Breaths of Suspicion (18 page)

But the memories are too painful, and I am tired. I’m not a young man any more, you know; I’m approaching seventy and a long discourse like this, even recounting my glory days, it exhausts me.

You look out of sorts. You’re pulling a face.

No, I’m not being evasive. I
will
talk of my fall, but another time, perhaps tomorrow, but for the moment—

You are still not satisfied! Ah, you feel I have been avoiding an
issue I have mentioned several times. It has not been deliberate, I assure you. Have I not told you the truth about John Sadleir’s death? After all this time? But it’s
Bentinck
you want to hear about. My enemy, Lord George Bentinck and his demise on that fateful day when I first met Sadleir, at Lewis Goodman’s meeting at the Abbey Inn, near Welbeck.

All right, before I retire for the night I’ll tell you.

W
hen a prisoner is found guilty of a serious offence such as forgery he is likely at some stage to find himself in Pentonville, almost certainly Newgate, until finally he’s moved along to be incarcerated in one of the prison hulks on the Thames. Edward Agar had been held in both Pentonville and Newgate, prior to his transportation to Australia—awaiting suitable transport, it seems.

You’ll recall Edward Agar. I had acted for him, at Lewis Goodman’s request, years earlier. And he had been present that day at the Welbeck Inn.

I naturally had occasion from time to time to visit the prisons, usually to interview prisoners like Dr Simon Bernard who would be committed to Newgate or some other place of incarceration while awaiting trial on the Queen’s Bench, or the Court of Sessions, or the Central Criminal Court—the Old Bailey.

Some time before I took my seat in Parliament, I was paying such a professional visit to Newgate to interview a client whose instructions I had received through Mr Fryer, the rascally attorney who had taken a lease for me at 27, Berkeley Square—and had, incidentally, lent me over £20,000, in the cheerful belief that he might thus have a future Lord Chancellor in his clutches with a likely huge future financial return. But that’s another matter.

I had concluded my business with my client—at this distance
of time I’ve no recollection who he was—and was making my way back towards the main gates when one of the warders stopped me in the inner courtyard, laying a hand on my arm. I glared at him and he quickly removed his impertinent fingers. He grimaced.

‘Mr James? A word, if you please, sir.’

His tone was respectful enough.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s a prisoner, sir. He’s heard that you’re visiting one of the cells. He’s asked me to request that you spare him a few minutes. He wishes to discuss something with you.’

Somewhat irritated at the presumption, I said, ‘If he wants to talk with me he should make an approach through his attorney. I don’t have time—’

‘He’s most insistent, Mr James. He says it’s a matter of urgency. He says you know him … and some of his
friends
.’

The turnkey eyed me boldly. Men like this warder, they could make an additional living from the favours they bestowed on prisoners in their care: it always surprised me how money could so freely flow in and out of prison, along with pornography, food, drink, opium and a battalion of low-class whores. But it was the unsubtle reference to
friends
that held my attention. I had spent enough time with denizens of the underworld, in a professional capacity as well as rubbing shoulders with them in gambling houses, pugilistic encounters and race meetings, to be aware that it could be dangerous to ignore the wishes of some of those men who were sometimes designated as members of the ‘flash mob’.

‘Who is this man who wishes to talk with me?’ I demanded irritably.

‘Edward Agar. He was convicted of forgery and passing false cheques. He’s awaiting transportation. Due for the hulks at Portland any day now.’

I hesitated. I was reluctant to go back down to the cells, but on the other hand I was a little intrigued. Agar must know I would
be able to do nothing for him, a convicted criminal; there was no appeal system under which I could assist him. But the turnkey had suggested the man had an urgent matter to discuss.

Curiosity got the better of me. I nodded. ‘All right. I’ll give him a few minutes of my time.’

The warder led me back into the forbidding building. A few moments later, after traversing the echoing corridor the cell door was thrown open and I entered. The iron door clanged shut behind me. I found myself in a narrow, damp-smelling room separated from Newgate Street by a thick stone wall. Dim light filtered through a high window overlooking the inner courtyard that housed the gallows on which many notorious criminals had met their end.

The man who faced me scarcely resembled the individual I had known. Imprisonment had diminished him. He no longer wore the trappings of his trade, elegant clothing, well-groomed whiskers, smart appearance: the coarse clothing of the prisoner’s garb made him seem smaller and less imposing. But it was not just his general appearance: his hair was greying, his lined features were considerably leaner, cheeks fallen in, his despairing shoulders were hunched and there was a haunted look about his deep-set eyes.

‘So, Agar,’ I said coldly enough, ‘they’ve done for you at last.’

His narrow head came up, and for a moment a flash of his old confident arrogance came back. ‘Oh, they caught me to rights, Mr James. So I’ve no regrets. I been at the trade for years. My only regret is there were a few years when I went straight. Waste of time, that was.’

‘And now your time is destined to be spent in Australia.’

‘That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr James.’

‘It’s too late to ask for my help. I assisted you once before, at Lewis Goodman’s request. But he’s left the scene for France. I wasn’t involved at your trial, and I can’t do anything for you now. This meeting indeed, it’s quite irregular—’

‘It’s not me I want to talk about, sir. It’s Fanny.’

‘Who?’

‘Fanny Kay. My woman. They’re not treating her right. Not like they promised. And the child has died. She’s desperate. Living in poverty. And in a few days I’ll be in the hulks, then Australia!’

I was silent for a few moments, staring at him. If he thought that in my capacity as a lawyer I could help him, or his woman, he was mistaken. She would be a matter for the Parish, the Poor Law.

‘I don’t see how I can be of assistance,’ I said brusquely and turned to leave. His next words riveted me to the spot.

‘I’ll talk about the gold bullion robbery, Mr James. I’ll tell how it was done. And I’ll tell who did it. I’ll tell
everything
.’

The words hit me like a blow between the shoulder blades. I turned slowly to face Agar.

‘The gold bullion robbery?’

You surely must have heard about that event, my boy! It was the sensation of Europe! But … ah, I see, you were on the high seas, the
Bella
, on the Australian run. So the details never reached you at the time.

It was gold bullion, destined for the Crimea, for the pay of the troops. There were regular payments sent out, via Paris. This particular consignment was due for transfer in May 1855. As I recall from the newspapers at the time the gold was packed into three boxes by the firm of Abell, Spielman and Bell. The boxes, which were bound with hoops of iron, locked with Chubb locks and sealed, were transferred to the South Eastern Railway Company. Keys to the boxes were held only by senior railway officials, and by the captain of the Channel steamer, the
Lord Warden.

It seems the sealed, iron-bound boxes were placed in the guard’s van and taken by rail to Folkestone. From there they were shipped to Boulogne, where the boxes were weighed. It was noted there was some slight discrepancy in weight from the original manifesto but nevertheless the boxes, still sealed, were transferred by rail to
Paris. It was there that the boxes were opened. They were found to contain not gold bullion, but lead shot! You can imagine the outcry, and the manhunt that was then launched. The British government claimed the gold must have been abstracted in France; the French government howled it must have been stolen in England. No one wanted to accept responsibility. Intensive investigations were undertaken, private detectives employed, railway workers and company employees questioned but all to no avail. It was as though the bullion had vanished into thin air—and there were no suspects identified, no theories as to how the gold could have been taken from iron-bound, sealed boxes—not even where the theft might have taken place.

Hundreds of people were interviewed, the months dragged by and the whole event remained a mystery. The police were helpless; the railway company was overwhelmed with anxiety; questions were asked about the Chubb locks, the security system—the honesty of railway employees. But no one could discover who had committed the crime, not even suggest
how
the job had been done.

And now here I found myself in a Newgate cell with a
self-confessed
and notorious forger due to be transported to Australia telling me he could hand me the key that would unlock the mystery of the missing Crimean gold bullion!

‘
You
were involved in the robbery?’ I demanded incredulously.

Edward Agar’s lean features were hollowed with anxiety as he stared at me, almost pleading. ‘He promised me he would give my share to Fanny. He said he would look after her, after my arrest. He
promised
me!’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘That damned rogue Pierce!’

I took a deep breath. ‘You’d better tell me the whole story. From the beginning.’

‘You’ll make sure Fanny will be looked after? You promise me you’ll do what you can; promise me on the word of a gentleman?’

‘Tell me what you know,’ I replied grimly, still only half believing he had anything of worth to disclose.

Agar was silent for a while, almost gulping for breath as though overcome with panic, or disappointment, or fury at the manner in which he felt he had been betrayed. And then he told me.

‘It was my idea from the start—it was after I came back from America and business in Australia that I conceived the plan. The regular transport of the bullion to the Crimea: it was well known. So I planned, first, by recruiting a man called Pierce, who worked as a printer for the railway company. He introduced me to a railway guard called Burgess, who he claimed would be able to obtain impressions of the keys to the bullion boxes. Pierce and I, we personally checked the systems used, followed several consignments to Folkestone, even raised suspicions among watching police—who thought we might be pickpockets! So Pierce and I we split up after that. And Burgess recruited a third member of the group: George Tester, a clerk in the railway superintendent’s office.’ An element of faded pride entered his tone. ‘It was Tester who allowed me entry to the office where the bullion safe keys were held: I took wax impressions. Also I did a calculation, worked out the comparative weight of the bullion—to have ready its equivalent in lead shot.’

Impatiently, I said, ‘So that was how you planned it. But how did you
effect
the robbery without disclosure?’

Agar leaned his head back against the damp wall of his cell. He sounded weary suddenly. ‘We bought the lead shot to the estimated required weight. We packed carpet bags with the shot, concealed them under our cloaks as we took first class tickets to Folkestone. Dressed like gentlemen, we were. We boarded the train carrying the bullion in the guard’s van. The guard was Burgess.’

His voice trembled but he rallied and a hint of pride came into his tone. ‘In the confusion at the London Bridge stop I left Pierce in first class and entered the guard’s van. When we moved off,
Burgess assisted me as I broke into the first bullion box with a mallet and chisel, to remove the iron hoops. Then I used the copied keys. We removed the bullion, replaced it with lead shot and when we arrived at the Redhill stop Pierce joined us in the van. We then attacked the second and third boxes—the third held smaller bars, of Californian gold. We replaced the iron binding, relocked the boxes, now filled with lead shot, and used a wax taper to reseal the locks.’

I was still sceptical. ‘But how did you remove the gold from the train?’ I asked.

‘Confusion again at Folkestone. Pierce and I left the van before the boxes were unloaded. We rejoined the first class carriages, took tickets onwards to Dover, carrying the carpet bags with us while the bullion boxes were taken aboard the steamer. We celebrated that afternoon with champagne, in the Dover Castle Hotel before taking the train back to London the same day. By the time they weighed the boxes in Boulogne, and opened them in Paris, we had long since dispersed. To all extents and purposes, the gold had vanished into thin air. And so had we.’

I was silent for a little while, staring fixedly at Agar, wondering whether I was hearing the truth. But his tone rang with a wearied sincerity.

‘And afterwards?’ I inquired.

‘We shared out the gold—more or less equally, between me, Burgess and Pierce. Tester got paid off. I started the process of melting it down. Saward—Jem the Penman—he helped at the beginning in selling some of the gold. That was before he was taken up, with me, for passing forged cheques. He’s already been transported; I’ll be next. That’s why I need your help now, Mr James! Once I’m in the hulks, or on the high seas to the Australia penal colony, what chance will I have to get back at Pierce? What chance will Fanny Kay have? Pierce should have kept his promise: if he’d done right by Fanny I’d have taken my medicine and kept
mum. But he broke his promise—he left the child to die, and Fanny to starve! He’s given her nothing—
nothing
! But he promised!’

And I gave my promise.

I kept out of the business, of course: I could not afford to have my name linked in any way to this affair. So the following day I contacted Ben Gully. He went to see Fanny Kay, and then arranged for her to meet Mr Rees, the solicitor to the South Eastern Railway who had taken a personal interest in the matter and publically vowed to pursue the miscreants who had robbed the Folkestone train.

A year later it was all over. The jury took only ten minutes in the Old Bailey to convict the robbers: after testimony from the embittered Agar and Fanny Kay, Burgess was sentenced to transportation for fourteen years; Tester received a similar sentence and Pierce was jailed for larceny. Agar, of course, gained no mercy or credit for his testimony: he was still transported to Australia, where Saward, his co-conspirator and old criminal acquaintance was already serving his sentence. But only part of the proceeds of the robbery were ever recovered.

I know, I know, I’ve told you this story as it happened, but of course what you want to know is about the mysterious death of Lord George Bentinck. But you see, it’s all part of the same history. Before I left the Newgate cell that day I pressed Edward Agar for the full story.