The Inquiry Agent Read online

  The Inquiry Agent

  Copyright © William King 2007

  Website: www.williamking.me

  Contact: [email protected]

  Wednesday, April 7th, 1841

  At first glance, Mister Charles Soames did not look like a man who wanted to involve me in a crime punishable by transportation to Van Diemen’s Land for the rest of my natural life. He could have been the very model for Mr Pickwick; a portly, well-dressed, old gentleman with small round eyeglasses and a fringe of white hair around the top of his bald head.

  He waddled over to my booth in Jack’s Coffee House, blinked benevolently, dabbed at the sheen of sweat on his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief and coughed in the way people do when they want to attract your attention.

  It was before noon and he reeked of brandy. His cheeks positively radiated redness but that might just have come from the immense exertion involved in getting from his carriage at the kerb outside to my table.

  “You are Mr Brodie, the Inquiry Agent, I think,” he said in a fruity voice that had all the accents of a gentleman. I rose from the chair and bowed.

  “Jack Brodie, sir, at your service.” I knew better than to offer him my hand. He would not have taken it. He introduced himself and offered me his card. It gave his name and his place of residence as Brighton House, London.

  “Please don’t stand on ceremony, Mr Brodie. Pray let us be seated.” He gestured with a chubby hand at my own seat at my own table. I noticed that his cufflinks were gold and monogrammed with his initials and I took him at his word.

  “I recognised you at once.” He looked pleased at his own little piece of detective work. “I had thought Mr Lassiter was being witty when he described you as looking like a right mournful devil but now I can see he was merely being exact.”

  “Mr Lassiter is a very exact man, sir,” I said. It was true. Lassiter was a lawyer among other things, and had a lawyer’s gift for precision as well as a lawyer’s cutting wit. Something in my voice must have made Soames realise that he had been a trifle rude and he was too well bred to treat even his inferiors in that way.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “That was not very tactful of me.”

  He looked away and mopped his forehead again as he gathered his thoughts. You could see him thinking he had touched a nerve although he hadn’t. When you look as I do, very tall and very dark with a wicked looking knife scar on your right cheek, you get used to comparisons to the devil or his favoured minions. And the truth is that I have never been a particularly cheerful looking man.

  Nor at second glance was Mr Soames. His lips were a trifle too thin, and given a little too much to being compressed to be truly Pickwickian, and there was something watchful and a little calculating in his gaze alongside the good cheer.

  “Oh dear,” Soames said. “I am not making a very good job of this am I? Let me start again.”

  “By all means, sir.” He glanced around to make sure there was no danger of us being overheard. It was unlikely. The coffee house was near Covent Garden and much more heavily frequented in the early morning than at this time of day. This particular corner was completely empty. Cedric was polishing glasses over by the bar and he knew better than to show any sign of curiosity when I was talking to someone. Soames had asked for a meeting in a place that was neither my premises nor his, and the coffee house at this hour provided a mixture of openness and discretion that was admirably suited to the purposes of our little conference. None of his acquaintances were likely to see him here, and few of mine.

  “Mr Lassiter recommended me to you I take it, sir,” I said to encourage him.

  “Indeed, that is so. He is my family solicitor and often advises me on delicate matters.” Soames glanced around again and said, “Do you mind if we perhaps take some coffee.”

  “Not at all.”

  No sooner had Cedric brought the cups and departed than Mr Soames produced a hip flask.

  “Do you object, Mr Brodie, if I take a little brandy?” He was already in the act of pouring.

  “Not at all, sir” I said. “Although I do not drink myself at this time of day.”

  It didn’t look like there was much danger of him offering me a drink but I wanted to make that much clear.

  “I suppose such restraint is an admirable trait for a man in your line, Mr Brodie. At my stage of life I indulge myself.”

  By the looks of him, he had indulged himself at every stage of his life. You did not see many men so stout in the Hungry Forties, at least not in the parts of London I frequented.

  He expanded his cheeks and made a peculiar chuffing sound like a railway engine starting to pick up steam. As he studied me over the rims of his glasses he reminded me of a senior merchant inspecting a junior clerk whose suitability for a difficult task he was contemplating.

  “You were a Runner, Mr Brodie, or so Mr Lassiter tells me.” If I had not been, Soames would not have been there, but he was talking to give himself some more time. He was not a man to attack a subject head on when he could circle around and come in from the flank.

  “Fifteen years at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court, sir, till the government disbanded us in ‘39. Twelve of those years I was a Runner, a detective as you might say.”

  “And you took on private commissions during that time?”

  “All of us did, sir. It was the only way to make ends meet. A man could not support a family on the stipend. I am surprised that any of the new bobbies can, for they are paid less than I earned when I started in Bow Street Foot Patrol and prices have risen since then.”

  “Mr Lassiter hinted that you may have done some work for the Duke of Wellington himself,” said Mr Soames.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss such matters, sir. There was a lot of very confidential work done at Bow St when I was there.”

  “I was never a man to believe ALL the rumours of corruption,” said Soames in the manner of a man who wanted to make that particular fact perfectly clear.

  I kept my mouth shut. There had been plenty of corruption at Bow Street, inevitable in a city like London in an age like our own. There had been plenty of honest men too, a fact that our critics tend to forget. And there had been several men who while being as rotten as the Fleet Ditch had managed to solve a lot of crimes. The two are not as mutually exclusive as some of our sterner moralists would have you believe.

  Soames added some more brandy to his coffee, to give himself some more time and I could see that he was screwing his courage to the sticking point.

  “I have a problem,” he said eventually,” that can only be solved by a man of tact, ingenuity and discretion.”

  He paused for a moment so that I had time to realise that he was talking about me. He was one of those gentlemen who assume that the lower orders are a bit slow.

  I nodded to let him know that I was still with him, if only just.

  “Moreover,” he said, “It requires a man with certain skills, certain contacts and a certain…” he struggled to find words that would not sound too insulting then gave up the fight and said, “lack of scruple.”

  He beamed at me nervously, chuffed again and said, “I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  He stopped to see how I was taking it. He was sweating quite profusely.

  “Go on,” I said, letting him know that I was still the right man for the job. He gulped down the brandy-laced coffee in one, swallowed again as though trying to get a second drink from the cup then committed himself.

  “I have been robbed. I wish to hire you to find the criminals and resolve the matter satisfactorily.”

  It was understandable that he was nervous, for, in the year of our Lord 1841, it was still a crime to resolve the matter of robbery in the way he wished it to be done. Unless
I greatly missed my guess, Mr Soames wanted his property back, and he was not too particular about how he got it.

  “You wish to proceed with a private action against the robbers, sir, if I can find them,” I said, to begin the process of drawing him out. We were both talking very quietly now.

  “If that should prove necessary. However I am much more concerned with recovering what was taken.”

  “That is understandable, sir. Your emphasis then would be more on the recovery of the stolen goods than the apprehension of the miscreants.”

  The reason we were being so discrete was that until 1829 compounding with robbers had been punishable by hanging. By ‘41, the penalty was merely to be sent to Australia for life with a generous helping of hard labour thrown in, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government. In the eyes of the law, we would both be receiving stolen goods. In practise, what that actually meant was that I would be the receiver for, if it ever came to trial; Mr Soames could simply disclaim all knowledge of my methods.

  He let out a small dry cough. “That is a good way of putting it, Mr Brodie. I can see that we shall understand each other very well.”

  “I’m a regular Sam Weller, sir,” I said, and he chuckled as if he got the joke.

  “It is normal to offer a reward for the recovery of stolen articles,” I said.

  “There will be one. Fifty Pounds.”

  It was more than most working men could earn then in a year, if they were very, very lucky. Foolishly, as it turned out, I thought I might be able to get my hands on it in a week without too much difficulty. It’s amazing how we can delude ourselves when we are in desperate need of blunt.

  “Tell me more, sir.”

  “My home, Brighton House, was burgled two nights ago and the thieves made off with bonds, bills of hand and banknotes to the value of nineteen hundred pounds, as well as over a hundred guineas in gold sovereigns. They helped themselves to plate worth another two hundred guineas. They also took some private papers which I am most anxious to have returned.”

  “You can forget about the gold, sir. It is untraceable. We might be able to get the plate if it has not gone into the melting pot. The notes and bonds are another matter. The thieves would have to discount them to a fence or some other form of criminal broker, and could only realise a fraction of their value. It might suit them to sell the paper back to you, if they thought they might get a better bargain. I don’t know about the papers- if they are of value only to you they might already have been cast away as useless.”

  “I hope not, for they are the only reminders I now have of persons I once loved.” He looked a little embarrassed when he said that and more than a little guilty. I pretended not to notice.

  “Then I will do my very best to get them back for you, sir. If you make a good offer for the notes, the thieves might throw in the other papers for nothing, since they have no idea of their value to you.”

  “It’s a rum thing when a thief can sell my own property back to me and I must pay them.”

  “You could always lodge a prosecution against them, sir, if you would prefer that and they could be found. It would be more difficult that way though.”

  He shook his head. “I simply want my property back. Do you have any idea how much it will cost me, Mr Brodie?”

  “It could cost anywhere up to five hundred pounds sterling. The money paid to the thieves would be in addition to any reward,” I said, to make everything absolutely clear between us.

  “So Mr Lassiter gave me to understand. You will act for me in this matter, Mr Brodie?”

  “If it is understood that I am your agent, empowered to negotiate on your behalf with whomsoever has your goods, or whatever persons may be able to put me in contact with them, I will do so.”

  “Then we have a deal, Mr Brodie.” He surprised me then and offered me his hand. His grip was surprisingly firm.

  “It is also customary for the client to cover expenses,” I said.

  “Mr Lassiter told me that too. A guinea a day plus travelling expenses was the sum he mentioned. Will ten guineas be enough to begin with?”

  “Ample, sir. I don’t imagine there will be much travel involved if this is a local gang.”

  He counted ten sovereigns and ten shillings out onto the table and I pocketed them. “If you need any more money, let me know. I think I should be able to provide it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will itemise what I spend and return any balance to you. I shall also provide you with a receipt for the sum you have advanced me.”

  “That will not be necessary, Mr Brodie. I trust you.”

  “It would make me feel better to keep everything above board.”

  “Then if you insist --you’ll want to see the scene of the crime, I suppose,” he said.

  “As soon as possible, sir, and I will wish to interview all the members of your household, starting with yourself. Perhaps we can begin now.”

  I pulled out the small hard-backed notebook I always carried, sharpened my pencil with my penknife and began to take notes. I have that ancient notebook, blood-stained and water-soiled, open in front of me today.

  There was little enough Soames could tell me about the burglary. The butler and the other manservant had locked up just after 11 p.m. and the entire household had gone to bed. Sometime after midnight, the robbers had broken in through a door into the downstairs pantry. There had been nothing subtle about their methods. They had used a crowbar and forced the lock, before making their way into the house. At gunpoint and with dire threats to his young ward, they had forced Mr Soames to show them where he kept his valuables, and to unlock the strongbox and give them his gold and papers. They then tied him up and left him bound and gagged on his own bed. Everyone in the house was left in the same condition and the criminals had made their escape without a hue and cry being raised.

  “How many men were there, sir?”

  “Two of them held me with the firelock, one of them held my niece and there were two more of them downstairs who trussed up the servants. One of those was left downstairs to watch over my people while the other came to help the leaders carry off the loot.”

  “So you reckon there were five in all, sir.”

  “We counted five. Of course, there may have been others, possibly waiting outside to act as watchmen.”

  “You may well be right, sir. Had you noticed any suspicious behaviour amongst the servants in the weeks leading up to the burglary?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “It is not uncommon for thieves to have confederates within the house, sir, to tell them how to get in and where the valuables were kept and such.

  “It’s impossible that they could have had such help. I trust all my servants implicitly. They’ve been with me for years, in some cases decades.”

  “You may well be right but it’s always wise to keep an eye out for such things.”

  “I will have to trust your superior knowledge of such matters, Mr Brodie.”

  “Do you remember anything about the men who held you at gunpoint?”

  “No. They had scarves tied round their faces and it was dark. They held a lantern on my face dazzling me. It was very frightening.”

  “I do not doubt it, sir,” I said. “You never get used to having a loaded gun pointed at you. Do you remember anything at all about the men?”

  “One of them seemed very large and bulky, perhaps as tall as you are and with more meat on him,” He said with a nervous little chuckle. “I focused a lot more attention on the firelock thrust into my face. It did not seem much larger than a cannon such as the Royal Navy uses on men-o-war. There’s not much I can tell you about guns, I’m afraid, for I am no expert on the subject.”

  Despite his attempt at humour I could see that he was not a little distressed by the memory of the event. Mr Soames did not strike me as the sort of man who had the constitution for such a rough business as this. Perhaps that was why he had been drinking so early in the day.

  “Do you have any firear
ms in your house?”

  “The servants had them downstairs but never got a chance to use them because the robbers’ confederates held them at gunpoint too. I would not know what to do with one myself.”

  “It all sounds as if the thieves knew what they were doing. Was there any way that they might have gotten to know the layout of your home? Had there been any workmen in recently, for example?”

  “We had some repairs done to the roof only last month by a respectable local tradesman-- Mr Carstairs.”

  “Did you notice anything about the tradesman's labourers?”

  “I believe some of them were Irish. Most of them in fact. Other than that I did not pay much attention, I’m afraid.”

  I asked him what the local police had made of the matter, and he told me that they had come, inspected the broken door, looked around the garden, and asked a few questions in the neighbourhood. So far they had found nothing. Soames did not sound too hopeful that they would turn anything up which explained why he had come to me; that and the fact that the Police were unlikely to compound with robbers on his behalf.

  “Is there anything else that you remember that might prove helpful to my investigation?

  “Nothing really. I don’t mind admitting that I was very frightened and the last thing on my mind was remembering details about the intruders.”

  “I would like to inspect the scene of the crime now, sir,” I said.

  “My coach is outside and if it is convenient we can visit my abode this very minute.”

  The coach was one of those open topped ones with a retractable canopy, in other respects somewhat like a hackney cab. The driver let down the steps and we clambered into the carriage.

  “Home, Fleming,” said Mr Soames.

  Fleming guided us through the London traffic, threading through the omnibuses and giant wagons and cabriolets that moved all around us, numerous as fish in a shoal. For a while we were stuck behind a huge wagon bearing a billboard advertising some new panoramic exhibition of the wonders of Egypt. I can remember looking at the painting of the pyramids and the desert as we pulled out past it. There had been quite a rage for exhibitions when I first came to the city in the early 20’s and the craze had not quite died away.