Undeterred, Caminada scrutinised the masses milling past him and was delighted to spot his two suspects once again. He watched from a distance as they slipped into a nearby field to disguise themselves. The detective lay down on the grass at a good vantage point from which to observe the thieves, who then bought some oranges from a woman hawking a basket on the edge of the field. When the bell for the next race rang, instead of going back to the racecourse they ran over to the railway station to meet their fence, unaware that Caminada was following close behind. As they handed over their booty, Caminada pounced, grabbing one man in each hand and dragging them into the station waiting room. Meanwhile, the fence jumped onto a departing train and made his escape. With no time to waste, Caminada called on the railway officials, ‘in the name of the Queen’, to assist him in the arrest, which they promptly did. Searching the suspects he found a gold watch, £36 in cash and a passage ticket to America. The men were convicted and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.
After that, Detective Caminada attended race meetings regularly and on another occasion at the Grand National, his disguise was so convincing that it even deceived his own chief constable. He had been detailed to take charge of the grandstand and while inspecting the ring he saw three men, dressed as ‘swells’, carrying out their customary tricks on an elderly gentleman with a walking stick. Caminada gave the signal for going undercover and he and his colleagues disguised themselves as labourers. Before long, the thieves tried to fleece another gentleman. One of the men, who was wearing glasses, put his hand on the victim’s shoulder to steady himself, while he peered over the heads of the crowd, apparently looking for someone. His accomplice unbuttoned the man’s overcoat with lightning speed and patted his pockets. This time they did not find anything, so they separated and moved on into the crowd near the grandstand.
Their next ‘mark’ was a gentleman who had carefully buttoned both his overcoat and undercoat, after placing his wallet in the inside pocket. The daring thief unbuttoned both coats, detached the chain from the man’s watch, drew it out and passed it to his companion, who hurried off down the steps, where Caminada was lying in wait for him. The detective rounded up all three thieves and escorted them the short distance to the local police station, where he handcuffed them to a strapping officer.
Whilst this was going on, the Chief Constable rushed into the office, shouting that he had been robbed of his pocket watch. Forgetting that he was still in disguise, Caminada took out a watch that he had recovered from the thieves and showed it to his superior officer who, much to the amusement of everyone present, immediately began to interrogate him about its provenance. Caminada maintained his sangfroid as he explained the situation, but he could not resist the observation that even responsible police officers could sometimes become easy prey to thieves.
The development of the railways enabled criminals from all over Britain to travel to race meetings and, in order to remain one step ahead, detectives had to follow suit. On one such occasion Caminada was assigned to racecourse duty at the Goodwood Race Meeting, ‘which, being a great rendezvous of fashion, attracts thieves from all parts of the kingdom’. The ever-vigilant detective started watching out for shady characters as soon as he changed trains at London. As he boarded the train at Victoria Railway Station, ‘a stylishly-dressed man, carrying a macintosh across his arm’ joined him. The fellow passenger engaged Caminada in a conversation about train times and offered him a cigar as they set off on their journey to Chichester. Sipping from a small flask of spirits, he regaled the undercover police officer with tales of fantastic bets he claimed to have won at the races.
As the train neared its destination, Caminada rushed into the corridor, accidentally leaving his travelling cape, hat, bag and umbrella on the overhead rack. In the crowds on the platform, he had spotted some familiar faces from home, including the pickpocket who had stolen the Chief Constable’s watch at Aintree. As one of the thieves reached out to slip his hand into the pocket of a stranger standing on the platform, Caminada threw open the train door, jumped out of the moving train and seized the thieves, bundling them into a nearby lavatory. In the scuffle, the local police grabbed Caminada by mistake, while the other pickpockets, ‘possessing better knowledge as to my identity, bolted in an instant’.
Once all the confusion had been sorted out and the prisoners apprehended, Caminada’s travelling companion appeared with the belongings he had left behind in the compartment of the train. When the detective opened his bag and took out a pair of handcuffs, the man’s jaw fell and he turned on his heel to flee the scene. The mysterious passenger was a London criminal, who went by the name of ‘Red ‘Un’. Even though he had slipped through Caminada’s fingers, all was not lost. One of the men arrested on the platform, James ‘Flying’ Gibb, was a known felon convicted several times for theft, including once at the Old Trafford Steeplechases and, on another occasion, for stealing a tame rabbit. Each time Gibb had been sentenced to a short stretch in prison. On his release he had found legitimate employment too monotonous and soon ‘blossomed into a very dangerous and expert thief’, targeting jewellery shops in the city centre. Detective Caminada had arrested him for theft at least twice before, both times after a violent struggle.
When Caminada chanced upon Gibb at Chichester Railway Station, the thief was wanted for breaking his police supervision (now known as parole) back in Manchester. The detective took him before the local county magistrates, where the case against him was thrown out due to lack of evidence. The tenacious detective never arrested ‘Flying Gibb’ again. Gibb moved to London, where he became a ‘continental thief’, running his illegitimate business out of Charing Cross.
Detective Caminada visited widespread towns and cities in pursuit of felons. Just before Christmas in 1871, he received instructions to make enquiries about a gang of thieves, wanted in Sheffield for robbery with violence. One gang member had garrotted the victim whilst the others ransacked his pockets, and stole an expensive gold watch and chain. When Chief Superintendent Gee described one of the men as ‘splay-footed’ with very large feet, Caminada recognised him immediately as a criminal known as ‘Footy’. He also identified his confederates as ‘Cockney Johnny’, Billy Boyd and Starkie. On learning that Cockney Johnny was in Leeds, he dashed over to the city on Christmas Eve.
On his arrival, Caminada traced the suspect to a house in York Street, a disreputable quarter of the city, where he recognised another member of the gang. John Roberts was a powerfully built man then wanted in London for murdering a known gambler, William Walsh, with a cavalry sword, after Roberts had had an affair with Walsh’s wife. The detective could not believe his luck and, after summoning the assistance of local police officers, he staked out the house, spying on Roberts through one of the bedroom windows, as he sat at a dressing table. The officers arrested Roberts, who was then transferred to London and tried at the Old Bailey. With one case solved almost by accident, Caminada continued searching for Cockney Johnny. He slipped into disguise: ‘I was made up in pretty good style to resemble more a denizen of the York Street district than a detective officer, and had my portrait been taken at the time I am quite sure that my friends would have failed to recognise me’.
It was 11pm on Christmas Eve and the streets were growing lively with late-night revellers, all full of festive cheer. Women stood on doorsteps with babies in their arms and young girls quarrelled over local men, some of whom were already drunkenly singing Christmas carols. Though still elated by his capture of Roberts, there would be no festivities for Caminada until he had caught his next prey. Standing in the shadows of the house where Johnny was purportedly living, he lit his pipe and waited. Before long a young woman passed him, whom he recognised as Johnny’s companion, ‘Yorkshire Charlotte’. Pretending to strike a match to light his pipe, Caminada asked the girl about Johnny and then whispered, ‘Tell him “Billy” called’. He walked away from her, as he waited for his trick to work. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Cockney Johnny whistle
d to ‘Billy’ as a signal to enter the house. Still deep undercover, Caminada went in and greeted Johnny with an embrace, holding him tight until another officer came to his assistance. He then apprehended the astonished suspect, who failed to recognise his captor until he removed his disguise at the police station. Caminada bound himself to the prisoner, ‘like Siamese twins’, with a length of rope and transported him to Sheffield by train, arriving in the early hours of Christmas morning.
In the New Year, Sir William Henderson of the Metropolitan Police wrote to the Chief Constable of Manchester, commending Caminada for his part in the arrest of Roberts: ‘The merit of the arrest of John Roberts is entirely due to him, and we fully appreciate his conduct on the occasion’. Detective Sergeant Caminada could not have received a better Christmas gift, even though Roberts was acquitted early the following year. It had been well worth working through the Christmas period and he probably had not missed any family festivities, as he was still lodging at the Albert Street Police Station.
Victorian police officers worked long hours and had little free time. They were required to be on duty during festivals and public holidays, which were usually rowdy occasions. Every year during Easter Week, the Knott Mill Fair was held in Deansgate. The main street was lined with stalls selling fragrant gingerbread and roasted chestnuts. Stallholders called out to young men to impress their sweethearts by having a go with a wooden mallet at the ‘try your strength’ machines or throwing a ring over a block to win a walking stick or knife. Children pestered their parents to let them try one of the countless lotteries or one-penny boards, in the hope of winning a cheap trinket. Millworkers and labourers chatted and drank beer, while ballad singers crooned and played barrel organs and accordions. For once, everyone was relaxed and carefree, with the exception of Detective Sergeant Jerome Caminada.
It was about 9.30pm and the detective was about to finish his shift for the day. He bade goodnight to a fellow officer and was walking along Deansgate through the busy stalls and lively crowds, when he saw two men shielding themselves from the light by the side window of a druggist’s shop. Caminada slipped away from the blazing gas lamps into a darkened shop doorway to watch, as one man passed a small parcel to the other. His companion then walked over to a gingerbread stall and made a purchase. Shortly after, when an altercation broke out between the man and the stallholder, Caminada stepped in to arrest his suspects. As he conveyed them to Knott Mill Police Station, he noticed that one of the men was fiddling with his brace, which had come unfastened.
Later, when he searched the prisoners he found in the vest pocket of one a ‘base’ (fake) coin, with which the prisoner admitted that he had offered to buy the gingerbread. Well aware that passers of base coins worked in pairs, with one holding the ‘swag’ while the other, the ‘smasher’ or ‘pitcher’, used the coins one at a time to avoid detection, Caminada searched them again, but found nothing. Determined to prove his suspicions, he then began to strip them and found that the man with the faulty brace had a string attached to it, running down his trouser leg to a bag of coins wrapped in tissue paper at the bottom. He had been trying to release the bag when he was arrested, but the string had become knotted. Their ruse was up and they were both sentenced to five years’ penal servitude. This was all in a night’s work for Detective Caminada.
Within a few years of his promotion to the detective department, Caminada had become well-known within the criminal fraternity, who called him ‘Detective Jerome’ or ‘Cammy’, because of the difficulty of pronouncing his foreign surname. His encyclopaedic knowledge of the criminals lurking in the shadows of the city’s underworld made him an exceptional detective. As Dr Watson observed of Sherlock Holmes in A Study in Scarlet, Caminada also regularly stalked the ‘lowest portions of the City’ after dark. However, some nights he was not alone in his nocturnal wanderings.
In the winter of 1874, a special correspondent for the Manchester Evening News undertook a covert study of the city’s criminal underclass. Accompanied by an ex-convict, the reporter led his readers on a journey of discovery through the back alleys and closed courts of Manchester’s most detestable streets, in order to show them, via a series of reports, what life was like for the ‘outcasts and pariahs of the community’. One wet Saturday night in October, the journalist was exploring Deansgate with his ‘guide’, when they came across a fistfight between two women, who were tearing each other’s hair out. A crowd of neighbours had gathered round and before long they began quarrelling amongst themselves. The argument soon descended into a free-for-all. As the reporter watched, a man appeared through the drizzle: ‘it was soon put a stop to by… a man who I could see at once had more power over these unruly mobs than they would like to confess. He was of average build, but broadly set, and he “went for” the crowd instantly with a quiet determination’.
Without so much as a stick to protect himself, the stranger prised the two fighting women apart, thrusting one into the crowd and dragging the other into a nearby house. Then he returned to the onlookers, who were still arguing, and ordered them sharply to leave, calling each one by name, until they slid away into the darkness. One of the brawlers tried to stand his ground and called out menacingly, ‘All right, you ___ Jerome’, but, before he could say anymore, the man, who was of course Caminada, seized him by the collar, and ran him ‘barrow-fashion’ down the street. He shoved the man through his front door, before turning back to disperse the remaining stragglers, who slunk off back into the rookery. Within minutes calm was restored and the journalist was astounded that a single man could subdue a crowd of ‘the lowest ruffians’. This unique eyewitness account revealed the famed detective in his element: fighting crime and restoring order to the streets of his city.
By the mid-1870s, Caminada had already established himself as an outstanding detective officer with considerable influence over the criminal fraternity, but his crime-busting work had still only just begun.
Chapter Four
Quack Doctors:
‘Rascality, rapacity and roguery’
(1876–1877)
Urban life throughout Victorian England was precarious, but in Manchester it was downright deadly. Shoddy housing, inadequate water supplies and poor sanitation posed major health hazards for many city-dwellers, especially the most needy. As Alan Kidd states in Manchester: A History, the city’s death rate between 1841 and 1851, was 33 per 1,000 inhabitants, second only to Liverpool, at 36. This was well above the national average of 22 per thousand in the first half of the nineteenth century. (In 2012, the mortality rate for the UK was 9.33.)
The death toll reached a peak in the late 1830s and mid-1840s, due to epidemics of typhus, influenza, diarrhoea and cholera. Engels noted in The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844: ‘That the dwellings of the workers in the worst portions of the cities, together with the other conditions of life of this class, engenders numerous diseases, is attested on all sides’.
Pulmonary tuberculosis was the main killer in Victorian Manchester and accounted for 10 per cent of all deaths. Contracted through infected droplets, the contagion spread like wild fire through the overcrowded tenements and poorly ventilated factories. Typhoid was even more lethal and passed easily through polluted water supplies, especially from standpipes in open cesspits and shared privies. Life in the slums was threatened further by outbreaks of cholera during each decade from 1830 to 1860. In The Origin and Process of the Malignant Cholera in Manchester, Dr Henry Gaulter recorded that of 1,325 people who contracted cholera in 1832, at least half died. In 1849, the killer disease claimed another 600 lives in the poorest quarters of the city. ‘King Cholera’ reigned without mercy.
Conditions in the factories and textile mills further aggravated the health of workers, toiling for long hours in the hot and dusty atmosphere of the workshops, alongside the constant deafening noise of the machines. The journalist Angus Bethune Reach, visited three cotton mills in Manchester in 1849 and was shocked at the sight of the unhealthy operati
ves:
The hue of the skin is the least favourable characteristic. It is a tallowy-yellow. The faces which surround you in a factory are, for the most part, lively in character, but cadaverous and overspread by a sort of unpleasant greasy pallor.
The contrast between the high temperatures on the factory floor and the damp, dank conditions in workers’ homes meant that many suffered from permanent colds and afflictions of the lungs, such as asthma, bronchitis and pneumonia. Prolonged periods of time spent operating machines performing repetitive movements in the same position, left many with physical deformities that affected their hips, backs and limbs. They suffered swollen joints, varicose veins and ulcers on their calves and thighs. Lack of sleep, due to the unremitting factory hours, exacerbated their problems, leading to indigestion, irritation of the nervous system and general weakness.
In his 1833 report, The Manufacturing Population of England, Peter Gaskell gave a graphic description of cotton mill workers:
Their complexion is sallow and pallid, with a peculiar flatness offeature… Their stature low – the average height… being five feet six inches. Their limbs slender, and playing badly and ungracefully. A very general bowing of the legs. Great numbers of girls and women walking lamely or awkwardly, with raised chests and spinal flexures. Nearly all have flat feet.
Children suffered even more than adults; most starting work in the mills from the tender age of five or six. They faced not only stunted growth and illness, but also the ever-present threat of accidents, as they slipped under the machines to pull a stray thread from the whirring spools.
The Real Sherlock Holmes Page 4