Dodger of the Dials

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Heron Books
an imprint of

Quercus Editions Ltd
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7th Floor, South Block
London
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Copyright © 2014 James Benmore

The moral right of James Benmore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HB ISBN 9781780874685
TPB ISBN 9781848664104
EBOOK ISBN 9781780874692

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To my brothers, Michael and Harry

‘Burglary or pocket-picking wanted ’prenticeship. Not so, murder. We are all of us up to that.’

The Night-Inspector from
Our Mutual Friend

Part One

Chapter 1
The Lady of Stars

In which the reader discovers me, just two short years since our last meeting, going about my nightly business

The whole thing would have gone down very well had it not been for the bad crow. We was four working the crack on that cloudless night and if we had all played our parts as given then a good deal of unpleasantness would have been avoided. But however adept a burglar might be as he busies himself inside a fine home, he cannot afford to rely on accomplices what do not know what they’re doing. Now I’m never one for pointing fingers at the less talented, but young Scratcher, it pains me to record, proved himself to be a proper liability before the job had even begun.

The first sign of trouble was when we at last reached the small Kent village, after five hours’ travelling, and I heard his quiet sniffle as our cart trundled on in the darkness. He was trying to hide the tears from us but to no avail and Tom Skinner, who was always quick with the
I told you so
, flashed me a hard look.

‘This is Whetstone,’ I whispered to Georgie Bluchers who was driving the dairy cart into the village and about to pass by a local hostelry. He was dressed in a white milking smock so as not to arouse suspicion but it was gone midnight and there was not a soul about. ‘The crib we want is further along. It’s best if we three foot it over alone and you just trot off and stay hidden.’ Tom and myself had been scouting this location over the past week in a series
of disguises and we knew what was the sharpest cut to approach Whetstone Manor. ‘Is your watch wound?’ I said to Georgie before we climbed out of the cart. He pulled out his ticker from inside the smock and we compared times. ‘Good,’ I said when I saw that they was as one. ‘Then give us thirty minutes if you don’t hear from the crow.’ I turned to Tom who was lifting Scratcher down. ‘Go over the calls,’ I said. ‘Once more.’

Tom squawked like a bird twice and I asked Georgie what this meant.

‘The policeman is coming,’ Georgie replied. ‘Time to go.’

‘Correct,’ I said and then Tom squawked again, only this time it was one long and lazy squawk of a bird cry.

‘That means he’s gone—’

‘Not you,’ I interrupted Georgie and turned to little Scratcher. ‘You.’

‘He’s gone to the pub?’ Scratcher asked.

‘Right!’ I nodded in encouragement. ‘Which we’ll want to know.’

During our secret excursions to this village both Tom and myself had noted that the sole beat constable was inclined to visit the pub after hours for a jar with the landlord. This meant that he would not be coming out again for hours and was unlikely to be patrolling near Whetstone Manor until morning. If this happened tonight then our task would be easier so it was worth the crow informing us. Tom then began squawking in an alarmed manner and there was no doubting what this meant.

‘Trouble,’ I told them all as I filled up the sack with the necessary tools. In went a knife, a jemmy, two persuaders, a tub of glue, a brush and one loose glove. ‘Coming fast. If this happens then Georgie gallops the cart up to the main gate and we’ll bundle in and collect Tom on the way back. But if that don’t work then it’s every man for himself.’

This was the moment when Scratcher could no longer conceal his emotions. Georgie looked most startled to see these open tears as he, like most people familiar with the boy, had always considered him to be a hardened little cove. We had met him two years before when we was trying to escape from some peelers through his house in Bethnal Green rookeries and ever since he had been hanging around our gang trying to ingratiate himself. I had even begun to make an apprentice of him – something many other fledging crims would have considered a great honour. And until this moment he had seemed a worthy student – nimble-fingered and quick with the dash. But now he was acting like we was being most cruel by involving him in our nefarious doing and I sighed at the ingratitude. So this is the thanks I get – I thought as I knelt down to his height – for trying to give an eleven-year-old a decent start in life.

‘Now let’s have none of this, young shaver,’ I whispered with a soft smile. ‘It’s only nerves on account of it being your first crack. But it’s nothing to worry over and we’ll be laughing about it afterwards. Ain’t that right, Georgie?’

‘Course it is,’ said Georgie who had become the boy’s favourite ever since getting back from the north. He dismounted the cart and came over, took the small black hat from off Scratcher’s head and ruffled his dirty hair. ‘We’ll have a roar later as we split up the money between us. You’ll be the flashest lad in London by then and you’ll wonder what the fuss was.’ But the tears went on spilling.

‘What if there’s a dog, Dodge?’ the boy sobbed a little too loud. ‘There’s always a dog. Morris Bolter said.’

‘Don’t you go listening to Morris Bolter,’ I replied in a lower whisper. ‘That coward ain’t ever cracked a crib in his life. There won’t be no dog in this house, Scratch. I promise you that.’

I had been informed that Whetstone Manor was without dog by a man what had only ever introduced himself to me as Percival
– a name I have no doubt was made up. This Percival was a gentleman, or so his airs and graces would have us believe, but he had ventured into the London slums two weeks prior for reasons unbecoming. He had already spoken to a prostitute of our mutual acquaintance at the Portland Rooms in Haymarket and told her, at some point in the evening, that he was in the market for a burglar. He wanted a cracksman of higher sort, he had explained, for a delicate job, and not just some lowly area sneak what took careless chances. He wanted someone ingenious in his devices, as brave as he was dextrous and who knew the value of discretion. Now did the fair lady lying in bed beside him know any tradesman like that?

‘Percival promised us no dogs and no servants neither,’ I reminded Scratcher as I wiped the tears from his eyes with a silk ladies’ handkerchief what I kept in my inside coat pocket. ‘And it ain’t in his interest for us to get caught, is it?’ But Scratcher seemed unconvinced and continued to whimper.

‘I thought you said this one had steel, Dodge?’ Tom snapped from behind me. ‘Look at him. I’ve seen more steel in a chicken-house.’ Georgie then tried to defend the boy by saying that every young thief gets the flutters sometimes. ‘But do they cry like little girls about it?’ returned Tom uncaring. ‘He should be ashamed of himself.’

Tom’s derision had an effect on Scratcher who then started to look more affronted than afraid which pleased me because anger has always been one of the best ways to motivate a boy. Georgie though, who had not liked the look of Tom Skinner ever since I had introduced them both two months before, put up a protest.

‘Watch that mouth, Tom,’ he growled ‘or whatever you’re calling yourself. Scratcher’s a good boy and I won’t hear otherwise.’ Tom asked Georgie what he was going to do about it and I had to
shut them both up before the quarelling got worse. Then I turned my attention back to Scratcher.

‘When I was your age,’ I said in a far friendlier tone than Tom’s, ‘when I was even younger than you, I used to get pushed into situations far more precarious than this one. Bill Sikes never cared if there was a dog in any of the places he expected me to crawl into, in truth that was one of the reasons he’d shove me through little holes – to find out what was on the other side. I would never treat you in such a disgraceful manner, Scratch, you’re a partner and you’ll get your fair share when this is done.’ Then I dropped my voice into a heavier tone and locked eyes with him. ‘But you need to play your part, understand? You get nothing for nothing.’

There was some silent seconds as we all waited in that dark lane for Scratcher to gain mastery of himself. At last he lifted his chin up. ‘I just need to get in?’ he checked.

‘That’s all,’ I smiled. ‘Just get in that house and slide back the bolts for me. I’ll do the rest.’ Scratcher nodded as I went on. ‘You know I’d do it myself if I was your size, Scratch, but it’s always easier for a kinchin to gain entry. That’s your special talent,’ I winked. ‘You’re so small.’

It appeared that I had won him over and we all began to prepare for the crack. Tom was about to climb the tall tree what provided a clear view of both Whetstone Manor and the village pub where the constable would be and Georgie drove the cart away out of sight. Then Scratcher crumbled again.

‘Tom’s small,’ he said in a cracked voice and I could now see it was never going to happen. ‘Not as small as me but enough. I’ll play crow instead. I know all the calls and I can climb that tree easy. I’ll crack the next place we do, I swear I will, but let me be crow for now.’

Tom, who had a superb crow voice what could carry further than anybody’s, just shrugged back at us.