by Chris Hales
Another carriage arrived, the female occupant being gently assisted to the ground. She was closely followed by a smartly dressed man. He appeared rife for the picking. An easy target. Peter continued to watch as the driver retreated to his carriage and the happy couple elegantly climbed the steps.
He raced after them always being careful to avoid being noticed by those who milled about him. As they reached the summit of the stone steps he bumped into the man apologetically. Offering his further contrition he skulked away blending in with the rest of the crowd. He was experienced in matters such as this. Quickly escaping back down the steps he hid around the corner. Pulling a thick wallet from inside his jacket, he giggled to himself. The man hadn't felt as Peter’s hand reached into his jacket and withdrew the stuffed pocketbook.
Proud of himself he quickly counted the money. The simplest of thefts had earned him more than a whole month’s takings. He knew not to remain at the theatre for too long. Removing his jacket and collecting his thoughts, he quickly made for home. He thought nothing bad could come from such an easy steal. He was wrong.
85
He was woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud banging at his door. Crawling from his bed, he cautiously approached the entrance, arming himself with a sharp kitchen knife as he approached. Carefully opening the door to a small crack, he held the knife close, ready to defend if needed.
“Morning, Peter,” greeted Matthew through the crack in the door.
The immense man barged through the entrance, pushing him back and knocking the knife away. He was followed closely by Jonathan, who threw the door shut and glanced about the house.
“Jonathan,” he said in surprise and trepidation. “What is this?”
Turning slowly to Peter, he gave his order. “I want to see your takings for the night.”
This was most irregular. It was not common for a gang leader to come to a person's home and ask to see their stash. They always waited until the thief went to them. A sick feeling began to grow in his stomach, causing him to fear for his life.
“Can't we do this in the morning?” he asked.
Matthew punched him swiftly in the stomach. “It is the morning, you dick,” he said with irritation.
Jonathan approached him in an even more threatening manner. “Your stash,” he demanded.
He gave in, shaking his head in annoyance and unwilling agreement. Walking to the far wall, he delved into a large chest and pulled a stuffed bag from within. He held it out for Jonathan. Matthew approached, snatching the bag away and throwing it on the small bed.
Opening the sack, the Thief Taker rifled through the contents. He selected only the assorted pocket books and leather wallets laying them on the bed carefully. Staring at the selection before him, he lifted one into the air. “Nice pocketbook,” he congratulated. “You remember where you got it?”
Peter pretended to consider his reply. Of course he knew where he had lifted the item. Jonathan opened the pocket book and counted the money which lay within. Even he was stunned at the wealth it contained. Looking to Peter he pressured him for an answer to his question with a stern glare.
“The theatre, I think.”
Jonathan leaned against the wall, placing his newly acquired pocket book inside his jacket. “I was visited by a man tonight,” he explained. “He was robbed outside of the theatre,” he smiled evilly as Peter began to sweat. “He was a very observant man who gave a good description of the thief he believed to be at fault.” He walked over to him as Matthew followed closely. “You're a very recognisable robber, Peter.”
“So what?” he defended. “I get the job done, that's all which matters.”
He nodded his agreement. He was one of his most experienced pickpockets. Normally he would only receive praise for stealing such an item. He had, however, been visited by a man who was greatly annoyed at being forced to leave the theatre to hunt for his pocketbook. He had taken the only option he thought open to him and had visited the Thief Taker. The very man who had served many of his friends so well. He gave Jonathan a description of the thief, allowing him to check his records in an attempt to identify the robber. He was not accustomed to visiting his thieves in the early hours of the morning and Peter's victim, Mr Andrews, seemed no different to any other man. Peter found it strange Jonathan would favour him over all of the other idiots being robbed at the theatre. The Thief Taker knew, however, who he was friends with. Who joined him in his social circle. That was the sole reason he was at Peter's home, digging through another man's booty.
Shooting a look to Matthew, Jonathan indicated his permission. Quickly moving forwards Matthew took a hold of him roughly.
“I'm sorry, but you're under arrest,” he said sorrowfully.
Peter's face dropped, a look of pure horror washing over his features. Matthew dragged him to the door, restraining him harshly. “You can't do this!” he protested. “I'll hang!” Jonathan followed them to the door, shaking his head knowingly.
“You're a pickpocket, Peter. I doubt they'll hang you.” He knew this was a lie. Considering who his employer was he was well aware Peter would feel the full force of the law. “You'll be free in a day,” he lied again.
86
Matthew dragged Peter to Newgate Prison. Jonathan had taken to following the example of many city marshals in London. When they wished to avoid the courts, out of fear a criminal would implicate them in nefarious activities, they would simply deliver them to a prison. In this part of town it was usually Newgate. Jonathan knew, however, Peter would still be taken to trial. He had to see this through but being in prison the thief would assume it was only a matter of course. That he would soon be free. Which was not the case. He would most certainly die.
His dealings with both the Bailey and the prisons had allowed him to make firm friends with the wardens of these terrible institutions. Dodge, the warden of Newgate, knew there were often things marshals, or in this case Thief Takers, needed to do to uphold the law. No questions would ever be asked and Jonathan would pay handsomely for ignorance in certain cases.
The decision to place Peter in Newgate was sensible. Jonathan knew he would cause trouble if he was taken to the Bailey. He would die, this was obvious, and people needed to know he had met with the long arm of the law and had been punished for his crimes. It would prove the Thief Taker was still effective in his duty.
He did not accompany Peter and Matthew to the prison. Instead he travelled to a large townhouse in the south of London. He smartened his suit as he approached the door, knocking purposefully. It was quickly opened by a short and stubby butler who permitted Jonathan to explain who he was and then quickly allowed him entry.
The house was enormous. Portraits lined the walls and chandeliers dropped from every ceiling. He was led through to a large reception room where six men sat and stood about drinking and smoking. The atmosphere was jovial, with laughter drifting across the room. Mr Andrews stood with a couple of friends gesturing wildly with his hands. He presumed he was relaying the story of his robbery.
Andrews turned, looking to him as he approached with expectation. He bowed his head slightly in respect, hoping to impress such high class company. “I have something of yours, Sir,” he proclaimed, reaching into his pocket and producing the lost wallet.
“My pocketbook!” exclaimed Andrews. “I never expected such swift action.”
He smiled, always maintaining his professional manner. “The thief was known to me,” he explained. “And I assure you he will be punished to the full extent of the law.”
He began to laugh as he reached out and took his stolen property. The other gentlemen quickly joined him. Walking to Jonathan, Mr Andrews slapped him affectionately on the back. “You must stay a while, have a drink with us.”
Pulling him to the other side of the room, Andrews made his announcement. “Gentlemen, this is Jonathan Wild, the Thief Taker General of London.”
A large man who lounged in a comfortable chair turned to gaze upon Jonat
han suspiciously. The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The Thief Taker?” he questioned.
“Jonathan, I would like to introduce you to my good friend, Sir Gerard Conyers.” This man grinned, nodding his head thoughtfully.
“The Lord Mayor of London,” whispered Jonathan, stating the obvious fact. “It's an honour, Sir.”
Conyers had, of course, heard of Jonathan. His activities and exploits were a common topic among the wealthy and powerful. Many were impressed by this seemingly lower class man who served his esteemed peers so willingly by arresting thieves and recovering their valuable stolen items.
It seemed long ago when one of his esteemed predecessors encountered great pressure from both the people of London and the legislature to officially authorise Jonathan with the rights and privileges of a city marshal. He did, however, expect him to be much larger than he was. He appeared far too skinny and short to be such a power. He glared at him, not with distaste or distrust, but only with a slight wariness.
“Interesting,” he said with some amusement. “I have heard much about you, Mr Wild. Mostly good things,” he said in his nasal drawl, “but some a little more disturbing.”
He had indeed heard rumours of Jonathan's involvement with thieves and criminals of disrepute. In addition, he knew of a city marshal's investigation into the matter. He thought now he would have the chance to ascertain the Thief Taker's true motives. He considered himself a good judge of character and trusted he would soon discover the truth.
Gesturing to another chair, he smiled. “Please, join us. I think we have much to discuss.” Gratefully Jonathan sat. This was the perfect opportunity for him also. A chance to secure a powerful ally.
87
Charles Hitchin had fallen into the habit of keeping a close eye on Jonathan and his activities. He knew all too well he had continuously tried to implicate him in a number of crimes. Part of him wished to return the favour. Once again he found himself watching the little house on Cock Alley.
When he finally realised Jonathan wouldn’t be home for some time, a sinister idea formed at the back of his mind. He had watched him leave, dressed in his smartest suit, proudly wearing his sword and clutching the staff, with Matthew walking beside him. Jonathan was on business. He could easily come to this conclusion, but he needed Jonathan to understand there were consequences to his actions. The only way he could even attempt to make his former apprentice understand was to attack him personally.
He arrived at Mary's brothel as Jonathan knocked on the door of the townhouse on the other side of London. Hitchin knew he had his boys watching the house, but none would expect him to use the main customer entrance. Only one young lad watched the front and Hitchin snuck up on him. Throwing his arm around his neck he reached to his side where he drew a dagger and cut his throat in one swift motion. Mary's front door was, as usual, unlocked. Ensuring the bell which sat above the door didn’t ring he quietly entered. Isabel had told him how this bell would ring every time a customer entered, and how he could carefully stop its alerting the residents to entry. She had never imagined he would try something so brave. Listening carefully for the sound of others he cautiously crept inside. As far as he could determine the house was largely empty.
As he snuck through the large house he remained alert, always ready for Mary or one of her girls to find him. Checking each room as he slid through her home, he unbuckled a new belt, wrapping it around his fist. The belt, with its large brass buckle, had been a gift from Jacob, his new partner in crime.
Finally he found her, in an abandoned hallway on the first floor. She didn't see him coming. As soon as her eyes met with his, he darted forwards and threw her to the floor, laying on top and covering her mouth.
“Shhh,” he advised. “It occurred to me we've never had the chance to get properly acquainted.” He began to quietly chuckle, his belly shaking with glee. “Where's Jonathan?”
He removed the hand allowing her to speak. She knew better than to scream. “I don't know,” she replied in terror, “but he's not here.”
He grinned. “Oh, I know.” It was a vicious game to play with her.
She began to struggle, wildly striking with both of her hands. Hitchin didn't seem concerned. He punched her hard across the jaw, proving his point. Struggling would get her nowhere. Her flesh quickly bruised with the impact of the brass buckle, tearing and causing her skin to bleed.
He rose to stand over her, watching as tears streamed down her face. He shook his head. “I never liked whores,” he spat at her. “They disgust me,” he grinned evilly. “And you're the queen of such bitches. I think it's time you learned your place.” He punched her again in the chest, this time with considerable force.
She coughed and spluttered but was still prepared to verbally defend herself. “We all know of your dislike for us,” she wheezed. “You've been picking us off for years. What do you want, Charlie, or are you now trying a madam on for size?”
He struck her again about the head. She was sure her time was up, but he had no intention of killing her, as much as he would have liked to.
“I'm making a point,” he said as he slapped her about the face. “I'm sure Jonathan thinks I'm done,” she started to scream but Hitchin silenced her by stepping on her stomach and laying his full weight upon her. “I'm not…, and I want him to know this. He can never be rid of me, not completely. I'm still the one with all the power and I want to hurt him.” Harming her was the only way he could prove his point. He knew, however, if he killed her, which was an appealing prospect, Jonathan would snap. He would unleash his full force and he doubted either would be alive before the end of the following day. “I'm going to damage what's his,” he said as his hand slipped around her throat. “And you'll deliver my message.” Mary continued to struggle. Her mouth snapped open and closed as she struggled to breathe. Hitchin smiled at her, punching her across the face with his free hand. He leaned in closely and spoke clearly, releasing the pressure on her windpipe slightly. He needed her to pay attention. “He can't stop me. I will toy with his life for as long as I am able. Jonathan will surrender to me one of these days.” Finally he released her but did not move away. “Nothing will stand in my way. I will destroy him, his life and those he loves.”
Hitchin moved away, kicking Mary in the stomach one last time. She rolled into a ball, hoping to protect herself from any further attack. “Remind him I am the master of this city, not him.”
He left her only with her pain. Finally she was found, not by her girls, but by Anne. She had heard the attack clearly but cowered in her room, rigid with fear and holding her son close. She dare not step a foot out of the room. It was only when she was sure the monster had departed she braved offering Mary her help and comfort.
Helped down stairs she was poured a strong drink and slapped a thick, cool cut of beef to her jaw. Jonathan would be furious at Hitchin's attack. Mary, however, was convinced her own fury would be ten times as severe.
88
When he visited Mary's the next morning, he found her propped up at her kitchen table surrounded by many of her girls and Anne in addition. Her bruised features were immediately noticeable. His heart sank as he discovered Joseph sitting in a corner visibly shaking.
“What's this?” he asked as he closed the door, venturing into what was obviously a troubled home.
Isabel looked over to him, angry and frustrated. “You should have been here,” Mary took hold of her arm, calming her almost instantly.
He approached, kneeling by her side. “What happened?” he questioned with genuine concern. He’d never seen Mary this disturbed. Her features beaten and bruised Jonathan’s mind led him to the only man who would dare attack them in such a manner.
She tugged at her hair, pulling it over the large bruise which had formed by her jaw. “I had a visitor in the night,” the words faded into a heart-breaking drawl. She quickly broke down in tears. “I'm sorry,” she said through her wall of emotion. He pulled her into his arms.
; “What visitor?” he pleaded, desperate for his fears to be confirmed.
The girls started to mutter as he wiped away her tears. “Charlie,” she admitted. Anger swelled up inside of Jonathan, his hands balling into fists. Mary only cried harder.
His attack only proved how much Jonathan had affected him. Her assurances how Charlie would never dare attack or threaten those in her house now seemed naïve and ridiculous. She should have prepared for it.
“I put up a good fight,” she said as he pulled her close. Finally she locked eyes with his. “I want him dead, Jonathan.” He had never heard her speak quite so candidly, although he could understand her intense anger. He would have loved to promise her Charles would be dead within the day but he knew it would never be so easy. He couldn’t deny, however, he had reached the end of his patience. Through her pained jaw Mary told him of what had happened. She explained how he had used a buckle to torment her features. Jonathan knew, from her description, it was one of his father’s most prized possessions.
He looked to the girls, giving his instructions. “Take her upstairs. I'll be up soon.”
Isabel and the girls hoisted the distraught Mary off her seat and carefully escorted her up the stairs.
He could hardly deny Hitchin had crossed the line. Something needed to be done and he could honestly say that now, after his meeting the last night, he was in the perfect position to make him pay.
89
As soon as the girls had helped Mary up the stairs, Jonathan approached his son. Joseph sat on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. He was still shaking from the fear of recent events, existing in his own little house of horrors. Terror had turned him stiff, causing him to be deaf, dumb and blind to the world around him.