The Great Train Robbery (22 page)

“You going to meet him?”

“Absolutely. Will you crow for me?”

Agar nodded. “You want Barlow? A good cosh could save a mighty trouble.”

“No,” Pierce said. “That’ll set them hounding for sure, a cosh would.”

“Right, then,” Agar said, “a simple crow. ’Twon’t be easy in the Palace.”

“I’m sure Willy knows that,” Pierce said gloomily.

A word should be said about the Crystal Palace, that magical structure which came to symbolize the Victorian mid-century. An enormous three-story glass building covering nineteen acres, it was erected in 1851 in Hyde Park, to house the Great Exhibition of that year, and it impressed every visitor who saw it. Indeed, even in drawings the Crystal Palace is stunning to the modern eye, and to see more than a million square feet of glass shimmering in the afternoon light must have been a remarkable sight for anyone. It is not surprising that the Palace soon represented the forward-looking, technological aesthetic of the new industrial Victorian society.

But this fabulous structure had a comfortingly haphazard origin. Led by Prince Albert himself, plans for the Great Exhibition began in 1850, and soon ran into arguments about the proposed Exhibition Hall itself, and its location.

Obviously the building would have to be very large. But what kind of building, and where? A competition in 1850 attracted more than two hundred designs, but no winner. Thus the Building Committee drew up a plan of its own for a dreadful brick monstrosity; the structure would be four times as long as Westminster Abbey and boast a dome even larger than that of St. Peter’s. It would be located in Hyde Park.

The public balked at the destruction of trees, the inconvenience to riders, the general ruin of the pleasant neighborhood, and so on. Parliament seemed reluctant to permit Hyde Park to be used as the building site.

In the meantime, the Building Committee discovered that their plans required nineteen million bricks. By the summer of 1850, there was insufficient time to make all these bricks and build the Great Hall in time for the exhibition’s opening. There was even some dark talk that the exhibition would have to be canceled, or at least postponed.

It was at this point that the Duke of Devonshire’s gardener, Joseph Paxton, came forward with the idea of erecting a large greenhouse to serve as the Exhibition Hall. His original plan for the committee, drawn up on a piece of blotting paper, was eventually accepted for its several virtues.

First, it saved the trees of Hyde Park; second, its chief material, glass, could be manufactured quickly; and third, it could be taken down after the exhibition and reinstalled elsewhere. The committee accepted a bid of £79,800 from a contractor to erect the giant structure, which was completed in only seven months, and was later the focal point of almost universal acclaim.

Thus the reputation of a nation and an empire was saved by a gardener; and thus a gardener was eventually knighted.
^*

After the exhibition, the Great Hall was taken down and moved to Sydenham, in South-East London. In those days, Sydenham was a pleasant suburban area of
fine homes and open fields, and the Crystal Palace made an excellent addition to the neighborhood. Shortly before four o’clock, Edward Pierce entered the vast structure to meet Clean Willy Williams.

The giant hall held several permanent exhibits, the most impressive being full-scale reproductions of the huge Egyptian statues of Ramses II at Abu Simbel. But Pierce paid no attention to these attractions, or to the lily ponds and pools of water everywhere about.

A brass band concert was in progress; Pierce saw Clean Willy sitting in one of the rows to the left. He also saw Agar, disguised as a retired army officer, apparently snoozing in another corner. The band played loudly. Pierce slipped into the seat alongside Willy.

“What is it?” Pierce said, in a low voice. He looked at the band, and thought idly that he despised band music.

“I’m needing a turn,” Willy said.

“You’ve been paid.”

“I’m needing more,” Willy said.

Pierce shot him a glance. Willy was sweating, and he was edgy, but he did not look nervously around as an ordinary nervous man would do.

“You been working, Willy?”

“No.”

“You been touched, Willy?”

“No, I swear it, no.”

“Willy,” Pierce said, “if you’ve turned nose on me, I’ll put you in lavender.”

“I swear it,” Willy said. “It’s no flam—a finny or two is what I need, and that’s the end of it.”

The band, in a moment of patriotic support for England’s allies, struck up the “Marseillaise.” A few listeners had the ill grace to boo the selection.

Pierce said, “You’re sweating, Willy.”

“Please, sir, a finny or two and that’ll be the end of it.”

Pierce reached into his wallet and withdrew two five-pound notes. “Don’t blow on me,” Pierce said, “or I’ll do what must be done.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” Willy said, and quickly pocketed the money. “Thank you, sir.”

Pierce left him there. As he exited the Palace and came out into the park, he walked quickly to Harleigh Road. There he paused to adjust his top hat. The gesture was seen by Barlow, whose cab was drawn up at the end of the street.

Then Pierce walked slowly down Harleigh Road, moving with all appearances of casualness, as a relaxed gent taking the air. His thoughts, whatever they might have been, were interrupted by the wail of a railway whistle, and a nearby chugging sound. Looking over the trees and roofs of mansions, he saw black smoke puffing into the air. Automatically, he checked his watch: it was the mid-afternoon train of the South Eastern Railway, coming back from Folkestone, going toward London Bridge Station.

The train continued on toward London, and so did Mr. Pierce. At the end of Harleigh Road, near St. Martin’s Church, he hailed a cab and rode it into town to Regent Street, where he got out.

Pierce walked along Regent Street casually, never
once glancing over his shoulder, but pausing frequently to look in the shopwindows along the street, and to watch the reflections in the glass.

He did not like what he saw, but he was wholly unprepared for what he next heard as a familiar voice cried out, “Edward, dear Edward!”

Groaning inwardly, Pierce turned to see Elizabeth Trent. She was shopping, accompanied by a livery boy, who carried brightly wrapped packages. Elizabeth Trent colored deeply. “I—why, I must say, this is an extraordinary surprise.”

“I am so pleased to see you,” Pierce said, bowing and kissing her hand.

“I—yes, I—” She snatched her hand away and rubbed it with her other. “Edward,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Edward, I did not know what had become of you.”

“I must apologize,” Pierce said smoothly. “I was very suddenly called abroad on business, and I am sure my letter from Paris was inadequate to your injured sensibilities.”

“Paris?” she said, frowning.

“Yes. Did you not receive my letter from Paris?”

“Why, no.”

“Damn!” Pierce said, and then immediately apologized for his strong language. “It is the French,” he said; “they are so ghastly inefficient. If only I had known, but I never suspected—and when you did not reply to me in Paris, I assumed that you were angry.…”

“I? Angry? Edward, I assure you,” she began, and broke off. “But when did you return?”

“Just three days past,” Pierce said.

“How strange,” Elizabeth Trent said, with a sudden look of unfeminine shrewdness, “for Mr. Fowler was to dinner a fortnight past, and spoke of seeing you.”

“I do not wish to contradict a business associate of
your father’s, but Henry has the deplorable habit of mixing his dates. I’ve not seen him for nearly three months.” Pierce quickly added: “And how is your father?”

“My father? Oh, my father is well, thank you.” Her shrewdness was replaced by a look of hurt confusion. “Edward, I— My father, in truth, spoke some rather unflattering words concerning your character.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He called you a cad.” She sighed. “And worse.”

“I wholly understand, given the circumstances, but—”

“But now,” Elizabeth Trent said, with a sudden determination, “since you are returned to England, I trust we shall be seeing you at the house once more.”

Here it was Pierce’s turn to be greatly discomfited. “My dear Elizabeth,” he said, stammering. “I do not know how to say this,” and he broke off, shaking his head. It seemed that tears were welling up in his eyes. “When I did not hear from you in Paris, I naturally assumed that you were displeased with me, and … well, as time passed …” Pierce suddenly straightened. “I regret to inform you that I am betrothed.”

Elizabeth Trent stared. Her mouth fell open.

“Yes,” Pierce said, “it is true. I have given my word.”

“But to whom?”

“To a French lady.”

“A
French
lady?”

“Yes, I fear it is true, all true. I was most desperately unhappy, you see.”

“I do see, sir,” she snapped, and turned abruptly on her heel and walked away. Pierce remained standing on the pavement trying to appear as abject as possible, until she had climbed into her carriage and driven off. Then he continued down Regent Street.

Anyone who observed him might have noticed that at the bottom of Regent Street there was nothing about his
manner or carriage that indicated the least remorse. He boarded a cab to Windmill Street, where he entered an accommodation house that was a known dolly-mop’s lurk, but one of the better class of such establishments.

In the plush velvet hallway, Miss Miriam said, “He’s upstairs. Third door on the right.”

Pierce went upstairs and entered a room to find Agar seated, chewing a mint. “Bit late,” Agar said. “Trouble?”

“I ran into an old acquaintance.”

Agar nodded vaguely.

“What did you see?” Pierce said.

“I cooled two,” Agar said. “Both riding your tail nice-like. One’s a crusher in disguise; the other’s dressed as a square-rigged sport. Followed you all the way down Harleigh Road, and took a cab when you climbed aboard.”

Pierce nodded. “I saw the same two in Regent Street.”

“Probably lurking outside now,” Agar said. “How’s Willy?”

“Willy looks to be turning nose,” Pierce said.

“Must have done a job.”

Pierce shrugged.

“What’s to be done with Willy, then?”

“He’ll be getting what any gammy trasseno gets.”

“I’d bump him,” Agar said.

“I don’t know about bumping,” Pierce said, “but he won’t have another chance to blow on us.”

“What’ll you do with the officers?”

“Nothing for the moment,” Pierce said. “I’ve got to think a bit.” And he sat back, lit a cigar, and puffed in silence.

The planned robbery was only five days away, and the police were on to him. If Willy had sung, and loudly, then the police would know that Pierce’s gang had broken into the London Bridge Terminus offices.

“I need a new lay,” he said, and stared at the ceiling.
“A proper flash lay for the miltonians to discover.” He watched the cigar smoke curl upward, and frowned.

The institutions of any society are interrelated, even those which appear to have completely opposite goals. Gladstone himself observed: “There is often, in the course of this wayward and bewildered life, exterior opposition, and sincere and even violent condemnation, between persons and bodies who are nevertheless profoundly associated by ties and relations that they know not of.”

Perhaps the most famous example of this, and one well-recognized by Victorians, was the bitter rivalry between the temperance societies and the pubs. These two institutions in fact served similar ends, and ultimately were seen to adopt the same attractions: the pubs acquired organs, hymn singing, and soft drinks, and the temperance meetings had professional entertainers and a new, raucous liveliness. By the time the temperance groups began buying pubs in order to turn them dry, the intermixture of these two hostile forces became pronounced indeed.