Chapter 2
Percy Jones was back in Holywell Street. It was raining gently, and still very cold. There were quite a few people about, even on a Saturday afternoon. Two dogs snuffled in the gutters for scraps, and a loose chicken was keeping out of their way on a fence. That won’t help it, thought Jones; it’ll be in somebody’s pot tonight.
He had found William Robinson, the man who had helped Cribb get Wildman into the cab. Robinson was a fire escape conductor, one a group of 70 or so men who provided a portable ladder system at various locations to assist people escaping from fire – the precursor to an organised Fire Service. Robinson was 35, and powerfully built. He told Jones that he had been on watch at the corner of The Strand and Drury Lane on Thursday night when he heard a shout and ran over.
‘That young peeler arrived at the same time,’ he went on, ‘and he sent me off to find a cab or a cart. I was lucky,’ he added, ‘there was a cab just coming up from Fleet Street.’
‘Did the chap say anything?’
‘Not that I heard. He was mumbling a bit. Must have been in a lot of pain, the way his leg was.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘The miserable old harridan, what’s her name...?’
‘Mrs Collyer.’
‘That’s her. Er, there was her, and that nutcase who works in her kitchen, Maurice King. It was him what found the peeler.’
‘Anybody else?’
Robinson shook his head.
‘Did you see another chap? Young , well dressed, light hair?’
Robinson shook his head again: ‘Didn’t see him.’
‘Alright. Thanks, William. You’ll need to leave your address; an officer will be in touch about the inquest.’
‘Inquest?’
‘Aye, you’ll have to go, I expect. We’ll let you know.’
Mrs Collyer was not pleased to see Detective Sergeant Jones again, particularly when he told her that he wanted to talk to Mr King. She complained that she was in the middle of service, and he couldn’t be spared. Jones took great pleasure in ignoring her and pushing through into the kitchen.The kitchen in the coffee shop was almost exactly what Jones had expected. It was a small cramped room, completely airless and without any windows or natural light. The air smelt thick and rancid. It was warm, but that didn’t help. There was a huge iron range at the rear, with a coal bunker alongside, and a heavy iron back door; both sides of the room were filled with cupboards, one containing pots and pans, the other half-full of food. On the near flank were a large sink and draining board, a water pump, and a serving table under the hatch. In the middle of the room was a battered wooden butcher’s block, much dented and chipped. Jones’s sharp ears detected scuffling under the tables – rats or mice. Maurice King deserved no better setting: he was aged about 40, rake-thin and bony, with curly black hair, pale blue eyes, an earring in one ear, and a rough moustache. He seemed to be trying to cultivate the appearance of a pirate. He was standing at the central bench, a bone saw in one hand and a haunch of pork in the other, and a foul-smelling pipe in the corner of his mouth.
‘Oi!’ he called out, ‘You can’t come in here!’
‘Yes I can, chum,’ said Jones evenly, showing his badge. ‘I can go where I want.’
‘Ah, right,’ King nodded, leaving the saw and meat on the bench and wiping his hands on a blood-stained apron. He sucked happily on his pipe.
‘Detective Sergeant Jones, Bow Street.Just a few questions about the fun and games the other night.’
‘It weren’t no fun, that’s for damn sure. I get little enough kip as it is, without silly bastards diving out of windows. Up half the bloody night, I was.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Jones commented dryly.‘The silly bastard died, in case you were worrying.’
‘Fuck him,’ King shrugged. ‘Serves him right. He ain’t gonna pay for the broken window, is he?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure he was worrying about that with his last breath. Tell me what happened.’
King shrugged again. ‘Bloody great racket, about two o’clock.Me and Mrs C went down, and the chap was lying on the pavement corkscrewed up. Claret all over the place.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then the other chap came down, babbled something about him jumping out the window, then shot back in again. Then Mrs C sent me off to find a peeler.’
‘So did you see the other chap again?’
‘Maybe. As I was coming back with the peeler, I seen somebody walking quick down towards Fleet Street; might have been him.’
‘You see where he went?’
‘No,’ King shrugged again, ‘we were walking the other way, and I don’t know where he went.’
‘Good. Did you ever hear his name?’
Another shrug: ‘No, I didn’t even know the other bloke’s name ‘til today.’
The inquest on the death of John Wildman took place on Monday 19th November 1849, in the Plough Tavern in Carey Street, Lincoln’s Inn. Percy Jones attended the inquest, more in the hope than expectation that some useful new information would be forthcoming. The only things that Jones learned were that Wildman had been a stockbroker, and that he had had a brother and sister. Evidence was given as to the circumstances of the finding of Wildman, how he was taken to the hospital, and the evidence of PC Cribb – very professionally given, Jones told him later – and the doctor who detailed his injuries and cause of death. The coroner, Mr Bedford, left the inquest open, in the hope that the mysterious young man who left the scene could be identified and brought to give evidence. The inquest was then adjourned for a week.
Back in his office later that morning, Jones had a brief interview with the dead man’s brother, Benjamin.He was some eight years younger than John: he was tall and thin, with brown hair already turning grey, and a full beard, also going grey around the mouth. He had watery pale blue eyes, a full mouth, and alarge mole on the right of his face. He confirmed his brother’s address and that he was a stockbroker, and that he worked for Rothschild’s Merchant Bank. Jones gave him John Wildman’s keys.
‘Tell me, Mr Wildman,’ Jones asked diffidently, ‘what does a stockbroker do? I mean, I assume it’s not like moving stock from one place to another?’
Wildman smiled thinly. ‘No, it’s not “stock” in that sense: stockbrokers buy and sell stocks and shares, or commodities like corn or copper or...’ he paused, seeking another example, ‘...rubber. John’s speciality was what is called a secondary market called “Covered Warrant”, which is stockissued without an accompanying bond or equity.’
Jones scratched his chin thoughtfully: ‘That helps a little, sir,’ he said. ‘When you say without a bond or equity does that mean it’s a more risky business? ‘
‘Yes, it can be. It’s a type of trading done by financial institutions rather than companies who issue shares.’
‘So is it like those idiots you see in the Exchange, yelling at each other and waving their arms about?’
Another thin smile: ‘No, that’s called “Open Outcry”. John’s business was what they call “Over The Counter”, meaning trading directly between two parties, without any supervision of an exchange.’
‘So, it is a more risky business?’ Jones repeated.
‘Not risky exactly, but more uncertain, I would say.’
‘And how was his trading? Was he doing well?’
‘As far as I know, yes. I certainly never heard him say, or got the impression, that he was anything other than successful.’
‘I see, sir. Thank you.’ Jones checked his notebook: ‘I see his address is Shaftesbury Street in Hoxton?’
‘Yes, my sister and I live there too.’
‘I see. I’d like to have a look at his rooms?’
‘I’m going back there now, if you would permit me to accompany you?’
‘My pleasure, Mr Wildman.’
At Wildman’s insistence the two men took a Hansom from Bow Street. It was raining quite heavily now, and they would have been soaked had they walked. The Wildman family lived in a smart three-story terraced house just north of Wenlock Square, and a short walk from the Regents Canal. Jones was introduced to Miss Adele Wildman. He had seen her from a distance at the inquest, where she had been unable to endure the whole proceedings, and had had to be escorted from the tavern in tears. Close up, Jones could see that she was younger than her brothers by several years, Jones guessed she was 35 or 36, and appeared to be the de facto housekeeper for them. She was slim and demure, and Jones thought her immensely attractive. She had golden hair, piled behind her head in a chignon, a small round face, and bright blue eyes which, in other circumstances, would have danced with amusement and good-humour. Her skin was pale and drawn and, even had she not been dressed entirely in mourning black, it was clear that the loss of her brother had affected her deeply.
They sat uneasily in the parlour around a blazing fire while a maid served tea, and Benjamin Wilding told his sister about those parts of the inquest she had been unable to attend. She also appeared to be unusually observant: within minutes of being introduced to Jones she was asking him how he had come to lose the little finger of his left hand. Her brother stared, slightly goggle-eyed, and muttered ‘God Bless My Soul! I never noticed that!’
Jones smiled: ‘An accident, Miss Wildman.’
‘Oh, something to do with a crime, I assume?’ she asked. Her voice was light and pleasant.
‘Much more prosaic, I’m afraid, miss. You see, I’m a bit of a woodworker, and I had a disagreement with a bandsaw. I came second, as you can see. Sorry it wasn’t something more heroic.’
She smiled briefly. ‘I suppose you should be grateful it wasn’t anything more serious.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Jones nodded. ‘But it does explain my nickname down at Bow Street – Woody.’
Another brief smile: ‘And does that annoy you?’
‘No, indeed, miss. I prefer Woody to my real name.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Percy.Well, Percival, really.’
‘Percy is a nice name. And Percival comes from a 12th century poem by Chretien de Troyes, for his poem called Perceval, the Story of The Grail.’
Jones looked dumfounded. Benjamin Wildman provided the explanation: ‘Detective, my sister studied medieval French literature for three years in France.’
‘Very impressive,’ Jones said, smiling back: ‘I can see I’m going to have to be careful what I say to you, Miss Wildman.’ This, Jones thought to himself, is getting far too chummy: time to get to business.
‘I’m sorry,’ he went on quickly, ‘but I have to turn the conversation to less agreeable matters. May I see your brother’s rooms, please?’
The smiles left their faces as though a lamp had been extinguished. Wildman cleared his throat nervously, said ‘Indeed, quite, quite,’ and stood up. Jones stood, and the two men moved to the door. At the door Jones turned and bowed slightly to Adele Wildman, and said: ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Wildman.’
‘You are very welcome, Detective,’ she replied formally.
John Wildman had two fine large rooms on the first floor of the house. The first was a study and lounge, and the second a bedroom. Jones looked around both rooms quickly, just to get the topography clear in his mind, then began searching. There were four ornate gas lamps on the walls, and a matching oil lamp on the large and beautifully made cherry-wood desk. The lounge contained two deep brown leather armchairs and an elegant sofa. There was a sideboard with decanters and glasses on a silver tray. Jones heard a subtle cough behind him: Benjamin Wildman was standing uneasily in the doorway, seemingly unwilling to enter the room.
‘Do you need me to stay, Mr Jones?’ he asked.
‘Not if you don’t want to, sir. If I find I need to ask you anything I’ll come and find you, if that’s agreeable to you?’
‘Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed.’ Wildman looked shamefaced: ‘I must say this room suddenly gives me the shivers, you see.’
Jones nodded, and smiled sympathetically: ‘I quite understand, sir. Not to worry; leave it to me.’
Jones started at the desk. There were six drawers, three either side of the leg well, none of which were locked. The first contained writing materials; paper, envelopes, sealing wax, pen nibs, pencils, and some stamps. The second drawer contained a large address book, and a telegraph pad. The third drawer, deeper than the first two, contained two box files, unmarked on the outside. The top drawer on the other side contained a single file in a brown manila folder. The second drawer contained a large packet of letters, tied with wax string, and a small cash box. The third drawer on the other side was empty.
Jones started with the address book. It was separated alphabetically, but contained few names. Jones assumed these were business contacts, but he would ask Benjamin and Adele. The first box file contained a mass of papers, neatly arranged, and all concerned with something called Linton and Dexter Securities. The second box file contained only a few sheets, evidently something in the early stages of development, concerned with US Bonds, and total gibberish to Jones. The brown manila folder contained employment documents – contract of employment, terms and conditions, and salary arrangements – from N M Rothschild, address shown as New Court, St Swithin’s Lane, London. Wildman’s salary was shown as £350 per year. The packet contained eight letters, all addressed to JT Wildman, at the Shaftesbury Street address.
Cherry Orchard Lane
Chichester
17 May 1843
My Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you well. You will doubtless be annoyed to learn that I have recently obtained a William & Mary 1682 silver threepence. I won’t compound your ire by telling you how little I paid for it!
Mary and the little ones continue well, thanks be to God. The air here is so much more commodious – how you can tolerate the stink of London is beyond me.
Please keep in touch, and write as often as you are able. It would be splendid to see you and your charming brother and sister again soon.
With best regards
Your good friend
Joseph Muskett
Cornwall Street
Bath
4th October 1847
Dearest John
I trust you and your family are well. I thought you would want to know as soon as maybe: I have access to a George III ‘Cartwheel’ Penny dated 1798. Such a thing is far beyond my means, but the owner would be agreeable to a deposit of, say £10, and a promissory note of your intention to buy (if, of course, inspection meets your approval). I may say that the coin looks ‘fine’ to my eyes, but I am not so knowledgeable.
You will be sad to learn that we lost our youngest – Henry – to whooping cough a month ago. Catherine is still much distressed, but we are in God’s hands, are we not?
Please let me know by telegraph – a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice, given the iniquitous prices these Post Office scoundrels charge per word. If you are interested we can correspond to confirm arrangements.
Hoping to hear from you soon
Your dear friend
Benjamin Adams
London
19th April
John,
We need to meet. Friday 23rd, Holywell Street. After 9 pm
W.P.
DESTROY THIS LETTER
London WC
4th June 1849
Davis & Proctor: Fine Furniture
Dear Sir
I write in response to your letter of 30th May. I was most distressed to learn of your dissatisfaction with the couch you purchased from our Holborn store. I have today instructed my supervising manager Mr John Bell to come to your house, as requested, and inspect the item. Should it prove to be faulty as you describe, it will of course be replaced as a matter of urgency.
Mr Bell will call upon you at 3.00pm on Thursday; should this not be convenient please advise.
Assuring you of our best attention at all times.
I remain, yours faithfully
James Watford,
Director
Norwich Cathedral
May 1847
Dear J T
Well, who would have believed 25 years have passed since we left Trinity? Yolanda and the children are well and healthy, thanks be to God, and my career at the Cathedral progresses well. There is talk that I am soon to be made Archdeacon here, having been undertaking the duties since the illness of poor Father Harold. We fear he is not long for this world, and will soon be called to God’s grace, but the expectation is that that sad event will offer me elevation.