Authors: James McLevy
“Me,” replied Donald, with an ounce less blood in his cheek-veins than he had a minute before, “do you think I’m the robber?”
“I don’t say so,” said I; “but I want some information from you which I cannot so well get here.”
And Donald, a little reconciled, and with a little of the blood in the act of returning, took his hat.
When I got him to the Office, I immediately clapped him into a cell, and locking the door, was under way once more for Rose Street.
“Mrs M’Leod,” said I, as the honest Gael opened the door, and shut it, “I am a little vexed.”
“What’s the matter? I hope naething’s wrang wi’ Donald?”
“Why, not much,” said I; “I am only troubled about these old useless newspapers. The authorities up the way—dangerous creatures these authorities—have taken it into
their wise heads that Donald stole the papers from the Club; nay, they have locked him up in a cell as dark as pitch, with bread and water for fare, and, I fear, no hope of anything but judgment
and punishment.”
“Fearfu’ news!” said the woman. “Oh, terrible news! condemn a man for an auld newspaper!” and hiding her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
I need not say I pitied her, for in reality I did; for at that time I had not the slightest reason to suppose that she could know that the papers were not given to Donald, or allowed to be taken
as having served their purpose, and being consequently useless.
“But there’s hope,” said I.
“Hope!” she cried, “Hope!” as she took away her hands, “Whaur?—how?—speak, for God’s sake!”
“The charge is a small one,” said I, “and I have no doubt it would be scored off, provided the missing money were got. I’m sure you don’t have it; I have searched
the house; but perhaps”—
“What?” she broke in, “what?”
“Perhaps you may know through Donald where it is?”
I watched her face, which was now pale. She began to think, and she did think; for if ever thought came out of a face, it might have been read in the point of her nose, sharpened by the collapse
of the muscles through fear.
If in this agony she sat a minute, she sat fully five; but I was patient. I turned my face from her, and looked at nothing, perhaps because my mind was directed to something. She was under a
struggle; I heard the signs,—the quick breath, the heaving chest, the sobs, the efforts to suppress them,—still I was patient and pitiful. Sad duties ours! Yes, we must steel ourselves
against human woes; nay, we must turn nature’s yearnings to the advantage of official selfishness. At length,
“Are you sure the newspapers will be scored aff?”
“Sure.”
And then another sinking into the battle of her thoughts,—the lips quivering, the desultory movements of the hands, the jerking from one position to the other,—at length
calmness—the calmness of one whose agony is over,—a rest of many minutes.
“And you’re sure,” she said again, as she fixed her eyes upon me, with such speech in them that my soul revolted at its very wickedness. Must I admit it? Yes, it is put upon
us. A lie is one thing, the keeping deep down in our hearts the truth another. The one I abhor, the other is a duty. I knew that the money, if produced, would form a charge in place of the
newspapers. I knew
she
didn’t think this; but I knew also I was not bound to tell her that she was wrong in not thinking it. Nay, there are worse cases than mine, that may be and are
justified every day. When robbers are at the window, and you cry, “Bring me the gun,” when there is no gun in the house, you lie; but you are not bound to tell men whose hands are at
your throat that you lie. There are necessities that go beyond all moral codes, and laugh at them. If this woman knew where that stolen money was, she was, by her own doing, under the sharp
consequences of that necessity, and must abide the result as an atonement for an act not perpetrated under that necessity. Behold my logic! I am at the mercy of the public.
These were not my thoughts at the time; my conduct; was merely the effect of them, and I was simply watchful. At length Mrs M’Leod rose from the chair,—she stood for a moment
firm,—she then went into a closet, where, having remained a little, she came forth, to my astonishment, changed; she was dressed—shawl, bonnet, and veil.
“Come with me,” she said in a low voice, sorrowful, but without a tremor.
I said nothing, only obeyed. She shut the door, and proceeding down the stair, beckoned me to follow her. Not a word was spoken. We got down to the foot of the stair, then to the street, and I
followed her as she led. We proceeded in this silent way until we came to Frederick Street. We then went along that street till she came to the area gate of a gentleman’s house; that gate she
opened, and going down the stair, she again beckoned me to follow her. We now stood before the kitchen-door, at which she rapped. The knock was obeyed, and a young woman made her appearance.
“Peggy,” said Mrs M’Leod in a whisper, which I heard very well, “I ha’e come for yon.”
“Yon!” muttered I to myself; strange Scotch word—something like the mysterious “it,” when applied to a ghost.
“Weel!” replied the girl, “come in.”
We both entered, and were led along a dark passage till we came to a bedroom—no doubt that of the young woman. We entered it, and the servant, who seemed to be struck with the sympathy of
our silence, proceeded to open a blue trunk, from which she took out a small bundle, composed of a roll of a red handkerchief.
“There it is,” said she, as she put it into the hands of Mrs M’Leod.
We then left the room, returning again to the kitchen, from which we proceeded into the area.
“There’s the siller,” said she, as she put the bundle into my hands.
I took the parcel and placed it in my pocket. We mounted the stair, and Mrs M’Leod left me. It is needless to say that I could not restrain my curiosity; nor did I try. I went down towards
Princes Street Gardens, and seating myself on the parapet, proceeded to undo the red handkerchief. I found within a large bundle of bank notes, composed of tens and fives, and upon counting them
found the amount to be £180. Now I fairly admit I was not satisfied. I wanted something more; and tying up my bundle I repaired again to Rose Street.
“Mrs M’Leod,” said I, as I entered, “it will be necessary that you mark these notes for me. My masters, the authorities, will not believe I got them from you unless I get
your name to them. Have you pen and ink?”
“Ay,” said she, “but I daurna mark them, Donald would be angry.”
“But you forget the authorities,” said I.
“The authorities!” she repeated, with a kind of a tremble at the very sound of the word.
“Yes, they may be angry, and you know the anger of the authorities is very different from that of Donald M’Leod.”
“Very true,” replied she.
And bringing the pen and ink I got her name to every note. I was
now
satisfied, and taking the direction of Queen Street, arrived at the Club, where I saw Mr Ellis.
“How much money was taken altogether?” inquired I.
“Why,” said he, “I collected the different complaints, and adding up the sums found they amounted to £180.”
“The Highlanders are a very careful people,” said I. “The sum I have recovered, and which is tied up in this handkerchief, is just £180.”
“Recovered!” said he, in astonishment. “Why, I thought it was a forlorn hope. Where in all the earth did you get it; or rather, I should ask, how?”
“Just by means of the old newspaper with the name of the Club upon it. I think I told you that if I took my own way, and not yours, I would get the cash.”
“You did,” replied he; “but to be very candid with you, I had no hope, though I admitted I had faith in your name. But tell me where you got it, for I am dying to
know?”
“I can hardly explain all in the meantime,” said I. “I am bent for the Office, and up for time. But I may inform you that Donald M’Leod is the man, and we must keep him
in custody.”
“The newspaper!” again ejaculated Mr Ellis, as if he was in great perplexity. “How a piece of printed paper should be the means of getting £180! Was the money marked upon
it?”
“No; yet I repeat it was the means of getting your money. Of course I cannot leave the notes with you. You will get them after Donald receives his sentence.”
And with this I went away, leaving Mr Ellis to divine how the old newspaper came to have so much virtue. I then proceeded to the Office, where, having deposited the money, and explained the
affair to the Superintendent, I was asked, “Where is the woman?”
And I knew that this question would be asked of me, and I knew also what would be my answer.
“Why, sir,” said I, “do you really think that I should be the man to apprehend that woman?”
“Strictly, you should,” said he, with a smile; “but if ever there was a case in which an officer might be passed over for a duty, it is this. I would rather go for her myself
than put this duty on you. I acknowledge you were justified in the words you used, that the newspapers would be scored, and that you were entitled to your mental reservation. The question may be
said to be a subtle one, suited to the logic of casuists, but I affirm that it may be resolved by a sturdy moralist. As for the rest, you have shown a feeling creditable to the heart of a right
man, in leaving the apprehension of the woman to another.”
Mrs M’Leod was in the evening brought up by my assistant. The two were tried at the High Court, and Donald was sentenced to seven years’ transportation, while Mrs M’Leod, as
being under the iron rule ot the Gael, was acquitted.
❖
I
believe I have said, that the devil, if well examined, would be found to have a limp; and perhaps, this notion of mine may aptly enough be termed
a detection, seeing I have had so many opportunities of getting near to him in those places where he rests himself in his long journeys from his principal dominions. Nor am I less satisfied that
Chance is one of his female angels, who having been slighted by him, “peaches”, and tells the like of me his infirmity. Surely I cannot be blamed for an opinion, however absurd it may
appear to those slow-pacing people who go so little to a side, where the real curiosities of human nature lie, when I have such a case to report as the robbery of Mr Blyth’s shop in the High
Street, a little above the Fleshmarket Close, by M’Quarry, and a friend of that accomplished shoplifter.
One morning, a good number of years ago,—1847, I think,—I was going from my house in the Canongate to my duties in the office, at my usual hour of eight in the morning. I had not
much on my mind on that occasion. No charges were then on the books, and I was beginning to think I was gaining ground against the workers of iniquity. Perhaps my mind was perfectly vacant; no one
of my images being called upon to stir in their quiet resting-place in my head, and show the likenesses to their originals. In this negative state of mind, whom should I see coming up but a
well-known personage of the name of M’Quarry, with whom, though so well known to me, I wished much to be even more intimate, probably with the selfish view of knowing some of his secret
adventures?
It was quite natural I should fix my eye on him before he saw me, because, while I has nothing else to do, he was bent upon something.
As I wish to mix a little instruction with the benefit derived from the mere lesson I teach of the insecurity of criminals, allow me to go aside with you for a moment to a
close-end,—always my school-room,—and tell you that there is a great deal more in faces than is generally supposed. All men and women pretend, less or more, to the subject, but really
their study is generally limited to the inquiry whether one is pleased or displeased with you when in talk. How few ever aspire to read people as they run, to guess what they are bent upon, and how
things are going with them; and yet, what a field is open to the student of human nature here! I exclude the perambulators and loungers, of course, who are always simply engaged in being looked at.
Their faces are set in a fix, and you can find nothing there but a steady waiting for admiration; but in the business people, and those not above domestic troubles, you can always find something
readable. I keep to my own peculiar race, and I say I am seldom
out
when I get my eyes on them. I can, for instance, always tell an unlucky thief from a lucky one,—one with
“speculation in his eye” from one without a job in contemplation,—one with full fobs from one with empty pockets,—one who suspects being scented from one who is on the
scent. And therefore I derive a kind of benefit; for, just as I observe a great and sudden amount of cheerfulness in the eye of a celebrity, so do I become cheerful, and a dull dog infects me like
sympathy. The reason is plain enough; their cheerfulness is that cause of the cheerfulness which is in me, insomuch as it inspires me with the wish to know the particular transaction which makes
them happy and so many others sad, while their sadness implies that I have nothing to discover.
On that morning, when M’Quarry came down the High Street, he was so cheerful that, as I have said, he did not see me. “Luck makes people lightly their best friends,” and so he
lightlied me—the very thing that fixed my gaze on him. There was something more than the mere blythesomeness in the usual clod face, which was sure proof that he had made some other
unhappy—perhaps even Mr Blyth, whose shop he passed in a kind of half run, darting his eye inside with a kind of humorous triumph,—and continuing the same excited pace, he passed me.
His copartner, whose name I don’t recollect, but who was quite familiar to me, was behind him some few yards. He went at the same pace, had the same look of merriment, threw the same darting
look into the shop, passed on, and overtook his friend. Though not quite polite to look back upon your friends, I could not resist the impulse, and I just looked in time to see them burst out in a
pretty joyous laugh together, and away they went arm-in-arm.
A very simple affair. There was nothing wrong with Mr Blyth’s shop, so far as I could see; and after all, what was there in a look into a shop to interest me? It might have been different
at night, when a lounger is reconnoitring for the purposes of a bolt in and a bolt out; but, independently of its being the morning, the young men were off with merely a laugh on their cheek. Yes,
but I was satisfied of one thing, and that was, that some game of
draughts
had been played in that shop the previous night. “Ah!” thought I, “the little fishes, when too
happy with the light of the sun on the top of the waters, get tipsy, and then topsy-turvy, and turning up their white bellies so as to be seen by the gulls, get both picked up and gobbled
up.”