Inspector Albert Newsome was a lightly built man with thick eyebrows and a mass of curly red hair. One of the first policemen to join in 1829, he had dedicated years to maintaining order on the streets and been a natural choice for the highest ranks of the new Detective Force. If he had the reputation of being something of a ruffian – and he did – it was perhaps because he had progressed through the university of the broken bottle and the shouted expletive rather than Oxford or Cambridge.
Alongside him stood Superintendent Sir Henry Wilberforce, an old soldier and perhaps the tallest man on the force at six feet five inches. His hair was a steel grey and his eyes a penetrating icy blue. He had been to Oxford and carried his patrician gaze with the rigidity of the military. Together they were attempting to interrogate the man sitting cross-legged on the horsehair mattress before them.
‘Your situation is quite hopeless,’ continued Mr Wilberforce. ‘If only you would speak to us, we might find some amelioration in the crimes of which you stand accused.
‘Or perhaps you are eager to spend a prolonged period in this rude cell as we search out more evidence against you?’ added Mr Newsome. ‘I’m sure that the Lord Mayor would be happy to send you off to Australia. I hear that men are dying of influenza in the Woolwich hulk Justitia as we speak, and I feel sure there’s a hammock for one such as you.’
At this, the prisoner evinced no trace of emotion. Since the interview had begun, he had given away nothing more than a slight stiffening about the jaw. Everything about him was an enigma as extraordinary as the details of his capture. As to that, I defer to page seven of the Times, dated three days previously, and written by no lesser a person than myself (on account of their regular court correspondent being violently waylaid by a robber the night before).
MANSION-HOUSE. – Yesterday a man who would not speak to give his name was brought before the LORD MAYOR charged with both robbery and falsely and fraudulently personating a police constable. Mr Humphreys appeared for the prosecution.
The LORD MAYOR, when the prisoner was brought to the bar, remonstrated with him for his refusal to speak and warned him that this would inevitably go against him. The arresting constable, Pc. Jackson, was then called.
The LORD MAYOR. – Constable, since the prisoner will not speak, will you provide the peculiar details of your arrest?
Pc. Jackson. – Sir, I was conducting my beat and saw the prisoner behaving oddly as I passed an alleyway shortly before dawn. Specifically, he was bending to retrieve a package from the ground. My suspicions aroused, I asked him to halt, but he became agitated and made to run. I set my rattle going and ran to apprehend him. He struggled fearfully before I could affix my handcuffs.
The LORD MAYOR. – And what was the package in question?
Pc Jackson. – A full set of cracksman’s tools of very fine quality: wedges, a jemmy, prisers, an American cutter, a rimer and the like – unmarked by a manufacturer but most likely made in Sheffield. And all wrapped in lint so as to make no noise. I also saw that the prisoner appeared to be wearing the uniform of a constable.
The LORD MAYOR. – Appeared to be? Are you uncertain of a constable’s appearance, constable?
Here the public in attendance laughed and the Pc. became flustered.
Pc. Jackson. – No, sir. He was wearing a black tailcoat, but the lining was the blue of a police uniform. On closer inspection, I saw that the lining also contained eight buttons identical to those on a police tunic and that the inner collar was numbered as a police tunic with a Stepney division code: 156K. What with his blue trousers and hat, he had only to reverse the jacket and become to all appearances a police constable.
Upon further questioning from the LORD MAYOR, Pc. Jackson revealed that the prisoner was also wearing a pair of specially constructed shoes with cork soles of the kind sometimes worn by cracksmen.
The LORD MAYOR. – Did the prisoner have in his possession any valuables?
Pc. Jackson. – A diamond, sir. It was about his neck on a steel chain, like a watch chain. Concerning his deception, he also had a dagger concealed within his tailcoat, and a number of cards, all with different names, professions and addresses.
The constable here stood down and the LORD MAYOR addressed the prisoner.
The LORD MAYOR. – Prisoner, all of the evidence – including your impertinent silence – points to your being a thief. I will have you remanded at Giltspur-street compter until further inquiries can ascertain the ownership of that diamond, of any recent robberies in the environs of the arrest and of the veracity of the addresses on those cards. To the charge of personating a police constable, I fine you five pounds or one month in gaol if you are unable to pay.
Thus remanded, the unnamed man now faced the two senior officers with inexplicable calmness. Demonstrating an irregular amount of curiosity in the prisoner, they had made an acute physical examination of his person and discovered yet more oddities.
He was of police regulation height (five feet nine inches) and of a lithe yet muscular build. Across his back was a horrifying series of old scars that bespoke a severe flogging, while his ankles and wrists showed similar scarring. His left shoulder bore a curious and intricate tattoo of the kind often displayed by sailors who have navigated the islands of the South Seas. Of his face, the most striking features were his pale-grey eyes – like wood smoke – and a slightly crooked nose that had evidently been broken. His age might have been guessed at thirty.
His clothing, viz. the stolen uniform, had been (well) tailored to fit him, though no identifying mark could be found therein. His pockets were empty but for articles discovered on his arrest. Though he had not spoken since being admitted to the cell, the gaolers were of the opinion that he was an intelligent man, English by birth and well aware (though unafraid) of his situation. How they could tell this, they could not express – it was merely the intuition of the turnkey.
For the two interrogating officers, the situation was a perplexing one. They had nothing with which to identify the man: no name in his hat or clothes, no documents or known acquaintances, and no recognition on the part of local constables (who could normally be relied upon to know every face on their beat). The calling cards he had been captured with had all proved to be false names, unheard of at the addresses specified. His very clothing – that usual indicator of social position and profession – was chimerical, being fraudulent in every respect. It was, in essence, a disguise. Without hearing his voice, they could not even be sure of his nationality. How else does one know a man? Take away his voice and his usual appearance; take away his habitual location and his profession; take away the spider’s web of relationships that situates him in the city and the story of his past . . . and what is left? You have a man who might have been dropped from the sky or washed up on the shore. Is such a man a man at all? One might as well gaze upon the unformed Genesiac clay.
Among the warders of Giltspur, however, there was a more pressing topic of conversation than the prisoner’s identity. Why had two such important men elected to leave Whitehall to interview personally a mere thief? The reason had its origins in a meeting that had taken place two months previously in a room at 4, Whitehall Place – Division A of the Metropolitan Police and known more colloquially as Scotland Yard.
At the head of the plain wooden table was Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. Superintendent Wilberforce was to his left, and Inspector Newsome sat to his right. The polished wood surface was bereft of paper or writing implements. Though the windows were closed, the carriage traffic of Whitehall and the sound of river steamers could be heard occasionally above the crackle of the fire.
Sir Richard took in the other gentlemen with his piercing barrister’s gaze. He presented an imposing aspect with his dark side-whiskers, his pale skin and his long, thin nose, this man who stood alongside Commissioner Sir Charles Warren as guardian of the Metropolitan Police and of the very Law itself. His voice – bearing the merest trace of an Irish brogue – carried the clarity and authority
of one whose opinions are sought by ministers and judges:
‘Gentlemen, I have arranged this meeting at your request. Also at your request, I have agreed that no record of it shall take place, that it shall be remembered only by our individual memories and go with us, unspoken, to the grave. At the same time, I must express my severest reservations at the practice. Now, you may proceed.’
The other two gentlemen looked from one to the other for who would speak first. Inspector Newsome nodded slightly and began.
‘Thank you, Sir Richard. I will try to state my case without preamble, for the proposal at hand is mine, although it has found sympathy with Superintendent Wilberforce. In short, the Detective Force is proving highly effective, though quite recent in establishment. Our freedom to investigate across police districts, and our civilian attire, has helped greatly in the pursuit of crime. And yet . . .’
He paused and spread his hands across the polished tabletop, casting a glance at Wilberforce. The older man caught the look and pursed his lips at what he had to say:
‘Sir Richard, I am certain you have seen the recent press reports about crime and the police. They are saying that crime – especially of the fatal kind, of murder – is an epidemic raging out of control, that it is infecting the body of our city entirely untroubled by the authorities. They point to a list of recent unsolved murders whose perpetrators walk free among us even now: the boy Brill at Ruislip, Eliza Davies the barmaid of Frederick-street, Richard Westwood of Princes-street, and Eliza Grimwood of Waterloo-road. And let us not forget the recent case of Sarah M’Farlane, who named her murderer to constables at the scene. They knew of the man, the Frenchman Dalmas, and yet he remained at liberty until voluntarily turning himself in some time later! We are being humiliated, sir.’
Sir Richard looked unblinkingly at each man:
‘I have read such things. But I remind you of the great progress the Metropolitan Police has made since it was established by Mr Peel. Now we have the respect of much of the populace and I believe crime has been reduced greatly. The newspapers can be hysterical. Need I remind you of Mr Peel’s fifth tenet of policing: that we encourage cooperation and trust from the public by our impartiality rather than by pandering to their whims and “scandals”? Is that what you wish?’
Again, the two lower-ranking officers exchanged looks, neither wanting to enter into an argument with their superior, yet both convinced of its necessity. Inspector Newsome ventured:
‘Certainly not, sir. But I have identified a number of areas requiring attention. For instance, a man may become a policeman on the grounds of height and on the production of proofs of good character—’
‘I know the regulations, Mr Newsome.’
‘Yes, sir. But height and character are no evidence of analytical intelligence, as we saw with the case of Daniel Good and with Miss M’Farlane. Those constables could do little more than follow the rules they had been given, without applying individual thought to the situation.’
‘And that is why we established your Detective Force,’ answered Sir Richard. ‘With men of higher acumen, who are given the freedom to investigate serious cases as they see fit.’
Here, Inspector Wilberforce cleared his throat preparatory to speaking:
‘With respect, sir. The men of the Detective Force are a fine body, but they have weaknesses. Recruited from the regular constables as they are, their faces are often known to every inhabitant of their district, which rather nullifies their civilian attire. Furthermore, a beat policeman acquires a particular gait during his years on the street. Any criminal can identify it, even when they do not know the detective by sight.’
‘Indeed,’ added Mr Newsome, keen to keep up the momentum. ‘You will have seen the recent figures showing unarguably that the criminal sees us more clearly than we see him. The majority of crimes are committed during the “relief”, when the beat officer returns to the watch house to be relieved. Our own regulations and practices are used against us.’
‘And, if I may add more,’ interjected Mr Wilberforce, ‘our men are forbidden to associate with known criminals and are dissuaded from entering a public house unless in pursuit of a specific crime. Even then, if he is not in uniform, he must reveal his true identity when challenged. Such regulations only hinder our men in their duty.’
Sir Richard stared at the surface of the table for a long moment, his cool demeanour betrayed by blazing eyes. Questioning the Metropolitan Police was analogous to questioning his judgement. He spoke without raising his eyes from the table:
‘Gentlemen, the policeman – whether detectives or not – must by necessity be honest, temperate, sober and industrious. We all know the terrible legacy left to us by those early constables who were corrupt and violent drunks. No policeman under my authority will be associating with criminals – only observing them and locking them away. Our detectives are to observe and gather information for the prevention of crime. You know this.’
‘And we most emphatically agree, sir,’ added Mr Wilberforce. ‘We have seen already that disguise and deception can lead to accusations of entrapment from the judiciary. I am thinking of the case of those two constables in plain clothes who ordered drinks from a bar keeping unlicensed Sunday hours.’
Sir Richard’s hand came down on the table. ‘My patience is being tried. First you disagree; then you agree. Why are we sitting here in conference? We concur that no policeman will associate with nor descend to the status of a thief.’
‘But might not a thief rise to the status of a policeman?’
The question was put by Mr Newsome, with the solicitude of a man who holds a lucifer match to a volatile substance. A thunderous silence descended over the room and the fire crackled as if impelled by Sir Richard’s resultant countenance. His voice took a hard edge:
‘Are you suggesting, Inspector Newsome, that we recruit thieves to become police constables? If so, I must question your sanity. It is a mockery of everything for which we stand.’
Mr Wilberforce held up a hand to stay Mr Newsome’s next utterance, and made his own:
‘Not thieves, sir, but one thief – or rather one kind of thief. And not to be a policeman, but merely to aid a detective in his investigations. If you would permit me, I would like to make my case before you cast out our suggestion entirely.’
The police commissioner let forth a long sigh and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Proceed. But understand that my scepticism is insurmountable. I listen only out of respect for your previous military achievements, Mr Wilberforce.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will be brief. Let me introduce the figure of the cracksman, whom you undoubtedly know. He is a prince among criminals: often educated, often dressed like a gentleman – occasionally an actual gentleman. Not for him the insensate robbery or violent act. He plans his robberies many weeks in advance; he is patient and judicious; he is intelligent and careful. He is very seldom caught, unless stumbled on in the commission of his crime, for he is not a man to boast in public houses or sell his acquisitions through pawnbrokers. Indeed, he knows that sobriety and anonymity are the keys to his continued freedom. Other criminals know of him by reputation, but not by sight.’
‘If I may add something,’ ventured Mr Newsome, ‘the cracksman is to the criminal world as the detective is to the world of policing. Both parties possess many of the same essential attributes – except honesty. Moreover, there is no corner of the city that is closed to the cracksman; no regulations bind him in the pursuit of his goal and he knows the criminal classes better than any policeman. Better still, he is virtually invisible. He is limited by none of the restrictions that bind our detectives, though he may possess their skills. Were he an honest man, he might be the greatest detective alive.’
The inspector concluded boldly and caught Mr Wilber-force’s approving gaze. They believed they had made a good case and raised many of the issues discussed privately prior to this extraordinary conference. Silence reigned in the room as Sir Richard contemplated what he had
heard. A street hawker shouting his wares was heard indistinctly through the window.
Sir Richard stood as if to end the meeting. The other men also stood.
‘But he is not honest, gentlemen. In the eyes of the law – and of myself – he is a criminal like any other criminal, no better or worse than the petty thief or the vulgar bully. To have such a man working for the police would taint us for decades to come. And even if I did give my consent to this frankly ridiculous scheme, how would you propose to coerce such a figure as the cracksman to give up his profitable life of crime to work with his sworn enemy the police? Have you considered this?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Mr Newsome. ‘Although I admit it would not be easy. First, we would have to catch such a man. We would then have to hold a punishment over his head to compel him to act in our interests. It may also be necessary . . . necessary to offer the possibility of a pardon in payment for his services.’
‘Aha! Now I know you are joking with me, Mr Newsome! Catch the elusive cracksman in the commission of his crime, hold him in gaol and then offer him work with the Detective Force in return for a pardon? Excellent! A reward for his crime! Maybe you would like to present other criminals with similar gifts?’
Superintendent Wilberforce interceded: ‘We understand, sir, that this is an extraordinary proposal. We would not consider using such a man except in extraordinary circumstances, and then only once. It would not become a regular practice – merely an experiment.’
‘You are right, Mr Wilberforce,’ retorted Sir Richard. ‘It would not and will not. I have listened to your ideas and I am not impressed. I have worked tirelessly to see the Metropolitan Police become the shining beacon of propriety it is today and I will not countenance criminals within our ranks. I trust the matter is now concluded. Gentlemen – I have work to attend to.’
The Incendiary's Trail Page 4
