by Mark C. King
The next several years were dotted with other experiences in stranger’s unoccupied – and occasionally occupied – homes. The money he received from this allowed his family to stay warm and fed. He didn’t allow for more than that, as his conscience simply couldn’t bear it – it barely allowed what he already was doing. He eventually bought a horse and a carriage that gave him a way to earn enough income that he rarely had to add to it by illegal means.
Once his mom passed and his sister married her first husband, Sigmund thought he would be done thieving for good. But then his niece was born. This birth was celebrated by the family, of course, but once her ailment was discovered, her father, Alexis’ husband changed. He became bitter and then mean. One night he left and never came back. Alexis was devastated and once again needed assistance. This assistance was provided by Sigmund and his resurrected thieving ways. A few months later, the husband was found dead by the docks. Evidently he was a in debt to the wrong people. There wasn’t much of an investigation and even less mourning.
Her husband was one of those men that walked the line between being a good man and a bad man. Alexis was optimistic, maybe too much so, in seeing his good qualities. At first, early in their marriage, things were good. He showed signs of breaking free from the habits of his rough childhood. But the pull from the past, the gravity of badness was strong. When Sarah was born, he cursed the world and gave in to the gloom and darkness. Sigmund knew that Alexis’ husband had no one to blame but himself, for she had given him all the support and love one could wish for, but his selfishness was too strong. Despite the hurt to Alexis, Sigmund was glad he was gone as the pain of his loss would be less than the pain of his continued presence.
Jamison changed everything. He loved Alexis deeply and took care of Sarah as if she was his own. Sigmund would be forever grateful to this man. But now, in their home on this beautiful evening, they had asked him to steal. Why would they need something stolen?
“Why would you need something stolen?” Sigmund asked with true wonderment. If they had asked him to slap the Queen, he doubted that he would have been any more surprised.
Clearly struggling with this request, Jamison looked at Alexis, who gave a small nod of encouragement, and said, “It’s for Sarah. There is a chance she could walk.”
If Sigmund had been surprised before, he was dumbfounded now. It’s the greatest news that he could ever hope to hear, certainly the greatest motivation to do something illegal and overcome his conscience, but the news was impossible.
“Impossible,” Sigmund said half to himself. He had talked to countless doctors and many had examined Sarah, some even trying differing cures, but nothing was ever helpful. Most doctors simply told him that the situation was hopeless, that they all should be resigned to the fact that Sarah would never walk. The science was too far behind her ailment.
Shaking his head in disbelief Sigmund continued, “You must be mistaken. There is no cure for Sarah. Oh how I wish there was, but her condition is well beyond medicine.”
Alexis spoke calmly, soothingly, “Sigmund, please. Hear Jamison’s explanation.”
Sigmund started at his sister. She was clearly on the side of Jamison, which meant something – Alexis was no fool. Sigmund, carefully protecting himself from disappointment, resigned to the slightest possibility of this amazing revelation. He looked at Jamison and waited for him to explain.
“Let’s sit down.” Jamison and Alexis took the couch while Sigmund sat in the wing chair opposite them. “Sigmund, like you, I have visited many doctors and have been given the same prognoses. I wouldn’t say that I’ve given up hope, but my optimism was near empty. Regarding this possible cure, I did not find it, it found me. You see, there is a man that started at my office recently, Jonathan Fitton. He is a kind man, helpful, a good worker. We became friends rather easily as we respected each other’s work ethic and amiable natures. Earlier this week he came to the office and was distracted, not his normal self at all. Being concerned for him as a friend and workmate I talked with him. He was flustered because of concern for his sister. She had an ailment from when she was young, a fall from a horse, that crippled her left leg. Jonathan found out about an Italian man, a doctor, who is doing remarkable procedures unlike any other of his scientific contemporaries. This doctor is currently in London and could help his sister. Of course I thought that if he could help his sister, why not Sarah. I explained her situation, at which Jonathan said that this man could certainly help. As I said, Jonathan was in bad sorts the day he told me about all of this and that was because this remarkable healer was also remarkably expensive. Most haven’t heard of him as he kept his talents to the wealthy. I guess if he runs out of wealthy sick people he would then move on to the rest, but that doesn’t seem too likely. My friend Jonathan needed a large sum of money, about four-hundred pounds to get an appointment. It would be another four-hundred for Sarah. To make matters worse, this Italian doctor is leaving London next week, so our timeframe is severely limited.”
Jamison paused at this point and looked down at the carpet between them. As if ashamed, he said, “Given a greater amount of time, I could raise that amount of money. But being that we have only a week, there is no way.” Returning his gaze to Sigmund, “This is why we’re asking you to steal something. It’s the only way to raise the money by next week. Believe me, I hate to ask you. I’ve never done an illegal thing in my life but I would for this. I was even tempted to try myself but Alexis talked me out of it, which is probably for the best. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Sigmund leaned back in his chair and stared off into space to let all of this sink in. A steam car passed by the front of the building, its lights flashing in the front window. Sigmund thought, A doctor only know to the rich? Is that possible? Sigmund had seen quite a disparity between those who have a lot and those who do not, the privileges and opportunities that would never be afforded to those with meager resources. Why wouldn’t that apply to doctors and medicine? Poor families often couldn’t afford the most basic of help even from those ghoulish men who call themselves doctors but are probably less talented than the local butcher. Was it really a stretch to think that this previously unknown layer of privilege existed?
Alexis, starting to get emotional at the very thought of her daughter being healed, locked eyes with Sigmund and implored, “Sigmund, you have provided so much for me and for Sarah. There is no denying that, nor would I try. I thought I would never have to look to you again for support, that you would be free of my burden.” She took a breath, choking back a sob. “But this is a chance that must be taken. Maybe this Italian doctor cannot help, but maybe he can! We must try, Sigmund. Please. We must.”
Sigmund nodded to himself. He knew she was right – if there was even the slightest possibility to help Sarah, it was worth every effort, regardless of price. Looking back at Jamison, he asked, “Can you trust this man? This Jonathan Fitton?”
“He is not a charlatan, if that is what you mean. He came to me having no knowledge of Sarah’s illness, for we hadn’t ever discussed it. I trust him completely. Our meeting each other – call it a coincidence, but I consider it providence.”
Sigmund knew his answer. Deep down he knew it the moment it was possible to help Sarah. He could never say ‘no’ to her. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he said, “I will try.”
“Try?” Alexis asked alarmed.
“I cannot guarantee success. My talents are a little rusty but that is not my true concern. The timeframe is the problem. Locating something of value that I can get at can be time consuming. Perhaps I will find an opportunity tomorrow, or perhaps it will take a month – I have little control over that.”
“Oh you must, Sigmund! You just must!”
Making a promise that he wasn’t sure he could keep, he looked her in the eyes and in his most confident voice said, “I’ll find a way.”
3.
The early-morning fog that shrouded the city was disappearing u
nder the bright late morning sun. Sigmund awoke to the hissing and chugging sounds of steam cars and the clop-clop of horse drawn carriages as they passed by outside his apartment. He sat up on his elbows and wondered if he had dreamed about the visit with his sister or if it actually happened. As sleep slowly gave over its control to consciousness Sigmund realized that it was no dream. Alexis and Jamison had told him about a possible cure for Sarah and the need for him to steal something in order to pay for it.
Climbing out of bed, weary from a restless night of reluctant thinking, he dressed swiftly, donning his usual work garb, grey trousers, white shirt, grey waistcoat, dark grey cravat, and his dark overcoat. Not very interesting but it worked. Sigmund cared only enough to not stand out. He carefully took his father’s watch, attached the chain, wound it, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. Then, grabbing a hunk of bread and an apple for his breakfast, he stuck a second apple in his pocket for his horse.
Stepping down the hallway to the exterior door, Sigmund opened it to a lively Monday morning. It had a different feel than the previous day, for people were heading to work instead of play. It had a very different feel for Sigmund that had nothing to do with work or play – he was concerned about the difficult task he accepted. Had promised. A task that he wasn’t sure he could do despite the assurance he gave his sister. Descending his steps, he joined the citizens of London and headed to his own job. It wasn’t too far of a walk to the stables where he kept his horse and carriage, and with weather this nice the time went by even faster than normal. The sun was bright and the air clean – well, at least as clean as it gets in a city that burns this much coal. Good weather didn’t bode well for making a lot of money, as people enjoyed walking instead of taking his cab. This was not good news at all. He didn’t care about fares today but he did need people to be in his carriage. People led to talking and talking led to discovery.
As the son of a clock maker, he had the honed ability to tinker. That and a fantastically inventive mind has aided in the many inventions that allowed Sigmund to be an excellent burglar. His simplest and perhaps most useful invention was built into his carriage. A speaker horn placed inside of the passenger cab – hidden from view – attached to a piece of India rubber tubing, which Sigmund strung under his overcoat, led to an ear nub which allowed Sigmund to hear any conversation that took place in his cab. A moving carriage was considered one of the safest places to have a conversation in all of Britain and that was a correct assumption except for Sigmund’s cab. He had heard enough secrets to blackmail half of the government – not that Sigmund would blackmail anyone, it wasn’t his preference, too much contact with people. Still, the conversations and whispers of recent acquisitions – legal and not – gave Sigmund enough information to keep his family out of the poor house over the years.
After a few blocks he arrived at the stable that held his horse and the home of Harold ‘Harry’ Thorpe. Harry Thorpe was his mentor and closest friend after his sister, and as kind a man as there ever was. When Sigmund’s father, Walter Shaw, died – influenza – Harry and his wife Katherine were there to help the family. Sigmund’s mother, Cecilia, was completely devastated both by the loss of her husband and the now uncertainty of income. Harry, out of his own pocket, took care of the immediate needs. This kindness allowed the family – Sigmund, his sister Alexis, and his mother – time to grieve, gather themselves together as best they could, and eventually make arrangements to move into more modest living quarters. They had to sell their father’s clock shop but the money from the sale allowed them to get by for awhile until Sigmund could contribute and eventually take over the responsibility of the family income.
Although fourteen years old at this time and growing up quickly, Sigmund still needed guidance – Harry provided this. Harry was never demanding and never tried to replace his father, but his kind, knowledgeable words had proven the direction that Sigmund often needed.
When Harry’s dear wife, Katherine, passed on, Sigmund was with Harry day and night consoling him. After all that Harry had done for him, it was the very least Sigmund felt he could do. How do you pay back a man who had helped so much?
The one and only secret that Sigmund kept from Harry was that he had resorted to thieving in order to help support his family. He knew Harry would not approve, but it was a method that Sigmund found that allowed him to keep money coming into his family – and was something he was good at.
As he approached the stables he saw Harry spreading hay out for the horses. On catching sight of Sigmund, Harry stood up, his round face and red cheeks crunched with a smile and cried out, “A bit late this morning, eh Sig?”
‘Sig’ was not a favorite nickname of Sigmund’s but he allowed a few people to get away with it – Harry was first on that list. The old friend, his white hair a mess under his cap, was wearing his typical cream colored trousers, covered in hay dust with suspenders holding them up, muck boots that nearly reached his knees, a white shirt, and an old cream colored jacket that matched his pants. Attire of one who knew what real work was.
Watching him wipe sweat off his brow, Sigmund responded, “I had a rough evening.” There was no way he could tell Harry what happened, not without explaining things that he never wanted Harry to know about.
“Rough? You look like you bypassed ‘rough’ a long ways back my lad.”
“I would think of a retort for you Harry but I’m too tired. Or maybe I’m too respectful, old man.”
Harold laughed and said, “A crack about my age? You must be tired to stoop to that.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. How’s Ham this morning?” Ham was Sigmund’s horse, named by his niece.
“Ready to go. She’s in her usual spot, fat and happy.”
Walking into the stables, the smell of manure pungent in the air, Sigmund approached his horse, a white spotted mutt, and stroked her neck. While holding out the apple, he said, “Good morning Ham, how is my girl today?” Ham noisily ate the apple and pushed her neck into his hand, clearly happy to see him. Opening the stable gate Sigmund said, “Such a good girl. You ready to go make some money?” and he led her out to his parked carriage.
Looking over at Harry he said, “A late start means a later return, that alright?”
“Of course, of course.” Then considering the weather added, “I hope you get some generous fares.”
Finishing the rigging on Ham, he responded, “Yeah, that would be nice. Think we’ll head over to Regent Street today.” Rigging completed, Sigmund jumped up into the driver’s seat, gave a little snap to the reigns, and they started off. Again to Harry, “As always, thank you Harry, I will see you later.”
“Fare well, my lad.” Harry never tired of that little pun.
As Sigmund made his way northward across London, the streets becoming more congested the closer he got to the area of Buckingham Palace, he continued to think over the previous day’s conversation with Alexis and Jamison. Despite a night’s rest, the conversation still surprised him. That, and how he would fulfill his part, kept going through his head until he was finally distracted by a hand on the busy sidewalk ahead. Pulling lightly at the reigns, he guided Ham and the carriage over to the customer.
“Good day, sir. Where may we take you?” asked Sigmund to the finely dressed gentleman.
“Is your horse tired from a busy morning? I don’t want a slow pace.”
“No, sir. We had a late start, so Ham is fresh. You are, in fact, our first fare.”
With a look of puzzlement, the man asked, “Excuse me? Did you say ‘Ham’?”
“Yes, sir. That is my horse.” And continuing on with a fairly memorized statement to bypass the inevitable question, “Her name is the result of allowing my precious young niece to name the horse. Despite all our protests, she was firm on the name, so the name was given.”
Shaking his head as if to rid himself of this line of thought, the man said, “Very well. Let us be off. Charing Cross. Don’t spare the whip.”
The day proved complete
ly unsuccessful. Nothing that would even remotely lead Sigmund to a successful burgle. Given enough time, eventually he would hear something, he always did. But there was no way to predict when it would happen. If Sigmund had a single rider, then there was no talking – Sigmund had passed a few waving men in an effort to only carry pairs which garnered a few unsavory comments. Even if he had a pair, or more, of passengers, sometimes people still rode in silence. And if they talked, it usually was about mundane things, nothing that interested Sigmund and certainly nothing useful.
He worked long hours, pushing Ham farther than he would like, but his situation was simple math – more hours meant more riders; more riders meant more conversations; more conversations meant a better chance at hearing of an opportunity.