The Great Train Robbery (34 page)

“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 crime, 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, and told 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 screwsman?” 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 glocky, 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 again. “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 … hmm … 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 his prisoner. “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 Pierce’s 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 Warrington, 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.