Bryce Courtenay - The Potato Factory

There was a murmur of astonishment from the public gallery, for in one stroke the Bank of England's case had been turned into a capital crime and Ikey seemed certain to hang.

'I should remind the prosecution that the decision as to whether a crime is a capital offence most fortunately does not rest with the prosecution but with this bench. If it did not I fear that the least of crimes would earn the ultimate sentence!' It was plain that the judge was not pleased with Sir Reginald's final remark. He then caused the notes to be handed to the jury, and it might have been supposed that Ikey had, in the truest sense of the words, finally met his Waterloo. With the exception of his last statement, Sir Reginald appeared not to have put a foot wrong.

The noose was drawn tight and it seemed the trap door had all but sprung as Sir Reginald Cunningham retrieved the banknotes from the jury and held up two of them.

'These are the five pound notes on the person of the accused! They were printed from a five pound etched copper plate discovered in the Bell Alley basement premises owned by the accused.' He paused and then ended with a flourish. 'They were printed on the very same printing press also lodged at that address!'

Ikey's barrister, Mr Phillips, now rose to his feet. 'Can my learned friend please tell us how these two particular notes were discovered and by whom?'

'Your honour, we request permission to call up a witness, Mr George Smith, senior constable at the Lambeth Street watchhouse who will answer my learned friend's question.' Sir Reginald was well pleased with himself and his tone was most accommodating.

The clerk of the court stood up and called upon Senior Constable George Smith to take his place in the witness box.

'Mr Smith, is it not true that you go by another even more familiar name?' asked Mr Phillips.

The senior constable looked confused. 'Beg pardon, sir? I don't rightly know what you mean.'

'Let me put the question another way then. Is it true that you are referred to with the sobriquet, "The Reamer", in criminal circles?'

George Smith cleared his throat. 'I can't rightly say what the criminal classes calls me.' There was a buzz of amusement from the court and the policeman seemed to gain confidence from this for he grinned and added, 'And I don't think I cares that much neither.'

There was further laughter and the judge banged his gavel.

'Then let us suppose that the name "The Reamer", which you state is of no consequence to you, is in fact the name used by what you refer to as "the criminal classes'". Can you venture to guess how this name came about?' His hand rose to prevent George Smith from answering. 'Before you answer, would you agree that a reamer is a sharp object placed into a narrow aperture which is used to scrape it clean of impediment?'

George Smith shrugged. 'If you say so, sir.'

'Mr Smith, would you kindly hold up the forefinger of your right hand.'

The policeman looked at the judge. 'Must I do this, your honour?'

'Is this request important to your line of enquiry, Mr Phillips?' the judge asked. 'I must say it doesn't seem to be leading anywhere.'

'Your honour, I intend to show that this witness is not accustomed to acting within the rules of the law and cannot be relied upon to act in the best interest of the truth.'

'That is a serious accusation to make against an officer of the law, Mr Phillips. You will need to be most careful how you proceed further.' He turned to the policeman in the witness box. 'You will hold your right forefinger up to the jury, Mr Smith.'

George Smith held up his forefinger which appeared normal in all aspects and there was a bemused titter from the crowded court.

'Whatever can you have in mind, Mr Phillips?' the judge asked frowning at Ikey's barrister.

A high-pitched voice suddenly sounded from the public gallery and an urchin in a top hat jumped up from his seat. '

'E bit it orf. I seen 'im! 'E bit 'is nail orf while the judge were talkin'. 'E bit it orf and spat it out!' Sparrer Fart jumped to his feet in the public gallery and yelled at the top of his voice.

'Yeah, yeah we seen it!' several other urchins, seated around Sparrer, nodded their heads violently, confirming his outburst. Other members of the public gallery now shouted in agreement, so that the court was filled with their protestations.

The judge banged his gavel. 'Silence! I will have silence in my court!' he demanded. 'You will remove that small personage please, constable!' He pointed to the policeman nearest Sparrer Fart.

Sparrer was led out of the gallery, where the police constable cuffed him behind the ear before roughly throwing him out onto the street on his arse, though the other members of the Methodist Academy of Light Fingers were permitted to remain.

Sparrer had barely landed when he felt a strong hand grab him by the collar and lift him to his feet. All he could see was the man's waistcoat and fob chain as he frantically struggled to free himself.

'Steady on, lad, I mean you no harm,' a calm voice directly above him announced.

'Lemme go!' Sparrer yelled.

To his surprise the hand holding him released its grip. 'That was a brave thing you did in there,' the voice added.

Sparrer was about to run but then recognised the man as someone who had been seated near him in court. Sparrer dusted his coat and the seat of his pants. 'Stupid, more like!'

'What's your name, boy?' the man asked.

'I ain't done nuffink, mister,' Sparrer whined.

'On the contrary, you may have saved a man from the gallows.'

'You a detective then?' Sparrer asked, still suspicious of the stranger.

'No, no, a reporter.' He stuck out his hand. 'Charles Dickens. I thought I might do a small piece on you in the paper.'

'Blimey! In a newspaper?' Sparrer wiped his hand on his greasy lapel before taking the reporter's hand. 'Pleased to meetcha, Mr Dickens.'

'Well yes, likewise lad. What you did took real gumption. Would you like to be in the newspaper?'

'No thanks. Ikey says incognito be best, you don't want no name in the papers.'

'Incognito eh, that's a big word. Do you know Ikey Solomon?'

Sparrer squinted up at the reporter. 'Maybe I does and maybe I doesn't.' His confidence restored, he now stood with one foot placed on the boot cap of the other and with both his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat.

Charles Dickens took out his purse and offered a shilling to Sparrer.

Sparrer sniffed. 'Bloody 'ell, fer a shillin' I never seen 'im afore in me life, mister!'

Charles Dickens smiled and dropped the shilling back in his purse.

'Fer a shillin' ya gets me name,' Sparrer added quickly, realising he'd overplayed his hand.

'Your name? Is that all?' Charles Dickens laughed.

'For the newspaper! Ya can put me name in yer newspaper.'

The reporter took the shilling out of his purse again and handed it to Sparrer Fart. 'What's your name then, lad?'

Sparrer thought desperately. When he performed well at the Academy of Light Fingers Ikey would turn to the other lads and say, 'Look at Sparrer, a veritable dodger, nimble as a ferret!' Then he would pat him on the head and say, 'Well done, dodger, a most artful dodgin' performance, my dear!'

'They calls me the Artful Dodger,' Sparrer replied.

'And you know Ikey Solomon, Mr Artful Dodger?'

'That's fer me to know and you to find out,' Sparrer said cheekily, the shilling now safely deposited in his pocket.

Charles Dickens sighed. 'And how much will it take to find out?'

'It be a long and fascinatin' story what can't be told straight orf, it'll cost ya a daffy and a sov.'

'I'm not sure I have a sovereign on me.' Dickens reached again into his coat for his purse.

'What's the time then?' Sparrer said, pointing to the reporter's waistcoat.