The Piccadilly Pickpocket Read online

  And he wondered.

  He remembered how the forger he had recently arrested had eluded capture for months because he never left the house, choosing to send out his young grand-daughter to run his errands instead.

  Lavender’s stomach rumbled and distracted him from his thoughts. He shook himself to empty his mind of speculation. He had let his imagination get the better of him. He needed to chase down the evidence and use solid old-fashioned police work to uncover the thief. However, their investigation was struggling. He would suggest a door-to-door search of the lodgings in this area to Townsend and Read when he returned to Bow Street.

  He decided to visit the White Bear coaching inn and have a meal. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the daylight was fading. The White Bear was a pick-up and drop-off point for passengers travelling to and from London and the West Country. There was a slim chance he might turn up some information there about their mysterious thief, and the staff would be far more forthcoming in the answers they gave to his questions if he gave them some custom.

  He turned to return to Piccadilly but did a double-take at the sight of a beggar at the bend in the street. Slumped on the ground with drooping shoulders and a begging bowl beside him, the man was half-hidden in the shadow of the buildings. Muffled in scarves with an old hat pulled low over his eyes, he had an injured arm wrapped in a grimy old bandage. At first Lavender didn’t know what had stopped him in his tracks then his lips curled into a smile. This was the burliest, best-fed beggar he had ever seen.

  He approached the man, tossed a handful of change down into the cap on the ground and winked. ‘You look like you have fallen on hard times, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘I may have,’ growled Woods, from beneath the scarves. He had thickened his accent and his voice was gruffer than normal. The nearby shoppers glanced curiously in their direction. ‘I think my luck will depend on the help I can get from my friends – such as you, kind sir.’ Lavender could just see the blood-shot whites of Woods’ eyes beneath the low rim of his hat. The flesh on the side of his face was still swollen and bruised. A strong whiff of the fish wharf emanated from his constable’s dirty old fishing jacket.

  ‘Your friends are looking out for you,’ Lavender said, conscious that they were using a clipped kind of code. ‘You can tell that to your lady wife. You should be at home, nursing your injury – and let others take care of your problems.’

  ‘This street’s my home for now,’ said Woods. ‘Till I sees what I wants to see.’

  ‘What you have seen while you have been sat here today? Lavender asked.

  ‘I’ve seen lots of police constables and officers askin’ the shop-keepers and shoppers questions to which everyone shakes their head,’ said Woods. ‘And I’ve seen a known crowd of villains from the rookery of St. Giles botherin’ the same folks with the same questions.’

  Lavender frowned. This wasn’t good news. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘From the rookery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d know them again?’

  ‘I know them already. ’Tis that cove Conkey Shiels and his side-kicks: Timon Roberts and Big George.’

  ‘Didn’t Roberts have a sister who works the dark groves at Vauxhall Gardens?’

  ‘Yes, right loud-mouthed trollop she is: Lola.’

  ‘There might be a connection,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘If so, then Little Beau has been keeping some bad company.’

  ‘Ye’ll never find him in the rookery,’ Woods warned. ‘There’s more rat holes in there than in the bilge of a French Man o’ War.’

  Lavender straightened up as another pedestrian strolled by. ‘I’ll wish you “good-day” my poor chap,’ he said loudly, ‘and a speedy recovery.’

  He didn’t want to compromise Woods’ secret surveillance any further so he dropped a few more coins into the hat and walked away. He’d catch up with him later that evening. That’s if Woods went home that night, of course. His constable was a stubborn man when riled, who bore discomfort bravely and never stayed inactive for long. He should have known that Woods wouldn’t sit fretting at home while his career was in jeopardy and there were thieves to catch.

  Woods’ information worried him. If he was right and the Shiels gang from the rookery were after the snuffer, the thief was in great danger. He must find him first. Imprisonment and transportation would be a picnic compared to the misery and torture that the Shiels Gang would inflict on the man who had robbed one of their own.

  He resolved to return to Bow Street and organise a raiding party for dawn the next day. It would be dark soon and there was no way that any constables from Bow Street could safely navigate that dangerous labyrinth after dusk. The worse slum in England, the rookery of St. Giles was a maze of gin shops, prostitute’s hovels and secret alleyways, dissected with open sewers. Cut-throats lurked around every corner at night, while whole families of starving paupers and immigrants cowered in the squalor of single-roomed, damp cellars. No. Any raid on the rookery should be carried out at dawn. In the meantime, his complaining stomach reminded him that he needed to eat.

  The frontage of The White Bear on Piccadilly flanked a stone arch that led into a wide, cobbled yard lined with stables and tap rooms. At the rear of this yard was another covered arch which led out onto Jerrmyn Street. The inn was busy. Lavender carefully picked his way through piles of steaming horse dung and a crowd of excited passengers who waited to board the six-thirty coach to Dover. The new arrivals who had just disembarked from the coach stretched out their stiff limbs in the yard and waited patiently for their luggage to be handed down from the roof of the carriage. Others made a bee-line for the tables in the smoky taproom, attracted by the strong aroma of mutton stew and freshly-baked pies.

  Lavender squeezed through the milling crowd into a corner and found himself a vacant table. He ordered a pie and a tankard of ale and watched the distracted and sweating landlord rush around from one group of customers to another.

  ‘Will you require anything else, sir?’ asked the young barmaid as she brought him his food. She tilted her head coquettishly and drawled out the last word to draw attention to her mouth. The wicked glint in her dark eyes and the low cut of her bodice left him in no doubt about the nature of what she had in mind.

  ‘I’m here on business,’ he said stiffly, as he poured gravy over his pie.

  ‘’Tis a shame, that.’ She moistened her rosy lips with a tiny pink tongue and gave him a half smile. ‘All that work’ll make you a dull boy, sir,’ she purred. ‘You should leave some time fer pleasure, an ’andsome fellah like you,’ she said. Her finger twirled a stray curl of dark hair back that had escaped from beneath her mob cap.

  He smiled. ‘Can you ask the landlord to come over and talk to me for a moment? I’m Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street Police Office.’

  ‘Police?’ Her pretty eyes widened in surprise and alarm. ‘Alright,’ she said hastily. ‘If that’s all you want.’ She flounced away towards the beleaguered inn keeper.

  The White Bear landlord proved to be no more help to Lavender than the owners of the pawn shops and jewellers he had visited that morning.

  ‘’Ave you any idea ’ow many men, women and children pass through this here establishment every week, sir?’ His large, greasy hands twisted his stained apron. ‘’Tis hundreds!’ And I never ’ave time to stop and ask them where they’re from.’ Behind him the little barmaid leaned against the scuffed and cracked wood panelling on the wall, listening to their conversation.

  ‘I believe that this particular man has found lodgings nearby. He may come back here to drink from time to time.’ Carefully, Lavender passed on the description of the snuffer given to him by Woods. ‘He has a strong West Country accent.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t speak to half of them that comes in here. I wouldn’t know about ’is accent.’

  Sighing, Lavender handed over the money for his food and drink and rose to leave. The barmaid had sidled back up to him. ‘I ’eard what you said to ’
im,’ she confessed.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I think I may know ’im that you want.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, I ’ave seen the fellah. He comes ’ere to eat, from time to time. He’s pleasant enough – and quiet. Though ’e ’as that strong joskins accent when ’e speaks. I thought ’e were a bit sad. I think he had had some bad luck.’

  Lavender stared into her pale, freckled face and tried to assess her reliability as a witness. Her description was uncannily like the profile he had dreamed up for the thief earlier in the day. She looked young, very young. Sixteen perhaps? Or younger? Youngsters like her had quick eyes and better memories than their elders.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Sarah, sir. Sarah Benson.’

  She was the kind of girl Woods would have called ‘treacle’. Suddenly he missed his constable and his stomach clenched at the thought that he might never work with him again. Woods had that common touch, something he knew he lacked. Woods would have had the girl bent double with laughter by now and spilling out her secrets.

  ‘Well, I hope you aren’t wasting my time, Miss Benson,’ he said. ‘You can be arrested for wasting police time, you know.’ He chided himself for his cold formality as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ she said, unabashed. ‘Did I ’ere that there’s a reward out for ’is capture?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep my peepers open and I’ll let you know if I sees ’im again,’ she said, nodding. ‘’E told me once where ’e were stayin’. Gave me the street address, he did.’

  He tensed. ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘’E asked me to call around after I’d finished my work. Said ’e were lonely and needed a bit o’ company – but ’e warned me to be quiet when I came in the door on account of the landlady bein’ so proper and prim.’

  Lavender tensed. ‘Did you go?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Her sly smile had returned. ‘By the end of the night, I’d ’ad a better offer.’ Her mouth opened wider, revealing two perfect rows of pearly teeth. Then it snapped shut and she was serious again. ‘’E gave me the directions but I’ll be blowed if I can remember them.’

  ‘I need you to try, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Think hard.’ Use their names, Woods had once told him. It puts them at ease.

  She frowned as she racked her brains. The coquettish little strumpet had vanished. Before him stood a serious young woman and intelligence shone in her bright eyes. Eventually she gave up and shook her head. ‘I wants to get away from this life,’ she whispered.

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I wants me own stall on the market to sell straw bonnets. I can do that, you know.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Sarah,’ said Lavender with feeling. ‘Are you sure you can’t remember the address of this man, Sarah? The street? Anything?’

  ‘No – but it might come to me if I think ’ard. ’Ow much did you say that reward were again?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He told her the amount and her eyes widened. She swayed as if her knees had suddenly gone weak.

  ‘You’ll be able to sell silk bonnets – never mind straw – at your market stall if you earn this reward,’ he said slowly. ‘If you remember anything – anything, Sarah – you must come to Bow Street Police Office and ask for Detective Lavender. Detective Lavender, remember?’

  ‘Lavender? Like the flower? Yes, I will, sir,’ she squeaked. She bobbed him a curtsey as he took up his hat and left.

  He made one last call before he gave up for the day; Bartholomew Wilton’s pawn shop. Storm clouds now billowed across the dusky pink sky, hastening the onset of darkness.

  Wilton’s pawn shop was situated in a dank alley off Drury Lane. Lavender called here more out of habit than with any hope of finding out anything useful. That old curmudgeon, Wilton, had been helpful to him and Woods in the past. But when he climbed down the steep flight of greasy steps to the entrance, he found the door to the shop locked. The three peeling red globes creaked miserably on their pole in the breeze above his head but he got nothing but silence when he hammered on the door.

  He peered inside the grimy window panes and saw the usual jumble of battered furniture stacked haphazardly against the walls inside the shop. Scratched occasional tables were still piled on top of the sagging upholstery of ancient sofas, while framed pictures hung drunkenly across the sections of the crumbling walls that were not obscured by leaning rolls of mouldy carpets and rugs. He caught the glint of metal in the dusty glass cabinets crammed with garnet brooches, snuff boxes, silver watches and teaspoons.

  He knew that Barty lived above the premises. Climbing back up the slimy steps to the street level, he raised his eyes to the upstairs windows and yelled. ‘For God’s sake, Barty – open this door!’ Still there was no response. He picked up a handful of stones and hurled them at the grimy window panes.

  The warped wood grated and complained as it was forced upwards. Wilton’s fingers curled over the edge of the window sill and the wizened old man leaned out and peered down at him nervously.

  ‘What you want, detective?’ His straggly grey eyebrows were joined together in a frown over his small, suspicious eyes.

  ‘I need some information, Barty,’ Lavender replied. ‘About a stolen silver pocket watch.’

  ‘You and the rest of the damned world,’ snarled the old man. ‘I’m not openin’ my doors again till you’ve caught that bugger.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ Large raindrops splattered on his upturned face and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

  But Barty had withdrawn his head back into the building. His filthy hands reached up to close the window.

  ‘Barty Wilton, if you don’t answer my questions,’ Lavender yelled. ‘I’ll round up the constables, come back here and go through your shop with a fine ivory toothcomb. And so help me God, if we find anything suspicious in your poxy shop, I’ll not spare you from the Beak or from Newgate this time.’

  The old man’s head reappeared in an instant. ‘Now, now, detective,’ he said. ‘There’s no need fer threats.’

  ‘Just tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ve ’ad a visit from a rough group of fellahs.’ Barty’s voice caught in this throat and Lavender realised that the old man was genuinely shaken. Lavender narrowed his eyes against the rain and saw the purple bruise spreading across the leathered skin of the old man’s cheekbone. ‘Most unpleasant they were.’

  ‘What did they want?’ The rain fell heavier now but he knew the old man wouldn’t come downstairs and open up the shop. Without taking his eyes off Barty, he pulled up the collar of his coat.

  ‘They demanded to see me pocket watches – and when none took their likin’ – they got physical, roughed me up and threatened me. ’Tisn’t right,’ Barty whined. ‘You law officers are allus so quick to point the finger at the likes of me but you should be protectin’ us ’onest citizens.’

  Lavender took the criticism stoically. He needed the old man’s cooperation and this wasn’t the right time to remind Barty that he had spent several spells in Newgate for fencing stolen goods.

  ‘Did they say anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘They sed that the watch had been filched from a Gentleman George.’

  ‘Gentleman George?’ Lavender asked in surprise. ‘They said that, did they?’

  ‘Yes, and they ses that if I were to come across this shiny silver pocket watch then I was to give it to them.’

  ‘Barty, if anyone tries to sell you or pawn a silver watch – you are to contact me immediately. Do you hear me?’ The rain had plastered Lavender’s hair to the side of his face and had begun to drum on the cobblestones. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘There’s a huge reward out for that watch, Barty – and if you are offered it, I’ll see that you get your share.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Detective, I’m sure, but I won’t open my doors again till the
fuss is past and you ’ave done your job. I don’t need this kind of trouble.’ His arthritic old hands reached up again for the window.

  ‘Barty! One more thing – was it Conkey Shiels, Timon Roberts and Big George who threatened you?’

  There was an imperceptible pause that told Lavender what he needed to know. ‘Well, it might ’ave been them,’ said the old man warily. ‘But I’m not sure. I thought it were my time to put on a wooden surcoat. I’m sayin’ no more. I’ve told you too much already.’

  The window slammed down with a resounding crash as the first thunder clapped overhead.

  To get back to Bow Street, Lavender had to battle his way along the wet pavements against a tide of departing shoppers. Everyone had their heads lowered against the downpour as they scurried to find shelter and no-one looked where they were going. Covent Garden market was hastily closing down; the torrential rain meant the end of business for the day for everyone. The roads were congested with carriages and drays. Skittish horses shied and reared at each clap of thunder and flash of lightning. He was drenched by the time he staggered up the steps into Bow Street Police Office. Fortunately, Magistrate Read had a fire blazing in the hearth in his room. Unfortunately, Townsend was also back and sprawled in his usual chair opposite James Read.

  ‘I hope you have some good news for us, Stephen,’ Read said. ‘This case has taken a nasty turn and Townsend has come up with nothing.’

  ‘It’ll be only a matter of time afore one of my old acquaintances…’ the older detective said but Read cut him off with a withering glance. The lamps had already been lit to offset the gloom of the dusk and the storm clouds outside. Magistrate Read looked strained. His knuckles were white with tension as he drummed his fingers on his desk. Townsend also looked more subdued than normal.