The Piccadilly Pickpocket Read online

  The Piccadilly Pickpocket

  A Detective Lavender Short Story

  by

  Karen Charlton

  The Piccadilly Pickpocket

  © Karen Charlton 2014

  The right of Karen Charlton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Karen Charlton at Famelton Publishing. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to:

  Famelton Writing Services

  Alternatively, the author can be contacted through her website:

  www.karencharlton.com

  Visit Karen Charlton’s website to learn more about her historical novels,

  Catching the Eagle (Famelton Publishing 2014) and

  The Detective Lavender Series, published by Thomas & Mercer.

  While there, sign up for Karen Charlton’s FREE monthly newsletter and join in discussion on her blog.

  www.karencharlton.com

  Also by Karen Charlton

  February 1809

  Catching the Eagle

  The Heiress of Linn Hagh

  The Sans Pareil Mystery (October 2015)

  The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds

  Seeking Our Eagle

  For the

  Hysterical Fictionaires

  Jean Gill, Jane G. Harlond, Kristin Gleeson, Babs Morton, Claire Stibbe,

  Karen Maitland, Steve Robinson, Bill McCormick and Frances Kay

  Without whose help and friendship I would never be able to publish a word.

  Love you guys.

  xxx

  The Piccadilly Pickpocket

  A small figure dashed out of a side alley, veered around the startled shoppers and sped across Piccadilly. The dwarf’s short arms pumped furiously in rhythm with his dumpy legs as he ran. Silver hoops dangled from his ears and flashed in the weak spring sunlight. He darted between the rear end of a hansom cab and an oncoming brewer’s dray and narrowly missed a trampling. The driver cursed. The tiny man reached the opposite pavement and swerved to avoid a man with a handcart, oblivious to the stir he had caused among the pedestrians and the two horse-patrol officers who watched him.

  ‘Now, where would Little Beau be racing off to in such a hurry, I wonder?’ Constable Woods asked from astride his restless mount.

  His fellow officer, Constable Brown, was on the ground bent over the raised hoof of his lame horse. The nearside fore horseshoe was half-off, fixed only to the mare’s hoof by a twisted nail. He straightened up at Woods’ comment and followed his gaze.

  A veteran performer with the tumbling troupe in the Vauxhall Gardens, Little Beau was a nimble acrobat and as cocky as a wharf bilge rat. Within his stunted frame, he had the lungs of an ogre, the vocabulary of a stevedore and a booming voice-box. But he wasn’t yelling out crude comments to the women now, Woods observed as the tiny man plunged down another side-street. Little Beau needed all his breath to keep moving.

  ‘Shall we follow him?’ asked Constable Brown,

  ‘I’ll go.’ Woods gathered up the reins. ‘You pull off that danglin’ horseshoe and walk your mare back to the stables at Bow Street – I’ll follow the little rascal.’

  Suddenly, another red-faced and breathless man burst out of the alleyway on the opposite side of the road. It was John Townsend, one of the Principal Officers at Bow Street police office. Townsend hesitated and scanned the busy street in visible dismay. His small eyes landed with noticeable relief on the distinctive scarlet and blue uniforms of the two curious patrol men. Dodging the traffic, he crossed the street and came towards them.

  Woods lowered the reins and braced himself. Instantly recognisable by his swaggering gait, colourful attire and the moth-eaten flaxen wig perched on top of his bald head, John Townsend was one of London’s best-known and most admired police officers, especially among the nobility from whom he derived many rewards and a large income by way of their Christmas boxes. Townsend possessed a good memory for names, a useful knack for remembering faces and was frequently employed by his wealthy clients to detect, or keep away, improper characters from their parties or routs. But the garrulous detective wasn’t popular with his fellow officers at Bow Street police office. Woods didn’t like him; he far preferred the quiet modesty and courtesy of his friend, Detective Stephen Lavender.

  ‘You there – officers!’ Townsend was purple-faced and gasping for breath. ‘I’m after that rogue: Little Beau. Which way did he go?’ He clutched his precious broad-brimmed hat in agitated and sweating hands. The acrobatic dwarf was obviously much fitter than him.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Woods’ tone was gruff. He knew his place in the hierarchy of officers as well as the next man, but he had worked as a Bow Street officer for twenty years. Townsend knew his name and there was no reason for him not to use it.

  ‘He’s filched a silver pocket watch – from the Prince Regent, no less!’

  Woods took a sharp intake of breath. Townsend spent most of his time in the royal entourage these days, either in London, Bath or Brighton. The detective often bragged that should John Townsend ever warn of ruffians in a crowded gathering, the Prince – and half of the nobility of England – would happily entrust their purses and pocket wallets into his care. Woods lowered his head to hide a satisfied smirk. No wonder the man looked so worried. This theft would do to a lot of damage to Townsend’s reputation once it became public knowledge that the Prince Regent was robbed while Townsend was in attendance. His clients wouldn’t be so keen to hand over their valuables now.

  ‘Slid straight under the royal armpits, he did,’ Townsend continued. ‘Then he helped himself to the royal pocket watch and took off. Where the devil is the little mutt?’

  Woods glanced over his shoulder to find a gap in the traffic. ‘I’ll get him,’ he said.

  ‘You there!’ Townsend said sharply to Constable Brown. ‘Go with him!’

  Woods reined in his horse sharply. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘The horse has shed a shoe. Constable Brown is going to walk her back to Bow Street now. If you try to mount her, lad – I’ll have your hide.’

  ‘Well, really!’ Townsend’s ruddy face darkened with anger.

  Constable Brown glanced nervously between his fellow patrol man and the more senior detective. Then he nodded in Woods’ direction. Satisfied that Brown would follow his instructions, Woods dug his heels into the flank of his horse and set off.

  ‘Be sure to hold him!’ Townsend called after him. ‘I’ll make the arrest.’

  No, you ruddy well won’t, thought Woods. He’s mine. The prospect of getting one over on the pompous Townsend was very satisfying.

  Thankfully, the narrow side-street down which Little Beau had disappeared was less crowded than the main thoroughfare and Woods urged his horse into a canter. The throng thickened at the end of the street where it veered to the right in a dog-leg bend. He focused on the sea of bobbing heads and hats ahead and noted that the crowd seemed to be parting and stepping back from something. Woods hoped that this was their reaction to the dwarf as he darted past their legs. Had Little Beau realised that a patrol officer now followed him? Woods’ uniform was distinctive, even at a distance.

  Woods rounded the bend, cursed and reined in his horse. He had lost sight of his quarry and several dank alleyways now led off from the narrow lane. These narrow passageways crisscrossed the teeming thoroughfares of London like a maze. If Little Beau had slid into their shadows, he would never find him. Woods glanced around desperately.

&nbs
p; About twenty feet away stood a rusty, iron-handled pump that dripped water into a high-sided over-flowing trough. A thin dog drank from the stagnant puddles at the base. Curled over the far-lip of the ancient stone trough were a set of stubby fingers and the fraying cuff of a dirty brown coat. A child perhaps? No. Little nippers didn’t have tattoos and coarse ginger hair on the back of their hands. Woods stood up in his stirrups to get a better view. He saw a pair of heaving shoulder blades and a close-cropped greying head. Little Beau had a stitch and had hidden behind the trough while he caught his breath.

  Grinning to himself, Woods slid quietly out of the saddle, threw the reins and a penny to a startled child, and crept up behind the dwarf. Despite his large frame, Woods moved with considerable stealth when he needed to.

  ‘Come here, you little whiddler!’ He pounced on Little Beau, grasped him in a tight bear-hug and lifted him bodily from the ground.

  Someone the crowd yelled out in consternation; another cheered. Alarmed, the stray dog yelped and darted away from the puddles. The flailing dwarf wriggled like a river eel caught on a fishing line. He swore loudly and fought back hard, kicking a pannier out of a passing woman’s hands. She screamed. Next, Little Beau slammed his boot-heels into Woods’ calves. Woods grunted in pain but held on tighter. Everyone in the vicinity turned their way to stare at the burly officer grappling with the cursing manikin.

  Suddenly, Woods lost his footing on the greasy slime that encircled the trough. He threw out his arms to regain his balance and dropped the dwarf.

  Little Beau didn’t run. He spun around, his ruddy face contorted with fury, and he jerked his short arm towards Woods’ head. There was a flash of silver and a heavy pocket watch on the end of a metal chain appeared out of nowhere, arching upwards towards Woods’ face. It crashed into Woods’ eye socket.

  His world exploded in a shock of red and white light and he bellowed in agony. He clutched at his throbbing eye socket and felt warm blood oozing over his fingers. He sensed, rather than saw, the dwarf turn on his heels to make his escape.

  ‘’Ere, do ’e be needin’ some help, officer?’

  Through a veil of red mist, Woods saw a smart, middle-aged man step out in front of the fleeing pickpocket. The man pulled a handful of snuff out of his coat pocket and with a quick flick of his wrist he tossed it into Little Beau’s face. The startled dwarf screamed, staggered and crumpled into a helpless heap on the ground; his small body heaved and exploded into a sneezing fit. The stranger leaned down and wrenched the silver pocket watch out of Little Beau’s hands.

  Relief flooded through Woods. Ignoring the searing pain in his eye socket, he stumbled forward and opened his mouth to thank the stranger. But his relief was short-lived. The man turned towards Woods, smiled and launched a second handful of snuff in his direction.

  It flew into Woods’ partially open mouth, stinging the back of his throat and his nostrils like a swarm of miniature wasps. His throat, eyes and mouth clamped shut as his nasal passages tried to expel the painful irritant. He collapsed onto his knees, desperately clawing at his face to brush off the snuff, with tears streaming down his face.

  When Woods finally managed to find a gap between the violent sneezing and use his one remaining good eye to peer through the sea of legs that surrounded him, the thieving cove had disappeared. Little Beau had also crawled away, unnoticed, like a wounded rat.

  It was late that evening when Detective Stephen Lavender wearily returned to his rooms in Southwark. The lamp-lighters had long-since finished their rounds and a few wall lanterns flickered but the street was still dark and unwelcoming. His empty stomach rumbled as the smell of meat roasting over hundreds of London coal fires drifted down from the chimneys on the breeze.

  He had spent the day giving evidence at the Old Bailey against the forger whom he had sought for weeks and finally arrested last month. A hardened criminal, the man had been sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation. Unfortunately, so had the forger’s orphaned grand-daughter whom the old man had made his accomplice. Vulnerable and trusting, the young girl had carried the forged coins made by her grandfather to their accomplice in the bottom of her wicker flower basket.

  It gave him no satisfaction to see the distressed and traumatised child in the dock. Nor did he want to dwell on her suffering. She had been separated from her grandfather, her only relative, and held in the dreadful women’s section of Newgate prior to the trial. Lavender knew that her fellow cellmates were some of the worst whores, slatterns and female drunkards in the Capital. Fumbling in his coat pocket for his door key, he sighed and tried to force the child’s pale, tear-stained and terrified face out his mind.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of hard boots racing over the cobbled street behind him; two pairs. He spun round, his hand instinctively reached inside his coat for his pistol.

  ‘Uncle Stephen!’

  Dan and Eddie Woods flew across the cobbles out of the shadows. He exhaled with relief, bit back the urge to remonstrate with the lads for startling him and braced himself for some practical joke or other. But not tonight. Young Dan threw his arms around his waist and buried his face in Lavender’s coat. ‘You’ll ’ave to come with us!’ the child sobbed into the cloth.

  Eddie, older by a year, came to an abrupt stop by his side and waited in dignified silence. His eyes were large and scared in his pale freckled face. ‘Ma’s sent us,’ he said solemnly. ‘Our Da’s in trouble.’

  Lavender gently untangled Dan’s arms from around his waist. ‘’E’s to be dismissed!’ The boy’s wail of horror made it sound like Woods was due to swing from the gallows.

  ‘There were a lot of blood,’ Eddie said. ‘’Twere all over ’is shirt.’

  Frowning, Lavender took a firm hold of Dan’s arm and steered him along the pavement in the direction of their home. This didn’t make sense but a summons from Betsy Woods wasn’t to be ignored. The boys’ distressed and pale faces told him something serious had happened to his oldest friend and colleague. He was clearly destined to be haunted by frightened children today, but at least with this situation he might be able to help.

  ‘You’ll find the cove that did it won’t you, Uncle Stephen?’ asked Dan, as the boys fell into step beside him, their short legs taking two rapid steps to each stride of his.

  ‘Uncle Stephen will arrest both thieves,’ Eddie said confidently. ‘The first and the second. And he’ll get Pa his job back.’

  Lavender grimaced when he saw the state of Woods’ face. His constable’s right eye had disappeared behind a swollen, puffy mass of blackened and purpling flesh and there was a deep cut across his brow bone where blood congealed in his shaggy, grey eyebrows. The pile of bloodied rags on the old kitchen table gave testament to the difficulty Betsy had had trying to stop the bleeding. Six year-old Rachel stood, wide-eyed and tearful, beside her beloved father.

  ‘In God’s name! What the hell happened to you?’ he asked.

  Woods raised a large hand to dismiss the fuss and shook his head sadly. But Betsy was far more forthcoming. ‘He were injured in the line of duty,’ she snapped, ‘and that saphead, Townsend, wants Magistrate Read to dismiss him.’

  Lavender heard the panic in her voice. Woods’ dismissal from Bow Street would be a disaster for the family. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. ‘Tell me what happened, Ned,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get much sense from the boys. Something about how you were attacked by a dwarf?’

  Woods grabbed one of the bloodied rags and sneezed into it. His face contorted with pain at the spontaneous spasm of his facial muscles.

  ‘He were snuffed, that’s what happened,’ Betsy said, angrily. ‘By a ruddy snuffer! This were after the dwarf bashed him with the pocket watch.’

  Somewhere in the house, Baby Tabitha began to cry. Betsy’s head moved instinctively at the sound.

  ‘See to your children, Betsy,’ Lavender said calmly. ‘I’ll sort this out.’

  The diminutive woman gasped and her lower lip quivered. She took a s
tep towards him, concern, misery and frustration etched across her lined face. Her greying hair seemed more frizzy and wild than usual. ‘Thank you, Stephen.’ Her voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘I knew we could rely on you.’ She spun on her heel, and shooed the three older children out of the kitchen.

  ‘She fusses too much,’ Woods said quietly. ‘I told her not to bother you, sir.’

  ‘She did the right thing,’ Lavender replied. ‘Now tell me what happened.’

  Slowly, Woods told him the events of the morning. ‘Townsend were furious when he found me,’ Woods said. ‘He told me to get home and stay home. He said Magistrate Read would send me notice of my dismissal soon.’

  ‘Well, you’re not in any condition to patrol on horseback, that’s for sure,’ Lavender said, as Woods sneezed and grimaced again. ‘Can you see out of that eye?’

  Woods shrugged. ‘I get a glimmer of light now and then. Everythin’ is a bit fuzzy but it’s better than it were. Betsy has given me a draught to ease the pain. I just wish I could stop this damned sneezin’.’

  ‘That’ll stop eventually,’ Lavender said. ‘Snuff is a terrible irritant if you’re not used to it. What is this nonsense about you being dismissed?’

  Woods sighed. ‘Townsend said that he would see me dismissed for this. He said that it were my fault; that we would have recovered the Prince’s watch if I had let Constable Brown accompany me. At least I think that’s what he said. I were too busy sneezin’ to listen properly.’

  Lavender frowned. He knew the patrol officers always travelled in pairs. ‘Why did you leave Constable Brown behind?’

  ‘Because of a ruddy horse!’ Betsy had reappeared at the kitchen doorway.

  ‘His mare had lost a shoe and was lame,’ Woods said simply. ‘I don’t care what Townsend wanted us to do; she couldn’t be ridden.’

  ‘I swear, Ned Woods, that you think more for them beasts than you do for your own family,’ Betsy declared. Lavender heard the strangled sob in her voice. Woods’ face crumped in distress.