly, it was a start. He asked the next question, hoping it would lead them in the right direction. “Where can we find Roger Johnson?”
“I don't know,” admitted Philip, “every time he docks in London he makes us do the work and then vanishes for a day or so.”
“We need to find him,” was all he said to Collins. If this lad was telling the truth it would put an end to Jonathan and his scheming ways. He couldn't fathom it was this easy, but he most certainly would act on this information. Philip told them how he ensured the stolen merchandise was moved shortly after the ship docked. Moved to another warehouse. He didn't know how to find Roger, or the warehouse it had all been moved to, but he was sure they could operate on what he had told them. His employer would be pleased.
147
Philip was allowed to leave, while Tom and Collins ran off to attend to business elsewhere. As he walked through the courthouse he jumped as two large hands fell upon his shoulders.
“Did it all go to plan?” Hitchin asked. He bounced on his feet, hoping his little deception had worked. “Did they believe you?”
He turned and nodded. “I think you'll find they're making plans to move against Wild.” It had worked a treat.
Hitchin slapped him on the back. “Good lad. Well done.”
He laughed, his belly wobbling and throbbing with joy. Charles had taken decisive action. A feat which would surely bring about Jonathan's downfall. He had proven himself to be the better man, a far more accomplished schemer. Jonathan’s fate was now, surely, set in stone.
148
Tom headed straight for Jonathan's little house. He was filled with questions and dearly hoped he would give him the explanations needed. Something was happening, of this he was sure. His arrest, the young man who had visited the Bailey and had given up Roger Johnson. Tom needed to know where they were headed.
He knocked impatiently at Jonathan’s door, sweat lining every inch of his body. When answered he pushed his way into the house without invitation.
“Tom?” he asked. “Is everything alright?” The city marshal didn't answer, simply made his way through to the study.
His mouth curled inquisitively, desperate questions forming in his mind. “Maybe you can tell me why I was arrested earlier this morning,” he questioned frantically.
“Arrested?” he asked innocently. “What did you do?”
Tom laughed, turning to face him as he sat at his desk. Arranged neatly on the surface were six well maintained pistols, each seemingly ready for a desperate fight. He dismissed this for the moment, only wanting answers to his frantic questions. “It seems the warehouses you're using to operate your business of criminality are actually owned by me.” He hovered before him, questions assaulting from every angle. “The documents of purchase were obviously forgeries, but better than any I've ever seen.” He was starting to see what people would find amusing in this situation. “Where did you get them done?” he asked. “France?” Jonathan remained blank, no sign he was correct. “Holland?”
He exhaled a laugh, indicating he was spot on. “Surely there's a more pressing question,” he forced gently.
Tom joined him in his chuckle. There was a far more important query, but he doubted he would get an answer easily. “Why?” he asked, “what purpose could my arrest serve?” This was the question he needed answering the most.
“Maybe I needed you in the Bailey at that exact time, maybe I needed you to realise how desperate this all is.” Jonathan was enjoying this.
Did he know of Philip seeking him out? Had he arranged it? It was doubtful, but Tom considered the possibility. Passing his eyes over the pistols once more he knew something was happening. “What's going on?” he queried. “All of this, it seems events are in motion. Is this the end you spoke of?”
“It may well be,” he confirmed. “Suffice it to say I'm under increasing pressure from Charles.” He picked his own beautiful pistol from the desk, cradling it gently in his hands. “He's finally attacking things intelligently. He may even be a few steps ahead of me.” He peered down the sight of the pistol, his finger twitching before the trigger. “It might be time to take a leaf out of his book.”
He knew what he meant. “Violence?”
Jonathan shrugged the affirmative. He always understood it would come down to this. There was no other option. Men like Charles only understood one thing, and that thing would be the only way to defeat him.
“Is there any way to stop this from happening?” he asked. He couldn't let it go ahead. He knew what a gang war meant. It would be a bloody conclusion to relatively peaceful differences.
Jonathan stood, placing his pistol neatly on the desk once more. He walked to Tom, his sorrowful eyes brimming with emotion. “There is no way to stop this,” he said. “Most want it to happen. Only a few, the ones who are, or used to be, close to me wish to avoid it.” He hoped Tom would understand.
He found himself smiling. He did understand, but he knew this was all he was going to get out of h
im, today at least. He held his hand out for him to shake. “Don't be brave,” he suggested. “Some things don't call for sacrifice.”
They bid their farewells, a certain finality present in their mood. Maybe this is the end, he thought as he left Cock Alley. He wouldn't, however, let the Thief Taker do this alone.
149
To ensure he was prepared Jonathan instructed Matthew to converse with their spies, all so they could better determine Hitchin's ability to fight.
He soon reported Charlie's assortment of thieves was minimal, but that he had steadily, over the last number of months, been employing all manner of hired thugs. It had allowed his gang to grow in size, but they were men employed solely for the fight.
Jonathan ensured he gathered most of their own thieves who were able and willing to go to war. Most were willing, under the belief Charles Hitchin was the target. Each of the pistols which were arranged on his desk would be handed to those he trusted the most. Everyone knew a fight was here. They were all ready for it.
150
Mary answered her door later that morning. She thought it strange someone was knocking on her back entrance, for everyone knew it was usually left unlocked.
Pulling the door aside she stepped back with a strong sense of dread. She knew the end was coming, just like everyone else. This only proved it.
“Miss Milner?” asked Tom. She nodded as her eyes slowly shut to a close. She didn't want this to happen. “My names Tom...”
“I know who you are, Mr Edwards,” she stepped back allowing him entry, ensuring the scarf bound about her head was securely in place. She walked to the kitchen surface behind.
Tom remained standing by the door, only moving to the table to take a seat when she offered it to him. “I need your help, Miss Milner,” he explained, ready to listen to every word she had to say.
