Anthony Horowitz: The House of Silk

‘Train robberies were still prevalent in the western frontiers of America, in California and Arizona, but for such a thing to take place on the more developed eastern seaboard was almost inconceivable and that is why the train left the Grand Central Terminal in New York with only one armed guard stationed in the mail car. The banknotes were contained in a safe. And by some wretched chance, the paintings were still in their crate, travelling in the same compartment. Our agent, James Devoy, was travelling in second class. He was always assiduous in his duties and had taken a seat as close to the mail car as possible.

‘The Flat Cap Gang had chosen an area just outside Pittsfield for the attempted raid. Here, the track climbed steeply upwards before crossing the Connecticut River. There was a tunnel that ran for two thousand feet and, according to railway regulations, the engineer was obliged to test his brakes at the exit. The train was therefore travelling very slowly as it emerged and it was a simple matter for Rourke and Keelan O’Donaghue to jump down onto the roof of one of the wagons. From here, they climbed over the tender and, to the astonishment of the driver and his brakeman, they suddenly appeared in the engine cab with guns drawn.

‘They ordered the train to come to a halt in a forest clearing. They were surrounded by white pine trees that soared up all around, forming a natural screen behind which they might commit their crime. Kelly, Maclean and all the other members of the gang were waiting with horses — and with dynamite which they had stolen from a construction site. All of them were armed. The train drew in and Rourke struck the driver with the side of his revolver, concussing him. Keelan, who had not uttered a word, produced some rope and tied the brakeman to a metal stanchion. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang had boarded the train. Ordering the passengers to remain seated, they approached the mail car and began to set charges around the door.

‘James Devoy had seen what was happening and was in despair of the consequences. He must have guessed that the robbers were here for reasons other than the Constables. After all, very few people knew of their existence, and even if they’d had the wit or the education to recognise the work of an old master, there would have been no one to whom the paintings could be sold. While the other passengers cowered all around him, Devoy left his seat and climbed down, meaning to plead with the gang. At least, I assume that was his intention. Before he could say a word, Rourke O’Donaghue turned on him and gunned him down. Devoy was shot three times in the chest and died in a pool of his own blood.

‘Inside the mail car, the security guard had heard the shots and I can only imagine the terror he must have felt as he heard the gang members operating outside. Would he have unlocked the door if they had demanded it? We will never know. A moment later, a huge explosion rent the air and the entire wall of the carriage was blown apart. The guard was killed instantly. The safe with the money was exposed.

‘A second, smaller charge sufficed to open it and now the band discovered that they had been misinformed. Only two thousand dollars had been sent to the Massachusetts First National Bank, a fortune perhaps to these vagabonds, but immeasurably less than they had hoped for and expected. Even so, they snatched up the notes with whoops and cries of exaltation, not caring that they had left two men dead behind them and unaware that their explosives had utterly destroyed four canvases which alone were worth twenty times what they had taken. These, and the other works, were and are an incalculable loss to British culture. Even now I have to remind myself that a young and dutiful man died that day, but I would be lying to you if I did not say that, shameful to admit, I mourn the loss of those paintings just as much.

‘My friend, Finch, and I heard the news with horror. At first we were led to believe that the paintings had been stolen and would have preferred it had this been the case, for at least the works would still have been appreciated by someone and there was always a chance that they might be recovered. But such an unhappy accident of timing, wanton vandalism in pursuit of a handful of cash! How bitterly we regretted the route we had chosen and blamed ourselves for what had occurred. There were also financial considerations. Mr Stillman had paid a large deposit for the paintings but, according to the contract, we were entirely responsible for them until they were delivered into his hands. It was fortunate that we were insured with Lloyd’s of London or else we would have been wiped out, as eventually I would have no choice but to repay the money. There was also the matter of James Devoy’s family. I now learned that he had a wife and a young child. Someone would have to take care of them.

‘It was for these reasons that I resolved to travel to America and I left England almost at once, arriving first in New York. I met Mrs Devoy and promised her that she would receive some compensation. Her son was nine years old and a sweeter, more good-looking child would be hard to imagine. I then travelled to Boston and from there to Providence, where Cornelius Stillman had built his summer house. I have to say that even the many hours I had spent in the company of the man had failed to prepare me for the spectacle that met my eyes. Shepherd’s Point was huge, constructed in the style of a French chateau by the celebrated architect Richard Morris Hunt. The gardens alone stretched out for thirty acres and the interior displayed an opulence beyond anything I could have imagined. Stillman himself insisted on showing me round, and it is a journey I will never forget. The magnificent wooden staircase that dominated the Great Hall, the library with its five thousand volumes, the chess set that had once belonged to Frederick the Great, the chapel with its ancient organ once played by Purcell… by the time we reached the basement with its swimming pool and bowling alley, I was quite exhausted. And as for the art! Well, I counted works by Titian, Rembrandt and Velasquez, and this before I had even reached the drawing room. And it was while I was considering all this wealth, the limitless funds on which my host must be able to draw, that an idea formed in my mind.

‘Over dinner that night — we were sitting at a vast, medieval banqueting table and the food was carried in by negro servants dressed in what you might call colonial style — I raised the subject of Mrs Devoy and her child. Stillman assured me that even though they were not resident in Boston, he would alert the city fathers who would take care of them. Encouraged by this, I went on to the matter of the Flat Cap Gang and asked if there was any way he could help bring them to justice, the Boston police having so far signally failed to make any progress. Might it not be possible, I suggested, to offer a sizeable reward for information as to their whereabouts and, at the same time, to hire a private detective agency to apprehend them on our behalf. In this way we would avenge the death of James Devoy and simultaneously punish them for the loss of the Constable landscapes.

‘Stillman seized on my idea with enthusiasm. “You’re right, Carstairs!” he cried, bringing his fist crashing down. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. I’ll show these bums that it was a bad day that they chose to hornswoggle Cornelius T. Stillman!” This was not his usual manner of speech, but we had had between us finished a bottle of particularly fine claret and had moved on to the port and he was in a more than usually relaxed mood. He even insisted on funding the full cost of the detectives and the reward himself, although I had offered to make a contribution. We shook hands on it and he suggested that I stay with him while the arrangements were made, an invitation I was glad to accept. Art has been my life, both as a collector and as a dealer, and there was enough in Stillman’s summer home to keep me entranced for months.