Rack & Ruin Read online

  As evidence of their success, they rent an expensively furnished house in Russell Square. They have servants - fellow accomplices whose job is to dispose of the stolen property. Their mistresses have an abundance of fine jewels, and cash to spend on clothes and treats. Few passing them in the street would guess, from their superior manner and dress, what line of work their men pursue.

  For the past week, the two men have been staking out a furrier on the corner of Regent Street and Oxford Street. They intend to make their move tonight, having ascertained that there is an easily accessible fire escape round the back leading to some garrets, whose panes of glass can easily be removed (fifteen seconds being the usual time to accomplish such an operation).

  At length, the door to the bar opens to admit a very pretty young woman wrapped in a travelling cloak. She carries a carpet bag which she sets carefully down under a vacant table. She then approaches the bar, studiously ignoring the two men standing there and orders a pennyworth of gin.

  Taking her drink to her table, the young woman busies herself with a copy of the railway timetable. So engrossed is she in the contents, that she does not notice the two men as they walk by her table, nor the removal of her travelling bag by one of them.

  Even if she did, it wouldn’t bother her. The bag does not contain her clothes and personal belongings, but the tools needed for the enterprise. The young woman’s name is Lucy and as soon as she finishes her drink, she will start walking up and down the street in front of the furrier’s shop, pretending to be a prostitute.

  The men know that the beat constable is scheduled to pass by every twenty minutes. Lucy is there to engage his attention, flirting and pretending to offer her services. If necessary she will fake a fit and drop to the ground so that he will have to go and find her a cab.

  Three weeks ago, these men successfully robbed a silk warehouse in Cheapside, removing goods valued at £3,000. They carried off their haul in a hansom cab, loading it up during the intervals of the beat constable’s appearance.

  The robbery took place on a Saturday night and the loss was not discovered until Monday morning. The beat constable saw nothing and heard nothing. All the fastenings and padlocks were intact. It was a complete mystery how the men got in and out of the warehouse.

  However, as the various members of the group make their way to their destination, others also have the furrier’s shop in their sights on this particular Saturday night.

  Shadowy figures lurk in various dark doorways, unseen by the cracksmen and luscious Lucy, their canary. Thanks to his tip-off, Inspector Atherton and his team of hand-picked officers are ready and waiting to pounce.

  As the two men make their way down the unlit alley that leads to the rear of the furrier’s shop, Atherton nudges his companion.

  “Off you go then, Constable Hill. Do your bit for Queen and country,” he sniggers.

  The young police constable looks distinctly embarrassed.

  “I don’t know - I’m a married man after all, sir.”

  “Aren’t we all, constable,” Atherton grins. “Look upon it as enjoying a bit of variety. Adds to the spice of life, they say.”

  Rolling his eyes, Constable Hill approaches Lucy, who eyes him speculatively.

  “Now then miss,” he says severely. “What are you doing loitering out here at this time of night?”

  “I was waitin’ for a good-looking gent like yourself to pass by,” Lucy replies, dimpling and stepping daintily closer. “Are you the officer in charge of these streets? You are? Ow how lucky you come along then. I need some nice man to walk me home. Would you like to do that, big boy?” she asks, now standing so close that her mouth is level with his top button.

  “Err ... is it far?” Constable Hill inquires, taking a few steps backwards and almost tripping over the kerb in his effort not to look down the front of her dress.

  “Oh, not far. Just a short way,” Lucy takes him by the reluctant elbow. “Follow me, handsome, and stay close.”

  As soon as Lucy and the very reluctant constable quit the scene, Atherton rounds up his men and they begin to creep down the alleyway after the burglars. Reaching the end of it, Atherton signals to the men to stand still.

  Then, taking a dark lantern in one hand, he moves stealthily towards the fire escape. At the top of it, the two crackmen have already gained entry to the attic rooms, made their way down stairs to the show room and are folding and packing furs ready to pass through the shop door to an accomplice, who has just arrived with a hand barrow.

  As Atherton reaches the top of the fire escape, there is a shout from the street. The officers left to watch the front of the shop have leapt out of hiding. What follows happens so fast that nobody, looking back, can recall the exact sequence of events. Only the outcome.

  The two cracksmen have opened the shop door and are hurriedly passing furs out to the accomplice. Upon sight of the police, they run back into the shop and up to their original entry point, where Atherton is hurriedly descending, lantern in hand. The cracksmen jump him, pushing him off the ladder and sending him crashing into the alley below.

  While his officers gather round Atherton, the two tie one end of a rope to the fire escape, throw the other end over the wall, drop into the next court and are off.

  The cries of “Man down, man down!” echo out into the street where Sergeant Hacket and another constable are attempting to lay hold of the accomplice with the barrow who is hellbent on escaping with as many of the furs as he can.

  Upon his refusal to stop, the constable grabs the man by the collar. Dropping the barrow handles, the accomplice instantly produces a wicked looking blade from his sleeve and makes a couple of random stabs at him.

  The constable utters a yell of surprise and steps back. Seizing his opportunity, the accomplice takes to his heels. Sergeant Hacket gives chase. Coming alongside, he pulls out his truncheon, and in a gesture that would do credit to the best Punch & Judy show in town, whacks the man hard across the back of the head. He utters a groan, and drops like a stone into the gutter.

  As his officers help a limping, cursing Atherton out of the alleyway, Hacket and the constable turn the man over and examine him. He does not appear to be moving. More worryingly, he does not appear to be breathing either.

  The principle reason for this possibly relates to the knife sticking out from his chest. Blood is already starting to seep through his coat, staining the ground under him with crimson. Hacket checks for a pulse, a heartbeat. Nothing.

  He wipes some filth off the man’s face and takes a closer look at him. The man is dark complexioned and has a full beard. There is a livid scar running from his left eyelid to the centre of his cheek.

  “Oh gawd!” he mutters.

  “Trouble?” the constable inquires.

  “I recognise him. Inspector Greig’s been chasing him down for weeks.”

  “Looks like you’ve saved him the trouble then.”

  “Yeah. Looks that way. But I think he would’ve preferred him a bit more ... alive,” Hacket says ruefully.

  ****

  The night wears on. The last stragglers make their way back to their beds. The poor and houseless curl up in doorways, in parks or under bridges and pray that it doesn’t rain. The labyrinths of tenements, huddled and crowded together, the stifling courts, yards and alleys welcome back their befuddled occupants.

  Look more closely.

  Three figures make their way stealthily through the quiet slumberous streets. They are wrapped and muffled and conspiratorial. Reaching their destination, they stand for a while in silent contemplation of their goal.

  “It’s a lot bigger than I thought,” says Waxwing.

  “All the better,” Persiflage responds. “The greater the fall.”

  Muller says nothing. He is busy laying a very small trail of gunpowder round the base of the statue and then leading away from it.

  “I will shortly put ze fuse in place,” he says. “May I suggest you withdraw to a safe distance?”


  The two clerks retreat to the far side of the park and thence to the far side of the street.

  “I can’t see what’s happening,” Waxwing complains.

  Persiflage ignores him. A few minutes later, a rather breathless Muller joins them.

  “When?” Persiflage asks the tall chemist.

  Muller checks his watch.

  “Any second ... now,” he says.

  The explosion sends ricochets of sound rocketing off the houses, the force of it shattering windows and causing every dog in the neighbourhood to start barking furiously. A line of light arcs across the square, a band of brilliance several feet across that lights up the night sky.

  “Now we go quickly,” Muller says.

  Waxwing needs no urging. His hands over his ears, he scurries off as fast as his pointy new shoes will carry him. The other two follow him. At the corner of the square, Persiflage turns and looks back, his face alight with savage glee.

  People are emerging from their houses, dressed in a variety of night attire. Some are screaming, some calling for the police. Others just stand in their doorways surveying the destruction in aghast silence.

  “Boom!” Persiflage declares triumphantly. He jabs his index finger towards the scene of panic and devastation. “Long live Anarchy! Boom!”

  ****

  A London Sunday. Cloud and light working off each other. A mass of circling pigeons. Train dust settling everywhere like grey sand. The sound of the river. Shops close their doors. Churches open theirs. For one day only Mammon is replaced by an older less materialistic deity.

  Sadly, crime does not have a day off, and that is why Inspector Greig who was supposed to have one, is currently standing in the shop of Mr Joseph Ignatz Monteverdi, importer and purveyor of high quality furs and pelts. By rights, Atherton should be here, but Atherton is currently at home having his battered body and bruised ego tended by Mrs Atherton.

  Outside the shop the usual crowd of devout onlookers have gathered to worship the bloodstained cobbles and allow the goddess of rumour free reign to run amok.

  Amongst their number are a couple of toilers in the field of newspaper publication. Like the Deity currently being serenaded in a thousand churches across the city, they also do not sleep but are always awake and working their purposes out. Currently with notebook, pencil and an evil grin.

  Inside the shop, Greig is receiving a lecture on the fur trade from Mr Monteverdi. He has checked his stock, ascertained that nothing is missing, and is now keen to aid the police by pointing out how very valuable the said stock is.

  “You see this pelerine, officer?” Monteverdi says, unrolling it, “finest ermine. We import them all the way from Russia, you know. Also the sables - I recently sold a pelisse lined with true sable for one thousand five hundred pounds. A wealthy gentleman - I will not divulge his name, bought it.”

  “Well well,” Greig murmurs. “And so, as you have made sure all your goods are present and correct, I shall bid ...”

  “This hat, now, is made of real beaver,” Monteverdi continues.

  He seems to have forgotten that Greig is not here to buy anything.

  “Any man wearing a hat of this quality could pass for a true gentleman, do you not think? And look at these ladies’ leather gloves - soft calf leather and fur lined. See the stitching on the finger seams? All done by hand.”

  “Unh-huh. Yes. Yes, I’m sure it ...”

  “The cavalry officers buy their slinging-jackets here, did you know that?”

  By now Greig has edged so far towards the door that he is actually half-through it.

  “My men will take especial care to check your premises regularly from now on. Good day to you, sir,” he says, slipping out into the street.

  Avoiding the crowd and the shouted questions from the reporters, Greig sets off towards Bow Street, passing through the central avenue of Covent Garden Market. This is where the flower sellers sit, and normally Greig would enjoy the little world of flowers, some of them reminding him of the wild roses that twined up the fence of his boyhood home.

  Today he barely pauses to admire the cut flowers, the sweet bridal posies, the ornate bouquets and flowery tributes destined to be placed beside the pale faces of the beloved dead, or planted upon a grave.

  His mind is elsewhere. This morning he visited the police morgue and gazed upon the face of a man he badly needed to question.

  The door that Greig thought was blown wide open has swung back and is now firmly shut. And the ghosts of the past, that are never far away, have edged a little closer.

  ****

  Leaving Inspector Greig to his ghosts, let us instead follow that scion of the journalists’ trade, Richard Dandy as he scurries back to the newspaper office, his notebook brimming with informative facts which it is his business to turn into fictitious opinion.

  Dandy reaches Printing House Square, passes across a narrow court, pushes aside a heavy door, ascends a creaking staircase and finally reaches a green-baized door with a hand-written notice tacked to it which reads: ‘Illustrated London News’. On the other side of the door is the room where the journalists toil.

  The news room is not a sight for the faint-hearted, nor the weak-stomached. Newspapers litter the floor, are piled on tables and drip off shelves. There are unopened and opened letters everywhere, wet proof-sheets and files of copy books sent by publishers for review.

  Great splashes and dried up pools of soup and ink stain the floor, and the ceiling is darkened by the smoke of tallow candles. The floor has a crunchy texture caused by the amount of discarded food and even though there are notices from the management requesting that journalists do not smoke, the air reeks of stale tobacco.

  This is where the news first arrives: reports of shipwrecks, embezzlements, fires, murders, fatal accidents, advertisements, showers of frogs, giant gooseberries, coroners’ inquests, and the prices of shares are all delivered or written here, to be sifted and allocated and discarded according to the whim of the sub-editor, Erasmus McFluke, who snips, copies, revises, corrects, pastes and then dispatches the completed pages to the master printer.

  McFluke is already at his desk, where he will work late into the night until the paper is put to bed. After which he will go and smoke a welcome cigar at the Crimson Hippopotamus in the Strand, before hailing a cab from the local stand, and rattling home over Westminster Bridge to his well-deserved bed.

  Dandy greets his fellow toilers, throws himself into a cane-bottomed chair and places his boots on the table.

  “Gents, I got a scoop,” he says, taking a silver matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and lighting up a cigar.

  There is a pause while all eyes swivel round to stare at him.

  Dandy grins, taps the side of his nose with a nicotine stained forefinger.

  “Ain’t going to say. What I WILL say is that after I’ve written this, that sorry lot of so-called officers of the law are gonna regret telling their men not to drink with us or speak to us. Ho yes!”

  He pulls a sheet of paper towards him and begins to write furiously.

  “You heard somebody blew up that statue at the top of Portland Place?” remarks one of his lesser colleagues.

  “Squinty-eyed cove with the curly wig and fat legs?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Dandy laughs.

  “Well done. Good riddance. Never liked it.”

  “I was wondering whether to do a story on it?”

  Dandy doesn’t even look up.

  “It’ll be the railways. They’re always blowing things up. Probably got to get rid of it to make way for a tunnel or something. That, or it’s drains again.”

  “But it could be anarchists.”

  “Oh, for frig’s sake,” Dandy rolls his eyes. “You think everything’s bleedin’ anarchists don’t you? Remember that last story you filed? We had the Whatsits and Howsyerfather Railway Company breathing smoke and fire coz their shares had gone down.” He stabs his pen at the unfortunate conspiratorialist. “Repeat
after me: There Are No Such Things As Anarchists. Leastways not here. Anyway, I’ve hooked the front page already. THIS is the story. Now stow your racket and let me write it - McFluke ain’t got all day.”

  ****

  Sunday afternoon is a time for families to get together and enjoy the blessings of home. Certainly a bright sunny afternoon like this, when warm gentle zephyrs blow and all in the garden is green and fragrant and inviting.

  The engineer sits in the cooling shade of a chestnut tree, a blanket over his knees, breathing in the sweet air. He is being allowed out more and more - soon, when the long-awaited letter from Mr Bazalgette arrives, he will be back at work doing the job he loves and has trained for.

  In preparation, he has already filled several sketchbooks with illustrations of ingenious pumping engines and tunnelling devices. Now he watches from a distance as his kind hosts busy themselves with preparations for afternoon tea.

  From the amount of food, they are clearly expecting some guests. A veritable feast is being laid out. His Angel, as he likes to think of her, flitters around in something cherry sprigged and gauzy, her divine face half-hidden under a red straw bonnet. Occasionally she pauses and glances in his direction and throws him a shy little smile.

  The engineer tries not to react, mindful of the admonitions of the nurse that he must not excite or tire himself out, or it will be straight back to bed. He is determined to stay and observe the festivities (and Daisy) for as long as he can.

  The guests arrive, are brought through to the conservatory and are announced by the parlour maid. The engineer feels a stab of jealousy as the good looking young man he has observed visiting the Angel before, strides confidently out of the French doors followed by an older couple - clearly his parents.

  The two Mamas greet each other with affectionate cooes. The men shake hands rather formally. Everybody sits down. Cups and plates are handed round. The engineer receives his cup and a plate of cakes and assorted sandwiches. Nobody bothers about him. It is as if he has faded out and become part of the background.