November 5th, known as Powder Plot Day or Guy Fawkes Day, had been a national holiday in England since 1605. But the celebration, observed the News in 1856, "has of late years been made subservient to the cause of charity as well as mere amusement. Here is a laudable instance. On Wednesday evening a grand display of fireworks took place on the grounds of the Merchant Seamen's Orphan Asylum, Bow-road, in aid of the funds of the institution. The grounds were illuminated somewhat after the fashion adopted at Vauxhall, and a band of music was engaged. In the rear of the premises was a gibbet, to which was suspended an effigy of the Pope; and around it were several barrels of tar, which at the proper time were consumed in a most formidable blaze. The exhibition was attended by a large concourse of people, and the result promised to be of considerable benefit to the funds of the charity."
Any combination of large crowds and distracting spectacles was, of course, also of considerable benefit to pickpockets, cut-purses, and dolly-mops, and the police at the orphan asylum that night were busy indeed. In the course of the evening, no fewer than thirteen "vagrants, vagabonds and petty villains" were apprehended by officers of the Metropolitan Force, including a female who was accused of robbing an intoxicated gentleman. This arrest was made by one Constable Johnson, and the manner of it was sufficiently idiosyncratic to merit some explanation.
The major features are clear enough. Constable Johnson, a man of twenty-three, was walking the asylum grounds when, by the flaring light of the fireworks exploding overhead, he observed a female crouched over the prostrate form of a man. Fearing the gentleman might be ill, Constable Johnson went to offer help, but at his approach the girl took to her heels. Constable Johnson gave chase, apprehending the female a short distance away when she tripped on her skirts and tumbled to the ground.
Observing her at close hand to be "a female of lewd aspect and lascivious comportment," he at once surmised the true nature of her attentions to the gentleman; namely, that she was robbing him, in his intoxicated stupor, and that she was the lowest form of criminal, a "bug-hunter." Constable Johnson promptly arrested her.
The saucy minx put her hands on her hips and glared at him in open defiance. "There's not a pogue upon me," she declared, which words must surely have given Constable Johnson pause. He faced a serious dilemma.
In the Victorian view, proper male conduct demanded that all women, even women of the lowest sort, be treated with caution and consideration for the delicacy of their feminine nature. That nature, noted a contemporary paliceman's manual of conduct, "with its sacred emotional wellsprings, its ennobling maternal richness, its exquisite sensitivity and profound fragility, i.e., all those qualities which comprise the very essence of womanly character, derive from the biological or physio-logic principles which determine all the differences between the sexes of male and female. Thus it must be appreciated that the essence of womanly character resides in every member of that sex, and must be duly respected by an Officer, and this despite the appearance, in certain vulgar personages, of the absence of said womanly character."
The belief in a biologically determined personality in both men and women was accepted to some extent by nearly everyone at all levels of Victorian society, and that belief was held in the face of all sorts of incongruities. A businessman could go off to work each day, leaving his "unreasoning" wife to run an enormous household, a businesslike task of formidable proportions; yet the husband never viewed his wife's activities in that way.
Of all the absurdities of the code, the most difficult was the predicament of the policeman. A woman's inherent fragility created obvious difficulties in the handling of female lawbreakers. Indeed, criminals took advantage of the situation, often employing a female accomplice precisely because the police were so reluctant to arrest.
Constable Johnson, confronted by this drafted minx on the night of November 5th, was fully aware of his situation. The woman claimed to have no stolen goods on her person; and if this was true, she would never be convicted, despite his testimony that he had found her bug-hunting. Without a pocket watch or some other indisputably masculine article, the girl would go free.
Nor could he search her: the very idea that he might touch the woman's body was unthinkable to him. His only recourse was to escort her to the station, where a matron would be called to perform the search. But the hour was late; the matron would have to be roused from her bed, and the station was some blocks distant. In the course of being escorted through dark streets, the little tart would have many opportunities to rid herself of incriminating evidence.
Furthermore, if Constable Johnson brought her in, called for the matron, raised all manner of fuss and stir, and then it was discovered the girl was clean, he would look a proper fool and receive a stiff rebuke. He knew this; and so did the girl standing before him in a posture of brazen defiance.
Altogether it was a situation not worth the risk or the bother, and Constable Johnson would have liked to send her off with a scolding. But Johnson had recently been advised by his superiors that his arrest record left something to be desired; he had been told to be more vigilant in his pursuit of wrongdoing. And there was the strong implication that his job hung in the balance.
So Constable Johnson, in the intermittent, sputtering glow of the bursting fireworks, decided to take the bug-hunter in for a search-- to the girl's open astonishment, and despite his own rather considerable reluctance.
____________________
Dalby, the station sergeant, was in a foul humor, for he was called upon to work on the night of the holiday, and he resented missing the festivities that he knew were taking place all around him.
He glared at Johnson and the woman at his side. The woman gave her name as Alice Nelson, and stated her age was "eighteen or thereabouts." Dalby sighed and rubbed his face sleepily as he filled in the forms. He sent Johnson off to collect the matron. He ordered the girl to sit in a corner. The station was deserted, and silent except for the distant pop and whistle of fireworks.
Dalby had a flask in his pocket, and at late hours he often took a daffy or two when there was no one about. But now this saucy little bit of no-good business was sitting there, and whatever else was the truth of her, she was keeping him from his nip; the idea irked him, and he frowned into space, feeling frustrated. Whenever he couldn't have a daffy, he wanted it especially much, or so it seemed.
After a space of time, the Judy spoke up. "If you granny I've a pink or two beneath me duds, see for yourself, and now." Her tone was lascivious; the invitation was unmistakable, and to make it clearer, she began to scratch her limbs through the skirt, in languorous fashion.
You'll be finding what you want, I reckon," she added.
Dalby sighed.
The girl continued to scratch. "I know to please you," she said, "and you may count on it, as God's me witness."
"And earn the pox for my troubles," Dalby said. "I know your sort, dearie."
"Here, now," the girl protested, in a sudden shift from invitation to outrage. "You've no call to voker such-like. There's not a touch of pox upon me; and never been."
"Aye, aye, aye," Dalby said wearily, thinking again of his flask. "There. never is, is there."
The little tart lapsed into silence. She ceased scratching herself, and soon enough sat up straight in her chair, adopting a proper manner. "Let's us strike a bargain," she said, "and I warrant it'll be one to your liking."
"Dearie, there's no bargain to be made," Dalby said, hardly paying attention. He knew this tedious routine, for he saw it played out, again and again, every night he worked at the station. Some little bit of goods would be tugged in on an officer's arm, all protests of innocence. Then she'd settle in and make an advance of favors, and if that was not taken up, she'd soon enough talk a bribe.
It was always the same.
"Set me to go," the girl said, "and you'll have a gold guinea.'
Dalby sighed, and shook his head. If this creature had a gold guinea on her, it was sure proof she'd been bug-hunting, as young Johnson claimed.
"Well, then," the girl said, "you shall have ten." Her voice now had a frightened edge.
"Ten guineas?" Dalby asked. That at least was something new; he'd never been offered ten guineas before. They must be counterfeit, he thought.
"Ten is what I promise you, right enough."
Dalby hesitated. In his own eyes he was a man of principle, and he was a seasoned officer of the law. But his weekly wage was fifteen shillings, and sometimes it came none too promptly. Ten guineas was a substantial item and no mistake. He let his mind wander, over the idea.
"Well, then," the girl said, taking his hesitation for something else, "it shall be a hundred! A hundred gold guineas!"
Dalby laughed. His mood was broken, and his daydreams abruptly ended. In her anxiety the girl was obviously weaving an ever wilder story. A hundred guineas! Absurd.
"You don't believe me?"
"Be still," he said. His thoughts returned to the flask in his pocket.
There was a short silence while the tart chewed her lip and frowned. Finally she said, "I know a thing or two."
Dalby stared at the ceiling. It was all so dreary and predictable. After the bribe failed, there came the offer of information about some crime or other. The progression was always the same. Out of boredom, as much as anything else, he said, "And what is this thing or two?"
"A ream sight of a flash pull, and no slang."
"And what may that be?"
"I know who did the train-robbery lay."
"Mother of God," Dalby said, "but you're a clever judy. Why, do you know that's the very thing we're all wanting to hear-- and hear it we have, from every blasted muck-snipe, smatter-hauler, and bug-picker who comes our way. Every blasted one knows the tale to tell. I've heard a hundred blows with these very ears you see here." He gave her a wan smile.
In fact, Dalby was feeling something like pity for the girl. She was such a down-and-out case, a bug-hunter, the lowest form of common and sleazy clime, and hardly able to formulate a reasonable bribe. In truth, Dalby seldom was offered information about the train robbery any more. That was old news, and nobody cared. There were half a dozen more recent and captivating crimes to blow.
"It's no slang cover," the girl said. "I know the screwsman did the pull, and I can put you to him swift enough."
"Aye, aye, aye," Dalby said.
"I swear," the girl protested, looking ever more desperate. "I swear."
"Who's the bloke, then?"
"I'll not say."
"Aye, but I suppose," Dalby said, "that you'll find this gent for us if only we set you free for a bit of hunting him down, isn't that right?" Dalby shook his head and looked at the girl to see her expression of astonishment. They were always astonished, these low types, to hear a crusher fill in the details of their tale. Why did they always take a man of the force for a total flat and dumb fool?
But it was Dalby who was surprised, for the girl very calmly said, "No."
"No?" Dalby said.
"No," the girl replied. "I know exact where he's to be found."
"But you must lead us to him?" Dalby said.
"No," the girl said.
"No?" Dalby hesitated. "Well, then, where's he to be found?"
"Newgate Prison," the girl said.
Several moments passed before Dalby fully appreciated her words. "Newgate Prison?" he said.
The girl nodded.
"What's his name, then?"
The girl grinned.
Soon after, Dalby called for a runner to go to the Yard and notify Mr. Harranby's office directly,
for here was a story so strange it very likely had some truth to it.
____________________
By dawn, the basic situation was clear to the authorities. The woman, Alice Nelson, was the mistress of one Robert Agar, recently arrested on a charge of forging five-pound notes. Agar had protested his innocence; he was now in Newgate Prison awaiting his trial in court.
The woman, deprived of Agar's income, had turned to various crimes to support herself, and was nabbed in the act of picking a bug. According to a later official report, she showed "a most overpowering apprehension of confinement," which probably meant she was claustrophobic. In any case, she turned nose on her lover, an o all that she knew, which was little enough-- but enough for Mr. Harranby to send for Agar.
"A thorough comprehension of the devious criminal mind," wrote Edward Harranby in his memoirs, "is vital to police interrogation." Harranby certainly had that comprehension, but he had to admit that the man seated before him, coughing and hacking, presented a particularly difficult case. They were in their second hour of questioning, but Robert Agar stuck to his story.
In interrogations, Harranby favored the introduction of abrupt new lines of inquiry to keep the villains off balance. But Agar seemed to handle the technique easily.
"Mr. Agar," Harranby said. "Who is John Simms?
"Never heard of 'im."
"Who is Edward Pierce?"
"Never heard of 'im. I told you that." He coughed into a handkerchief offered him by Harranby's assistant, Sharp.
"Isn't this man Pierce a famous cracksman?"
"I wouldn't know."
"You wouldn't know." Harranby sighed. He was certain Agar was lying. His posture, his flicking downcast eyes, his hand gestures-- everything suggested deceit. "Well, now, Mr. Agar. How long have you been forging?"
"I didn't do no soft," Agar said. "I swear it wasn't me. I was in the pub downstairs, having a daffy or two is all. I swear."
"You are innocent?"
"Aye, I am."
Harranby paused. "You're lying," he said.
"It's God's truth," Agar said.
"We'll see you in the stir for many years. Make no mistake about it."
"There's no blame upon me," Agar said, getting excited.
"Lies, all lies. You're a counterfeiter, pure and simple."
"I swear," Agar said. "I'd not do any soft. There's no sense to it--" Abruptly, he broke off.
There was a brief silence in the room, punctuated only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. Harranby had purchased the clock especially for its tick, which was steady, loud, and irritating to prisoners.
"Why is there no sense to it?" he asked softly.
"I'm honest is why," Agar said, staring at the floor.
"What honest work do you do?"
"Local work. Here and there."
That was a nonspecific excuse, but possible enough. In London at that time, there were nearly half a million unskilled laborers who worked at various odd jobs whenever the jobs were available.
"Where have you worked?"
"Well, let's see, now," Agar said, squinting. "I did a day for the gasworks at Millbank, loading. I did two days at Chenworth, hauling bricks. A week past I did some hours for Mr. Barnham, cleaning his cellar. I go where I can, you know."
"These employers would remember you?"
Agar smiled. "Maybe."
Here was another dead end for Harranby. Employers of casual labor often did not recall their workers, or recalled them incorrectly. Either way, it wouldn't mean much.
Harranby found himself staring at the man's hands. Agar's hands were clenched in his lap. Then Harranby noticed that the little fingernail on one hand was long. It had been bitten at, to conceal this fact, but it was still somewhat long.
A long fingernail might mean all sorts of things. Sailors wore a nail long for luck, particularly Greek sailors; then, too, certain clerks who used seals kept a nail long to pluck the seal from the hot wax. But for Agar…
"How long have you been a screwsrnan?" Harranby said.
"Eh?" Agar replied with an expression of elaborate innocence. "Screwsman?"
"Come, now," Harranby said. "You know what a screwsman is."
"I worked as a sawyer once. Spent a year in the north, working in a mill as a sawyer, I did."
Harranby was not distracted. "Did you make the keys for the safes?"
"Keys? What keys?"
Harranby sighed. "You've no future as an actor, Agar."
"I don't take your meaning, sir," Agar said. "What keys are you talking of?"
"The keys to the train robbery."
Here Agar laughed. "Cor," he said. "You think if I was in on that flash pull I'd be doing a bit of soft now? You think that? That's Blocky, that is."
Harranby's face was expressionless, but he knew that Agar was right. It made no sense for a man who had participated in a twelve-thousand-pound theft to be stamping out five-pound notes a year later.
"There's no use in pretending," Harranby said. "We know that Simms has abandoned you. He doesn't care what happens to you-- why are you protecting him?"
"Never heard of 'im," Agar said.
"Lead us to him, and you'll have a fine reward for your troubles."
"Never heard of 'im," Agar said sgain. "Can't you see that plain?"
Harranby paused and stared at Agar. The man was quite calm, except for his coughing attacks. He glanced at Sharp, in the corner. It was time for a different approach.
Harranby picked up a piece of paper from his desk, and put on his spectacles. "Now, then, Mr. Agar," he said. "This is a report on your past record. It's none too good."
"Past record?" Now his puzzlement was genuine. "I've no past record."
"Indeed you do," Harranby said, running his finger along the print on the paper. "Robert Agar… hum… twenty-six years old… hmm… born Bethnal Green… hmm… Yes, here we are. Bridewell prison, six months, charge of vagrancy, in 1849--"
"That's not true!" Agar exploded.
"--and Coldbath, one year eight months, charge of robbery, in 1852--"
"Not true, I swear it, not true!"
Harranby glared at the prisoner over his glasses. "It's all here in the record, Mr. Agar. I think the judge will be interested to learn it. What do you suppose he will get, Mr. Sharp?"
"Fourteen years transportation, at least," Sharp said, in a thoughtful way.
"Umm, yes, fourteen years in Australia-- that sounds about right."
"Australia," Agar said, in a hushed voice.
"Well, I should think," Harranby said calmly. "Boating's the thing in a case like this."
Agar was silent.
Harranby knew that although "transportation" was popularly portrayed as a much-feared punishment, the criminals themselves viewed banishment to Australia with equanimity or even pleasant expectation. Many villains suspected that Australia was agreeable, and to "do the kangaroo hunts" was unquestionably preferable to a long stretch in an English prison.
Indeed, at this time Sydney, in New South Wales, was a thriving, handsome seaport of thirty thousand. In addition, it was a place where "personal history is at a discount, and good memories and inquisitive minds are particularly disliked…" And if it had its brutal side-- butchers were fond of plucking poultry while it was still alive-- it was also pleasant, with gaslit streets, elegant mansions, bejeweled women, and social pretensions of its own. A man like Agar could view transportation as, at the very least, a mixed blessing.
But Agar was greatly agitated. Plainly, he did not want to leave England. Seeing this, Harranby was encouraged. He stood.
"That will be all for now," he said. "If in the next day or so you feel that you have something you wish to tell me, just inform the guards at Newgate."
Agar was ushered out of the room. Harranby sat back at his desk. Sharp came over.
"What were you reading?" he asked.
Harranby picked up the sheet of paper from his desk. "A notification from the Buildings Committee," he said, "to the effect that carriages are no longer to be parked in the courtyard."
____________________
After three days, Agar informed the Newgate guards that he would like another audience with Mr. Harranby. On November 13th, Agar told Harranby everything he knew about the robbery, in exchange for the promise of lenient treatment and the vague possibility that one of the institutions involved-- the bank or the railway or even the government itself-- might see fit to present him with a stipend from the still-outstanding offers of reward for information.
Agar did not know where the money was kept. He said that Pierce had been paying him a monthly stipend in paper currency. The criminals had previously agreed that they would divide the profits two years after the crime, in May of the following year, 1857.
Agar did, however, know the location of Pierces house. On the night of November 13th, the forces of the Yard surrounded the mansion of Edward Pierce, or John Simms, and entered it with barkers at the ready. But the owner was not at home; the frightened servants explained that he had left town to attend the P.R. spectacle the following day in Manchester.
Technically, boxing matches in England were illegal, but they were held throughout the nineteenth century, and drew an enormous, loyal following. The necessity to elude authorities meant that a big match might be shifted from town to town at the last minute, with vast crowds of pugilistic enthusiasts and sporting bloods following all over the countryside.
The match on November 19th between Smashing Tim Revels, the Fighting Quaker, and the challenger, Neddy Singleton, was moved from Liverpool to a small town called Eagle Welles, and eventually to Barrington, outside Manchester. The fight was attended by more than twenty thousand supporters, who found the spectacle unsatisfactory.
In those days, the P.R., or prize ring, had rules that would make the event almost unrecognizable to modern eyes. Fighting was done bare-fisted by the combatants, who were careful to regulate their blows in order to avoid injury to their own hands and wrists; a man who broke his knuckles or wrists early in a contest was almost certain to lose. Rounds were of variable duration, and the fights had no prearranged length. They often went fifty or even eighty rounds, thus lasting the better part of a day. The object of the sport was for each man slowly and methodically to injure his opponent with a succession of small cuts and welts; knockouts were not sought. On the contrary, the proper fighter literally battered his opponent into submission.
Neddy Singleton was hopelessly outclassed by Smashing Tim from the start. Early in the fight, Neddy adopted the ruse of dropping to one knee whenever he was struck, in order to halt the fight and allow him to catch his breath. The spectators hissed and booed this ungentlemanly trick, but nothing could be done to prevent it, especially as the referee-- charged with giving the count of ten-- called out the numbers with a slowness that demonstrated he'd been paid off smartly by Neddy's backers. The indignation of the fans was tempered, at least, by the recognition that this chicanery had the side affect of prolonging the bloody spectacle they had all come to witness.
With thousands of spectators standing about, including every manner of coarse and brutal ruffian, the men of the Yard were at some pains to operate unobtrusively. Agar, with a revolver at his spine, pointed out Pierce and the guard Burgess from a distance. The two men were than apprehended with great adroitness: a barker was pressed to each man's side, with whispered suggestion that they come along quietly or take a bit of lead for their trouble.
Pierce greeted Agar amiably. "Turned nose, did you?" he asked with a smile.
Agar could not meet his eyes.
"Doesn't matter," Pierce said. "I've thought of this as well, you know."
"I had no choice," Agar blurted out.
"You'll lose your share," Pierce said calmly.
At the periphery of the P.R. crowd, Pierce was brought before Mr. Harranby of the Yard.
"Are you Edward Pierce, also known as John Simms?"
"I am," the man replied.
"You are under arrest on a charge of robbery," Mr. Harranby said.
To this Pierce replied, "You'll never hold me."
"I fancy that I will, sir," Mr. Harranby said.
By nightfall on November 19th, both Pierce and Burgess were, along with Agar, in Newgate
Prison. Harranby quietly informed government officials of his success, but there was no announcement to the press, for Harranby wanted to apprehend the woman known as Miriam, and the cabby Barlow, both still at large. He also wanted to recover the money.
On November 22nd, Mr. Harranby interrogated Pierce for the first time. The diary of his assistant, Jonathan Sharp, records that "H. arrived in office early, most carefully attired and looking his best. Had cup of coffee instead of usual tea. Comments on how best to deal with Pierce, etc., etc. Said that he suspected nothing could be got from Pierce without softening up."
In fact, the interview was remarkably brief. At nine o'clock in the morning, Pierce was ushered into the office and asked to sit in a chair, isolated in the middle of the room. Harranby, from behind his desk, directed his first question with customary abruptness.
"Do you know the man called Barlow?"
"Yes," Pierce said.
"Where is he now?" "I don't know."
"Where is the woman called Miriam?"
"I don't know."
"Where," said Mr. Harranby, "is the money?"
"I don't know."
"It seems that there is a good deal you don't know."
"Yes," Pierce said.
Harranby appraised him for a moment. There was a short silence. "Perhaps," Harranby said, "a time in the Steel will strengthen your powers of memory."
"I doubt it," Pierce said, with no sign of anxiety. Soon after, he was taken from the room.
Alone with Sharp, Harranby said, "I shall break him, you may be sure of that." The same day, Harranby arranged for Pierce to be transferred from Newgate Prison to the House of Correction at Coldbath Fields, also called the Bastille. "The Steel" was not ordinarily a holding place for accused criminals awaiting trial. But it was a frequent ruse for police to send a man there if some information had to be "winkled out" of him before the trial.
The Steel was the most dreaded of all English prisons. In a visit in 1853, Henry Mayhew described its features. Chief among them, of course, were the cockchafers, narrow boxes in a row with "the appearance of the stalls in a public urinal," where prisoners remained for fifteen-minute intervals, treading down a wheel of twenty-four steps. A warder explained the virtues of the cockchafer in this way: "You see the men can get no firm tread like, from the steps always sinking away from under their feet and that makes it very tiring. Again the compartments are small, and the air becomes very hot, so that the heat at the end of a quarter of an hour renders it difficult to breathe."
Even less pleasant was shot-drill, an exercise so rigorous that men over forty-five were usually exempted. In this, the prisoners formed a circle with three paces separating each. At a signal, each man picked up a twenty-four-pound cannonball, carried it to his neighbor's place, dropped it, and returned to his original position where another shot awaited him. The drill went on for an hour at a time.
Most feared of all was "the crank," a drum filled with sand and turned with a crank handle. It was usually reserved as a special punishment for unruly prisoners.
The daily regimen of Coldbath Fields was so debilitating that even after a shot sentence of six months, many a man emerged "with the steel gone out of him" his body damaged, nerves shot, and resolution so enfeebled that his ability to commit further crimes was severely impaired.
As a prisoner awaiting trial, Pierce could not be made to undergo the stepper, the shot-drill, or the crank; but he was obliged to follow the rules of prison conduct, and if he broke the rule of silence, for example, he might be punished by a time at the crank. Thus one may presume that the guards frequently accused him of speaking, and he was treated to "softening up."
On December 19th, after four weeks in the Steel, Pierce was again brought to Harranby's office. Harranby had told Sharp that "now we shall see a thing or two," but the second interrogation turned out to be as brief as the first:
"Where is the man Barlow?"'
"I don't know."
"Where is the woman Miriam?"
"I don't know."
"Where is the money?"
"I don't know."
Mr. Harranby, coloring deeply, the veins standing out on his forehead, dismissed Pierce with a voice filled with rage. As Pierce was taken away, he calmly wished Mr. Harranby a pleasant Christmas.
"The cheek of the man," Harranby later recorded, "was beyond all imagining."
____________________
Mr. Harranby during this period was under considerable pressure from several fronts. The bank of Huddleston amp; Bradford wanted its money back, and made its feelings known to Harranby through the offices of none other than the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston himself. The inquiry from "Old Pam" was in itself embarrassing, for Harranby had to admit that he had put Pierce in Coldbath Fields, and the implications of that were none too gentlemanly.
Palmerston expressed the opinion that it was "a bit irregular," but Harranby consoled himself with the thought that any Prime Minister who dyed his whiskers was hardly in a position to berate others for dissembling.
Pierce remained in Coldbath until February 6th, when he was again brought before Harranby.,
"Where is the man Barlow?"
"I don't know."
"Where is the woman Miriam?"
"I don't know."
"Where is the money?"
"In a crypt, in Saint John's Wood," Pierce said.
Harranby sat forward. "What was that?"
"It is stored," Pierce said blandly, "in a crypt in the name of John Simms, in the cemetery of Martin Lane, Saint John's Wood."
Harranby drummed his fingers on the desk. "Why have you not come forth with this information earlier?"
"I did not want to," Pierce said.
Harranby ordered Pierce taken away to Coldbath Fields once more.
____________________
On February 7th, the crypt was located, and the appropriate dispensations obtained to open it. Mr. Harranby, accompanied by a representative of the bank; Mr. Henry Fowler, opened the vault at noon that day. There was no coffin in the crypt-- and neither was there any gold. Upon re-examination of the crypt door, it appeared that the lock had been recently forced.
Mr. Fowler was extremely angry at the discovery, and Mr. Harranby was extremely embarrassed. On February 8th, the following day, Pierce was returned to Harranby's office and told the news.
"Why," Pierce said, "the villains must have robbed me."
His voice and manner did riot suggest any great distress, and Harranby said so.
"Barlow," Pierce said. "I always knew he was not to be trusted."
"So you believe it was Barlow who took the money?"
"Who else could it be?"
There was a short silence. Harranby listened to the ticking of his clock; for once, it irritated him more than his subject. Indeed, his subject appeared remarkably at ease.
"Do you not care," Harranby said, "that your confederates have turned on you in this fashion?"
"It's just my ill luck," Pierce said calmly. "And yours," he added, with a slight smile.
____________________
"By his collected manner and polished demeanour," Harranby wrote, "I presumed that he had fabricated still another tale to put us off the mark. But in further attempts to learn the truth I was frustrated, for on the first of March, 1857, the Times reporter learned of Pierces capture, and he could no longer conveniently be held in custody."
According to Mr. Sharp, his chief received the newspaper story of Pierce's capture "with heated imprecation and ejaculations." Harranby demanded to know how the papers had been put on to the story. The Times refused to divulge its source. A guard at Coldbath who was thought to have given out the information was discharged, but nobody was ever certain one way or the other. Indeed; it was even rumored that the lead had come from Palmerston's office.
In any case, the trial of Burgess, Agar, and Pierce was set to begin on July 12, 1857.
The trial of the three train robbers was greeted by the public with the same sensational interest it had earlier shown in the crime itself. The prosecuting officials, mindful of the attention focused upon the event, took care to heighten the drama inherent in the proceedings. Burgess, the most minor of the players, was brought to the docket of Old Bailey first. The fact that this man knew only parts of the whole story only whetted the public appetite for further details.
Agar was interrogated next, providing still more information. But Agar, like Burgess, was a distinctly limited man, and his testimony served only to focus attention on the personality of Pierce himself, whom the press referred to as "the master criminal" and "the brilliant malignant force behind the deed."
Pierce was still incarcerated in Coldbath Fields, and neither the public nor the press had seen him. There was plenty of freedom for eager reporters to conjure up wild and fanciful accounts of the man's appearance, manner, and style of living. Much of what was written during the first two weeks of July, 1857, was obviously untrue: that Pierce lived with three mistresses in the same house, and was "a human dynamo"; that he had been behind the great check swindle of 1852; that he was the illegitimate son of Napoleon I; that Pierce took cocaine and laudanum; that he had previously been married to a German countess and had murdered her in 1848, in Hamburg. There is not the least evidence that any of these stories is correct, but it is certainly true that the press whipped public interest to the point of frenzy.
Even Victoria herself was not immune to the fascination with "this most bold and dastardly rogue, whom we should like to perceive at first hand." She also expressed a desire to see his hanging; she was apparently not aware that in 1857 grand theft was no longer a capital offense in England.
For weeks, crowds had been gathering around Coldbath Fields, on the unlikely chance of getting a look at the master thief. And Pierce's house in Mayfair was broken into on three occasions by avid souvenir hunters. One "wellborn woman"-- there is no further description-- was apprehended while leaving the house with a man's handkerchief. Showing not the slightest embarrassment, she said that she merely wished to have a token of the man.
The Times complained that this fascination with a criminal was "unseemly, even decadent" and went so far as to suggest that the behavior of the public reflected "some fatal flaw in the character of the English mind."
Thus, it is one of the odd coincidences of history that by the time Pierce began his testimony, on May 29th, the public and the press had turned their attention elsewhere. For, quite unexpectedly, England was facing a new trial of national proportions: a shocking and bloody uprising in India.
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The growing British Empire-- some called it the Brutish Empire-- had suffered two major setbacks in recent decades. The first was in Kabul, Afghanistan, in 1842, where 16,500 British soldiers, women, and children died in six days. The second setback was the Crimean War, now concluded, with demands for army reform. That sentiment was so strong that Lord Cardigan, previously a national hero, was in disrepute; he was even accused (unfairly) of not being present for the charge of the Light Brigade, and his marriage to the notorious equestrienne Adeline Horsey de Horsey had further tarnished his standing.
Now the Indian Mutiny arose as a third affront to English world supremacy, and another blow to English self-confidence. That the English were confident in India is evident from the fact that they had only 34,000 European troops in that country, commanding a quarter of a million native soldiers, called sepoys, who were not excessively loyal to their English leaders.
Since the 1840s, England had been increasingly highhanded in India. The new evangelical fervor of righteousness at home had led to ruthless religious reform abroad; thuggee and suttee had been stamped out, and the Indians were not altogether pleased to see foreigners changing their ancient religious patterns.
When the English introduced the new Enfield rifle in 1857, the cartridges for the rifle came from the factory liberally coated with grease. It was necessary to bite the cartridges to release the powder. Among the sepoy regiments there was a rumor that the grease was made from pigs and cows, and thus these cartridges were a trick to defile the sepoys and make them break caste.
English authorities acted quickly.
In January, 1857, it was ordered that factory-greased cartridges were to be issued only to European troops; the sepoys could grease their own with vegetable oil. This sensible edict came too late to halt the bad feeling, however. By March, the first English officers were shot by sepoys in sporadic incidents. And in May a genuine, uprising broke out.
The most famous episode of the Indian Mutiny occurred at Cawnpore, a town of 150,000 on the banks of the Ganges. From a modern perspective, the siege of Cawnpore seems a kind of crystallization of all that was noble and foolish about Victorian England. A thousand British citizens, including three hundred women and children, were under fire for eighteen days. Living conditions "violated all the decencies and proprieties of life, and shocked the modesty of… womanly nature." Yet in the early days of the siege, life went on with extraordinary normalness. Soldiers drank champagne and dined on tinned herring. Children played around the guns. Several babies were born, and a wedding took place, despite the constant rain of rifle and artillery fire, day and night.
Later, everyone was rationed to a single meal a day, and soon they were eating horsemeat, "though some ladies could not reconcile themselves to this unaccustomed fare." The women gave up their undergarments for wadding for the guns: "The gentlewomen of Cawnpore gave up perhaps the most cherished components of their feminine attire to improve the ordnance…"
The situation became increasingly desperate. There was no water, except from a well outside the encampment; soldiers trying to get water were shot in the attempt. The daytime temperatures reached 138 degrees Fahrenheit. Several men died of sunstroke. A dry well inside the compound was used as a grave for corpses.
On June 12th, one of the two buildings caught fire and burned to the ground. All medical supplies were destroyed. Yet the English still held out, beating back every attack.
On June 25th, the sepoys called a truce, and offered the English safe passage by ship to Allahabad, a city a hundred miles downstream. The English accepted.
The evacuation began at dawn on June 27th. The English moved onto forty riverboats, under the watchful eye of armed sepoys all around them. As soon as the last Englishman was aboard the boats, the native boatmen jumped into the water. The sepoys opened fire on the ships, still tied up to the shore. Soon most of the boats were aflame, and the river was littered with corpses and drowning bodies. Indian cavalrymen splashed through the shallows, cutting down survivors with sabers. Every man was killed.
The women and children were taken to a mud building along the shore and held there in suffocating heat for some days. Then on July 15th, several men, including a number of butchers by trade, entered the house with sabers and knives and slaughtered everyone present. The dismembered bodies, including "some not altogether lifeless," were dumped into a nearby well, and were said to have filled it.
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The English at home, expressing their "muscular Christianity," screamed for bloody revenge. Even the Times, swept along in the fury of the moment, demanded that "every tree and gable-end in the place should have its burden in the shape of a mutineer's carcass." Lord Palmerston announced that the Indian rebels had acted as "demons sallying forth from the lowest depths of hell."
At such a moment, the appearance of a criminal before the docket of Old Bailey, for a crime committed two years past, was of very minor interest. But there were some reports on the inside pages of the dailies, and they are fascinating for what they reveal about Edward Pierce.
He was brought before the bar for the first time on July 29th: "handsome, charming, composed, elegant and roguish." He gave his testimony in an even, utterly calm tone of voice, but his statements were inflammatory enough. He referred to Mr. Fowler as "a syphilitic fool" and Mr. Trent as "an elderly nincompoop." These comments led the prosecutor to inquire of Pierce's views on Mr. Harranby, the man who had apprehended him. "A puffed-up dandy with the brains of a schoolboy," Pierce announced, drawing a gasp from the court, for Mr. Harranby was in the gallery as an observer. Mr. Harranby was seen to color deeply, and the veins stood out on his forehead.
Even more astounding than Mr. Pierces words was his general demeanor, for "he carried himself extremely well, and proudly, and gave no hint of contrition, nor any trace of moral remorse for his black deeds. Quite the opposite, he seemed to, demonstrate an enthusiasm for his own cleverness as he recounted the various steps in the plan.
"He appears," noted the Evening Standard, "to take a degree of delight in his actions which is wholly inexplicable."
This delight extended to a detailed accounting of the foibles of other witnesses, who were themselves most reluctant to testify. Mr. Trent was fumbling and nervous, and greatly embarrassed ("with ample reason," snapped one outraged observer) at what he had to report, while Mr. Fowler recounted his own experiences in a voice so low that the prosecutor was continually obliged to ask him to speak up.
There were a few shocks in Pierces testimony. One was the following exchange, which occurred on the third day of his appearance in court:
"Mr. Pierce, are you acquainted with the cabby known as Barlow?"
"I am."
"Can you tell us his whereabouts?"
"I cannot."
"Can you tell us when you last saw him?"
"Yes, I can."
"Please be so good to do so."
"I saw him last six days ago, when he visited me at Coldbath Fields."
(Here there was a buzzing of voices within the court, and the judge rapped for order.)
"Mr. Pierce, why have you not brought forth this information earlier?"
"I was not asked."
"What was the substance of your conversation with this man Barlow?"
"We discussed my escape."
"Then I take it, you intend with the aid of this man to make your escape?"
"I should prefer that it be a surprise," Pierce said calmly.
The consternation of the court was great, and the newspapers were plainly outraged: "A graceless, unscrupulous, hideous fiend of a villain," said the Evening Standard. There were demands that he receive the most severe possible sentence.
But Pierce's calm manner never changed. He continued to be casually outrageous. On August 1, Pierce said in passing of Mr. Henry Fowler that "he is as big a fool as Mr. Brudenell."
The prosecutor did not let the comment go by. Quickly he said, "Do you mean Lord Cardigan?"
"I mean Mr. James Brudenell."
"That is, in fact, Lord Cardigan, is it not?"
"You may refer to him however you wish, but he is no more than Mr. Brudenell to me."
"You defame a peer and the Inspector-General of the Cavalry."
"One cannot," Pierce said, with his usual calmness, "defame a fool."
"Sir: you are accused of a heinous crime, may I remind you of that."
"I have killed no one," Pierce replied, "but had I killed five hundred Englishmen through my own rank stupidity I should be hanged immediately."
This exchange was not widely reported in the newspapers, out of fear that Lord Cardigan would sue for libel. But there was another factor: Pierce was, by his testimony, hammering at the foundations of a social structure already perceived as under attack from many fronts. In short order, the master criminal ceased to be fascinating to anyone.
And in any case, Pierces trial could not compete with tales of wild-eyed "niggers," as they were called, charging into a room full of women and children, raping and killing the females, skewering the screaming infants, and "disporting in a spectacle of blood-curdling heathen atavism."
Pierce concluded his testimony on August 2nd. At that time, the prosecutor, aware that the public was perplexed by the master criminal's cool demeanor and absence of guilt, turned to a final line of inquiry.
"Mr. Pierce," said the prosecutor, rising to his full height, "Mr. Pierce, I put it to you directly: did you never feel, at any time, some sense of impropriety, some recognition of misconduct, some comprehension of unlawful behavings, some moral misgivings, in the performance of these various criminal acts?"
"I do not comprehend the question," Pierce said.
The prosecutor was reported to have laughed softly. "Yes, I suspect you do not; it is written all over you."
At this point, His Lordship cleared his throat and delivered the following speech from the bench:
"Sir," said the judge, "it is a recognized truth of jurisprudence that laws are created by men, and that civilized men, in a tradition of more than two millennia, agree to abide by these laws for the common good of society. For it is only by the rule of law that any civilization holds itself above the promiscuous squalor of barbarism. This we know from all the history of the human race, and this we pass on in our educational processes to all our citizens.
"Now, on the matter of motivation, sir, I ask you: why did you conceive, plan, and execute this dastardly and shocking crime?"
Pierce shrugged. "I wanted the money," he said.
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Following Pierce's testimony, he was handcuffed and escorted from the courtroom by two stout guards, both armed. As Pierce left the court, he passed Mr. Harranby.
"Good day, Mr. Pierce," Mr. Harranby said.
"Goodbye," Pierce replied.
Pierce was taken out the back of Old Bailey to the waiting police van, which would drive him to Coldbath Fields. A sizable crowd had gathered on the steps of the court. The guards pushed away the crowd, which shouted greetings and expressions of luck to Pierce. One scabrous old whore, slipping forward, managed to kiss the culprit full on the mouth, if only for a moment, before the police pushed her aside.
It is presumed that this whore was actually the actress Miss Miriam, and that in kissing Pierce she passed him the key to the handcuffs, but that is not known for certain. What is known is that when the two van guards, coshed into insensibility, were later discovered in a gutter near Bow Street, they could not reconstruct the precise details of Pierce's escape. The only thing they agreed upon was the appearance of the cabby-- a tough brute of a man, they said, with an ugly white scar across his forehead.
The police van was later recovered in a field in Hampstead. Neither Pierce nor the cabby was ever apprehended. Journalistic accounts of the escape are vague, and all mention that the authorities showed reluctance to discuss it at length.
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In September the British recaptured Cawnpore. They took no prisoners, and burned, hanged, and disemboweled their victims. When they found the blood-soaked house where the women and children had been slaughtered, they made the natives lick the red floor before hanging them. They went on, sweeping through India in what was called "the Devil's Wind" --marching as much as sixty miles a day, burning whole villages and murdering every inhabitant, tying mutineers to the muzzles of cannons and blowing them to bits. The Indian Mutiny was crushed before the end of the year.
In August, 1857, Burgess, the railway guard, pleaded the stresses of his son's illness, claiming that it had so warped his moral inclinations that he fell in with criminals. He was sentenced to only two years in Marshalsea Prison, where he died of cholera that winter.
The screwsman Robert Agar was sentenced to transportation to Australia for his part in The Great Train Robbery. Agar died a wealthy man in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, in 1902. His grandson Henry L. Agar was the Lord Mayor of Sydney from 1938 to 1941.
Mr. Harranby died in 1879 while flogging a horse, which kicked him in the skull. His assistant, Sharp, became head of the Yard and died a great-grandfather in 1919. He was reported to have said he was proud that none of his children was a policeman.
Mr. Trent died of a chest ailment in 1857; his daughter Elizabeth married Sir Percival Harlow in 1858, and had four children by him. Mr. Trent's wife behaved scandalously following her husband's demise; she died of pneumonia in 1884, having enjoyed, she said, "more lovers than this Bernhardt woman."
Henry Fowler died of "unknown causes" in 1858.
The South Eastern Railway, tired of the inadequate arrangements of London Bridge Station, built two new terminals for its line: the famous vaulted arch of Cannon Street in 1862, and Blackfriars Station soon after.
Pierce, Barlow, and the mysterious Miss Miriam were never heard from again. In 1862, it was reported that they were living in Paris. In 1868, they were said to be residing in "splendid circumstances" in New York. Neither report has ever been confirmed.
The money from The Great Train Robbery was never recovered.