Authors: Edward Marston
‘It’s been a bad month, ain’t it?’
‘You never have a bad month, you leech. There’s always plenty of blood for you to suck out of people who can’t afford to lose it. That’s why I’m here, Isadore. I want to talk about debts.’
Vout was surprised. ‘Yer want to borrow money?’
‘I wouldn’t borrow a penny from a creeping Shylock like you.’
‘Yer’d get a good rate of interest, Mulryne.’ He nudged his visitor. ‘Friends of mine have special terms, see?’
‘I’m no friend of yours, you old skinflint. Special terms?’ repeated Mulryne with derision. ‘I don’t give a fiddler’s fart for your special terms.’
‘Then why are yer botherin’ me?’
‘Because I need information from you. There’s a man who probably turned to you for a loan – God help him! I want to know where he is.’
‘I can’t tell yer,’ said Vout, guzzling his tea.
‘You haven’t heard his name yet.’
‘Meks no diff’rence, Mulryne. I never discusses business matters. Them’s confeedential.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Shut the door when yer leaves – and don’t come back.’
‘I’m going nowhere until I get an answer,’ warned Mulryne.
‘Sling yer ’ook, you big, Irish numbskull. Yer wasting yer time.’
‘Now you’re insulting my nation as well as trying my patience.’
‘I wants to finish my grub, that’s all.’
‘Then let a big, Irish numbskull offer you some assistance,’ said Mulryne, grabbing the remainder of the food to stuff into his mouth. ‘Like more tea to wash it down, would you?’
Holding the moneylender’s hair, he pulled his head back and poured the remaining tea all over his face until Vout was squealing in pain and spluttering with indignation. Mulryne felt that more persuasion was still needed. He got up, pushed the other man to the floor, took him by the heels and lifted him up so that he could shake him vigorously. A waterfall of coins came pouring out of his pockets. Isadore Vout shrieked in alarm and tried to gather up his scattered money. Without any effort, Mulryne held him a foot higher so that he could not reach the floor.
‘Put me down, yer madman!’ wailed Vout.
‘Only when you tell me what I want to know.’
‘I’ll ’ave yer locked away fer this!’
‘Shut up and listen,’ Mulryne ordered, ‘or I’ll bounce your head on the floor until all your hair falls out.’
By way of demonstration, he lowered his captive hard until Vout’s head met the carpet with such a bang that it sent up a cloud of dust. The moneylender yelled in agony.
‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘Yer’ll crack my skull open.’
‘Will you do as you’re told, then?’
‘No, Mulryne. I never talks about my clients.’ His head hit the floor once again. ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Yer’ll kill me if you do that again.’
‘Then I’d be doing the Devil’s Acre a favour,’ said Mulryne, hoisting him high once more. ‘We can do without
vultures like you. Now, then, you snivelling rogue, what’s it to be? Shall I ask my question or would you rather I beat your brains out on the floor?’
It was no idle threat. Seeing that he had no alternative, Vout agreed to help and he was promptly dropped in a heap on the carpet. He immediately began to collect up all the coins he had lost. Mulryne brought a large foot down to imprison one of his hands.
‘Yer’ll break my fingers!’ howled Vout.
‘Then leave your money until you’ve dealt with me.’
Removing his foot, the Irishman took him by the lapels of his coat and lifted him back into his chair. He put his face intimidatingly close. Vout cowered before him.
‘Who’s this man yer knows?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
‘His name is William Ings.’
‘Never ’eard of ’im.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Isadore.’
‘It’s the truth. I never met anyone called that.’
‘There’s an easy way to prove that, isn’t there?’ said Mulryne, looking around the dingy room. ‘I can check your account book.’
‘No!’
‘You keep the names of all your victims in there, don’t you? If I find that William Ings is among them, I’ll know that you’re lying to me. Now, where do you keep that book?’
‘It’s private. Yer can’t touch it.’
‘I can do anything I like, Isadore,’ said Mulryne, walking across to a chest of drawers. ‘Who’s to stop me?’
As if to prove his point, he pulled out the top drawer and emptied its contents all over the floor. Vout leapt up from his
seat and rushed across to grab his arm.
‘No, no,’ he shouted. ‘Leave my things alone.’
‘Then tell me about William Ings.’
The moneylender backed away. ‘Maybe I
can
help yer,’ he said.
‘Ah, I’ve jogged your memory, have I?’
‘It was the name that confused me, see? I did business with a Bill Ings, but I can’t say for certain that ’e’s the same man. Wor does this William Ings look like?’
‘I’ve never seen him myself,’ admitted Mulryne, ‘but I’m told he’s a fat man in his forties who can’t resist a game of cards. Since he lost so much, he’d turn to someone like you to borrow. Did he?’
‘Yes,’ confessed Vout.
‘How much does he owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘
Nothing
?’
‘He paid off his debt,’ said the other. ‘In full. Ings told me that ’e ’ad a big win at cards and wanted to settle up. Shame, really. I likes clients of ’is type. They’re easy to squeeze.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Who knows?’
‘You do, Isadore,’ insisted Mulryne. ‘You’d never lend a farthing unless you had an address so that you could chase the borrower for repayment. Find your account book. Tell me where this man lives.’
‘I can’t, Mulryne. I took ’im on trust, see? Someone I knew was ready to vouch for ’im and that was good enough for me.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘Polly has done a favour or two for me in the past. If ’e’s with ’er, Bill Ings is a lucky man, I can tell yer. I knew I could always get to my client through Polly.’
‘Polly who? Does she live in the Devil’s Acre?’
‘Born and bred ’ere. Apprenticed to the trade at thirteen. ’Er name is Polly Roach,’ he said, grateful to be getting rid of Mulryne at last. ‘Ask for ’er in Hangman’s Lane. You may well find Mr Ings there.’
Robert Colbeck woke up as the train was approaching Birmingham and he was able to look through the window at the mass of brick factories and tall chimneys that comprised the outskirts. It was a depressing sight but, having been there before, he knew that the drab industrial town also boasted some fine architecture and some spacious parks. What made it famous, however, were its manufacturing skills and Colbeck read the names of engineers, toolmakers, potters, metalworkers, builders and arms manufacturers emblazoned across the rear walls of their respective premises. Through the open window, he could smell the breweries.
Arriving at the terminus, he climbed into a cab and issued directions to the driver. During the short ride from Curzon Street to the bank, he was reminded that Joseph Hansom, inventor and architect, had not only built the arresting Town Hall with its Classical colonnade, he had also registered the Patent Safety Cab, creating a model for horse-drawn transport that had been copied down the years. Birmingham was therefore an appropriate place in which to travel in such a vehicle.
Spurling’s Bank, one of the biggest in the Midlands, was in the main street between a hotel and an office building of daunting solidity. When he heard that a detective had come to see him, the manager, Ernest Kitson, invited Colbeck into his office at once and plied him with refreshments. A tall, round-
faced, fleshy man in his fifties, Kitson was wearing a black frock coat and trousers with a light green waistcoat. He could not have been more willing to help.
‘The stolen money must be recovered, Inspector,’ he said.
‘That’s why I’m here, sir. Before we can find it, however, I must first know how it went astray in the first place. Inside help was utilised.’
‘Not from Spurling’s Bank, of that you can rest assured.’
‘Have you questioned the relevant staff?’
‘It was the first thing I did when I heard of the robbery,’ said Kitson, straightening his cravat. ‘Apart from myself, only two other people here have access to the key that would open the safe containing the money. I spoke to them both at length and am satisfied that neither would even consider betraying a trust. Do not take my word for it. You may talk to them yourself, if you wish.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ decided Colbeck, impressed by his manner and bearing. ‘I simply need to examine the key in question.’
‘It is locked in the safe, Inspector.’
‘Before you take it out, perhaps you could explain to me why the mail train was carrying such a large amount of money in gold coin.’
‘Of course,’ replied Kitson. ‘We abide by the spirit of the Bank Charter Act of 1844. Does that mean anything to you, Inspector?’
‘No, Mr Kitson.’
‘Then let me enlighten you. Currency crises are the bane of banking and we have suffered them on a recurring basis. When he was Prime Minister, the late Mr Peel sought to end the cycle by imposing certain restrictions. Strict limits
were placed on the issue of notes by individual banks and the fiduciary note issue of the Bank of England was set at
£
14,000,000. Any notes issued above this sum were to be covered by coin or gold bullion.’
‘That sounds like a sensible precaution.’
‘It is one that Spurling’s Bank took to heart,’ explained Kitson. ‘We stick to that same principle and ensure that notes in all our banks are balanced by a supply of gold coin or bullion. A bank note, after all, is only a piece of paper that bears promise of payment. In the event of a sudden demand for real money, we are in a position to cope. Other banks have collapsed in such situations because they over-extended themselves with loans and had inadequate reserves.’
‘How much of the money stolen was destined for this branch?’
‘Over a half of it. The rest was to be shared between some of our smaller branches. None of us,’ he emphasized, ‘can afford to lose that money.’ Taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, he crossed to the safe in the corner. ‘Let me show you what you came to see.’
‘What about the combination number of the safe on the train?’
‘That, too, is kept in here.’
‘Have you not memorised it, Mr Kitson?’
‘I’m a banker, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I keep a record of everything.’
He opened the safe and took out a metal box that had a separate lock on it. After using a second key to open it, he handed the box to Colbeck. Inside was a slip of paper and a large key on a ring. Colbeck took them out and studied them carefully. Kitson watched in surprise when the detective
produced a magnifying glass from his inside pocket to scrutinise the key more carefully. He even held it to his nose and sniffed it.
‘May I ask what you are doing?’ said Kitson, intrigued.
‘Looking for traces of wax, sir. That’s the way that duplicates are made. A mould is taken so that it can be used to produce an identical key. Not all locksmiths are as law-abiding as they should be, alas.’
‘And this key?’
‘It has not been tampered with,’ said Colbeck.
‘That is what I told you.’
‘I needed to check for myself.’
‘The only other set of keys is at the Royal Mint.’
‘My colleague, Sergeant Leeming, will be visiting the Mint this very day, but I doubt if he will find a lapse in security there. Their procedures are usually faultless. That leaves only a third option.’
‘And what is that, Inspector?’
‘A visit to the factory where the safe was made,’ said Colbeck, handing the key back to him. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Kitson. I have to catch a train to Wolverhampton.’
Victor Leeming’s day had had an abrasive start to it. When he reported to Tallis, he had found the Superintendent at his most irascible as he read the accounts of the train robbery in the morning newspapers. Seeing himself mocked, and misquoted, Tallis had taken out his anger on the Sergeant and left him feeling as if he had just been mauled by a Bengal tiger. Leeming was glad to escape to the Royal Mint where he could lick his wounds. His guide was a far less truculent companion.
‘As you see, Sergeant Leeming,’ he said, ‘security has absolute priority here. Nobody has sole access to the keys to that safe. There are always two of us present, so it would be impossible for anybody to take a wax impression of the key.’
‘I accept that, Mr Omber.’
‘There has been a mint here on Tower Hill since Roman times. Methods of guarding the supply of coin thus have a long and honourable history. Having learnt from our predecessors, we feel that we have turned the Royal Mint into an impregnable stronghold.’
‘There is no question of that,’ conceded Leeming.
He was fascinated by all he had seen, particularly by the thick steel doors that seemed to be fitted everywhere. Once locked, they were almost airtight, and would not buckle before a barrel of gunpowder. Charles Omber took a justifiable pride in their security arrangements. He was a short, stout, middle-aged man whose paunch erupted out of his body and tested the buttons on his trousers to their limit. Having been subjected to Tallis’s bellow, Leeming was grateful for Omber’s quiet, friendly, helpful voice.
‘What else can I show you, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘While I’m here, I’d be interested to see the whole process.’
‘It will be a pleasure to show you.’
‘Thank you.’
Omber waddled off and Leeming fell in beside him. After passing the weighing room, where the amounts of bullion were carefully recorded, they went through some steel doors into the hot metallic atmosphere of the refining shop. Leeming brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the startling brilliance of the furnaces where molten gold was simmering in crucibles like over-heated soup. With long-handled dipping
cups, refiners stood in their shirtsleeves before the furnaces to scoop out the liquid gold and pour it into zinc vats of water. Even those who were used to the heat and the noise had to use their bare forearms to wipe the sweat from their faces. Leeming was loosening his collar with a finger within seconds.
Charles Omber took him on to the corroding shop, where they were met with billowing steam from the porcelain vats in which the golden granules sizzled in hot nitric acid. It was like walking into a golden fog. When his eyes grew accustomed to the haze, Leeming watched the muscular men in their leather aprons and noticed that they all wore hats to protect them from the fumes. Interested to see every stage of the process, he was nevertheless relieved when they moved out of the room, enabling him to breathe more easily.