Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘Here it is, Mr Pettingale,’ I say. ‘I put a case to you. Some years ago, two rascals masquerading as gentlemen swindle a firm of solicitors out of a considerable amount of money – let us say, for the sake of argument, fifteen hundred pounds. The thing is done cleverly – one almost admires the cleverness – and the two scallywags come out the other end without a stain on their characters, but considerably richer than when they started. There is a third rascal, but we shall come to him in a moment. More than this, they so contrive matters that, when all is done, an innocent man is sent to the other side of the world, to toil his life out, on their behalf, in the wilderness of Van Diemen’s Land. *Now, the question on which I wish to seek your professional opinion is this: knowing, as I believe I do, the identity of two of the three persons I have described, how may I best lay a charge against them, so that they can be brought at last to justice?’

The effect of my speech is most gratifying. His mouth falls open; he reddens even more, and begins to sweat.

‘You say nothing, Mr Pettingale? A lawyer with nothing to say! A most uncommon sight. But by your uncomfortable demeanour, I see you have perceived that I have been playing a little game with you. Well then; let us be more direct, shall we? What is done is done. Your secret is safe with me – for the time being, at least. I have no argument with you, Mr Pettingale. My real interest lies in your friend, the distinguished author. You know to whom I allude?’

He nods dumbly.

‘I wish to know a little more about your association with this gentleman. I will not trouble you with my reasons.’

‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ says Pettingale mournfully, taking off his cap and using it to wipe his perspiring brow. ‘Though how you come to know all about it is beyond me.’

‘Blackmail? Why yes, you have it, Mr Pettingale. A palpable hit! You are a sharp one, I see. So: the floor is yours. Be quick, be bold, hold nothing back. I would particularly wish that you do not hold anything back. Let us be completely frank with one another. And, for good measure, you may throw in a few words concerning the third rascal. Again, I’m sure you know to whom I am referring?’

Once more he nods, but does not speak. I wait; but still he says nothing. He bites his lip, and his knuckles turn white with gripping the arms of the chair so hard. I begin to get a little impatient, and tell him so.

‘I cannot,’ he says at last, with a kind of faltering moan. ‘They – they will—’

As he is speaking, I see him give a sudden darting glance towards the door, and in a flash he is on his feet. But I am ready for him. I throw him back into his chair and stand over him. I ask again for him to begin his recitation, but still he will not sing out. For the third and last time, I tell him to speak, taking out one of my pocket-pistols, and laying it with exaggerated deliberation on the table. He blanches, but shakes his head. I try another means of encouragement, and voilà!

The prospect of having your fingers broken one by one appears to be a mighty incentive to do as you are told; and in no time at all he capitulates. Here, then, though a little more persuading was required as we went along, is what Mr Lewis Pettingale, of Gray’s-Inn, told me on that October afternoon.

He had been introduced to Phoebus Daunt at the Varsity by a mutual friend, a Kingsman *by the name of Bennett. They had hit it off straight away, and quickly cemented their friendship by discovering a shared, though largely untested, enthusiasm for the turf. Off they would go to Newmarket, whenever occasion offered, where they got in with a rather dangerous set of men up from London. These flash coves knew what they were about, and they welcomed Daunt and Pettingale with open arms. Bets were placed by the pair and, in short order, money was lost. No matter; their new friends were more than willing to advance them a little credit; and then a little more. At last, with the touching optimism of youth, our heroes determined on a rather risky course: they would hazard all that they had – or, rather, all that they had been advanced – on a single race. If their choice came in, all would be well.

But it did not come in, and all was not well. However, their benefactors took a statesman-like view of the situation. If the gents would co-operate in a scheme that this company of obliging family men *had in view, then they would be pleased to consider the debt paid. There might even be a little something in it for them. If not … The offer was quickly taken up, and one of the gang, an impressive party with a prominent set of Newgate knockers, †was deputed to assist the noviciates in the prosecution of a little well-planned fraud.

The two young scholars took to the business with a certain aptitude for what was required, particularly on the part of the Rector’s son. I need not repeat what was told to me by Dr Maunder, about how the fraud was accomplished; I will only say that Pettingale revealed that the shadowy person who had employed the dupe, Hensby, had been Daunt, and that it was Daunt also who, after demonstrating to the gang a remarkable facility to replicate signatures, had actually carried out the forgeries.

‘And who was Mr Verdant?’ I asked. ‘He was part of the dodge, wasn’t he?’

‘Certainly,’ said Pettingale. ‘A leading light in the little fraternity we got mixed up with at Newmarket. He was the one appointed to shepherd us through the business. Couldn’t have done it without him. Burglary was his trade. None better than Verdant. He broke into the solicitor’s office and got us the blank cheques.’

‘Verdant, now,’ I said. ‘Uncommon name, that.’

‘Pseudonymous,’ Pettingale came back. ‘Not his own, though few people knew his real one.’

‘But you did, I think?’

‘Oh, yes. His mother knew him as Pluckrose. Josiah Pluckrose.’

I said nothing on hearing Pluckrose’s name, but inwardly exulted that the suspicions that I had been harbouring as to the identity of Mr Verdant had been proved correct. The origin of his pseudonym was nothing more than this. At Doncaster, in the year ’38, he had put twenty stolen guineas on a rank outsider called Princess Verdant, who rewarded his faith in her by coming in at extremely favourable odds, though her victory may have been assisted by the fact – barely worth mentioning – that she was a four-year-old entered in a race for three-year-olds. *No matter. Thereafter, he was known as ‘Mr Verdant’ to his friends and associates amongst the capital’s criminal fraternities.

After the dodge on the solicitors had been successfully brought off, Pluckrose fell out with his former colleagues over the division of the spoils and quit the gang in high dudgeon, vowing to be revenged on them all. And revenged he was. Not one of his confederates – five in number – lived to see the year out: one was found in the river at Wapping with his throat cut; another was bludgeoned to death as he left the Albion Tavern one evening; †the three that remained simply disappeared from the face of the earth, and were never seen again. Pettingale could not conclusively say that Pluckrose had done for them all himself; but that he had signed their death warrants, as it were, seemed certain.

‘The last to go was Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the gang – elder brother kept the public-house down in Rotherhithe where the gang used to meet. Rather a decent fellow, young Gabb, despite his roguery. The brother took it hard, and takes it hard still, as I hear. He’d have come down on Pluckrose if he could, not a doubt of it, but he knew him only as Verdant, you see, and as such he’d disappeared, like Master Isaac, without a trace, and was never heard of again. Verdant was dead. Long live Pluckrose.’