The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  Sympathy poured in for the young man; daily it became more difficult to provide adequate reason for his detention. Even his American "record" (discovered through diligent inquiry and cabled from New York) merely prompted cries of "Victimization!" Edwin remained remarkably cool, impassive to bribes, threats and the continuing inquisition. He merely repeated his answers to much the same questions until even the police were embarrassed by the situation.

  Unshaven: unwashed, poorly fed, confined in solitary and with daily visits from aggressive officials, Edwin should have felt his spirit drain away, knowing that the might of a pompous Empire was determined to break him. It was almost as if Edwin's guilt, or innocence, had no bearing on the case: by his very presence, as the only link with the great fraud, he must be found guilty no matter what the evidence.

  But by the tenth day Edwin felt certain he would be set free, and the rigors that continued no longer had any effect on him. Even in his abject state he smiled at authority and was polite to all. Murmurings even from his warders filtered back to the Bank of England, and it was declared that a question would be raised, on his behalf, in the House of Commons at the earliest opportunity.

  George and Mac read all the editorials and determined to stay on in London until they felt certain that Edwin's freedom was imminent. They used the time well. In various names, the remaining money and U.S. Bonds were packaged, placed in trunks containing clothes or English merchandise and consigned (in different names) to America. Thus they disposed of their vast booty. The receipts were divided. Some they kept. Others were posted in separate envelopes to New York's Central Post Office to await collection at General Delivery.

  They did not forget Austin in Havana, nor Irving, who received a further considerable sum, as a gift, should he be needed in the immediate future for protection against investigation across the Atlantic.

  On the tenth day, both George and Mac decided it was time to leave. The whole affair had grown out of all proportion, exceeding even their worst imaginings, and they felt that should they remain in the capital city longer, they would be tempting fate. So it was agreed: America, New York and Irving's "cloak," which would conceal them until they could emerge in Florida with new identities as members of the Four Hundred.

  The trouble was, the affair had in no way cooled as was expected; if anything, it had become hotter; so even getting out of London might prove a problem. Here their worries were well founded.

  May arrived at Euston Station just after seven in the evening of the twelfth with a heap of luggage that was stacked near a barrier at the platform from which the train for Liverpool was to depart.

  Her instructions were plain; she was to rendezvous with Mac at seven thirty.

  Mac, in his rooms at 7 St. James's Place, told Franz Anton Herold he was leaving for a two-week visit to Europe; communication of the date of his return would be by mail. Miss Agnes Green bade farewell to Captain MacDonald, wished him a pleasant voyage and retired to her rooms and the company of a new male lodger.

  At seven fifteen, May became unduly anxious. The carriages were already at the platform, and several passengers had begun boarding for the journey; departure was at twenty minutes to eight. In the station there was a great bustle of activity as the last trains of the evening prepared to leave for their northern destinations.

  Passengers crowded past barriers onto the many platforms to embark; they pushed, jostled and shouted, knowing that there were not seats for all and that unless adequate reservations had been made, half of them would be standing between seats or lying in corridors of the new carriages.

  May looked up at the great clock suspended from the huge area of grid-and-glass roof. Nervously she began to watch the time tick away. She was obviously agitated by seven twenty, even to uninvolved onlookers, of whom there were many: a beautiful woman, alone, will always draw eyes.

  Detectives had been watching May since her arrival, and several had already established that she was to travel not only to Liverpool, but onward to America. Stuck onto her luggage were the "pretty" labels she had found with the tickets Mac had given her; these indicated a vessel and shipping line—the Java of Cunard.

  In fact, May had informed her landlord of the public house that she was to go to Europe for a holiday with her gentleman friend, and actually had no idea that it was not truly her destination. She had never before been out of England.

  The detectives now awaited the companion for whom she was obviously waiting. At seven twenty-three, with loading still to do—inconsiderate as he had already proved himself to be by leaving this attractive woman alone—he was cutting it fine.

  "Oh, Mac!" said May to herself, tears welling in her eyes, "please!"

  §

  "Euston was it, sir?" asked the cabbie through the trap in the hansom.

  Inside, Mac, looking up, nodded. The trap slammed shut and the cab jerked forward. Outside, London passed by for the last time. How, Mac wondered, could it rain without clearing the thick yellow fog that seemed always to settle heavily as the sun went down? Depression suddenly swamped the excitement he had concealed ail day that here was the final move. He tried to sum up London, his impressions, memories, dislikes, as he knew he would never return. Cabs; always it was cabs. Hansoms, growlers, his occasional hired brougham. A voice came to him: "With 'er, sir?" He remembered that first night with May. "Claridge's," he'd said.

  He smiled and settled nearer the window to catch a last glimpse of the tall terraced houses in the narrow streets, the dim gaslights picking out what few pedestrians dared venture abroad. "With the lady, sir?" came another voice: the night he'd gone to the Gaiety with a very different woman—a beauty—in love. He blessed May's innocence and promised himself that she should have only the best—soon.

  "It'll be nice to have." The words came chillingly—a recent voice: the last sentence spoken directly by his friend—Ed. Suddenly Mac shivered. Damn the cab; now he wanted only to be out of this place, this city, this country; it was almost seven thirty already "Nice to 'ave, 'ard to keep." The delicate voice spoke with the remembered smile; May finished the quotation: "True 'uns is rare."

  Mac closed his eyes tight as the memories flooded into his mind. Time enough later, he thought angrily: a world of time for reflection—later; now he had only to get to the station and be >ne. "Is it always goin' to be like this—now?" asked May of Mac, as if she were actually in the cab with him. He was startled at the clarity of the voice and opened his eyes wide to see her. There was only the blackness of the lumbering interior. "Perhaps," he said aloud, as if she were with him; "perhaps," he repeated softly.

  He was suddenly ice-cold; the hair prickled on his neck, and his eyes sought frantically for the lights of Euston Station as the cab entered the main thoroughfare.

  §

  The night fog and rain outside the long window of the "inner sanctum" of the Bank of England, where the draperies remained open, were only background to an unfinished painting—by Turner, perhaps. Within the room it was warm; the fire in the large grate beneath the Adam mantelshelf burned bright and crackled as the logs, brought by Colonel Francis from his country orchard, dispensed their aroma to the gentlemen gathered about the fireplace. The voice that spoke first had crossed the English Channel to be at this rendezvous, late as it was, and although it was enunciating English perfectly, the edge of authority it carried made it quite clear to the listeners that patience had its limitations.

  "Here," it was saying, "I believe, and correct me, please, if I am wrong ..." The voice remained soft and beguiling, wooing its audience. "... it is law that the man cannot be held indefinitely."

  The pause that followed was deliberate on the part of Colonel Francis as he looked slowly at the speaker.

  "He must not be released," said the Colonel.

  "Law," continued the voice from across La Manche, "is not necessarily justice, Colonel, for either the plaintiff or defendant, but it is something we must eventually accept, even though our personal interests are perhaps not
always served. Without it we would have anarchy, and for such as we . . ." The voice paused, its point made. Baron Alphonse de Rothschild had no more to say with words; his eyes surveyed the group and spoke clearly to Colonel Francis, Mr. Fenwick and the young man Farley.

  The detective inspector, uneasy in the company of a man who represented untold wealth (and whose intellect was so apparent as to make him nervous when the man merely smiled), coughed loudly and ventured a few words himself.

  "Well, sir, our inquiries indicate strongly his . . ." The detective paused, looking at Colonel Francis, but finished for the benefit of the visitor,"... innocence."

  "We shall see, sir," said Francis vehemently. "We have not even one reference on this 'Warren' "—he almost spat the word; "only a recommendation from his tailor." Here he looked viciously at Fenwick, who had grown accustomed to trembling at the implication over the past few days. "The only clue is his connection with a Mr. Horton—and this man Noyes is, or was, Horton's confidential clerk!" He paused dramatically. "We shall see, sir!" he finished, and propped a foot on the brass guardrail around the grate for emphasis.

  The Baron's soft voice was unperturbed by bluster. "I have not traveled as far, or as speedily, as our expected guest," he said, changing the conversation to the immediate reason the group bad gathered that night; "nevertheless, if he is unable to arrive at the stated time I shall have to bid you good evening. I do not like to dine late."

  A clock in the room chimed the half hour of seven thirty as a knock sounded at the door. Fenwick crossed quickly, grasped the lion rampant and pulled the door wide open. The man revealed was imposing and made his entrance accordingly. He stood a moment, took in the entire room at a glance from cold eyes, then stepped two paces forward, allowing the door to be closed quietly behind him by Fenwick.

  "Gentlemen," said Colonel Francis pulling himself upright and raising his voice, "Mr. Robert A. Pinkerton."

  The visitor said nothing but absorbed every detail of each man gathered before him.

  "Sir," Colonel Francis continued, "this is the Baron Rothschild." The two men nodded to each other. "These are my employees—Mr. Fenwick, and Farley," Francis indicated cursorily, "and this ..." he said, indicating the plain-clothes English policeman, "... is the man into whose custody Edwin Noyes was delivered and who has carried out all the investigations to date—Detective Inspector Spittle."

  Robert A. Pinkerton looked at the Englishman, who shuffled under his gaze. He wetted his lips and slowly spoke the first word since his arrival at the Bank of England. It was onomatopoeic.

  "Spittle," he said.

  §

  Totally unaware of the danger George was approaching, Ellen had begun to prattle the moment a hired brougham, bearing them both and substantial luggage, pulled from the entrance of the Terminus Hotel, London Bridge, for the last time. Distracted, George had been unable to stop the voluble flow of inconsequential nonsense from his woman by polite requests for silence, but his curt "Shut up" had done it. Not only quelling conversation, George had initiated in Ellen an ominous black mood.

  It was in this manner that they passed under the famous Greek arch and arrived at their destination—Euston Station.

  A porter brought a trolley and began loading the luggage from their brougham, whose driver George paid off handsomely. The porter, sensing an equally rewarding tip, went to work with a will. George was unable to control his nervousness and continually looked about, staring into the fog; inside, his instinct was sounding out loud warnings.

  Ellen paced up and down, developing her anger. The porter indicated the station entrance and shuffled off pushing the loaded trolley. Ellen followed, swirling toward the light as if making a stage appearance. George hesitated a moment, his thoughts of poor Edwin Noyes and that unfortunate's continuing incarceration. He prayed for news of the man's release.

  "Ellen, I'll just find an evening paper."

  The woman (already distant) ignored George, but the porter shouted back helpfully, "Late edition's sold round the west side, sir," and he pointed.

  "Thank you," said George; he began walking and was swallowed by the fog.

  §

  Steam escaping from an engine, along with shunting sounds and belching smoke, was prelude to a long whistle blast that echoed throughout the night station. It startled May, who was now on the brink of tears, as she could see plainly that it was seven thirty-three and Mac was late. She began looking about, searching for her man, praying that his face would suddenly appear and with his smile the world and her fears be put to rights.

  It was not Mac she found, but Mac's friend George's woman—the lady she'd been briefly introduced to—Ellen; her luggage was on a trolley, pushed by a porter; the two crossed with it toward the Liverpool train's platform. For a moment it seemed as if she saw May, but if so, she made no attempt to give any sign of recognition.

  Ellen stopped and turned around. For a moment she was obscured by a crowd now surging forward for third-class accommodations, from a queue that had been held back until the last few minutes. Ellen now seemed as agitated as May had become, which was immediately observed by the numerous detectives who were converging on the area around a ticket barrier to the last train that night for Liverpool. May could withhold her emotions no longer; she burst into tears.

  §

  In candlelight, ignoring the softly falling rain, George Bidwell looked over the front page of London's evening paper fast. Nowhere was there anything relating to Edwin Noyes.

  "I'll take an early edition also," he said quickly, "if you have one remaining."

  "Here somewhere, sir," replied the news vendor. "I've already put back what's left." He patted his little boy, who was sitting happily on a box with a penny whistle in his hands, humming a nursery rhyme.

  "Now you look after the gentleman, Georgie," he said, taking a single candle, "and I'll go look inside." He read in his customer's face the urgency that drove him speedily into the rear of his makeshift shed to search among stacks of paper tied with string.

  George Bidwell looked at the child, who was instantly silent. He gave the boy sixpence, which was accepted with wide eyes that glittered in the light of the remaining candle. George touched the young boy's face gently, thinking of a similar young child years before in another city thousands of miles away: despite time and distance, poverty is indelible. George closed his eyes only a moment as events of three decades began to crowd into his mind. The voice that came to him was from this other "little Georgie" as he began to sing:

  Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's.

  I owe you five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.

  "I got one, sir!" shouted the news vendor from the back of the shed. George's eyes opened quickly, memories fading rapidly.

  When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey

  went on the child earnestly.

  When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.

  "Here we are, sir." The man had reappeared and offered the paper.

  George Bidwell paid him and began to search the front page and Courts Section for information of his friend in custody.

  When will that be? say the bells of Stepney

  sang the little boy in his high voice.

  I'm sure I don't know, say the great bells of Bow

  he finished.

  The father saw the sixpence in his son's hand as the lad took a deep breath trying to remember the final verse.

  "You lucky boy," said the news vendor. "Thank you kindly, sir," George smiled quickly.

  The two men looked at the innocent face of the child, involved with his nursery problem. In that moment both George and the tradesman searched themselves for that quality they had long since lost.

  George suddenly realized he had only minutes remaining to catch his train. He started to leave.

  The news vendor, intent on his son, held the flickering clue closer that the boy might finish his rhyme. "Here comes a candle..." he prompted.

  ...
to light you to bed,

  the child immediately began.

  And here comes a chopper .

  he shouted enthusiastically,

  to chop off your head!

  George stepped back as though physically struck. If instinct had done nothing else, it had given him this last opportunity to decipher intuitive feelings that something was definitely wrong.

  "Well done," said the news vendor, again patting the boy, ignoring his customer. As he looked up to see that the gentleman had gone, a light gust of wind blew out both candles. The man swore. Instantly his son began to wail—fearful of the swirling fog, sudden darkness and harsh voice of reality.

  §

  George Bidwell walked cautiously toward the end of a dark passageway where it opened out into the station. The narrow access on the west side gave out onto the road where George had bought the papers. He stopped dead. In front of him, his nightmare was beginning. Two detectives sidled through the crowd and reached the porter who was with Ellen. They ignored her and spoke only to the man. Ellen's temperament, volatile in anger, exploded at their impertinence. George could see that she had become imperious and indeed might well carry the day.

  He now had a choice. Now—and only now—he could walk onto the platform, explain his search for the news vendor, apologize to his woman and bluff it out with these police. One of them appeared to be asking Ellen's destination; the other had taken out some sort of badge. The view across the large, crowded area in front of the platform barriers suddenly became filled with a group of passengers running for a train. A moment later, George saw Ellen seated on the luggage, ashen-faced, near to tears, with both men now bending over the woman, unconcerned at her emotional state. One was talking; Ellen listened without saying a word.

  George leaned against the cold, damp wall of the station in shadow. There was no panic in him yet; his mind was already racing over alternatives. Euston, Ellen, Liverpool; the situation before him. Police George had expected. That traveling to Liverpool at all (even with the women as cover) was a chance he knew; that getting out of London—or, indeed, England—would be a problem he accepted; but this . . . ! No one appeared to be above suspicion; and now two unaccompanied ladies awaiting their beaux, unable to give adequate answers to simple questions as to destination or even their lovers' business...